"We don't have to fret about it," Bowen said in an even voice, tactfully offering advice to someone who was half his age but still his captain. "Tell me, sir, do we call in at Antigua?"
Ramage shook his head. "I doubt it; probably won't even sight it. I expect the Admiral will detach the Antigua ships and order one of the frigates to see them in the last forty or fifty miles."
"Pity," Bowen said, "I was looking forward to seeing the island."
"You're not missing anything," Southwick said. "It's dull and dry and English Harbour is airless - and bad holding ground."
"And Jamaica?"
Southwick shrugged his shoulders. "They can't be compared. Jamaica's a big island and Kingston a big city. Many parts of Jamaica are very beautiful - the Blue Mountains, for instance. But all these islands keep you doctors and the undertakers busy."
Ramage took out his watch. This was the accepted signal that their afternoon's relaxation was over. The cabin was growing dark as Bowen stood up and asked: "The swell is increasing, I notice. Is this a bad sign?"
Ramage nodded. "I'm afraid so, at this time of year."
"Does it definitely mean we'll get a hurricane?"
"No, by no means! It might mean that there's one out there in the Atlantic, but there's no telling if it'll come our way. They're like thunderstorms - impossible to guess which direction they'll take."
"Well, it'll be an interesting experience," Bowen said.
"I'll remind you of that remark if we run into it," Southwick growled. "It blows so hard you won't know whether you're a pawn or a bishop."
"Heaven forbid a bishop," Bowen said.
Chapter Seven
By nightfall the convoy, having gone through the chain of islands, was some twenty miles west of Dominica and steering north-north-west to pass the butterfly-shaped island of Guadeloupe, the only land in the area still held by the French. By passing far enough to the westward to be out of sight from the mountains, Ramage guessed, Goddard was hoping the convoy would not be spotted.
Ramage shrugged: whatever the French might do he was now more concerned about the swell. He had just noted in the log that the waves were about five feet high. The wind was still light - too light.
"Something's killed the Trade winds," Southwick commented.
"Stunned them, anyway," Ramage said wryly.
"Still, I suppose we shouldn't complain; the mules have behaved themselves today."
Ramage nodded. "They haven't had much choice, with the Lark chasing them up."
"I think the word's been passed along about the way we chase up, too."
"Yes - I was thinking about that merchantman when we went alongside the Lion this morning. Must have been like having a ship of the line coming up astern of us."
"I hope so," Southwick said fervently, "I'm in favour of anything that keeps these mules in position." He glanced round at the gathering darkness. "General quarters, sir?"
Ramage nodded, and glanced to the eastward where a thin layer of cloud on the horizon showed Dominica. "We'll leave the guns loaded and run out tonight."
He wasn't quite sure why he had decided that, but he picked up the telescope and looked round the convoy as Southwick bellowed the order that sent the Triton's crew running to their stations for battle. As he focused on the Greyhound he saw her guns run out and nodded approvingly: it was well done; the guns might all have been on one huge carriage. The same orders were being given in all the ships of the escort and he imagined that, as the world turned and dusk moved across the oceans, all the King's ships at sea sent their men to quarters and, as the world continued turning and brought the dawn, the men were roused out again to greet it.
He held the glass steady as he looked at the Peacock. A couple of men were at the wheel with another figure near them - probably the captain or a mate. Two men on the fo'c'sle, perhaps having a quiet smoke, since merchantmen did not have the strict rules laid down in warships. The ship ahead of the Peacock had the same number of men on deck. Everything looked normal on board both ships. He still wanted to know what the devil had been going on last night, but thanks to the Admiral's absurd signal to the Greyhound no one had yet asked either ship a direct question.
Yorke was at the taffrail of the Topaz: by now Ramage could recognize his stance. St Brieuc was with him and for a moment Ramage was envious of the young shipowner: he would have interesting company all the way to Jamaica. Southwick and Bowen and Appleby were good men, but their conversational range was limited. Yorke had Maxine's company too. As Ramage watched the men running out the guns and reporting as they did so, he tried to console himself with the thought that Yorke did not have a Gianna waiting for him in England ... He went below.
It was dark when he got back on deck and the lookouts had been brought down from aloft. There were now six of them stationed round the ship: one on either bow, at the main chains both sides, and on each quarter.
The sky was clear and starlit except for a big bank of cloud to the south-west. It was hard for Ramage to pick out the ships on the far side of the convoy since they were against the cloud bank, instead of against the stars. The Lion stood out clearly, quite apart from her lights, and so did the Topaz. The Greyhound, too, and what was probably the Lark. Ramage moved the night glass slightly, hoping to make sure, and saw a movement.
The glass was swinging, and he had to move it back slowly to spot what had attracted him. It was the Peacock, the last ship in that column. He looked more carefully and, as he watched, there was another movement - the fore course was let fall, the canvas of the big sail came tumbling lazily down in the light wind. He could see it gradually taking up a billowing shape as the seamen braced the yard round and hauled home the sheets. Her main course was already set - that must have been what had first caught his eye. The Peacock was already turning slightly towards him, to starboard and out of the convoy.
"Mr Southwick, get your glass on the Peacock. Quartermaster - pass the word for my coxswain!"
"My oath!" exclaimed Southwick. "What's she up to now?"
Jackson reported and was told to get aloft with a night glass.
"Report anything unusual. Watch that last ship, the Peacock. She's leaving the line with her courses set. And see if the Lark lugger and the Greyhound spot her."
Ramage could see the Greyhound and she seemed to be continuing on the same course. Her masts were in line, she had reefed topsails and no other sails were being let fall. Apparently she hadn't noticed anything suspicious. But the cloud to the south-west now covered more of the sky and from the Greyhound's position the Peacock's silhouette probably blended in with the blackness.
"Could be in trouble, sir," Southwick said in a voice flat enough to show he had little enthusiasm for the idea. "Might be hauling her wind to close with the Greyhound. Sprung a leak ... needs a surgeon ... hard to say."
Jackson was hailing from aloft: "She hauled out of the line to windward, but now she's back on the convoy course and maybe fifty yards to windward. They'll never notice anything from the Greyhound," he added.
"No, the angle's wrong," Southwick muttered. "The Lark might notice."
"I doubt it," Ramage said. "She's pretty far over."