Aitken said suddenly: 'What do we do if we sight L 'Espoir thisafternoon, sir?'
'I've no idea,' Ramage admitted. 'We might send their masts by the board or tear their sails to shreds with langrage, but we'd still have to carry the ship by boarding and if the captain uses the prisoners as hostages and threatens their lives, we're still no nearer rescuing anyone.'
'It's a worry, sir,' Aitken commented, and Ramage was irritated by the Scotsman's tone: he spoke in the 'Yes, well, the captain's bound to think of something' voice. However, as Aitken now knew well, this time there was no way.
Admiral Clinton was lucky, Ramage thought sourly as he turned yet again at the taffraiclass="underline" if the Count of Rennes and his fellow prisoners were not rescued, or were killed, the commander-in-chief would certainly incur the disfavour of the Prince of Wales, but that was all, because his orders (as far as they went) were quite correct. But Captain Ramage, whatever the verdict of a court-martial, could be sure that at best he would spend the rest of his life on the beach, drawing half-pay. No one would say anything out loud, but at the Green Room in Portsmouth, at Brooks's, White's and such places, there had been too many of his Gazettes published by the Admiralty for there not to be jealousy of 'that fellow Ramage'.
Nor would half-pay now be so boring and frustrating; in fact, with Sarah beside him it could be very lively. They would live at St Kew and running the estate would keep them busy. Yet he knew that while the war against France lasted and there were ships of the Royal Navy at sea, only half his heart would be in Cornwall. That, Sarah would know, might prove the most difficult thing to deal with.
He shook his head to dispel the thoughts: what on earth was he getting so depressed about, putting himself on half-pay when they had not even sighted L'Espoir?
Five minutes later, as Aitken wrote on the slate and Ramage continued pacing the windward side of the quarterdeck, there was a hail from aloft.
'Deck there - foretopmast lookout here!'
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Mess number eight was the rather grandiose official description of one of the well-scrubbed tables and two forms flanking it on the Calypso's lowerdeck. It was on the larboard side abreast the forehatch, which ensured a bitterly cold draught in winter in northern latitudes, but as the Calypso under Captain Ramage's command had spent most of her time in the Tropics or the Mediterranean, the members of the mess were content.
The outboard end of the narrow side of the table fitted into the ship's side and the other was suspended from the deckhead by two ropes. Each of the forms on the long sides of the table seated four men, so that each mess in the ship comprised no more than eight men.
The mess had its own equipment. There was the bread barge, a wooden container in which the bread for the mess was kept. The bread was ship's biscuit, made in the great naval bakeries, and at the moment it was fresh, a word used to describe a square of hard baked dough which was still hard, not soft and crumbling, the happy home of the black-headed and white-bodied weevils which felt cold to the tongue but had no taste.
The bread barge was in some ways a symbol of the mess. The number eight was carefully painted on the tub-shaped receptacle and beside it was the mess kid, a tiny barrel open at one end with what looked like two wooden ears through which was threaded a rope handle. Also marked with the mess number, it was used to carry hot food from the copper boilers in the galley to the table.
The carefully scrubbed net bag folded neatly on the bread barge and with a metal tally stamped '8' fixed to it was the 'kettle mess', the improbably named object in which all hot food was cooked, because boiling in the galley's copper kettles was the only way it could be done. The Calypso's cook, like those in each of the King's ships, was the man responsible for the galley in general, the cleanliness of the copper kettles and the fire that heated the water in them, but that was the limit of his cooking.
Each mess had its own cook, a man who had the job for a week. Number eight mess's cook this week was Alberto Rossi, a cheerful man who was nicknamed 'Rosey' and usually corrected anyone who called him Italian by pointing out that he came from Genoa, which in Italian was spelled Genova, so that he was a Genovese. If number eight mess decided in its collective wisdom that it would use its ration of flour, suet and raisins (or currants) to make a duff, Rossi's culinary skill would extend itself to mixing the ingredients with enough water to hold them together, put them in the kettle mess and make sure (with tally safely affixed) that it was delivered to the ship's cook by 4 a.m. and collected at 11.30 a.m., in time for the noon meal.
For this week when he was the mess cook, Rossi was also responsible for washing the bowls, plates, knives, forks and spoons of the other members of the mess, and stowing them safely. And, because bread, even if not appetizing, eased hunger, he had to make sure the bread barge was full - any emptying being ascribed to the south wind. Stafford, noting it was barely half-full, might comment: 'There's a southerly wind in the bread barge.'
Nor were the points of the compass limited to the compass and the bread barge: tots of rum were also graded. Raw spirit was due north, while water was due west, so a mug of nor'wester was half rum and half water, while three quarters rum would become a nor'nor'wester and a quarter of rum would be west-nor'west and find itself nobody's friend.
The seven men now sitting at mess number eight's table piled up their plates and basins. Three used old pewter plates, but four, the latest to join the mess, used bowls and looked forward to the Calypso taking her next prize, Rossi having explained carefully that a French prize years ago had yielded the three pewter plates in defiance of the eighth Article of War, which forbade taking 'money, plate or goods' from a captured ship before a court judged it a lawful prize. There was an exception which the three men interpreted in their own way - unless the object was 'for the necessary use and service of any of His Majesty's ships and vessels of war'. Admittedly such objects were supposed to be declared later in the 'full and entire account of the whole', but as Stafford said at the time with righteous certainty in his Cockney voice: 'S'welp us, we clean forgot.'
'Feels nice to be warm again,' Stafford remarked, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. 'England's never very warm but the Medway's enough ter perish yer. The wind blowin' acrorst those saltings ... why, even the beaks of the curlews curl up with the cold.'
'Curlew? Is the bird? Is true, this curling?' Rossi asked, wide-eyed.
Jackson, the captain's coxswain, who owned a genuine American Protection issued to him several years earlier, shook his head. 'Another of Staff's stories. All curlews have long curved beaks whether it's a hot day or cold.'
'Anyway, I'm glad we're back in the Tropics,' Stafford said cheerfully. 'Don't cross the Equator, do we?'
Jackson shook his head. 'Not even if we go all the way to Cayenne. What's its latitude, Gilbert?'
The Frenchman shook his head in turn. 'I am ashamed,' he said, 'but I do not know it.'
When another of the French asked a question in rapid French, Gilbert translated Jackson's question, and the Frenchman, Auguste, said succinctly: 'Cinq.'
'Auguste says five degrees North,' Gilbert said.
'Five, eh? When we're in the West Indies, up and down the islands, we're usually betwixt twelve and twenty,' Stafford announced, and turned to Jackson. 'There, you didn't know I knowed that, didja!'
'Knew,' Jackson corrected automatically, and Stafford sighed.
'Oh, all right. You didn't knew I knowed that, then.'