One man had obviously worked as a gilder because each time he had, with a quick twist of the wrist, pressed the pad precisely against the place where the leaf was to be applied, so the leaf stuck to the size. Since each leaf was about two inches long and one inch wide, and so light that a gentle puff was enough to blow it three or four feet, Ramage was glad to hear they'd lost only three leaves in sudden gusts of wind.
Just after nine o'clock the foremast lookout's hail of 'Deck there!' stopped every man within hearing, and was followed by 'Land ho! From two points on the starboard bow to one point to larboard, sir!'
'You wall-eyed monkey,' Southwick shouted, 'why didn't you sight it sooner? And how far?'
' 'Bout seven miles, Lot o' haze ahead, sir,' came the cheerful reply. 'Must have lifted suddenly.'
Southwick glanced at Ramage. It was a good enough reason: the sun had heat in it now and haze over land in the early morning was not unusual, lifting as soon as the land heated up.
Ramage couldn't resist saying, 'Bit ahead of your reckoning, eh Mr Southwick? Between ten and noon I thought you said. Or was it nine and noon?'
'Ten, sir,' Southwick said ruefully. 'Still, that's------'
Seeing the Master was taking him seriously, Ramage interrupted: 'But for the haze, it'd have been seven-thirty.'
'But sir, after logging more than 2,900 miles ...'
Ramage laughed. 'Well, it's a long way from Spithead, anyway!'
*
From being a long purplish bruise low on the horizon the east side of the island gradually took on a definite shape and slowly changed colour as the Triton dosed the distance, turning a few degrees to larboard to head for South Point with ft stiff breeze hustling her along at better than eight knots.
The purple gave way to a light brown as the contours of the hills slowly emerged, showing shallow valleys between them; then with the brig drawing nearer and the sun rising higher the brown became green; the rich and fertile green of land well-fanned, the large fields of different crops showing like a chess board.
The land was lower than Bowen had expected: instead of a high rocky island capped with tall palm trees and standing four-square against the full force of the Atlantic swell with high overhanging cliffs—for there was nothing between it and Africa more than 3,000 miles to the east—it was low with rolling land behind it; more like the Sussex coast As he commented on it to Southwick, the Master grunted.
'Barbados always disappoints people new to the Tropics: I always say that from seaward it looks like the east end of the Isle of Wight. But wait until you see the rest of the islands: Grenada, St Lucia, Martinique—they're just what you expect: mountainous thick jungle ... deep bays and beaches and thousands of palm trees... But for all that, give me Barbados: most civilized of 'em all, except for Jamaica.'
Nevertheless, as the Triton approached, Bowen admitted the island was a beautiful sight: the deep blue of the sea stretched to within a hundred yards of the shore and then, merging into pale, sparkling green as it swept over coral reefs and outlying shoals, it broke in a narrow ribbon of white foam on a strip of silver sand. Beyond were green, gently-sloping fields but very few trees, all of which seemed to be small pines, leaning over at an angle to the left.
'The wind,' Southwick explained laconically. 'Always blowing from the eastwards—makes 'em grow like that. Ah—there are some palms for you.'
Bowen took the proffered telescope and low down, just at the back of the beach, were a few dumps of palm trees, the only ones for a couple of miles either way. He gave the telescope back to Southwick, who sensed his disappointment.
'Plenty more in the lee of South Point—the headland over there. We round it and the next one and anchor beyond in Carlisle Bay. The windward sides of all these islands are barren. Nothing between them and Africa. The lee sides usually have plenty of jungle—completely sheltered, and of course there's a lot of rain.'
'What are those brown patches scattered where the water's bright green?'
'Coral heads. Living coral. Usually only a few feet of water over them. They'd rip the bottom out of a ship. The pale green water usually shows there's a sandy bottom.'
Bowen remarked on several windmills along the coast, identical in shape to those in England.
'Use 'em for the sugar cane,' Southwick explained. 'Instead of having circular grindstones like you use for grain, they use rollers. The sugar cane—it looks like great stalks of wheat, eight feet high and more, and nearly as thick as your wrist— is run between the rollers which squeeze out the juice. It runs off into a lead-lined sink and into vats, where it's boiled.'
'Then what happens to it?'
'Shipped to England in casks. The most stinking cargo there is, too: never go passenger in a ship carrying molasses...'
The Triton passed South Point and soon the crescent-shaped Carlisle Bay came into sight, with Bridgetown sprawled comfortably along the western side. Ramage saw at anchor the Admiral's flagship, the 98-gun Prince of Wales. The Triton's pendant numbers were already hoisted and men were standing by at all her carronades, which were loaded with blank charges ready to fire a seventeen-gun salute.
The gunner's mate was by the foremast ready for Ramage's signal to begin firing while powder boys stood by with extra charges ready to re-load seven of the guns to complete the salute.
There were only two frigates and some squat, ugly transports at anchor near the flagship while a small schooner approached from the west, still hull down over the horizon, her sails showing like tiny visiting cards.
The news of the Triton's arrival must have reached the flagship an hour or so earlier, signalled along the coast, and everyone on board—as well as dozens of people living on shore—would be waiting anxiously for any mail and newspapers she might have brought out.
Ramage signalled to the gunner's mate who bellowed:
'Number one gun—fire!'
Even as the gun leapt back in recoil on the starboard side, the explosion echoing across the bay and the smoke blowing forward, the gunner's mate had begun the chant which en sured each gun fired at the right interval, muttering all but the last four words to himself:
'If I wasn't a gunner I wouldn't be here—Number two gun fire!'
The first gun on the larboard side leapt back in recoil, the crew at once beginning the routine of re-loading.
'If I wasn't a gunner I wouldn't be here—Number three gun fire!'
As the guns fired one after the other Ramage realized Southwick was also totting up the number of rounds—it wasn't unknown for a gunner or his mate to miscount.
Fifteen... sixteen... the smoke was drifting back to the quarterdeck, catching in everyone's throat... seventeen. The gunner's mate was moving aft, the men began sponging the guns before securing them.
Even as the first boom of the flagship's reply echoed across the water she hoisted several signals. Southwick glanced at the first with his telescope, groaned and said contemptuously:
'He's one of those... I was afraid o' that.'
Even before Jackson started reading out the signals Ramage guessed the first one would say where the brig was to anchor, but if the Admiral was a fussy man...
'Captain to come to the Admiral, sir.'
'Sick to be sent to the hospital ship, sir...'
'Damn and blast it, make a note of them!' Ramage snapped at the American. 'Just tell me any more that affect us anchoring.'