The Lady Arabella's men were energetic but obviously poorly trained; so much so that the dozen former Tritons seemed out of place among them, moving faster although in a strange ship, anticipating the next order, working together - and keeping silent. At one point Ramage noticed Southwick beginning to fidget as some of the packetsmen began discussing Stevens' order to let fall the maintopsail.
By the time the mooring had been dropped and the brig was passing out of the harbour, Ramage had the impression that Stevens was too indulgent, treating the men as part of a large and wayward family of which he was a benevolent uncle. There was an easygoing atmosphere which should have made for a happy ship, albeit slack and badly handled, yet Ramage sensed undercurrents - glances between packetsmen, a wink here and a sly grin there, a contemptuous shrug of the shoulders and movement of eyebrows. There was nothing definite that he could point out to Yorke, but he was sure that Southwick had also noticed it.
Perhaps he was comparing the packet with all the ships he had served in? Such slack discipline would be fatal in a man-o'-war, where orders had to be given and obeyed instantly even though, in a gale or in battle, men might be killed. If they were allowed to debate orders, there would be occasions when they might be reluctant or slow to obey. Ramage remembered the Triton brig, both in battle and in the hurricane which had swept her masts by the board, leaving her a helpless hulk. No man had ever hesitated - nor had it ever occurred to Ramage that one might ... Was this, he wondered, why packets were being lost? Not because the packetsmen lacked courage, but simply because they lacked discipline - what one might call "fighting discipline"?
That evening as Yorke, Southwick and Ramage walked the deck for some exercise before dinner, the sun was just dipping below the horizon astern, while to the north lengthening shadows were turning the mountains of Jamaica a soft blue-grey. The Lady Arabella was making good time against a falling Trade wind, stretching south-east with a long tack and then taking a short tack inshore.
Southwick had been speculating if they would find an offshore wind at nightfall, or whether it would back north-east as they rounded Morant Point, the easternmost tip of Jamaica, and head them as they began the long haul up to the northeast to make the Windward Passage.
The sea was already flattening; spray no longer flew up over the bow, and the wet, dark patches on the foot of the headsails were fading as the canvas dried. The brig's earlier sharp pitching had settled into an easier ridge-and-furrow motion, like the flight of a woodpecker.
Once round Morant Point, there would be no land until the brig began to pass through the Windward Passage between Cuba and Hispaniola, the western end of which looked on the chart like the head of a grotesque, open-mouthed fish trying to bite the eastern end of Cuba. Cape Dame Marie formed the lower lip; Cape Nicolas Mole the upper.
The three men walked in silence, turning inwards as they reached the taffrail and tramping forward until they were abreast the main shrouds, where once again they turned and headed aft.
There were two men at the helm, and Much was on watch. Captain Stevens had stayed in his cabin once the brig was clear of the harbour, and the only other seamen on deck, apart from a lookout, were those Much called up from below when the time came to tack.
Ramage sensed that Much was not popular with the men. Quietly spoken, small and grey-haired, the Mate gave orders clearly, without any hectoring or bullying, and Ramage was puzzled by the men's resentment - that seemed the only explanation of their attitude.
With the sun now below the horizon, Ramage felt a slight chill in the air, and knew that in half an hour Much would be kept busy sail-trimming in a faltering breeze.
"Ah, Mr Wilson!" Yorke said suddenly, gesturing to the Army officer as he came on deck. "Join us in our promenade."
"Delighted, delighted. A mile before dinner; that's my rule. Stops me getting fat."
"Why not walk half a mile and eat half as much?" Ramage asked lightly.
Wilson shook his head and fell into step beside them. "Much obliged for the suggestion, but it don't work."
Intrigued that a flippant remark should be treated so seriously, Ramage asked why not.
"Food's not the problem," Wilson said. "Porter's my trouble. Have a disgusting passion for it. Drink too much and get fat. Not drunk, you know; just fat."
"Do you, by jove," Yorke said sympathetically. "Have you tried watering the porter?"
"Tastes ghastly, my dear fellow, absolutely ghastly. Tried everything. Best walk a mile."
The four men lapsed into silence for a few minutes, regularly turning and retracing their steps each time they reach the taffrail or main shrouds.
"Think we'll meet the Frogs?" Wilson asked suddenly.
Yorke glanced at Ramage, who said, "There's always a chance."
"More than a chance from what I hear."
"What have you heard?" Ramage asked politely.
"Post Office losing three packets out of four. Hardly any mail getting across the Atlantic. Chaos at the Horse Guards, so my colonel says: can't send reports to London or receive orders. Dam' funny, says I."
A whimsical thought struck Ramage. "I hope you're prepared if we do meet the French," he said lightly.
"Oh yes - make ready, present, fire! Yes, by Jingo, I'm ready; even brought m' own powder and shot."
Ramage had his answer, but the soldier's manner stopped the conversation. He was one of those unfortunate people combining a limited brain with a forceful manner who unwittingly strangled almost any attempt at small-talk.
Yorke's silence showed he had reached the same conclusion, but he eventually devised an escape. After an inward turn that brought them facing forward again, he said, "Well, that's our mile for today - we're going to have to leave Captain Wilson to march on alone."
"Dam' short mile," Wilson commented cheerfully. "Mine's longer. I'll see you at dinner."
Down in their cabin, Ramage said, "That was brilliant!"
"What a bore the man is. But probably a good soldier, for all that."
"He might come in useful," Ramage muttered. "I wonder whether we should tell him more."
"I shouldn't bother," Yorke said. "Just wait until something happens. He needs ten seconds notice, no more and no less. More would worry him and less would get him fussed."
As Ramage opened a drawer and took out a clean shirt, Yorke said, "Do you think Smith will say anything to Sir Pilcher about the Tritons?"
Ramage shrugged his shoulders. "I'll try not to stay awake tonight worrying about it."
"I should hope not, but what did you tell Sir Pilcher?" Yorke persisted.
"Nothing. On the day he gave me my orders - and that was before the packet was sighted - I said I might need some men, and he agreed to me having a dozen former Tritons. Later he said I could use them in a packet if the Postmaster agreed."
"So...?"
"So when a dozen of the packetsmen overstayed their leave, you heard me suggest to the Postmaster that a dozen seamen should take their place."
"But you told Smith you were going on shore to ask Sir Pilcher for them!"
"No I didn't," Ramage said emphatically, "I was very careful about the words I used. I said to Smith, 'Might I suggest Sir Pilcher Skinner ... a dozen well-trained seamen from one of his ships ... if it meant the packet could sail at once. Particularly in view of all the circumstances.'"
"You seem to have learned that by heart."
"I had! The point is that I was careful not to suggest that anyone asked Sir Pilcher. I'd already arranged for the dozen Tritons to be sent on shore from the Arrogant, and given them their orders. Sir Pilcher had given permission for me to use them on board the packet - if Smith agreed. Well, Smith agreed, so I'm completely covered as far as Sir Pilcher is concerned, and frankly I don't give a damn about Smith. Anyway, he not only accepted the men but signed 'em on himself!"