"When I look at that damned privateer I hear the prison gates at Verdun creaking open."
"Stop looking, then," Ramage said unsympathetically, putting the telescope to his eye. He counted five gun-ports. Four-pounders? Probably, for a schooner that size, and double-fortified too, so they can be packed with grape or canister shot without fear of bursting. But a count of guns, the Lady Arabella's single broadside against the French schooner's, hardly gives a true picture: Johnny Frenchman's strength lies in the horde of a hundred or so privateersmen who, at this very moment, are arming themselves with pistols, cutlasses, tomahawks and pikes, and waiting eagerly for the moment their schooner crashes longside the Arabella so they can swarm on board and overwhelm these Falmouth men.
Why north-by-east? Why not north? With the wind on the beam and the sails trimmed properly the Arabella would be romping along. But steering a point or more to the east of the sensible course, and with the yards braced up so the wind was spilling out of the sails - why, if Stevens had been waiting to meet a pilot cutter and wanted to waste an hour without heaving-to, he would do just what he was doing now.
"Excuse me, sir," Southwick said, "they're steering more than a couple of points off course. Never a bit above nor'-nor'-east, and often down to nor'east-by-north..."
"Very well," Ramage said, but Southwick did not return to the binnacle; instead he stood there, as if waiting for orders, and Ramage knew the old Master felt the time for action was fast approaching. It was, and Ramage knew it. But what action? And against whom? First, he had his orders from Sir Pilcher to find out how the packets were being captured. Carrying out those orders comes before anything else, he told himself yet again, and I've already decided that being on board a packet when it's actually captured might be the only way of getting the answer.
But the Arabella - unless I can do something about it - is going to be captured just because Stevens is a fool. Perhaps a knave as well. Being on board the Arabella when she's captured because her captain hasn't the wit to keep her up to windward isn't going to give me any answers. If poor seamanship is the only reason why all the other packets were captured, then I have the answer now: all I need do is seize the Arabella ~ and with the dozen Tritons and surprise that would be easy - and drive her hard. Even if Stevens has lost us too much to leeward to let me ... he dismissed the rest of the train of thought: he was confident he could avoid capture.
So by tonight, he told himself the Arabella could be safe, and I'd be able to start writing my report to the Admiralty. Just poor seamanship. "Judging by Captain Stevens' behaviour when the Arabella sighted a privateer, none of the packet commanders knows how to sail his ship with the wind on the beam, let alone close-hauled..." Their Lordships would give a derisive laugh, and because of their disbelief Lieutenant Ramage would spend the rest of his life on half pay. And no wonder. It did not sound a very plausible explanation.
So what could he do? Force Stevens to bear up? If he refused, Ramage would have to take over command of the ship. He did not give a damn about the furious complaints the Post Office would make to the Admiralty, but the problem was simple: if he did take over the Arabella it would not help him to carry out his orders. All he would know was that Stevens was not fit to command anything.
What a mess, he thought bitterly. Sir Pilcher was wiser than he knew when he kept his favourites out of range of this job.
"Well?" Yorke asked. "You've been staring at that privateer for three minutes. You've sighed five times and rubbed the scars on your brow twice. By now your plan must be ready, and Southwick and I await your orders."
Ramage shook his head miserably. "No plan, no orders ... I just wish to God I'd never lost the Triton; then I wouldn't be here."
"Now, sir," Squthwick said soothingly, "why don't we just get to windward of Stevens and put a warning shot across his bow? Just close enough to give him a shock: might do him a world of good."
Ramage shrugged his shoulders. "It's about all we can do. We're just outraged passengers making a formal complaint. Remember that. Passengers, nothing more."
Even before he finished speaking, Yorke was striding aft to where Stevens still stood at the taffrail. Ramage noticed he was now wearing a cutlass. In fact several men now wore them. But Stevens had not sent the men to quarters yet ... He remembered he had not yet retrieved his sword from Jackson and saw the American waiting near by. Taking the proffered sword he did up the clips and hurried aft to join Yorke and Southwick.
Stevens was now looking apprehensive, his face creased into the worried, almost sycophantic expression of a grocer seeing his three best customers coming to complain about the quality of some of his goods, but not yet sure exactly what the complaints would be.
Passengers, Ramage reminded himself; we're just passengers. As he reached Stevens he gestured towards the privateer (startled to see how close she now was) and said, "I thought we'd have shown her a clean pair of heels!"
"Not a hope " Stevens said dolefully.
"We were six miles to windward when we sighted her. The Arabella looks a fast ship," he said contemptuously, "but whoever designed her must have used a haystack for a model."
"Aye, 'tis true," Stevens said, still in a doleful voice. "She's not as fast as she looks."
Yorke suddenly appeared at the other side of Stevens and said crisply, "If I owned this ship I'd be ashamed!"
"How so, Mr Yorke?" Stevens was not provoked. His voice was still sad, like a professional mourner's.
"I'd be ashamed at the way she's being sailed, and I intend telling Lord Auckland about it, too."
"I can't set any more canvas, Mr Yorke; I haven't the hands to furl when the privateer gets to close quarters."
"When? That's putting the cart before the horse," Yorke said, his voice taking on a distinct edge. "If you'd spent a couple of minutes sail trimming and then kept a sharp eye on the helmsmen, that privateer wouldn't have got within five miles of us, and we'd lose her once it's dark. Why, it's not too late even now."
"I wish 'twas so," Stevens said lugubriously, "I've no wish to be a prisoner again."
"Then put better men at the wheel," Yorke snapped. "Those two are steering a couple of points to leeward all the time."
"Oh, you're mistaken, Mr Yorke, indeed you are; this ship won't hold up to windward like that fellow." Stevens waved towards the privateer. "Designed for close-hauled work, those Frenchmen."
"Bah!" Yorke exclaimed. "Captain Stevens, it's my duty to remind you of your duty towards your passengers. You're not taking the proper steps to safeguard us. Why, you haven't sent the men to quarters yet. Look, every gun is still secured!"
Well spoken, thought Ramage: Yorke's protest was just the sort a passenger would make. But at that moment he heard Captain Wilson's heavy footsteps clumping along the deck behind them.
"I say, Yorke my dear fellow," Wilson said hotly, "that's demned insulting, don't you know? I've complete faith in Captain Stevens. We're ready to stand to our guns the moment the Captain gives the word. You'll see, we'll give our French friends a run for their money!"
"Nonsense!" Yorke said angrily. "You don't seem to realize that all this is like a dispatch rider not putting spurs to his horse when he's chased by a squadron of enemy cavalry."
"Oh, come!" Wilson exclaimed.
"Listen, you know as much about the sea as I do soldiering," Yorke said abruptly. "I wouldn't presume to tell you how to lead your company into battle, but you can take my word for it that this ship is being sailed badly. Because of Captain Stevens, that privateer will be alongside us inside a couple of hours. We're just drifting, not sailing. Would you hobble a racehorse? That's what's going on, Captain Wilson, among other things, and if you doubt my word, ask Mr Ramage and Mr Southwick!" /