Ramage

 'Five boats, sir,' whispered Jackson. 'Full o' men and oars muffled. I reckon it's them, sir!'

 'Ready, men - we'll cut across their bows: quietly, then - oars ready... out... give way together....'

Now came the most dangerous part: he had to attract the boats' attention and identify himself without raising the alarm on shore. A quick hail, using a typically English expression, would do the job, Ramage decided.

 How far now? About fifty yards and the beach was at least another five hundred yards beyond. He stood up and cupped his hands to his mouth to aim his voice:

'Ahoy there: ahoy there: hold your horses a minute!'

 The boats neither slowed down nor speeded up. Supposing they were guard boats from the French ships, packed with soldiers and patrolling the approach to the harbour? Another hail or not? But a hundred muskets - not to mention boat guns - fired into the gig at this range...

'Ahoy there!' he repeated, 'we're survivors from a British ship. Ahoy there, do you know the flags eight-oh-eight?'

 That had been the Sibella's number: if challenged or wanting to identify herself, she would hoist flags representing that number, and anyone referring to the signal book could read her name against it in the list.

'Name the ship!' demanded a voice from the leading boat.

'Sibella’

'Toss and boat your oars, then, and don't try any funny business.'

He saw the five boats were turning and fanning out: the officer in charge had obviously ordered them to approach from different directions, avoiding a trap.

'Do as he says, Jackson,' said Ramage, 'and speak up!'

'Way enough, me boys,' the American yelled. 'Toss your oars ... Beat your oars. Look alive there or the Admiral'll stop yer grog.'

Ramage smiled: Jackson had adopted a Cockney accent and used just the kind of threat a British naval officer would recognize as genuine.

 A few minutes later one of the boats came closer alongside: the oarsmen backed water and took the way off the craft just as the officer growled at the Marines to be ready with their muskets.

'Stand up whoever hailed me.'

 He stood up. 'Lieutenant Nicholas Ramage, late of the Sibella, or rather of the late Sibella.'

 'Good God, Nick, what on earth are you doing here?' exclaimed the voice.

'Who's that?'

'Jack Dawlish!'

 Coincidences were normally too frequent in the Navy for anyone to pay much attention, but he had spent two years with Dawlish as a midshipman in theSuperb. Indeed, Dawlish and that fellow Hornblower had done their best to teach him spherical trigonometry.

'Hold on, Jack - I'm coming on board.'

 He scrambled into Dawlish's launch, leaping from thwart to thwart until he reached the sternsheets, where he shook Dawlish's proffered hand.

 'What the devil are you doing here, Nick? But give it a fair wind, we've a job to do!'

 'The Sibella was sunk: I'm the senior surviving officer. I've important refugees in my boat - one of them's badly wounded and must see a surgeon. Where's your ship?'

 'One and a half miles due north of this point,' Dawlish gestured towards Punta Lividonia. 'About a mile from here, in other words. His Majesty's frigate Lively, commanded by my gallant Lord Probus, and despatched by Commodore Nelson to capture or destroy any ships that might try to carry Bonaparte's rude soldiery across to Corsica and disturb the peace,' said Dawlish, assuming a mock pompous voice.

'Commodore Nelson?'

 'Yes, got his broad pendant a week or so ago. He'll soon get his flag, mark my words. Little chap with big ideas.'

 'Never met him. Well,' Ramage said airily, 'I won't delay you. Paddle on a bit farther, Jack, and at anchor in the first bay, half a mile this side of the Fortress, you'll find a heavily laden brig, two small schooners and a couple of tartanes. If you keep this distance off the beach they'll mask the guns in the Fortress. The brig's nearest.'

 'Oh?' exclaimed Dawlish in surprise. 'Been into the town lately?'

 'Yes, I had a stroll through it this morning. By the way - six 32-pounders on the Fort facing seaward: they'll depress enough to fire at you. And on this side there are six long 18-pounders. None of  'em fired for months. Keep close in and the merchantmen will be in their line of fire.'

'Thanks! Did you tell them we were coming?'

 'No - you aren't the most punctual of people, Jack: I didn't want them to wait up unnecessarily!'

 'Most thoughtful. Well, tell my Lord Probus his First Lieutenant was last seen charging down a cannon's mouth!'

'By the way,' said Ramage, 'is your Surgeon any good?'

 'At swilling wine, yes. For butcher's work - well, we've had more clap and costive complaints than gunshot wounds lately, so I don't know.'

 ‘Well, we'll soon find out. See you later.' He scrambled across to the gig just as Dawlish called after him the Lively's challenge and the reply.

He sat down in the sternsheets of the gig. 'Carry on, Jackson: the Lively's a mile due north of here. The challenge is "Hercules" and the reply "Stephen".'

Hercules and Stephen: so Captain Lord Probus, the heir to the earldom of Buckler, had a sense of occasion. Ramage thought he'd test Jackson's reaction.

'Why "Hercules", Jackson?'

'Er - don't know, sir.'

 ‘Port' Ercole. The port of Hercules. And "Stephen" is obvious.'

'Yes, sir,' said Jackson, but his mind was clearly on the tot of rum awaiting him in the Lively.

'Just over there, sir: fine on the starboard bow,' said Jackson suddenly.

 The ship was so black in silhouette that it made the night sky seem a very deep blue.

 Within a few minutes a challenge rang out from the ship, brassy as it issued from a speaking trumpet.

'Hercules!'

'Stephen!' yelled Jackson.

 It was the moment he had been praying for since before the Sibella had been surrendered, but it had arrived and Ramage was curiously disappointed. Now, as he crouched in a tiny cabin on board the Lively, washing himself thoroughly, he had no responsibilities: Gianna had been put in Lord Probus's sleeping cabin, and the Surgeon was busy attending her; the seven former Sibellas, Jackson among them, were now feeding and would soon be listed in the Lively's muster book as 'Supernumeraries'.

 So now Ramage had no lives on his hands; no decisions to make where a mistake would lose those lives; no urgent questions requiring equally urgent answers. He should be relieved but instead felt lonely and unsettled, without knowing the reason. The only possible explanation seemed both ridiculous  and sentimental. The ten of them in the gig had, with one exception, become in effect a family; a small group of people knitted together by the invisible bond of shared dangers and hardships.

 Lord Probus's steward soon arrived to say his Lordship wanted to see him on deck. Probus must be a puzzled man, Ramage thought; apart from a brief explanation when the gig first arrived alongside in the darkness, he can have no idea why the Marchesa and Pisano are on board.

 Ramage found Probus standing by the wheel, looking towards Punta Lividonia. The frigate was lying hove-to in a very light breeze, guns run out and the men at quarters.

'Ah, Ramage — your folk are being looked after properly?'