Ramage realized that Yorke was deliberately provoking Wilson as a means of stirring up Stevens, but he didn't want Yorke to go too far: the way things were going the privateer might be trying to get alongside in less time than Yorke estimated, and Wilson's cheerful aggressiveness would be welcome. "Gentlemen," he said, "instead of bickering we ought to be listening to Captain Stevens giving us our instructions ..."
Yorke glanced at him admiringly: neatly done, the shipowner thought to himself, very neat indeed. And he noticed Ramage was again rubbing one of the scars on his right brow, a sure sign that he was concentrating hard.
Stevens coughed and straightened his back. "1 - er, well, you can see we turned away a few minutes ago..."
His voice trailed off when he realized several pairs of eyes were watching him closely.
"My orders," Stevens said lamely, a whining note in his voice, "they tell me to run from an enemy when I can, and when I can't run any longer, then to surrender - after sinking the mails."
"Forgive me," Ramage interrupted. "I probably misunderstood you. I thought the Post Office instructs its commanders first to run, then fight when they can run no longer, and sink the mails only when they can no longer fight. Then surrender."
"Of course, Lieutenant, of course! That's what I meant," Stevens said hurriedly.
"Very well," Ramage said crisply, "but so far you haven't sent the men to quarters. Your guns are still secured, the magazine locked, not a musket or pistol issued, boarding nets not triced up and the mails aren't up on deck in case you have to sink them ... What exactly have you done so far, Mr Stevens, apart from buckling on that cutlass?"
Stevens was both embarrassed and on the defensive now, as though Ramage was asking him if his wife had ever cuckolded him. "Now, now, Mr Ramage," he said chidingly, "don't let us be impetuous. Coolness in action, Mr Ramage, I'm a firm believer in it; you'll learn in time how important it is."
Ramage flushed with anger at the crudeness of Stevens' remark, and decided it was time to regain the initiative. "I agree, Captain," he said coolly. "Although I doubt if you've ever fired a shot in action, despite surrendering twice, I can assure you from experience that your theory is correct."
Ramage jumped in surprise as someone standing behind him gave a sudden bellow of bitter laughter. He turned to find Much who, looking directly at Stevens, said contemptuously, "Impetuous!"
Stevens now gave Ramage the impression of a man not only under great strain, but who had a lot to conceal, like a clerk in a counting house just before his books were checked. But to be fair, Ramage told himself, a clerk might be worrying that some arithmetical error could cost him his job, not scared that a fraud he had perpetrated would be discovered. Whether the clerk was honest or fraudulent, the symptoms could be the same. *
"Yes, Mr Mate, impetuous!" Stevens said, as if trying to reassert his authority.
"We don't have too much time," Ramage said, gesturing at the privateer. He then pointed at the boat hanging across the packet's stern. "Isn't it time we cut this adrift? It's going to interfere with the guns."
"I'm the Master of this ship, Mr Ramage."
"Yes, you mentioned that earlier," Ramage said pointedly, "but since you've let the ship sag off to leeward, we'll have to fight, and repelling an attack eventually gets down to aiming and firing guns. And I assure you" - Ramage pointed over the beam - "that she'll soon be within range, thanks to the course you've been steering."
"Get the mails on deck, Mr Much!" Stevens ordered, ignoring Ramage. "And look lively about it."
Ramage turned away, noting that Farrell had joined them but not said a word so far. As he walked to the mainmast he saw that the men at the wheel were still letting the ship sag off to leeward, and Stevens had given them no fresh orders, nor sent men to the sheets and braces. Yet perhaps he was pressing Stevens too much - or causing the pressure, anyway. The man was getting even more nervous, but left in peace for a few minutes he might possibly start making the right decisions. He might yet decide to fight.
Jackson and Stafford, as if anticipating the approaching climax, were standing where they could see any gesture Ramage made - even a raised eyebrow. Yorke and Southwick, moving a few feet away from Stevens, were watching the seamen hauling bags of mail on deck and placing them just abaft the aftermost gun on the lee side. From there it would be easy to pitch the bags out through the port.
Three men came up with several pigs of iron, and Much took the neck of the nearest bag, cut off the lead seal and untied the knot of the line holding the bag closed. He put in two of the iron weights and retied the line, then took the next bag. There were twenty-three bags, Ramage noticed, and painted on the canvas were the large numbers that Smith had so carefully checked in Kingston. Finally all the bags were weighted with iron bars and, after ordering a seaman to guard them, Much walked over to Stevens and said loudly, "Your mails are ready to go!"
Stevens ignored the emphasis on "Your" and said quietly, "Thank you, Mr Much, and I see you've put a sentry over them. Excellent!"
Yorke caught Ramage's eye and joined him by the mainmast. "What's he going to do? Fight or surrender?"
"Who knows?" Ramage said. "It's like trying to shovel smoke. I wish we knew more about the Mate."
"A very religious man, obviously," Yorke said. "Probably one of Mr Wesley's followers - they're pretty numerous in Falmouth. He might regard Stevens as a sinful man."
"Or a villain," Ramage said.
"And all the time he might be just a fool. But" - Yorke looked round, and lowered his voice - "I think he's mightily influenced by that crafty surgeon."
"Yes, it's a pity Bowen hasn't been able to get much out of the fellow."
"Chess isn't a talkative game."
Ramage pointed over the starboard quarter. The privateer, well heeled under a press of canvas, was now almost bows-on, her hull gently seesawing as she drove up and over the swell waves in a graceful but powerful movement reminding Ramage of the ridge and furrow flight of the woodpecker. With sheets eased and a flowing white moustache of bubbling water at her bow, she must be near her maximum speed.
Half an hour ago the Arabella and the black-hulled privateer had been well separated, although steering courses that slowly converged. But now the privateer, racing along under a skilled captain, had seen the Arabella gradually sagging down to leeward so she would soon be in the privateer's path and perhaps a mile ahead. After that, Ramage noted grimly, unless Stevens can be forced to act, it will be only a matter of minutes before she ranges up alongside to windward with the Arabella at her mercy.
"Come on," he said to Yorke, "she looks very nice but she reminds me of the gates of Verdun prison. It's time we gave Stevens some more encouragement."
Stevens was watching the privateer with all the horrified fascination Ramage had once seen in a rabbit stalked by a weasel.
"She'll soon be within gunshot," Ramage said cheerfully.
"Ah, Mr Ramage. Gunshot eh? These guns won't do any good. You're thinking of those 12-pounders you have in frigates."
Ramage decided it was time for frankness.
"Mr Stevens, quite apart from the fact that none of your passengers wishes to be captured, are you going to continue disobeying your orders?"
"What orders, Mr Ramage?" Stevens said in the same doleful voice he used earlier.