Aitken looked at them sternly. 'Benson, you'd better read the signals faster than the flagship makes 'em!'
The boy ran to the starboard side and climbed up on the aftermost gun, standing there with the telescope to his eye, Orsini standing on the deck beside him, ready to flick open the book at whatever page told him the meaning of the numbers that would be signalled.
Then the flagship was in sight, a long crescent of sandy beach beyond her, and Southwick was looking through his quadrant. He knew the height of her maintruck from her waterline and had already set on the quadrant the angle it would make at the distance off Ramage wanted to be when he began the salute. 'Another hundred yards, sir.'
'Gunner, stand by for the salute!' Ramage called down to the maindeck.
But there was no signal from the flagship telling him where to anchor. Another case of being damned if you waited and damned if you did not. Some admirals would flay a captain who just sailed in and anchored without being told exactly where, usually on a certain bearing and at a particular distance from the flagship. What did Admiral Davis favour? He shrugged his shoulders. The two frigates - no, three, because another one was just showing clear of the point - seemed to be anchored 'where convenient'.
Southwick took the quadrant from his eyes. 'That's the distance, sir,' he said, and he added quietly, 'Either the watchtower hasn't passed the word or - judging from where the others are - we just anchor...'
Ramage nodded; there was no point in waiting. 'Gunner,' he called, 'begin the salute!' He turned to Southwick and added quietly, 'It might wake 'em up!'
The first gun thundered across the small peninsula forming Needham Point and as the smoke drifted away Ramage saw a flock of pelicans wheeling up in alarm. The second gun boomed and then the third. Aitken was watching the flagship with his telescope and said suddenly, 'Three, no four, officers are watching. One's a captain, and - yes, one's an admiral. Definitely an admiral, sir.'
'Her flag halyards!' Ramage snapped, 'Are men bending on flags?'
'No, sir,' Aitken said firmly.
Ramage picked up the speaking trumpet, noting that the fourth gun of the salute had just fired. 'The outermost frigate,' he said to Aitken and Southwick. 'We'll anchor a hundred yards on his larboard quarter. Are there still eight fathoms that far out, Southwick?'
‘Aye, eight fathoms, sir,' the Master answered. 'I’ll go to the f'o'csle.'
Not having to anchor in a particular spot made it a lot easier. Several more guns to go; with luck the last of the salute should fire just before the anchor hit the water, but it would be close...
He took a deep breath, lifted the speaking trumpet to his lips and shouted the orders that sent the topmen swarming aloft. On the deck other men were standing by, ready to haul or let go. The quartermaster leaned forward slightly waiting for the order that would bring the Juno up into the wind.
Then he gave a stream of orders. As the Juno began to turn, the courses, topsails, and topgallants lost their swelling shapes as clew lines pulled the corners upwards and diagonally inwards towards the masts. Only the foretopsail remained, rippling as the wind came round on the frigate's beam.
Ramage was watching the other frigate, now on the Juno's starboard bow. A quiet order to the quartermaster and the Juno turned into the wind, so that the foretopsail was pressed against the mast, slowing the ship down. The other frigate was dead ahead and the backed foretopsail had almost stopped the Juno.
From the fo'c'sle Southwick signalled that all was ready; the bower anchor was hanging clear, the stock clear and below the bowsprit shrouds. The last gun of the salute fired and the smoke streamed aft. Jackson, perched by the mainchains, called that the way was off the ship and Ramage gave his prearranged signal to Southwick. A moment later the anchor splashed into the water and the cable thundered out through the hawse, the smell of singeing rope drifting back to the quarterdeck as friction scorched the thick manila cable. Now the back topsail was beginning to push the Juno astern, putting a strain on the cable and digging in the anchor. In the meantime the rest of the sails were being neatly furled. Then the foretopsail, its work done, was clewed and furled.
As Aitken went forward to start hoisting out the cutters he reported to Ramage: 'No signals yet from the flagship, sir, but there are five telescopes watching us!'
Ramage, looked at the other frigate and then walked to the forward end of the quarterdeck. He could just see the anchor buoy bobbing in the water. The Juno, more by luck than judgement, was where he wanted her. Aloft the sails were furled so tightly that the yards looked bare. Five telescopes, eh?
There was an excited squeak from Orsini, who came rushing to Ramage, signal book in hand. 'Signal from the flagship, sir. The Captain of the ship signified to report on board the flagship.' He paused, as though making sure that Ramage had grasped it, and then added: ‘The ship signified is 637, and that's us, sir.'
Ramage suppressed a grin at the enormous importance Paolo placed on every word. 'Very well, acknowledge - and keep a sharp eye open for more signals.'
Southwick came aft to report the amount of cable veered, and he took some bearings which he noted on the slate kept hooked on the binnacle box: they would show whether or not the anchor was dragging. Leaving the Master as officer of the deck, Ramage went down to his cabin and glanced in the mirror to make sure his stock had not creased in the hour since he had put on a fresh one. He put on his sword, wiped his face with a towel and picked up the canvas bag containing the dispatches for the Admiral, a copy of his own orders, the Juno's log and the rest of the forms he had been busy filling in for the past few days. He took a second canvas bag, even bulkier: that was for Aitken to give to Wagstaffe. After Ramage was on board the flagship and reporting to the Admiral, Wagstaffe could take over the rest of the letters, newspapers and small packets. There were times, he thought crossly, when one of the King's ships seemed to carry more private mail than a Post Office packet ship.
Baker knocked on the door of the cabin. 'Captain, sir, your cutter is ready.'
He went up on deck, gave the larger canvas bag to Aitken, listened to Southwick reporting that the anchor was not dragging, and walked to the gangway. The side-ropes, newly scrubbed, were rigged and the bos'n's mates and side boys were waiting. A minute later he was sitting in the sternsheets of the cutter and clutching the bag, while Jackson was giving orders for the boat to shove off.
Ramage looked up at the Juno's curving sides. Yes, she looked smart enough and he was glad she had that yellow strake: it emphasized her sheer nicely. And the figurehead - the men had made a good job of painting Juno. The flesh tones had seemed rather lurid viewed from the fo'c'sle, but from a distance they seemed natural.
The men bent at the oars, steady strokes that made the cutter leap across the chop kicked up by the wind. Ramage wondered for the hundredth time what Admiral Davis had in store for him. Just as he left the quarterdeck Southwick had muttered: 'It'll be convoys, sir,’ and looking round at the other three frigates at anchor Ramage was sure the Master was right. All three frigates were smartly turned out; all were glistening with more paint than the Navy Board allowed, with touches of gold leaf here and there, showing their captains had dipped into their own pockets to buy the extra to make their ships smart. They reeked of prize money, Ramage thought. Glistened with prize money, he corrected himself. These three frigates were obviously the Admiral's favourites. One of them would carry out the sealed orders in the canvas bag he was holding on his knees.