"No, no, she's safe," the man said hurriedly. "One of the Tritons can call down to her."
Ramage just managed to stop himself giving an audible sigh of relief.
Yorke signalled to Rossi, who promptly shouted a stream of Italian down the hatch. Before the startled mutineer could intervene, Ramage heard Gianna replying. He could not distinguish what she said, but her tone of voice told him she was not only alive but in good spirits.
Rossi shouted back and as the mutineer stepped forward, protesting that he'd not given permission for a long conversation, Yorke was laughing. "My dear fellow, you know Italians; they couldn't say anything briefly if they tried. He asked her if she wants her toilet things and clothes - you surely don't expect her to stay in her nightdress all the way to Coruña!"
"Well, no," the mutineer said uncomfortably as he heard Gianna answering again, "but-"
"Hairbrush, comb, shoes. You really don't expect the Marchesa to wear a sailor's shirt and tie her hair in a queue?"
"No, but-"
"Well then, just be patient and give Rossi time to find out what she wants."
"But that's the third-"
"Are you married? Have you ever met a woman who could decide in a minute what she needs when she goes away for a week?"
"Well-"
"Have you?" Yorke insisted, hoping Rossi would hurry. "Come on, yes or no!"
"But-"
"Goes away for a week, I said. But the Marchesa has just been kidnapped, so obviously she needs more time. Anyway, your mates down there can stop the conversation whenever they want."
"Yes, but they'll think I've given permission for-"
"And so you have," Yorke said heartily, noting the man had revealed his role among them, "and very civil of you, too. I'm sure the Marchesa appreciates it-" He broke off, seeing Rossi turning away from the hatch. "Is she all right?" he asked the Italian.
"Yes, sir; is bruised in the arms by these banditi, but..."
"Very well," Yorke turned and waved to Jackson. "This man is our hostage. Take him away and secure him."
"But you're not going to put me in irons -"
"What do you expect? You've got the Marchesa locked up below-"
"In irons, sir," Rossi interjected.
"In irons? Well, I'm damned if I'm going to dress you up as Father Neptune and let you strut around the ship," he told the mutineer.
Jackson and Stafford led the man away, and as Yorke walked aft Ramage joined him.
"How was that?" Yorke muttered.
"Masterly! I liked the touch about Harris. But let's get hold of Rossi; I couldn't hear what Gianna said."
Yorke called the Italian seaman and followed Ramage down to the Captain's cabin. Rossi reported that apart from bruises the Marchesa was all right. She had a leg-iron round one ankle, with the other part secured to an eye-bolt, but her hands were not tied.
The mutineers were nervous of her tongue, Rossi said proudly, and all of them were very frightened of what Harris had done. When they presumed from what Mr Yorke said that Harris was dead, one of them wanted to surrender and would have persuaded the others had the man who was now the hostage not come down and argued against it. Yes, he said in reply to the question from Ramage, he had passed both sets of instructions to the Marchesa, and by now she should be weeping and wailing and accusing the mutineers of killing the Arabella's Captain. "She said to tell you, sir," Rossi added with a grin, "that you make the trouble for her every time she goes to sea."
Rossi had no sooner left the cabin than Southwick arrived, reporting that Much had the conn, and asking if the Marchesa was safe. Ramage brought him up to date, and then the old Master ran a hand through his white hair. "Now what, sir?"
"We wait for daylight. Get some sleep. Early breakfast..."
"I'll stand a watch if you like," Yorke said. "Otherwise neither of you is going to get much rest."
Ramage nodded. "Much, too. Highly irregular, of course; the Admiralty would not approve. But we seem to be in a highly irregular ship!"
"Aye," Southwick said heavily, "this ship is one of the bad ones. People can laugh at the idea, but some ships are just bad: they get bad men on board, and bad things happen to them. I felt it the moment I came on board in Kingston."
Chapter Nineteen
By daylight next morning the Arabella was stretching northwards along the Portuguese coast in a fresh south-westerly wind, with Porto broad on the starboard beam and forty miles away and Cabo Finisterra some 130 miles ahead. The cloud was well broken and, Ramage noted thankfully, the glass was steady.
By now Gianna and the mutineers would have eaten the breakfast Ramage had arranged to be passed down to them. The Tritons had received their orders, and Jackson, after inspecting the prisoners and the hostage, reported that Harris, locked in one of the cabins, had pleaded that Maxton should not guard him again. Apparently the West Indian had reduced the man to a state of gibbering terror before being relieved by another Triton.
Although thankful that settled weather meant he did not have to keep his meagre crew busy reefing or furling sails, Ramage was far from pleased that this late in the season it was going to be a sunny day. The mutineers had only to look up the hatch or skylight to see the sun's direction and know immediately which way the Arabella was heading, so there was no chance for slowly bearing away and running up the River Douro to Porto, or turning back for Lisbon, telling the mutineers the wind had shifted. But for the sun, it would have worked, though there was the risk that running into a neutral port would make the mutineers panic when they suddenly discovered what had happened.
If those five men down on the messdeck panicked, there was no telling what would happen to Gianna: men in a panic ceased to be human. Ramage had spent a good five minutes drumming the point into the Tritons that the only hope of rescuing the Marchesa was to apply a steady but mounting pressure on the mutineers. A gradual pressure, which would lead them to surrender; not a sudden pressure that would make them behave like rats in a trap. It was only a fine distinction; one he knew he would never dare to make unless the alternative was - he forced himself to face it - the murder of Gianna.
As he paced up and down the weather side of the after-deck - after listening to Yorke conduct a brief funeral service for the dead sentry Duncan - Ramage tried to drive away the depression, doubts and fears by telling himself that if he had ever been asked to name the dozen or so men he would want with him in a situation such as this, he would have named those he had. Even Wilson, with his staccato speech and love of porter, was proving reliable, and the Tritons liked working with him.
And in the Admiralty at this moment the First Lord considered Lieutenant Ramage had made wild allegations about the Post Office packets which he would never be able to prove. Well, he thought bitterly, I may not live long enough to get the word to Lord Spencer, but there will be proof enough if just one of the Tritons or the Arabella's passengers survive.
Southwick interrupted his thoughts. "Not a sail in sight, sir. What time do you want to make a start?"
Ramage took out his watch. Three minutes to seven o'clock. The horizon is clear, the wind is steady ... There's no excuse for putting it off any longer.
"At seven o'clock, Mr Southwick. Pass the word quietly."
As the Master strode away, shoulders braced back, hat jammed square on his head and a picture of confidence, Ramage wondered if he dare call him back and cancel it all. It was a damnably desperate attempt. Yet Yorke was right: if it did not work, they were no worse off - unless the mutineers panicked.
Yorke joined him. "By now you're scared stiff."
"Does it show?" a startled Ramage demanded.