As the tension in the cabin increased, Jackson realized that the packetsmen were becoming the enemy; that he and the eleven Tritons - and Mr Ramage of course - were slowly being pushed over on to the side of the French privateersmen. A glance at Rossi, Stafford, Maxton and several of the more perceptive Tritons showed that they too were conscious of strange currents. And almost at once Jackson sniffed danger. Should they make a show of strength right now, in the hope of deterring the packetsmen from trying anything silly?
The more he thought about it, the more sure he was that for some strange reason the packetsmen had expected the insurance underwriters to pay out for a total loss. Now they knew that Mr Ramage had arranged something that could free both ship and crew, they were angry. And, Jackson thought, that means they will probably try to do something to wreck Mr Ramage's negotiations; something that would force the French prizemaster to take the ship to a French port...
By now the packetsmen were grouped round the Bosun at the far end of the cabin, and Jackson waved to the Tritons. "Here, lads!"
They grouped round him, all muttering the same question: "What are they up to, Jacko?"/
"What are they up to?" Jackson repeated loudly. "I don't know for sure, lads, but it smells to me like treachery!"
The Bosun turned to listen and the packetsmen stopped talking.
"Their captain didn't want to escape from the privateer - you all saw that," Jackson continued. "You saw the two men at the wheel dropping the ship off to leeward. And you saw the Bosun try to kill Mr Ramage. Well, lads, in London they'd call that treason, and they'd march 'em off to Tyburn and string 'em up. At first I thought it was just those four - and maybe the Surgeon as well - but perhaps the rest of them can be bought for a guinea as well.
"But," he said, speaking very clearly, "they don't stand a chance, whatever they're up to. The French prizemaster wants to sell the ship to Mr Ramage, instead of risking being recaptured on the way back to France. So he won't take too kindly to anyone trying to interfere. Nor will the privateersmen, since they'll share the ransom money. And none of us wants to end up in a French prison. So that leaves these packetsmen on their own."
"What are you going to do about it?" one of the packetsmen jeered.
Jackson turned to face them. "Do?" he asked quietly. "Why, everyone knows what to do about treason and treachery, don't they? And apart from that, although the French exchange packetsmen in a few weeks, there are plenty of Navy seamen captured at the beginning of the war who are still in French prison camps. Five years, some of them. Five years," Jackson repeated, "not five weeks, like a packetsman, but five years. And maybe another five years before they're freed. Ten years. A baby is grown up in ten years. A woman's forgotten she had a husband in ten years. I'm not going into a French prison for ten years because of treachery..."
The Bosun banged his hand against the bulkhead and bellowed: "You listen to-"
He broke off, his head jerking to one side and his eyes wide open with fear. Rossi had barely moved, but a knife was now vibrating in the bulkhead only a couple of inches from where the Bosun's hand was pressed against the woodwork.
In the complete silence that followed, Rossi sauntered over and pulled out the knife. He put out his left hand, the index finger extended, and tickled the Bosun's stomach. The white-faced Bosun stood stock-still, pressed against the bulkhead, afraid that even the slightest movement might be dangerous. Rossi, still smiling, once again tickled his stomach before turning to rejoin Jackson.
The American, left hand on his hip, looked contemptuously at the packetsmen.
"I hope you can all take a hint," he said. "Most of us can do that trick."
His right arm moved suddenly and a knife thudded into the bulkhead on the other side of the Bosun, and a moment later Stafford and Maxwell made slight movements and two more knives vibrated a few inches above the Bosun's head.
Rossi sauntered back, collected the knives and returned them. "You move your arm too much," he chided the Cockney. "And not to throw so hard. The blade doesn't have to go right through the man: three or four inches into the flesh is enough."
As the days passed, Kerguelen made a habit of visiting Ramage's cabin in the late afternoon and staying for an hour or more. Sometimes the five men had an animated discussion about a diversity of subjects; sometimes the Frenchman sat watching Bowen playing chess with one or other of them.
Ramage noticed that the Frenchman followed every move without ever making a comment. Occasionally, after some move by Bowen, Ramage saw Kerguelen's eyes move across the board and invariably it showed he had spotted a trap being set by the Surgeon: sometimes a trap that would not be sprung until a few moves later.
Slowly they came to know him. He was a curious mixture, and at heart probably a royalist. He was contemptuous of many aspects of the Revolution and also contemptuous of his men, and he cared little for their welfare. To him each seemed simply a machine, like the lock of a gun. You offered them money, and they fought. Money, Kerguelen had once commented bitterly, was their fueclass="underline" with enough fuel, they gave you heat or light; without fuel, they were nothing.
Although he did not say it, Kerguelen's attitude provided a corollary: without money, there was no loyalty. It was obvious that, as the Lady Arabella swung at anchor in the Tagus, Kerguelen was more concerned with the possibility of treachery among his own men than the prisoners. Ramage realized that the Frenchman's contempt for his men was based on a cold assessment of their worth, rather than a lack of leadership.
It was equally obvious that Kerguelen and his brother came from an old family: one that might well have had trouble keeping the guillotine at a distance during the early days of the Revolution. That might explain how a cultured man - and Ramage assumed the brother was the same - was involved in privateering.
Bowen had finally provided a key to the visits. After Kerguelen left the cabin one day, the Surgeon commented, "It's ironic to think a man can be so desperately lonely that he seeks the company of his enemies."
"Enemies?" Yorke echoed.
"We're hardly his allies," Bowen said ironically. "You forget we're his prisoners."
"I fancy he forgets it, too."
"He does: he's becoming more and more worried about his own men."
Ramage nodded. "I've noticed that; as if he's their prisoner in a way - at least until the money arrives."
"He's their prisoner," Yorke said, "and we're his guests."
Southwick grunted and ruffled his hair. "I still don't trust any of 'em," he said stolidly. "No good ever came out of trusting a foreigner."
Bowen laughed, moving one of the pawns on the chessboard. "I don't entirely agree, but the idea of this ship anchored in the Tagus with the captors as captive as the captives intrigues me!"
Southwick asked Ramage, "Any more news from Jackson, sir?"
"Nothing. There's still a sort of armed truce between the Tritons and the packetsmen. Apparently Rossi's knives continue to scare the packetsmen."
"Those knives! Well, I'm glad to have my watch back," Southwick said.
"Just be sure these damned privateersmen don't see it," Ramage said. "They'll search again and strip us of everything."
"Aye, Kerguelen has no control."
"He wouldn't do anything, even if he had," Ramage said soberly. "He's a privateersman, not a philanthropist. Don't forget his men signed on for 'share of the profits'. He has a duty to them."
Yorke yawned noisily. "Oh for the delights of Lisbon ... I'd welcome an evening on shore, even if I had to spend it listening to those miserable fado singers and watching an elegant lady drive her cicisbeo to distraction by staring at a handsome fellow like me!"