Ramage said crisply: 'I have identified myself to you and been recognized by all your officers. Now, I relieve you of your command, Captain Bullivant. You are a sick man. You will go to your cabin and place yourself in the surgeon's care while I take this ship to the admiral.'
Bullivant flung the tankard at Ramage. It spun through the air, spilling a tail of liquor, and crashed against the bulwark. He then lifted the pistol and, his face creasing with the effort of concentration, said carefully: 'You are the Devil dressed ... as a French fisherman ... You want me ... to surrender this ship, Satan ... but I shall shoot first...'
He tried to pull back the hammer with his thumb to cock the pistol but, glassy-eyed, it was obvious that he could probably see at least two, perhaps more, flints. And Ramage, although holding a pistol behind his back, was helpless: he could not shoot a besotted man.
It might work, Ramage thought. Suddenly he realized it was exactly the hint that Bowen was trying to give. He cursed himself for being so slow and turned and said casually to a seaman: 'Jackson, pick up that tankard and give it back to Captain Bullivant.'
Yes, Bowen had the idea; Bowen, of all people, the man who regularly drank himself senseless until Ramage and Southwick cured him by using a ruthlessness neither had thought the other capable of: Bowen would know. Bowen knew - or could guess - what was going on in Bullivant's befuddled mind, and Bowen had already removed the cap of the flask ...
Jackson, holding out the tankard, approached Bullivant, whose face was streaming with perspiration, and said as though unaware that the man was wrestling with a pistoclass="underline" 'Your tankard, sir.'
'Wha'? Wha's that? Oh, tankard, eh? I've got a set like that. No good empty.'
But Bullivant's attention was now on the tankard; he had lowered the pistol but being right-handed was obviously wondering how he could take the tankard. By then Bowen was beside him, holding up the flask.
'I'll fill it for you, sir. Now, Jackson, hold it steady.'
Ramage heard the suck and gurgle of the liquid as it ran from the flask and Bullivant watched with the fascination of a rabbit cornered by a stoat.
'There we are, sir, almost full. I'll have to refill this flask, though. Now, if I take the pistol you'll have a hand free for the tankard, sir...'
In a moment Bullivant was sucking greedily at the tankard while Bowen tucked the pistol inside his coat. He motioned to Ramage and Jackson to keep still.
It was then Ramage realized that every man in the ship seemed to be staring at Bullivant and holding his breath: it was as though there had been complete silence for an hour. Instead, Ramage knew he had been on board only a very few minutes and a frigate lying hove-to made a good deal of noise: canvas slatted, the waves slopped against the hull, the backed foretopsail yard creaked its protest at being pressed hard against the mast. It seemed that all these noises started again when Bullivant began drinking.
But what was Bowen waiting for? There was nothing to stop Ramage ordering Renwick to detail a file of Marines to take Captain Bullivant down to his cabin: he had the authority by virtue of his seniority and, much more important, the confidence of knowing that at the court-martial that was bound to follow, each one of these officers would give evidence of precisely what happened: none would back and fill to save his own skin from possible reprisals from Bullivant's cronies or people over whom Bullivant's father had influence. Aitken, Wagstaffe, Kenton, Southwick, Renwick, Martin, every seaman - they would be only too anxious to tell a court on oath exactly what had happened in these few minutes - and what had happened in the preceding few days. He had led these men in and out of action, he had been wounded several times alongside them, he had saved Jackson's life more than once and Jackson had saved his twice as many times.
Yet why were they all standing there? It was a curious scene, unreal, yet he thought he would never forget it. Bullivant, cocked hat now awry, breeches and white silk stockings stained - from urine rather than brandy, it seemed - and face streaming with perspiration. The eyes closed now, even when he lowered the tankard and took a few breaths ... Bowen quite calm, looking as if he was just waiting for a patient to don an overcoat, Jackson with his sandy and thinning hair tidy as usual, shaven yesterday if not today, and wearing a blue jersey and white duck trousers, Southwick like a jovial bishop unable to avoid listening to a stream of blasphemy, Aitken with colour back in his face and watching Ramage like a hawk, waiting for orders, Paolo the same - in fact Ramage realized the boy was holding a long and narrow dagger which he must have drawn while Bullivant was fumbling with the pistoclass="underline" Paolo's complexion was once again sallow, and although the boy was still balanced on the balls of his feet ready to move quickly, it was clear from his expression he knew he would not now be using the dagger and Ramage knew him well enough to gauge the boy's disappointment. Wagstaffe, Kenton, Martin ... and the seamen, Stafford and Rossi, who were closer than he realized, and he guessed that somehow they had closed in stealthily once they recognized their old captain.
Then nearly two hundred men groaned. No, not a groan, it was a sigh, everyone breathing out after holding their breath, and a startled Ramage looked back at Bullivant in time to see him sitting on the deck and then slowly bending backwards, like a carpet unrolling, until he was sprawled flat, his cocked hat lying to one side, the tankard still clasped in one hand and the remains of the brandy spreading a slow stain across the planks of the deck.
Bowen gestured to the Marines, but before he could say anything Ramage had stepped forward. It would matter at a trial who gave the next orders, and although Ramage knew he did not give a damn for himself, the future of the officers could be damaged unless he was careful.
'Bowen, Captain Bullivant seems to have lost consciousness...'
The surgeon knelt beside the man, rolled back an eyelid, loosened the badly-tied stock and stood up again. 'He is unconscious, sir,' he said formally, 'and in my opinion -'
'In your opinion,' Ramage interrupted, 'is he capable of carrying out his duties as captain of this ship?'
'No, sir, under no circumstances. Nor will he be for several -'
'Days?'
'- for several days, sir.'
'Have him taken below to his cabin for treatment,' Ramage said.
Now the formalities were over and, while Bowen called over some Marines, Ramage turned first to Southwick. As a warrant officer, the master was junior to the lieutenants, but he was old enough to be the father, even the grandfather, of any of them, and the bond between him and Ramage could not be measured by normal standards.
As Ramage reached out to shake the old man's hand he was startled to see tears running down the weathered cheeks, although the kindly mouth was smiling. 'Sir... sir... when your head came up the ladder I thought I was dreaming ... where were -'
'We'll exchange news later; now we have work to do!' He shook hands with the lieutenants, Paolo and several of the seamen who rushed up, still hard put to believe their own eyes and anxious to touch him, as though that would make everything a reality. Then he beckoned to Swan, and together they walked aft.
'What a five minutes, sir!' Swan exclaimed. 'You look down the muzzle of a pistol like a man looking in a window. My blood ran cold even though he wasn't aiming at me!'
'He saw five or six of me and wasn't sure which one to shoot at.'
'Even so,' Swan said, 'five to one are not good odds!'
'Well, it's over now. If I hand over the Murex to you and give you orders to rejoin the flagship, can you manage? No one will ever know if you don't feel up to it, so don't be afraid to say.'
'No, sir, thanks but I'll be all right. If you'll just give me the latitude and longitude of the rendezvous.'