Then, as though the noise had been blocked out for a while, he heard the rolling thunder of the battle to windward. "What happened to the Neptune?"he asked.
"Went on. Never fired a shot. Afraid of hitting this ship."
"I thought she might wear round on to our larboard side."
"She seemed to be in too much of a hurry to get up towards Cadiz," Aitken said. "And from what I can see of the battle, I don't blame her!"
By now Ramage was on his feet. There were twenty or thirty bodies sprawled in grotesque attitudes across the quarterdeck.
"What about the fo'c'sle and waist?"
"Hill, Kenton, Martin and Orsini are securing the prisoners."
Ramage fought off a wave of dizziness. "Casualties?"
Aitken shook his head regretfully. "Seems we've lost at least eight men dead and thirteen wounded, one badly," he said. "We're getting the wounded across to the Calypso so that Bowen can get to work. The Frenchmen, too."
Ramage, his vision still blurred, stared across at what had been the line of battle. Now it had become a ragged row of scattered groups of ships, many with masts gone by the board or topmasts canted like bent stalks. And every one of them coated with thick smoke: with some it was pouring from gunports as the breeze coming through the weather ports drove it out of the lee ones; with others, sails brought down on collapsed yards had caught fire, probably from the muzzle flash of the guns. Great ships now had less dignity than drunken men sprawled insensible in an alley outside a gin mill.
Ramage tried to put his thoughts together. Prisoners, wounded, and - he looked up at the wispy strands of clouds, mare's-tails coming in from the west and the distant outriders of bad weather - now secure the prize.
Well, he was going to get no help from the other ships: each one had enough emergencies of its own. So first, prisoners - how many? Probably a couple of hundred. Very well, leave a hundred on board the Hasard and shift the rest over to the Calypso. Sergeant Ferris and half the Marines can stay on board the Hasard, with fifty seamen: that should deal with the prisoners.
Wounded? Well, Bowen will have started his grisly work: he and his loblolly man will have all the help they need sent down to them by Southwick.
Colours! He glanced astern hurriedly, to see that the French colours had already been hauled down. Aitken saw where he was looking and said: "Jackson's gone back on board the Calypso to get British colours, sir - in fact, here he comes!"
They watched as the American hurried over to the seaman with the ensign halyard. The French Tricolour had already been taken off and was lying on the deck. Jackson tied a bowline on the hoist of the British colours and the other seaman (Ramage recognized him as Rossi) then secured the Tricolour. They shook out the flags to check that they were the right way up and then Rossi pulled down on the halyard while Jackson made sure the flags, British above French, were clear and then kept a strain on the other end of the halyard until the head of the British colours reached the block.
"Congratulations, sir," Aitken said. "You'll soon have a collection of this class o' frigate!"
Ramage, his head still wanting to spin, grinned feebly. "Find Rennick," he said. "Send word to Bowen how many wounded he can expect."
The Marine lieutenant, grinning happily, soon reported to Ramage.
"Prisoners," Ramage said, surprised how much effort it took him to concentrate his thoughts and enunciate the word, "what's happening?"
"All secured, sir. Kenton's men are guarding those on the fo'c'sle, Hill has them rounded up in the waist, and Martin has them under guard here on the quarterdeck."
"What about those below decks?"
"Sergeant Ferris and a dozen men are working their way through the ship, sir. The corporal has just reported to me that just about every Frenchman seems to have come on deck when we boarded: didn't want to be trapped below, I reckon."
"You can't repel boarders down below," Ramage said, and immediately regretted such a long speech as the caulker's maul battered his head.
"What about that French lieutenant?"
"He's waiting over there, sir," Aitken said. "Are you ready?"
A Marine brought the French officer over. The man, in his twenties, was white-faced but unwounded.
"Captain Ramage," he said in French, "this gentleman -" he gestured at Aitken, "- told me it was you. My captain is dead, so I surrender my ship."
He proffered the sword which he was holding in front of him in its scabbard, closely watched by the Marine.
Ramage shook his head. "Keep it," he said, "you all fought bravely."
"Your head," the lieutenant said apologetically, "I am sorry that one of my seamen ..."
"A mere cut," Ramage said, and gestured to the Marine to take the lieutenant away. By breathing deeply, Ramage managed to ward off another wave of dizziness.
He looked round the Hasard's decks. Yes, the French seamen were standing in groups, guarded by the Calypso's seamen and Marines. Wounded men were still being carried over to Bowen.
"Furl," he said to Aitken, pointing up to the Hasard's topsails. "Pass the word to Southwick. Furl, we'll just drift off to leeward."
Drifting off to leeward: that was what he was doing, too, and what he would continue doing until his head cleared.
"There's nothing more for you to do here if you'd like to get back to the Calypso, sir," Aitken said. "Perhaps you'd let Jackson put a bandage on your head. It's bleeding badly."
Bleeding? Ramage put his hand up to his head. The hair was wet - but they had doused him with a bucket of water. He looked at his hand, which was covered in blood. He put his hand back at the place where the caulker's maul seemed to be hammering hardest and felt the gash. Several inches long. Already the blood was clotting, drying in tangled hair.
"That Frenchman was really whirling that musket, sir," Aitken said. "You ought to get it cleaned up, sir: it's worrying the men."
"Worrying the men?" a puzzled Ramage repeated.
"The blood's running thick down the back of your neck and over your coat, sir. Some of the men think you've been badly wounded."
"Just a bit dizzy," Ramage mumbled. "But I'll leave you in command here. You're prizemaster."
"Thank you, sir," Aitken said, standing more upright. "The French dead - we'll bury them here?"
"Have that French lieutenant read a service."
"Ours I'll send over to the Calypso?"
Ramage nodded and nearly fell as his head spun again. "I'll read the service for them. Now I'll . . ." He almost fainted and found himself held up by Stafford and Jackson. "Tell Southwick to furl everything: just lie a'hull."
"Yes, sir, but I'm sending you back to the Calypso," Aitken said firmly. "You're in no state to be on deck."
Jackson half carried, half dragged Ramage back on board the Calypso, and as they manoeuvred him through the gunport they were met by an agitated Southwick.
"Is that the captain?"
"Yes, sir, he's -"
"Wait, I'll get Bowen!"
"Sir," Jackson said firmly, "it's just a head wound. I don't think he'll approve of -"
"No Bowen," Ramage muttered, "my cabin."
Southwick bent down and inspected the wound. "Oh, not as bad as it looks. So much blood, though. Down the back, where he can't see it."
"Yes," Jackson said patiently, "now can we shift him, sir?"
They helped Ramage down the companionway, kicked open the door to the cabin - for once there was no Marine sentry - and finally lowered him on to the settee.
"I'll get a bowl of water and some cloth, sir," Jackson said. "Soon have you cleaned up."