Southwick bustled up with his quadrant, cursing that the courses would now get in the way, spoiling his view of the Jason.
"Not if you come over here," Ramage said from the starboard side of the quarterdeck.
The master stood, legs wide apart to balance himself against the rolling, and carefully adjusted the quadrant until it showed him the angle between the Jason's mizenmasthead and her waterline. He scribbled the figure down on the slate kept in the binnacle box drawer.
"Timed that nicely," he commented. "Just as our courses started to draw. We'll soon see what effect they're having."
Ramage nodded. "But we'll have to get up the stunsails unless ..." He did not finish the sentence for a few moments. "We have to keep the convoy in sight. If we haven't caught up with her by the time the convoy's drawing astern, we'll have to let her go"
"Then we'll never know what the devil's going on, sir," Southwick grumbled.
"Maybe not, but our job is to protect the convoy, and anyway, I'm anxious to get home!"
Southwick nodded in agreement about the convoy. "I can see that, sir: we don't want a long beat back. You can bet the wind'll die on us."
"Or La Robuste won't be tough enough on the stragglers, so that at dawn we'd find the convoy spread right over the horizon."
Southwick sighed as he lifted the quadrant once again. "They're like a crowd of schoolchildren, those mules," he grumbled. "Turn your back for a moment and they're up to all sorts o' mischief."
Then he gave a more contented sigh after looking at the scale. "Well, that's good news, sir: we're catching up fast!" He lowered the quadrant, yet Ramage could see that the old man was puzzled. "We're catching up faster than setting the courses can account for - at least, by my reckoning."
"Those Frenchmen may have only just captured the ship," Ramage said. "It'd take a few days for them to get the best out of her."
"Not if her officers are proper seamen," Southwick said contemptuously.
"Come on, be fair," Ramage chided. "The poor beggars spend most of their time swinging round an anchor in places like Brest. Our blockade doesn't give them much chance of getting experience at sea."
"My heart," Southwick said, giving his chest a thump, "it fairly bleeds for them."
"And well it might, right now," Ramage said teasingly. "Just put yourself in their place on board the Jason. They nearly collided with an enemy they were trying to rake, failed to send even one mast by the board or cut any important piece of rigging, or destroy a sail. Now, as if that wasn't enough, their target is not only chasing them but catching up. And there isn't a damned thing that they can do - that they know how to do - to make their ship go faster."
Southwick sniffed as he lifted the quadrant. "Don't go on, sir, you'll have me in tears . . . Ah!" he exclaimed as he looked at the curved scale and read off the angle. He then looked up at the frigate ahead, took another reading and then said: "If they weren't French, sir, I'd say they were deliberately dawdling, trying to trap us into coming alongside."
"They're not actually going any slower, surely?" Ramage asked. "I get the impression that they're still making about the same speed as when they crossed our bow, and that once we bore away and followed in her wake we didn't start overhauling her until we let fall the courses."
"Yes, sir," Southwick agreed. "I just meant that with the same canvas set, we're overhauling her."
Aitken had just joined them and, hearing Southwick's remark commented: "Perhaps the difference is that the Calypso's hull was designed by the French and the Jason's by the English."
"Aye," Southwick said sourly, "and I notice the Scots never seem to design anything - except new shapes for haggises."
Aitken did not answer, knowing he had made his point.
"Stunsails, sir?" he asked Ramage.
"Not for the moment: we're overhauling her nicely, and I want to have a leisurely look with the glass."
He thought a moment and then told Aitken: "Jackson has the Jason's course. Look at the chart and see if you can work out where she's bound. She's not changing course. Too far south for Guadeloupe, I think, but she is not steering for the convoy."
"She might yet," Southwick said grimly. "She might be trying to pluck up enough courage. If Aitken's guess is right, she had as big a shock as us, only she got hers a few minutes earlier!"
"How are we doing?" Ramage asked pointedly, not wanting to start the inquest over again.
Southwick raised the quadrant, adjusted the arm and looked at the scale. "Overhauling her fast, sir. Do you want distances? I have a table of mast heights of most British and French ships o' war."
Ramage shook his head. "We need only get within gunshot, and we can judge that by eye!"
CHAPTER EIGHT
The six men serving number four gun on the starboard side were as puzzled as their captain. Stafford was by far the most outraged at what he regarded as the perfidy of the Jason, although his anger was mixed with contempt for her poor shooting.
"Beats me," he declared, "how they could all miss. I mean ter say, if it was a single broadside fired all at once, then the ship could have rolled at the wrong time. But there she was, sailing across our bow, bang, bang, bang . . ."
"For me it is enough that those gunners did miss," Gilbert said, his French accent more pronounced, as though the sudden shock had affected his English, which was normally good.
Rossi had no doubts. "She is captured by the French," he declared. "She comes down with the enemy's colours - we've done it, so we can't make of the complaining. And she rakes us. But the gunners are not used to the guns."
"A gun is a gun," Stafford pointed out. "You load it, aim and fire it. Doesn't make any difference whether the gun was cast by a British or a French gunfounder."
"Is true," Rossi admitted, "but if these were privateersmen, used to shooting 6-pounders and smaller from the deck of a tiny privateer, then they would not find it so easy firing 12-pounders from a frigate."
The other Frenchmen, Louis, Auguste and Albert, demanded a translation and Gilbert explained. Louis made the only comment: "I do not think a French privateer could capture a frigate, and she was not damaged ..."
Gilbert translated and Stafford exclaimed: "Good for Louis, I never noticed that. All right, then, how did they capture her?"
Rossi sighed and said: "We must remember to ask them. But it can be done."
"Rubbish!" Stafford said flatly. "Bound to be shotholes in the hulclass="underline" you can't repair them and paint 'em over at sea."
Rossi pointed towards the convoy and said triumphantly, "What about L'Espoir and La Robuste? We captured both of them without scratching the paint!"
"Oh well, that's us," Stafford said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "You're not suggestin' a lot of Frogs could do that, are you?"
Gilbert said quietly: "Four Frogs helped Lord and Lady Ramage capture the Murex brig and sail her out of Brest ... we did not scratch the paint, either ..."
"All right, all right," Stafford said. "I was wrong. But Gilbert, when I say 'Frogs' I mean Frenchies, I don't mean you four."
"But we're 'Frenchies', too," Gilbert said mildly.