Without realizing it he continued moving upward so that he was on his feet and heading silently for the door, pistol in his hand, almost before registering that the grunt came from a man's throat. Yorke followed him a couple of seconds later.
Ramage gestured to him to stand to the left of the door, where he would be hidden if it was opened, and himself stood the other side, flat against the bulkhead. He watched the handle.
The light was so dim from the lantern over his desk that it was hard to see the wooden latch. Yes! It was lifting slightly ... and anyone wanting to see if he was lying in the cot at the after-end of the cabin or sitting at the desk on the starboard side would have to open the door at least a foot. And men entering a room or cabin tended to look first at the level of their own eyes.
Gently he lowered himself until he was crouching.
A black crack began to show as someone slowly opened the door, careful to do it gently for fear of a creaking hinge. The crack widened ... an inch, two inches ... four ... five ... Whoever it was could see part of the cabin but not the cot or the desk. Eight inches ... nine ... he could probably see the empty chair by the desk now ... eleven ... twelve ... he could see the whole of the desk and must guess the Captain was lying in the cot.
Suddenly the door flung open wide and the Bosun jumped into the cabin, a pistol in each hand, shouting at the cot, "Don't move!"
It took him a few moments to realize that there was no one in the heavily shadowed cot, and as he began to look round Ramage shot him in the leg. The flash of the gun blinded him for a second and the noise boomed in the tiny cabin, but as the Bosun pitched forward another man with a pistol took his place, saw Ramage crouching with an empty gun smoking in his hand, and sneered, "Now it's your turn, Mister Captain! We need your help to capture this ship!"
Ramage stood up slowly and glanced down at the Bosun. The man was lying on his face and had let go of both pistols as he tried to clutch the wound just above his knee.
Ramage knew that if he wanted to live he needed time. "Do you, indeed?" he said icily, recognizing the seaman as a man called Harris. "Do you want me to give the officer of the watch a written order? Or would you prefer me to ask the Admiralty?"
"None o' that smooth talk," Harris said harshly. "The shot will have roused that bloody slave-driver Southwick. I'm warning you, if he tries any nonsense, you get yourself shot. You're our second hostage, Mister Captain - sir," he added derisively.
Suddenly Ramage realized that there were only two of them: the Bosun and this man Harris. They must have crept from their hammocks - or sneaked from their stations - without the Tritons spotting them, clubbed the sentry at the door and been planning to seize Ramage as a hostage.
By marching him on deck with a pistol at his back, they guessed they could force Southwick to surrender the ship as the price of saving Ramage's life. Then they would head for a Spanish or French port to hand over the ship and get what they expected would be freedom. They had probably - what a terrible irony - thought the gibbet awaited them at home in England, never for a moment... all at once he realized that Harris had just referred to a "second hostage". Who was the first?
"Come on, Mister Captain, let's get on with the business a'fore the Bosun bleeds to death. Remember, one false step and you're a dead man."
Hoping Yorke would continue to play a waiting game, Ramage decided to try and find out as much as he could. "You're a brave fellow - you and the Bosun. Just two of you taking a ship, eh?"
"Not difficult for packetsmen," Harris sneered. "No, not just two of us: the rest of the lads are ready, waiting for me to pass the word. Then we'll show Mister Bloody Southwick some sail handling - aye, and navigation too. Ever been to Coruña, Mister Captain Ramage? Ever been in a Spanish prison?"
"No. But I imagine you've been in an English one."
"Never - an' there'll never be no risk o' that again; I'll take my oath on it!"
"I'll take my oath that you're wrong," Ramage said conversationally. "Do you know Mr Yorke, by the way?"
"What, the passenger? No, why?"
"I just wondered. You are Harris, aren't you, Bosun's mate?"
"Aye, that's me. Now, let's-"
"Don't turn round, Harris; otherwise you'll be shot dead," Ramage said conversationally. "Mr Yorke is standing right behind you with a loaded pistol in his hand."
The man froze, the white showing all round his eyes. Then he relaxed. "That's a silly trick. You can't catch a packetsman like that. And we've got the Marchesa as well - didn't know that, did you. Got the pair of you, we have!"
At that moment the muzzle of Yorke's pistol pressed into the back of his neck.
"We can catch a packetsman, you know," Yorke said jauntily, and cocked the pistol so that Harris felt the metallic click travel down his spine.
Again the man froze and Ramage saw his eyes straining to look behind him. In a swift movement Ramage stepped to one side and seized the man's gun. Outside the door he heard the plank squeak several times and as he turned he saw Southwick peering cautiously through the door, holding a musketoon whose muzzle in the shadows seemed to bell out as large as a cavalryman's trumpet and which a moment later was jammed into Harris's stomach.
Still trying desperately to think what the mutineers could be doing to Gianna, it took him a few moments to snap, "Come in, Southwick! Is the wheel secure? What about the packetsmen on watch?"
"All attended to, sir," the Master said calmly. "All three of 'em lying in a row by the binnacle. We knocked 'em out the moment we heard the shot. The Mate's at the wheel."
"Very well. Don't make any move against the rest of them yet: they've got the Marchesa as a hostage. Secure Harris and get Bowen to look at the Bosun."
"Come on," Southwick called to the men behind him, "Rossi, Maxton - this man's under arrest. Put him in irons and guard him well."
"Accidente!" the Italian seaman exclaimed, and in a moment he was in the cabin, a knife in each hand and crouching behind Harris while Maxton stood in front, a cutlass pressing against the man's stomach. "Follow me," Maxton hissed, backing to the door, "and just trip once, eh?"
Ramage, rubbing the scar over his brow, saw the Surgeon at the door, with Wilson behind him. "Ah, Bowen, we have a patient fer you: a turbulent Bosun."
"The sentry is dead," Bowen said quietly. "Skull crushed in."
The sentry dead and Gianna a hostage. Ramage felt a chill spreading through his body; time was slowing down and the colours in the dimly lit cabin were growing brighter. He knew the symptoms and knew that for the moment his greatest enemy was himself: this cold rage occurred rarely, but when it did there was no fear and no mercy for whoever caused it.
Cursing himself for letting Rossi and Maxton take Harris away before he could force answers out of him, Ramage pushed Bowen aside as the surgeon went to kneel by the Bosun, who was now beginning to groan, apparently having fainted when he fell.
Ramage paused for a moment and asked Bowen, "Who was the sentry?"
"Duncan, sir."
Duncan ... the young Scot who had been with him in every action from the Mediterranean onwards, and now murdered by one of his own countrymen. Murdered because he was looking the other way and did not know the significance of that squeaking plank. Ramage began rubbing the scar over his brow again and knelt beside the Bosun, who was conscious now and groaning softly. He pulled the man's shoulder, rolling him over on his back. The face was grey: he had lost a lot of blood - it was soaking across the deck, seemingly black in the faint light from the lantern.