Stafford sighed, the picture of a schoolmaster trying to keep his patience as he explained a complicated point to an obtuse pupil. "Listen, Frogs and Frenchies is Boney's men. They're the ones we're fighting."
Gilbert grinned, enjoying himself as he led Stafford into the trap. "Then what are we?" he inquired in the tone of a man genuinely seeking enlightenment. "Louis, Auguste and Albert were born in France (admittedly under the Ancien Régime), and I doubt if they'd even been twenty miles from Brest until they joined Mr Ramage. I was born near Brest but occasionally accompanied the Count to places like Paris. But I never left France until we fled to England. Yet, we're all French - why, those three speak no other language."
"But you are Royalists!"Stafford seized the word with the same energy as a drowning man grasping a rope. "That's the difference."
"Is not," Rossi announced. "Is French and is a Royalist. You, Stafford, are two things, just like them."
"I'm not two things," Stafford declared emphatically. "I'm me, and that's that!"
Jackson had been sent down to his gun and arrived in time to hear Stafford's protest.
"What Rosey means," Jackson explained, "is that you are English and a Royalist - you support the King. Gilbert and his mates are French but they support the King, or did until he was murdered."
"What about you, then?" Stafford demanded suspiciously. "You and your lot are revolting. You don't even have a king now."
"No, I'm a bit different," Jackson admitted. "It doesn't matter after all these years, does it Staff?"
"Well, no, I suppose not," the Cockney admitted. "I mean, I don't fink you'll suddenly turn on me with a barker in each hand and shoot me."
"Jacko is like me," Rossi said. "You and Bonaparte have a fight, and Jacko and me like a good fight too, so we join in."
"Why didn't you choose Boney's side, then?"
"Accidente! Are we the cat in the hiding?"
"The what?" Stafford was startled at Rossi's sudden anger. "What cat, for Gawd's sake?"
"Gatto in covo - an Italian expression. I don't know the English."
"He means 'A snake in the grass'," Jackson said. "No, Rosey, don't get cross with our friend from London. He thought he could beat Boney by himself and doesn't like having to admit he needs help."
Stafford looked round at all the men and said with quiet pride: "All right, I get a bit muddled at times, but this I do know: my country started fightin' the French more'n ten years ago, and we're the only country left still fighting 'em. All the rest have quit or changed sides or - like your crowd, Jacko - been careful to stay out of it. But when Boney's beaten it'll be because my country kept on fighting him. Thanks for any help you lot give us - but just remember my words."
"Yes, yes," Gilbert said soothingly, "you are right and this is a silly argument. We all hate Bonaparte, and surely this gun's crew is a good example - four Frenchmen, an Italian, an American and an Englishman."
"All right, then," said a mollified Stafford and, acknowledging Jackson's tap on the shoulder and pointing finger, said: "We're overhauling her fast. Soon be raking 'er - and I 'ope she's not relying on us to aim high."
Ramage walked from one side of the quarterdeck to the other, pausing every couple of minutes at the quarterdeck rail to look forward. In the past, just before going into action, he had been frightened, apprehensive, cheerful, miserable, exhilarated and doubtful. But, he now admitted to himself, he had never before been just puzzled.
There she was, the Jason frigate. Still the British colours flapped in the wind. Still she steered the same course which would, in a few minutes' time, take her (if there were no interruptions) five miles astern of the convoy. None of her sails were particularly well trimmed, but they would satisfy a slack captain. Her guns were still run out, but there was still no sign of men moving about on deck - even though, as the Calypso closed on her, one would expect to see a few bright shirts through the glass as seamen moved about.
Nor was there any sign of officers on her quarterdeck. Surely there must be an officer of the deck, and the captain too, considering that a hostile frigate was overhauling her fast and indeed was now barely five hundred yards astern and so placed in the Jason's wake that she could sweep down to attack either side. Surely a captain would be on deck, trying to guess which side the Calypso would choose, since his crew could not man the guns on both sides at the same time. Were all the officers at their divisions of guns, crouching down and peering through the ports, like voyeurs?
He lifted his telescope as a thought struck him. That was strange - there was not a single lookout aloft. In fact for all one could see, the Jason was a ship being sailed by phantoms. That was a fanciful thought until one remembered that these phantoms fired guns (and presumably could reload and run them out again, too).
Which meant that the Jason had another neat trap for him. What was it? This one, if he did not spot it, might be a complete success. Like a headmaster reviewing an erring pupil's activities for the day (before administering a painful caning), let us go over the events, he told himself. First, Aitken was right: the Frenchmen in the Jason recognized the Calypso as being French-built and were being wary in case she had been captured by the British, and finding that she was they had tried to rake her. It was an attempt that deserved better luck - yet it was damned odd that all those gun captains aimed high. He shrugged his shoulders - yes, privateersmen might be used to smaller guns and shorter ranges, and might have called for more elevation (and thus range) than was needed with the 12-pounders. Yes, that was it! Why the devil had he or Aitken or Southwick not thought of that before? Anyway, after the raking by the Jason had failed to bring down any of the Calypso's masts she had carried on to leeward and, in effect, tried to lure the Calypso into following her - that could be the only explanation of why she was being so badly sailed. But what exactly was the trap they were trying to set?
The choices for the Frenchmen are limited, he thought. If there are two or three hundred of them on board the Jason (unlikely, unless she is now a French national ship, part of the French navy and not a privateer's prize) they would not want to get alongside the Calypso and try to carry her by boarding.
So she would want to keep the Calypso at a distance, fighting a battle of broadsides. But having seen the failure of his attempt to rake the Calypso, would the French captain rely on his gunners? No - unless the raking was just part of the trap, a deliberate attempt to make the Calypso think the French gunners were fumbling and inexperienced, so that she would get close alongside - to find the French guns firing with deadly accuracy.
Yes, the more he thought about it, the more likely that seemed. It meant that the French captain of the Jason thought fast and had a well-trained crew.
Very well, what now? Ramage turned yet again as he paced from one side of the deck to the other. From his own experience, captains planning ingenious ways of gaining that all-important advantage of surprise were also more likely themselves to be taken by surprise: they were much more prone to underestimate the enemy. He was himself a good example of that: having captured those two frigates, L'Espoir and La Robuste, by legitimate ruse de guerre, the very next time he met the enemy, which was now, he had fallen for the same trick.
It was important now to accept that the Jason was being commanded by a cunning enemy, and try to guess what he was trying to make the Calypso do. Once you start having to react to what the enemy does, Ramage told himself sternly, you have lost the battle: the whole art of combat, whether with swords, fists, armies or ships of war, is to make sure the enemy always has to respond to your move: always keep him off balance, wondering where or when the next blow will fall. Ramage almost laughed at the lecture he was giving himself: it was all quite correct, but hard to apply while chasing an enemy frigate across a bright tropical sea under a bright tropical sky with both ships heading into a gaudy tropical sunset which turned flying fish skimming the surface into pink darts.