"Captain Stevens, you are charged with treason. I am assuming command of this -"
An urgent warning yell from Yorke made Ramage turn in time to see the Bosun only a couple of yards away, eyes bulging, and leaping at him with a cutlass held high in the air and already beginning a great downward chopping movement aimed at Ramage's head.
A blur of impressions: perspiration beading the man's upper lip and forehead, knuckles white as he gripped the cutlass handle, the absolute silence except for the pad of his bare feet and hoarse breathing.
The parry of quinte, Ramage thought almost irrelevantly as automatically he swung his sword blade up almost horizontally just above the level of his head, bending his left knee slightly, and thanking God the man had never been to a fencing master.
A moment later the cutlass blade hit Ramage's sword blade with an arm-jarring clang and slid sideways until it caught the guard and glanced off clear of his body.
The heavily built Bosun had put all his strength into the blow and the cutlass, deflecting off Ramage's sword like an axe blade glancing from a tree trunk, made him swing round to his left and stagger two or three paces.
It took him only a couple of seconds to recover. Ramage just had time to see Southwick and Yorke coming to his help and shout to them to keep clear before the Bosun, with a bellow of rage, was coming at him again, cutlass upraised for another chopping attack.
Again Ramage's blade flashed up almost horizontally, covering his head in the classic parry of quinte, but with the guard slightly lower than the point. Again the Bosun's cutlass clanged down, slid along the blade, hit the guard and glanced off. And yet again the Bosun spun to his left, off balance from the force of the blow.
As the man staggered Ramage put out his right foot and tripped him. The Bosun fell on his face and a moment later Ramage slapped him across the buttocks with the flat of his sword.
"Let go of that cutlass and get up," Ramage snapped. "This isn't a nursery."
With that he deliberately turned his back on the man. The packetsmen might put him down as a cool fellow; the former Tritons might think it bravado; but the fact was that slapping the fellow across the backside was so ludicrous he was afraid he would burst out laughing, and Southwick's pistols covered him.
"Very neat," Yorke said quietly. "I thought he'd got you."
"He learned swordsmanship by chopping logs," Ramage said. He looked round the ship. "The Captain and the Bosun have had their turns with cutlasses. Anyone else?"
Southwick waved a pistol in each hand. "Let 'em try," he rumbled. "I'd have winged that fellow but you were both in line from where I stood."
Ramage signalled to Jackson. "See to Captain Stevens. You'd better fetch the surgeon - oh, there you are, Farrell. Why the devil aren't you attending to Mr Stevens?"
He gestured to Jackson. "Leave the Captain: get these stern-chasers loaded and run out."
"Boarding nets?" Yorke asked.
One look at the privateer provided the answer. "No time for that now. I want you to take charge of the mails. I don't want to dump them unless I have to, but use your own judgement: don't risk leaving it too late."
By now Jackson had half a dozen Tritons casting off the lashings securing the stern-chase guns and he came up to Ramage.
"Magazine's locked up, sir."
"What?" Ramage exploded. "Are you sure?"
"Bosun's just told me the Captain still has the key."
"But Captain Wilson had powder for the muskets and pistols."
"Aye, sir," Jackson said patiently, "but the magazine was locked again. Captain's orders."
"Very well," Ramage said, and looked round for the Mate, noting the sails were now setting perfectly and Southwick had resumed his watch at the wheel. The Mate was nowhere to be seen.
"Pass the word for Mr Much," Ramage told Jackson, and walked to where Farrell was bending over Stevens, who had recovered consciousness and was sitting on the deck with his back against the carriage of a gun and clutching his black hat, whose crushed brim revealed the force with which his head had hit the bulwark.
Stevens looked up and said weakly, "It's mutiny; you've taken my ship. You'll pay for today's work, Mr Ramage."
"Give me your word you'll take the proper steps to avoid capture, Stevens, and you can have her back."
Farrell straightened his back. His eyes were hard and full of hate; words came like the sharp strokes of a scalpel.
"A King's officer, eh? A Frenchman's bullet doesn't care whether it lodges in the head of a King's officer or a cabin boy."
"Or a surgeon's," Ramage said coldly. "But attend to your bandages, Farrell. Get below to the saloon, where you belong. Take Stevens with you if he wants to go. But get below: if I see you on deck again I'll have you put in irons."
Ramage was still holding his sword in his right hand and tapping the deck with the point. Farrell held his eyes for a moment and quickly looked away. He glanced down at Stevens: "I'll be at my post in the saloon if you want me."
As soon as he left, Ramage said to Stevens, "Give me the key to the magazine."
"I don't have it."
"Where is it, than?"
"I don't know."
"It's in one of your pockets," Ramage said contemptuously. "I'll have a couple of men tear every shred of clothing off you unless you hand it over now."
Stevens knew he meant it and wriggled until he could get his hands into a coat pocket. He reached up with a heavy bronze key. Ramage took it and found Much waiting.
"You sent for me, sir?"
"Yes - I want a steady man for the magazine. Then stand by for some smart sail handling. I'm going to use the stern-chase guns until they try to range up alongside. Then we'll give them a broadside and wear round smartly. After that we'll see how things stand."
Ramage saw tension in both Much and Stevens. Oh no, he thought, don't say I've misjudged Much; don't say he is one of Stevens' creatures after all...
Much pointed at Jackson and his crew preparing the stern-chasers. "You can't use those, sir: you'll have to rely on the 4-pounders."
Ramage's eyebrows rose. "Why not, pray?"
"Well, you see the-"
"Much!" Stevens interrupted sharply, "watch your tongue! There'll be a day o' reckoning in Falmouth..."
Ramage glared down at the Captain. "You tell me, then, and be quick about it!"
"The eyebolts won't hold the breechings when they recoil," Stevens said hurriedly, his eyes on Ramage's sword. "There's a bit o' rot there. Just dig into the wood with that sword o' yours if you don't believe me."
"He's right, sir," Much said, "When the guns recoil they'll run wild and kill your fellows. Here, I'll show you."
"Don't bother," Ramage said, knowing the two men would not lie about something that could be disproved by walking a couple of paces, and suddenly remembering that Stevens had long ago mentioned trouble with the builder over some green wood. "Well, carry on, Mr Much: get every fraction of a knot out of this ship. Where were you, by the way?"
Much took two long-barrelled pistols from his belt: ornate guns which looked well cared for. "I went to fetch these. Had to load 'em."
Ramage nodded and Much went to join Southwick at the binnacle.
The privateer was half a mile away: perfect range for the stern-chasers. And, Ramage thought ruefully, apart from being a good target, she was a beautiful sight, with her black hull glistening. He could just distinguish the muzzles of her guns on the lee side: the way she was thrashing along, the starboard scuppers must be running deep with water.
So much for my idea of wearing round after firing a broadside: she'll attack from to leeward because her larboard side guns are dry: there'll be no risk of priming powder being wet in the pans...
"Secure both those guns," Ramage said to Jackson. "We can't use 'em. I want the broadside guns loaded with grape and canister, and spread the Tritons among the guns' crews. At least one per gun. Jump to it; we've only minutes left."