The drunkard who had briefly taken his place had been hoisted out lashed on to a stretcher shouting and screaming that the seamen at the staytackle were doing the Devil's work. Now Bullivant was on his way to Plymouth in the Murex and he could only feel sorry for Sarah. She will, he thought grimly, see and hear what we went through with Bowen. Still, it is a bare 120 miles from Ushant to Plymouth and the Murex should stretch over to the northeast at a good six knots, so that Sarah will have to put up with it for only twenty-four hours. Then she would post to London and very soon the thought of the recent excitement would be like a half-remembered dream.
On top of the main capstan: the ship was not rolling enough to make it difficult for him to balance, and he could look round and see everyone, except for two or three Marines hidden by the mizenmast. But it was a dam' cold wind: the downdraught from the mainsail seemed to go straight through his smock. The advantage of full uniform in a northern climate was its warmth, although it was too hot for the Tropics - the cocked hat, for instance, seemed to gain a pound in weight for every ten degrees of latitude it moved south, so that near the Equator it was about as comfortable as a knight's helmet.
Now the Marines were standing stiffly to attention, the lieutenants frozen to the deck, and the seamen looking up at him, some grinning, some straight-faced, but none sucking teeth. Few captains seemed to realize that the presence or absence of the sucking of teeth revealed more about the men's attitude, happiness or discontent, than anything else.
He spoke a few words of greeting as he pulled the first of Admiral Clinton's orders from the front of his smock and the Marines and lieutenants unfroze. The seamen knew only too well what was coming next and made sure they were standing comfortably.
Ramage unfolded the paper and began the ritual of 'reading himself in'. Until that was completed he could not officially give any orders and expect them to be obeyed; he had purposely made 'stand at ease' a gruff comment rather than an order, and the helm order to Southwick was to save time. Then he began reading.
'By virtue of the power and authority to me given as commander-in-chief of His Majesty's ships and vessels comprising the Channel Fleet, and being off Brest and outside the Channel limits, I Reginald Edward Clinton, Vice-Admiral of the Red, do hereby constitute and appoint you captain of His Majesty's ship the Calypso frigate, willing and requiring you forthwith to go on board and take upon you the charge and command of captain in-her accordingly...'
Ramage paused for breath, cursing the man who had originally (probably a hundred years ago) drawn up the wording, never considering the poor captain who had to recite them loud enough so that over the sound of the wind and the sea every man in a ship's company could hear them. Well, almost all the seamen were grinning now, and he continued.
'... Strictly charging and commanding all the officers and company of the said Calypso frigate to behave themselves jointly and severally in their respective employments... and you likewise to observe the General Printed Instructions ... Hereof nor you nor any of you may fail as you will answer to the contrary at your peril; and for so doing this shall be your warrant...'
That last sentence meant just what it said: lieutenants, post-captains and admirals had been court-martialled and broken for failure. The commission of course covered any orders given by superiors, and the admiral's actual orders had a vagueness about them explained partly by the lack of much knowledge about L'Espoir, her prisoners and her route, but also so worded that whatever happened (in case of failure) the admiral could not be blamed. Admiral Clinton had been careful to note that he and Ramage were 'outside the Channel limits', because within Channel limits only the Board of Admiralty could appoint captains.
Ramage folded the orders and tucked them back inside his jersey: he had 'read himself in', he was (once again) commanding the Calypso. As soon as he had 'read himself in', Ramage reflected, a captain usually made a speech to the ship's company (threatening, inspiring, flatulent, boring - different styles). But all these men, all the names attached to the sea of faces surrounding him, knew him welclass="underline" they had gone into action with him, boarded enemies beside him, pistol, cutlass or boarding pike in hand. Some had been blown up with him, most had seen him brought back unconscious from wounds. There were no words to say to such men.
He just looked round slowly at all the men, raised his right hand in a salute that suddenly reminded him absurdly of a Roman emperor's gesture, and jumped down from the main capstan amid a swelling roar of cheers: 'Three cheers and a tiger,' and apparently led by Southwick.
Well, he was back. Where was L'Espoirl
The sea now had the is-it-mauve-or-is-it-purple? of the deep ocean, with white horses stippling the tops of a few wind waves while swell waves slid beneath them. The Calypso was pitching slightly and rolling heavily, the masts and their yards creaking and the bulging sails frequently flattening and slatting as a particularly quick roll suddenly spilled the wind for a minute or two.
Astern the sun had lifted over the line of distant black cloud lying low and flat on the eastern horizon like a shadowy baulk of timber floating on the sea, and quickly the last of the stars were dazzled away and the sky overhead turned pale blue and cloudless.
In a few hours they would be crossing that invisible line of latitude 23 degrees 27 minutes North, marking the Tropic of Cancer, and, Ramage reflected thankfully, at last they seemed to have picked up the Trade winds.
For the previous few days it had been a damp and dreary ritual. During the night the wind dropped, leaving the Calypso wallowing in a confused sea which bounced her up and down like a doormat being shaken and made everything movable creak, rattle or bang. In Ramage's cabin even the wine glasses clinked in their rack as though toasting each other. Two drawers full of clothes which had not been shut properly skidded across the painted canvas that served as a carpet on the cabin sole, spilling silk and lisle stockings, handkerchiefs, stocks and shirts as though a dog was making a nest in a draper's storeroom.
Dawn each day had revealed thunderstorms building up all round them, the lower clouds foaming upwards towards a higher layer which soon cut off the sun. From time to time Ramage had stood at the quarterdeck rail, picturing L'Espoir scores of miles ahead and sailing in different weather, the Trade winds sweeping her south and west to Cayenne, sails bulging, the French captain cheerful as he marked his chart and filled in his journal to record a fast passage from Brest.
In the Calypso, Ramage, almost stifling with frustration, had looked up at the sails hanging down like heavy curtains, chafing against rigging, the foot of each one wearing against the mast since the sails of the King's ships were cut with a straight foot, not the deep curve favoured by merchant ships deliberately to avoid the chafe but reducing the area of the sail, something a ship of war could not afford.
Clew up to save some of the chafe or furl and avoid any at all? Or leave them so that he would not lose a minute once the first gust of wind arrived? But when it came (this week or next) would the wind be just a nice gust or would it be a roaring blast from one of those great thunderstorms that would send topmen hurrying to furl as courses were hastily clewed up and Aitken doubled the number of men at the wheel so that four stood a chance of preventing the overpressed frigate broaching as she raced to leeward, barely under control?
Should he risk losing a mile or so of progress, should he risk that heart-stopping bang of sail torn in half by the brute strength of the wind and then the thudding and thumping of the pieces slatting, or should he furl everything and wait for the wind to set in properly?