Almost weeping with frustration, Ramage glared at the mass of ships forming the van of Cordoba's division: an almost solid wedge, the San Nicolas still leading, with at least seven more ships in a tightly-packed group tucked in astern, two and three abreast, the rest scattered astern along the bulging line.
'One thing about it,' Southwick commented, 'they sail like haystacks drifting to windward...'
'Flagship sir,' said Jackson, 'number forty. "To pass through the enemy's line".'
Fifteen minutes past noon. So Sir John intended the Culloden to try to cut through Cordoba's line, splitting it in two.
'He'll never do it,' Southwick said quietly. 'We'll never catch up with 'em in this wind. And only the Culloden and Blenheim have tacked - thirteen more to go!'
With maddening slowness, the Prince George, Orion and Irresistible came round one after the other in the light breeze, and then as the Colossus began turning her foretopgallant mast bent in the middle and began to fall - so slowly, so gracefully, that it took a moment for Ramage to realize it had been shot away, bringing with it the foretopmast. Then the foreyard and foretopsail yard slewed to one side and fell to the deck, a confused jumble of wood, cordage and sails, leaving her unable to tack. Her captain obviously decided to wear round to get out of the way of those astern because almost at once Ramage could see through the telescope that her mizzen topsail was beginning to shiver.
'Wind's backing a bit sir,' Southwick reported. 'Due west now.'
And it was falling even lighter. Ramage doubted if the British ships were making much more than a knot. But even allowing for the lack of wind, he was surprised at the slow pace of battle. Action between single ships - his only experience so far - was much faster, more clear cut: the difference between a game of draughts, perhaps (with the two players able to move in only one of two directions) and chess, where concentrating on the diagonal moves of the bishop, for instance, left you open to the dangerous jinking hop of the knight's move. And at the moment Sir John was playing chess with more than half the board covered with smoke.
Fifteen minutes to one o'clock. His feet ached; he felt sick with hunger. And, like the warning of violent toothache to come, was the nagging question of why Cordoba was now steering to the north-west. It was taking him away from his lee division and, more important, away from Cadiz. It was a ruse: he was sure of that. The San Nicholas and Santisima Trinidad and the rest of the van would soon be abeam. But more important was that the Culloden, Blenheim and Prince George still had not caught up with the rearmost Spanish ships.
For ten minutes he paced up and down the starboard side, rubbing the scar on his forehead from time to time. His pistols - he'd found the box and his clothes still in the breadroom where he'd bundled them as the Kathleen was captured - were tucked in his belt and made his ribs ache. He pulled them out and gave them to Jackson. Not wanting to talk to Southwick, he sent him below for a quick meal and was grateful when the steward brought up some cold chicken, which he ate with his fingers as he walked.
Slowly Cordoba's van ships drew abeam and farther away. It was nearly one o'clock and the Victory, next in line after the damaged Colossus, still had not tacked - the Colossus was probably in her way - but the Culloden seemed to be gaining a little on the Spanish rear ships and drawing well ahead of the Blenheim.
The steward came with a bowl of water and a napkin, and Ramage rinsed his greasy fingers. Pointless, perhaps, since he might be a pulpy mass of flesh and blood before the hands of the clock reached the next hour. What made him think of that? He shivered and tried to thrust aside his earlier wild idea, assuring himself that of all the ships in the British Fleet, the Kathleen was the safest: none of the Spaniards would attack her.
As he wiped his hands and gave the napkin to the steward he glanced over the man's shoulder and his stomach shrivelled.
Instead of the Santisima Trinidad, San Nicolas andthe rest of the leaders being almost broadside on, he found himself staring at their starboard bows: in the few moments he had been occupied washing his hands they had put their helms up, turning towards the Kathleen and obviously intending to pass very close round the end of the British line, probably raking the Excellent (and the Kathleen too, since she'd be in the line of fire) in the process.
Ramage felt he was looking down on the chess-board and could see the next half dozen moves with unnatural clarity: unless Sir John signalled at once for the eight ships forming the rear of the British line to tack together and head them off, there was nothing to stop Cordoba's ships running down to join his other six ships to leeward as soon as they rounded the Excellent's stern, and with his fleet united once again, Cordoba could then resume his dash for the safety of Cadiz. And the banks of smoke were certainly hiding the whole manoeuvre from the Victory.
Ramage snapped: 'My compliments to Mr. Southwick: would he come on deck at once. Quartermaster, edge us up to windward but I don't want it to be too noticeable.'
The idea - fantasy, almost - was gripping him more strongly. Was this how a man worked himself up before committing suicide? The thought made him feel dizzy.
Jackson saw him rubbing his brow and looking anxiously at the ships ahead, and guessing he was looking for signals from the Commodore, from Admiral Thompson in the Britannia, or Sir John in the Victory, the American watched carefully with his telescope. And almost at once a string of flags fluttered from the flagship.
'Minerve's pendant, sir, and' - Jackson glanced at the signal book, - 'and the Colossus's, "To take in tow".'
Ramage, who had instinctively walked towards Jackson in anticipation of the order 'Tack together', spun on his heel to hide his anger and disappointment and looked yet again at Cordoba's leading ships. They now had the wind about three points abaft the beam - almost their fastest point of sailing.
Southwick clattered up the companionway, his sword scabbard clanking, and even before Ramage turned to speak, exclaimed, 'There! They're doing it! I knew they would!'
He looked ahead, saw the Victory and the eight ships astern of her still had not tacked, and added viciously: 'Nothing can stop those fish-eaters unless we all tack together! So help me, that I should live to see the day! Just look at them - coming down like a flock of sheep and not even a dog to give 'em a fright by barking! Why, if that leading ship yawed a couple of times at least half a dozen of 'em would run aboard each other!'
Ramage clenched his fists. The idea, plan, fantasy, dream - he wasn't sure what to call it - was becoming clearer: the significance of Cordoba's move and its danger to the British fleet was making him think so fast he was momentarily surprised when he looked up to find the Kathleen and Cordoba's van still sailing on their respective courses. Nothing had happened - except in his imagination: he was still alive - yet in his imagination, he had, a few seconds earlier, died along with every man on board the cutter.