There was Southwick, crouched down behind the bulwark, trying to hide the fact that he had occasional twinges of rheumatism. There was Paolo, still loyal to the midshipman's dirk but covering himself by having a cutlass in a belt over his shoulder and a pistol tucked into his belt. Yes, Paolo was as excited as an eighteen-year-old boy was entitled to be. He would be the target of every French sharpshooter in the Jason if they knew he was the heir to the Kingdom of Volterra (might even now be its ruler, if Gianna had been murdered by Bonaparte, which seemed very likely). Young "Blower" Martin had a pistol and a half-pike. Interesting that this time he had picked a half-pike against a cutlass, but he was small, and with a half-pike you could jab the enemy four and a half feet away, whereas you had to be breathing in each other's face to have much effect with the cutlass.
Martin's father, the master shipwright, would probably not recognize his son at this moment. Ramage had a feeling that the father regarded the flute as an unmanly instrument without realizing "Blower's" skill with more lethal instruments.
And there was the irrepressible third lieutenant, Kenton. There was no mistaking his red hair, heavily freckled face which was always peeling because he could not protect it from the sun, and his four-square stance - even though he too was crouching. Kenton's father, a half-pay captain, would be delighted at the eagerness with which Kenton awaited action.
Finally there was Aitken, brought up as a boy in the Highlands and the son of a former master in the Royal Navy. Aitken, tall with a thin, almost gaunt face, black hair and deep-set eyes, at first meeting seemed dour and spare with words, issuing them with the reluctance of a purser handing out candles (which he had to pay for out of his own pocket). But in fact Aitken had a droll sense of humour: he and Southwick sparked teasing remarks off each other which made the rounds of the ship.
All the Jason's guns were still run out, and even though he had looked carefully at each gunport, Ramage could see no sign of the guns' crews. He could now see two men at the wheel (two, not four as a British ship o' war usually had when going into action) and a man was walking round them who could be either the officer of the deck or the captain, but who certainly was not wearing the uniform of a post-captain in the Royal Navy. Or the uniform of anyone's navy. Trousers (did that mean he was a sans-culotte? Presumably) of dark-green material and a long coat one would expect to see on an English parson visiting the dying: it was black with a deep velvet collar. Who but a madman would wear a coat like that in the Tropics? Well, Ramage admitted, the fellow commanding the Jason seems quite at home in it.
Ramage turned to Pegg, eyebrows raised, and the gipsy face nodded to show that he understood the moment was fast approaching and knew what he had to do. It was not a straightforward manoeuvre, because no one would be tending sheets or braces, but Pegg had the kind of confidence that Ramage had spent years instilling into his ship's company against such a day as now.
Fifty yards . . . the black paint of the Jason's hull was in even better condition than he had thought. Forty yards . . . there were a dozen brightly coloured shirts strung out on a washing line on the fo'c'sle. Thirty yards . . . although the Calypso was overhauling her, the Jason was making good speed: her wake formed the usual fascinating pattern of whorls. In a few minutes the Calypso's jibboom would be overhanging the Jason's stern like a fishing rod over a stream.
Ramage nodded to Pegg, who snapped out an order which had the four men spinning the wheel. To the captain of the Jason the Calypso was at last beginning to turn to starboard, sidestepping so that instead of following she came up alongside to starboard: on the windward side, with her whole broadside ready.
The Jason's captain would be making sure that all his gunners were at the starboard side guns: no frigate could man both broadsides at once, and if it was needed the men fired one side and ran across to fire the other.
There were still several yards between the Calypso's jibboom and the Jason's transom, even though the British frigate had begun her swing out, ready to overtake and come alongside.
Ramage watched the gap, narrowing his eyes as if to see more clearly. All he really saw was every one of his officers and Pegg anxiously watching him.
"Right, Pegg," he snapped and the gipsy, certain the order had been left a moment too late, shouted at the four men and flung himself on the wheel too, clawing at the spokes.
Slowly, as though with enormous dignity, like a dowager changing her mind, the Calypso's bow began to turn to larboard. To the watching men, it seemed as though the Jason was being pulled slowly to starboard and then, as the Calypso's extra speed became obvious, the Jason was gently pulled astern.
Ramage watched theJason's quarterdeck. Twenty yards. . .that curious black-coated figure was striding up and down and he had not looked at the Calypso for several minutes: it was as though he was unaware that she had been following and was now overtaking. All part of the play-acting, all part of whatever trap he was trying to set? Ramage was far from sure: all he knew was that the man would look perfectly at home striding among the dark-green yews and the moss-packed tombstones in an English cemetery, perhaps quietly muttering some prayer or psalm in memory of those who had taken up permanent residence.
He said to Pegg: "Now!"
The quartermaster snapped a third order to the men at the wheel, who hauled on the spokes and then stopped at another order from Pegg as the Calypso's bow started to swing in towards the Jason.
After she had travelled to within a dozen yards, the wheel was spun back amidships and the Calypso came back on to a parallel course.
Wagstaffe sighed, but Ramage had the feeling it was more from disappointment than relief: theJason's guns had not crashed back in a full broadside, even though the Calypso was a perfect target. Then once again Pegg, after a quick glance at Ramage to receive an approving nod, gave more orders which sent the wheel spinning again, except this time the Calypso turned on to a course which would converge with the Jason in two ships' lengths.
As the ships approached to crash alongside each other Ramage shouted: "Stand by those grapnels," and ran down the quarterdeck ladder to join his men waiting on the maindeck. Pegg calmly gave the order which turned the wheel enough to lessen the shock of the forthcoming crash. An excited Wagstaffe, for once ordered to remain on the quarterdeck instead of leading a boarding party, contented himself with shouts of "Hurrah, Calypsos!"
Ramage squeezed alongside a gun barrel and peered down into the water between the two ships. Only five yards separated them.
"Over with the grapnels!" he shouted. "Swing the others out from the yards. Take your time and aim true!"
The clinking of metal was men's cutlasses banging against gun barrels and metal fittings as they slid to the ports; the sharp metallic clicks were men cocking their pistols. Moments now - and there it was: with a crash that men felt right through the hull rather than heard, the Calypso drove alongside the Jason. The grapnels swinging out to lodge in her rigging and bulwarks were hauled in to hold the two ships together, and before Ramage had time to give the order the Calypsos were swarming on board the other ship, led as far as Ramage could see by Southwick, who looked like a demented bishop as he ran, white hair streaming, across the Jason's deck, his great sword like an immense crozier.
Ramage scrambled up and over the Jason's hammock nettings and dropped down on to her deck, vaguely noticing that the nearest men to him were Jackson, Rossi, Stafford, Gilbert and the other three Frenchmen. With a pistol in his left hand and cutlass in his right, he headed for the quarterdeck, for the man in the black coat, and was surrounded by dozens of men shouting excitedly: "Calypso! Calypso!"