"He's spoiling us, sir," the American coxswain replied. "It won't put muscle on these men's backs just letting them row down to leeward. They need a couple of miles to windward!"
"I don't, though," Ramage said. "I've just had a splendid dinner and I'm damned if I want to be soaked with spray. Nor does Mr Southwick - he's about ready to doze off."
As he spoke Ramage was looking round the horizon. He had not wasted time looking round while on the Emerald's deck because a distant sail would already have been closely inspected from the Calypso's masthead, and whatever the identity or intention of the stranger, he could do nothing about it until he was back on board the frigate.
Wagstaffe met him as he stepped through the Calypso's entryport and his quick salute was followed by: "Over to the southeast and well up to windward, sir: a frigate about five miles away and closing. She was steering north when we first spotted her. I think she was slow to see us, because it was a good ten minutes before she bore away to head for us. Her lookouts must have been dozing."
"Hmm. Ten minutes! Time enough for a good snooze. I trust you've assured yourself she is not enemy?" Ramage asked ironically.
"Yes, she's British-built, sir, and British-cut sails. As you see, she's not close enough yet for us to be able to read flags."
"Very well. Beat to quarters, Mr Wagstaffe."
The second lieutenant looked startled. "Standing orders, Mr Wagstaffe," Ramage said sharply. "We must meet every strange sail ready for action."
"Yes, I know sir, but . . ."
"Mr Wagstaffe," Ramage said patiently, "we captured the last two prizes without too much trouble just over a month ago when they assumed that because this ship is French-built she is still in Bonaparte's navy. That ship over there -" he nodded towards the approaching frigate, still little more than a faint smudge on the horizon, "- might have been built in an English yard, but since then she could have been captured by the French who intend playing the same trick on us that we've just played on them. Anyway, it's time that young drummer gave his goatskin another good thumping."
"Aye aye, sir," said an embarrassed Wagstaffe, who realized that the combination of escorting a convoy of merchant ships (which could hardly be less warlike than the mules they were called) and the fact that the destination was England had combined to dull his normal sharpness. On the way up to Barbados from Devil's Island, he recalled ruefully, any sail, be it even a wretched dugout canoe spreading some old cloth to help her to leeward, put him on his guard.
And that, he told himself, is why some men become admirals and others stay lieutenants. Not an invariable rule, admittedly, because in all too many cases influence and patronage helped, but to be a competent captain or admiral, then you had to react precisely as Mr Ramage had done. He recalled the exchange. Lieutenant Wagstaffe had said, in effect: "Ah, a British frigate has just hove in sight." But Mr Ramage had said: "Ah, a British-built frigate has just hove in sight. But is she British?"
The other thing, Wagstaffe thought to himself as he looked round for Orsini, was that Mr Ramage would not have wasted two or three minutes with his head full of idle thoughts. "Orsini!" he bellowed, "tell the drummer to beat to quarters! Step lively there and be thankful that's not a French fleet up there to windward!"
Ramage noticed that the little drummer was thumping away in only a matter of seconds, making up in volume what he lacked in skill. The drum was regarded by everyone on board the Calypso with a good deal of pride. Carefully painted on the front were the arms of Bonaparte's France (Revolutionary France, in other words) and below them the name L'ESPOIR.
Ever since they had captured the Calypso from the French, the men had been sent to quarters by bosun's mates shrilling their pipes and shouting. Yet nothing was more unmistakable (and more thrilling, getting the men into the right martial mood) than the beat of the drum. The Marine lieutenant, Rennick, had often bewailed the lack of a drum, claiming to have a lad who could beat out a tune, and Southwick had often sniffed and said that the song of a bunch of Spithead Nightingales was no way to send men into battle. Well, the bosun's calls deserved their nickname, but on the few occasions he had been in London Ramage had forgotten to buy a drum (he had to pay for it out of his own pocket because they were not issued to frigates).
So, when Sergeant Ferris found this drum in the prize and presented it to his senior officer, Rennick, the Marine lieutenant had brought it in triumph to Ramage, complete with a well-reasoned argument why they should ignore the sentence in the Articles of War about not removing any objects from a prize before "a proper inventory" had been taken. The Army, Rennick had pointed out, was very proud of itself when soldiers captured the colours of an enemy regiment, and always kept them - usually in some special place at their own headquarters, where they were displayed with pride. The Navy had no such mementoes. He had to agree with Ramage that soldiers did not get prize money and that, given the choice, soldiers and sailors alike would probably choose prize money in place of captured regimental colours.
For Ramage the choice was easy. He knew that although he did not want to see the arms of Revolutionary France so frequently, the drum itself was in good condition (and, as Sergeant Ferris had been quick to point out, there were five spare goatskins so they were well off for replacements when the drummer beat his way through the present one). Nor was Ramage concerned with the drum as the naval equivalent of regimental colours: to him a drum (any drum, even a tom-tom made out of goatskin stretched over a butter firkin, a favourite in the West Indies) was a more effective way of sending men to quarters, quite apart from the other orders that could be passed by the beat of a drum.
As Ramage turned to go down to his cabin and change out of his best uniform, he saw a grinning Rennick standing by Wagstaffe, and the Marine snapped to attention as he saw Ramage looking at him. "The drum, sir," he explained, "first time it's beat to quarters in earnest: it's always been daily routine up to now."
Ramage smiled and nodded and went below. It was startling to find out what gave the men pleasure, and what made them proud. Bashing away on an old French drum delighted the Marines - and probably the whole ship's company - so it was a good thing he had forgotten to buy one in London. The fact that this one was French, and had the French arms painted on it, and came from one of their prizes, was what mattered: it gave it a martial tone, Ramage realized, that could not be equalled (as far as the Calypsos were concerned) by any other drum. This was their drum, and whack it, lad!
The rat-a-dee-tat-a-dee-tat of the drum, Wagstaffe noted, had the same effect on the Calypso as scooping the top off an anthilclass="underline" suddenly dozens of hitherto hidden bodies swarmed out, apparently running about aimlessly, but an experienced eye saw that every man knew exactly where he was going.
By now the cutter used for the captain's visit to the Emerald was towing astern - with the ship going to quarters there was no time to hoist it in and stow it on the booms amidships (where an enemy shot could shiver it into a thousand splinters which would be more lethal, because more numerous, than a keg of grapeshot).
The Calypso had already turned back to the southeastward, and her yards had been braced sharp up as she began to beat to windward to meet the frigate, now steering northwest.
Now Aitken came up on deck to relieve Wagstaffe so that he could go to the maindeck and stand by the division of guns that were his responsibility. Already he could see Kenton and Martin watching the men load and run out the guns in their divisions.
Aitken moved up to the quarterdeck rail, noting that Jackson had taken over as quartermaster and another two seamen had joined the two already at the wheel, not because four men were needed in this weather but they were usually the target for sharpshooters. Now Mr Ramage had come on deck, wearing a sun-bleached uniform, coat, white breeches that had long ago lost their shape, a hat which was getting decidedly floppy from a diet of spray and hot sun, and shoes that made up in comfort on the hot deck what they lacked in smartness. The uniform worn for social visits (especially where the hostess was such an elegant woman) was not the one most suitable for going into action. Except for the silk stockings - that was one of Mr Ramage's rules, and the surgeon Bowen reckoned it a very good one. Officers had to wear silk stockings in action, even if they had only one pair. The danger (and trouble for the surgeon) of wool in the wound was apparently very great.