Then behind him he heard Ramage talking to Southwick.
'Looks as though she's going to need a shot across her bow.'
'No, sir,' Southwick grunted and Bowen turned to see him watching the schooner through the telescope. 'No, there's a group of men round the mast—reckon the halyards are in a fair tangle with all the jury rigging they've had to set up to hold the mast.'
Even as he spoke the flying jib began to drop and flap, men out on the bowsprit stifling it as it came down. The peak of the foresail gaff dipped slightly, then dropped a few more feet. Suddenly the schooner turned to starboard, heading up into the wind, and the gaff dropped quickly, the big sail bellying before being swiftly sheeted in. Within a couple of minutes the schooner was wallowing in the swell waves, every sail furled.
'He wants some help from us all right,' Southwick commented.
Bowen saw his chance and seized it.
That falling mast must have injured a lot of men, sir,' he said to Ramage, who eyed him thoughtfully, then smiled and nodded.
'Yes—I'll take your mate with me.'
Bowen's disappointment showed in his face and Ramage laughed.
'All right, Bowen: stow your butcher's tools in a bag!'
Five minutes after the Triton had hove-to four hundred yards to windward of the schooner, the jolly boat, with Jackson at the tiller and Bowen and Ramage sitting in the sternsheets, was pulling down towards her. With her sails furled and so much windage on the foremast and bowsprit, she had paid off to lie with her starboard quarter towards the approaching boat.
Bowen was surprised how high the seas were. From the deck of the Triton he had, for many days, seen them roll up astern, sweep under her and go on ahead; but against an empty horizon there was nothing to measure them. The Triton had hove-to only a couple of cables to windward but the jolly boat was barely half-way between before both were hidden from view each time it dropped into the troughs.
Jackson eased over the tiller so the boat passed across the schooner's stern, and as Ramage turned slightly to look at her he grunted. Bowen looked questioningly.
'Don't point and don't stare at it as we get closer; but her name's been changed recently.'
'How do you know, sir?'
'Just look at the reflection from the paint on the transom.'
Bowen read the schooner's name—The Two Brothers— painted on a strip of paint that was not only fresher than the rest but a couple of feet wider than the name: there was a good foot to spare before 'The' and after 'Brothers'.
'You mean the new paint's covering another name!' he exclaimed excitedly. 'Why, yes! The original letters—oh, blast it, I can't see them now—but they're raised up a bit and I spotted them in the reflection.'
Ramage nodded. 'But her captain will tell us she's The Two Brothers of Charleston... and have papers to prove it.'
His voice was flat and Bowen wasn't sure he'd understood; but he saw Ramage had again turned slightly to keep the schooner in view without being too obvious about it. They were close now—forty or fifty feet. Bowen could hear the heavy splash as the schooner's counter plunged down each time she pitched.
Ramage, his lips hardly moving, was saying something to Jackson.
'In addition to the broadside guns she has ten one-pounder swivels on the bulwarks, set well inboard. Easy to squat on the bulwarks and fire them across the decks. Useful if the slaves make trouble, and notice each of 'em has a couple of men lounging near-by ... Barking dogs—they'll be big, savage brutes, trained to attack anyone with a dark skin ... There! Through the entry port, did you see that flash of brass? A nasty big brass blunderbuss. There'll be plenty of those on board... Phew!'
As he spoke the rest of the men in the boat, both oarsmen and boarders, groaned in protest and Bowen felt sick. They were now just to the leeward of the schooner and thirty feet off, and the wind brought down a stink which made the Fleet Ditch smell as fresh as a pomander full of new lavender.
The surgeon realized the men were not just groaning; they were protesting. And well they might. The schooner smelled like a gigantic midden, and though accustomed to the stench of hospitals and narrow streets piled with muck which was cleared away only by the rains and scavenging dogs and rats, he found this was worse because it was caused by two or three hundred human beings chained below in the schooner.
No seaman could bear the sight of a 'blackbirder'—he'd just realized that. And it was a curious thing, Bowen reflected, since a seaman's life on board a ship o' war of any nation seemed, to a landman, little removed from slavery.
Suddenly Jackson was singing out a string of orders, oars were being tossed, the boat was alongside and the bowman hooked on. Ramage, already standing, waited as the boat rose on a crest and jumped for the wooden rungs of the rope ladder hanging over the bulwark. A moment later he was climbing up it and Bowen was praying he'd even be able to grab the ladder, let alone do it as lightly and easily. The boat dropped in the crest and Jackson said quietly, 'If you'll excuse me, sir—just in case there's any trouble up there...'
With that he squeezed in front of Bowen, jumped and in a moment or two was out of sight over the bulwark. Feeling particularly clumsy, Bowen waited as the boat rose on the next crest, jumped and dung desperately to the ladder. As he climbed laboriously he remembered his bag of instruments and turned to see a seaman holding it and waving him on. He just had time to note ruefully that being a seaman involved having a mind that grasped everything like a fifty-tentacled octopus before he reached the deck.
As he looked round he was immediately reminded of standing back-stage at a theatre watching a dress rehearsal before the opening night, when everyone was in the right costume and speaking the right words, but the stage was littered with carpenters finishing off the scenery. The remains of the mainmast were lying along the deck surrounded by wood shavings and carpenters' tools: the bulwark opposite was broken down; the deck gouged and dirty.
Ramage was standing stiffly in from of a very tall, very thin man, who was completely bald, and Bowen realized his captain had just ignored the hand proffered to be shaken.
The tall man, wearing a faded red woollen shirt, grubby, once-white cotton trousers, and a red band round his forehead to stop perspiration running into his eyes, let his hand drop to his side again. He spoke with an American accent.
Ramage had already introduced himself and now asked:
'What ship is this?'
'Well, now 'tenant, you saw the name dear enough didn't you?'
'That doesn't answer my question.'
'I guess it'll have to, 'tenant, because that's us—The Two Brothers' 'It won't, though,' Ramage said flatly. 'I'd like to see the ship's papers.'
'Gladly, 'tenant, gladly. Perhaps you'd step below.'
'Are you the captain?'
'Yes, the master under God, as they say: Ebenezer Wheeler, 'tenant, at your service.'
He gave a mocking bow and as his shirt front fell open Bowen realized he was not just bald but completely hairless. Common enough after some of these jungle fevers...
'Perhaps you'd introduce your officers.'
Wheeler refused the bait.
'That won't be necessary, 'tenant. Now you just come below and inspect my papers. I've a favour to ask, too.'
He pointed aft and Bowen saw that as Ramage turned he glanced at Jackson. To the American captain it would have been Imperceptible; but Bowen knew some order or idea had been passed. As Ramage walked to the companionway, followed by the .American captain, Bowen noticed that Jackson stood so that as the Triton's boarders came up over the bulwark they'd be bunched up. A whispered instruction could be heard by all of them.