"Why were they all carrying bags?" Jackson mused. "Large bags. Not their seabags, though; bags with something special inside. Listen, you three, I'm going to report to Mr Ramage; he's waiting at the Royal Albion."
He was back within ten minutes, walking jauntily.
"Ventures!" he said contemptuously. "Seems all these packetsmen are really budding merchants. They bring out goods to sell here - boots, shoes, wines and cheeses - I ask you, cheeses - and take back things that are difficult to get in England, and sell them in Falmouth."
In the cardroom at the Royal Albion next morning Southwick and Bowen were having a leisurely game of chess, the Master now regretting that he had refused the surgeons offer of an advantage of two bishops.
Bowen shook his head reprovingly. "The centre of the board, Southwick; always try to dominate the centre of the board."
"I know," Southwick snapped, "you've told me enough times, but all I can say is it's easier said than done."
"Are you looking forward to our cruise?"
"Not much," Southwick said. "Don't like sitting round idle, especially on board a ship."
"Let someone else worry about sailing the ship for a change. I'm looking forward to the company of you and Mr Ramage without one or other of you constantly bobbing off on watch!"
"Aye, it'll be a nice enough voyage in that sense."
"But not in the other sense, though."
"No," Southwick said. "Trouble is, we don't know what we're looking for."
"Getting the dozen former Tritons on board the packet - Mr Ramage's method seems a trifle - er - unorthodox."
"No choice," Southwick said, lifting a bishop carefully, and then hastily putting it back. "Has to be a little unorthodox when they give him these rum jobs. I tell you this, Bowen: I'm dam' sure the Admiralty couldn't make up its mind whether to give the job to an admiral with a squadron or a junior officer..."
"Or Mr Ramage," Bowen said cheerfully. "He makes a nice compromise."
"Check," Southwick said triumphantly.
Bowen glanced at the board, moved his knight, and looked up again. "Best choice they - you see what you did, don't you? Good - they ever made."
Bowen rolled a pawn along the table-top. "You know, Southwick, potentially Mr Ramage is a fine chess player. Curious, he makes brilliant moves when he's using his own life - and other people's. Yet sit him behind a chessboard and he gets lost..."
"It's a matter of concentration," Southwick said. "Nothing concentrates your thoughts better than knowing you'll get killed if you don't do the right thing. But sitting behind a chessboard - well, he's probably thinking of a dozen different things while his opponent decides on a move."
"I suppose so," Bowen said. "For me, I can think only with a chessboard in front of me." He moved his queen. "Check, I think; possibly even checkmate. You see, Southwick, you don't concentrate either."
"How can I, when you're jabbering all the time," an exasperated Southwick exclaimed. "Anyway, it's not 'mate'."
Bowen pointed to his knight.
"Oh blast it," Southwick said. "I hate knights. I like straightforward moves; none of this hoppity dodging about business." He looked at his watch. "Hmm, time we began moving."
Ramage was in his room and finding it strange to be out of uniform. He was thankful that he and Yorke were the same build - more or less, anyway. A tightness across his shoulders warned him to be careful lest a seam split, and that Yorke was narrower-chested. But he had excellent taste and a good tailor, so borrowing his clothes for the first day or so on board the Lady Arabella was a pleasure.
Yorke reached over and gave the stock a slight twitch. "You're listing to starboard a trifle."
"It's your damned tailor," Ramage grumbled, "he's sewn in a list."
"When we get on board," Yorke said, "we are - well, ourselves as it were?"
"Completely. We all know each other. The only thing is you don't know any of the ex-Tritons - Jackson, Stafford and the rest of them."
Yorke grinned. "I'm glad we'll have those rascals with us. They're reassuring. Wish we had all the rest of them."
After rapping on the door Southwick called from the corridor: "Bowen and I are just leaving, sir. Your carriage will be ready in a couple of minutes - they're putting up your baggage now."
Chapter Seven
Yorke and Ramage climbed on board His Majesty's packet Lady Arabella to find Southwick and Bowen on deck talking to a sombre and lanky man with a thin, cadaverous face who immediately came over and introduced himself.
"Gideon Stevens, gentlemen, owner and commander of the Lady Arabella: welcome on board."
Ramage, realizing Stevens had been expecting him to be in uniform and now could not distinguish them, introduced himself and Yorke.
Stevens' voice was soft, almost ingratiating. "The steward will show you to your cabin, gentlemen. Your baggage will be hoisted on board in a moment or so. I hope you'll be comfortable."
The small cabin that Yorke and Ramage were to share was panelled in dark mahogany and smelled stuffy; at least one of the previous occupants had smoked cigars and the stale, cloying aroma still clung to the furnishings. The covers on the berths, the cushions on the two chairs and the carpet were all a dull, deep red.
"This plum colour - it just doesn't go with polished mahogany," Yorke grumbled.
"Doesn't show the dirt either," Ramage pointed out. "Don't forget Captain Stevens has to safeguard his profit."
"Ninety-nine per cent of the fare, I should think," Yorke said acidly. "And why the devil didn't the steward open the skylight to air the cabin?"
The saloon was large, combining a dining-room and drawing-room in one, and the passengers would spend much of their time in it when they reached the colder weather to the north. It was also panelled in dark mahogany, matching the long dining-table. A heavy oil-lamp hung in gimbals at each end of the cabin; a big brass stove at the forward end warned them that once they were through the Windward Passage it would get a degree colder every day.
Ramage and Yorke had just finished inspecting the saloon and noting that the green corrosion on the brass of the lamp and stove fittings indicated a lazy steward, when a ruddy-faced, stocky young Army officer walked in and, stopping in front of Yorke, barked: "You Ramage?"
"No, this gentleman is."
"How d'y'do: I'm Wilson, 31st Foot."
He had an open, round face, the mouth almost hidden by a blond moustache a shade lighter than his hair, which was already thinning. Ramage liked his straightforward bluffness and after a minute or two left him talking to Yorke as he went back up on deck to find Southwick deep in conversation with the commander.
"Ah, sir," Southwick said. "Mr Stevens was saying how much he liked the brig rig."
"It's ideal," Ramage said agreeably. He'd enjoyed commanding the Triton brig, and for a moment pictured her wreck now lying on the coral reef near Puerto Rico. He glanced round and added: "Particularly with a small crew."
"That reminds me," Stevens said, pulling out his watch, "I gave a dozen men leave last night. They're due back - why, half an hour ago!"
He turned away, excusing himself and calling: "Harry? Pass the word for the Bosun! Oh, there you are. Where are those men? They're half an hour adrift. And damnation, here's Mr Smith's boat with the mails. He'll want to muster the ship's company as soon as the mails are stowed. Harry, get yourself on shore and find the men!"
He turned back to Ramage, "I can't understand it. Never had trouble before."