He bent over the binnacle, watching the bearing of the flagship. Men were standing by at sheets and braces; topmen were at the foot of the shrouds ready to swarm up and out on the yards, to furl the sails. The fo'c'slemen were awaiting the orders that would let the anchor splash into the sea and send the cable racing out through the hawse so fast the smell of scorching would come aft to the quarterdeck.
In his cabin two leather pouches and his newest uniform awaited Ramage. The smaller pouch, which had a lead weight in it so if thrown overboard it would sink immediately (a reminder they might have been captured on the voyage from England), contained the secret letter from the First Lord to Admiral Robinson. The larger one held all the prosaic paperwork the Admiral would require—the Triton's log; 'weekly accounts' describing her condition; Sick Book, listing all the men who had been ill during the voyage and the treatment given; returns from the bosun's, gunner's and carpenter's mates; a list of remaining provisions; several reports of surveys signed by himself and Southwick—on a leakage of beer from several badly-made barrels, on various casks of salt beef and pork, each of which contained fewer pieces of meat than was painted on the outside, and on a sail too ripe for further repairs. And, most important of all, there was Ramage's report on the capture of La Merlette, together with all the relevant documents—and they were many.
Yet, Ramage thought sourly, within ten minutes of being on board the Prince of Wales the Admiral's wretched secretary would triumphantly announce that Ramage, his clerk and Southwick had forgotten some tedious and unimportant form...
The brig was within a hundred yards of where she was to anchor. Ramage only hoped the men remembered his signals and was pleased the Admiral had chosen a spot so near the flagship. The Triton was—if all went according to plan!— about to furl all sail, anchor and hoist out a boat without one word being spoken: everything would be done by signals from Ramage.
He made the first signals with his right arm. In a few moments it seemed that every man in the ship was either hauling a rope or climbing the rigging. The yards were hauled round, the bellying sails flattened and then fluttered; men swarmed out on the yards to furl the sails neatly, securing them with gaskets.
Even as that was happening Ramage was signalling to the quartermaster and the brig turned to head right into the wind's eye, gradually slowing as she did so. The sound of water sluicing away from the stem, rushing along her sides and gurgling under the counter, which had been part of their lives for so many weeks, died away, leaving a silence which was unsettling.
Slowly the Triton lost way. Southwick, watching over the taffrail, lifted his hand as she began to drift astern and Ramage signalled to the men on the fo'c'sle. A moment later a splash told him the anchor had been let go; then he saw the cable snaking out through the hawse, tell-tale whisps of blue smoke vanishing in the wind.
From where he was standing Ramage could see the compass without moving. He checked the bearing from the flagship: by the time the Triton drifted astern to the full scope of her cable she'd be in the correct position. And Southwick was already signalling to more men, making sure that all the yards were square—not an inch lower either end, precisely horizontal, all at right angles to the masts. The boat would be hoisted out within a couple of minutes. Ramage looked at Southwick and pointed below, indicating he was going to change. A man may have sworn under his breath, he thought, otherwise not a word had been spoken. But probably the Admiral had been asleep ...
But the Admiral had not been asleep: as Ramage, hot and sticky in full uniform, reported to him in the great cabin of the Prince of Wales, he was greeted with a breezy, 'Like to see a ship well handled, m'lad!' and an outstretched hand which shook his with a firm grasp.
Admiral Robinson's appearance and manner belied the impression given by the string of signals which greeted the Triton. Tall, almost plump (he had the figure of a man who once had been a great athlete but now the muscle had turned to fat) he would have passed for Southwick's younger brother —his face was round, almost cherubic, pleasant and open. His nose was larger, and its redness owed more to claret than the hot sun; the eyes were alert and clear blue; his blond hair was bleached by the sun into a pale yellow which blended with the streaks of white.
After asking what son of voyage Ramage had had, nodding approvingly when told about the capture of La Merlette, and inquiring after the health of Ramage's parents (hinting, Ramage wondered, that he had no animosity towards the Earl?), he said: 'I wasn't expecting you, m'lad: I asked the Admiralty for five more frigates!'
'I don't know about the frigates, sir; I've brought letters from Lord Spencer.'
He fished in his pocket for the key, which was completely embedded in a large piece of red wax, with the Admiralty seal on both sides. He gave both key and the small locked pouch to the Admiral, who called for his secretary, handed him the lump of wax and said curtly: 'Break out the key—not in here, I don't want chips of wax over everything.'
'You were lucky with La Merlette,' he commented as the secretary left the cabin and, to Ramage's surprise because he'd forgotten the point, continued: 'You were sailing under Admiralty orders, so naturally I don't qualify for a share in the prize money. The thieving old Commander-in-Chief doesn't take his eighth—more's the pity as far as I'm concerned. But if she's as sound as you say I'll buy her in—I need all the small vessels I can get my hands on.
'Being Commander-in-Chief on this station's like trying to run a post-chaise service—never enough coaches or horses and too many passengers all wanting to go in different directions at the same moment. Ah, Fanshaw, the magic key—thank you.'
As he unlocked the pouch Ramage rose to leave him alone to read the letters, but the Admiral glanced up and shook his head.
'Make yourself comfortable, m'dear fellah. A drink? Tell Fanshaw what you want—just excuse me a moment.'
Lifting his spectacles, which had been hanging round his neck on a piece of ribbon, he adjusted them and broke the seal on the first of the letters.
Ramage shook his head at Fanshaw, declining a drink, and watched the Admiral's face. Not a muscle moved as he turned the page and read OIL, then read the whole letter a second time. But there was no doubt that the first letter was the vital one.
'Bad business, Ramage. You know what this is all about'— he waved the letter—'and his Lordship says you can answer any questions. Tell me, are the Jacobins at the back of it? The Irish? Those damned corresponding societies? Or all three?'
'None, sir, as far as I could see. I think the men simply feel mutiny is the only way to get what they want. At least that was certainly the case in the Triton.' 'What, they mutinied as well? His Lordship says'—he waved the letter again—'there's no sign of the mutiny ending. It hasn't ended has it?'
'It hadn't when we sailed. Yes, the Tritons had mutinied.'
'How did you get under way from Spithead, then?'
The Admiral asked the questions swiftly: he was obviously a man who thought, spoke and acted quickly: his voice had a decisiveness about it that Ramage liked. Although his eyes rarely moved, they were sharp. Ramage realized he was a man who did not make any unnecessary movement—apart from waving the letter.
'We were anchored in a strong wind with a shoal to leeward and it was high water, sir. When they refused to weigh I— well, I cut the cable with an axe and ordered 'em to make sail. They didn't have much choice: we'd have gone up on the shoal in three or four minutes ...'