"Yes, sir. We've been trying to trim the sails to check it."
"Well, it's probably because you're down by the head. Check the helm now and then again later to see if it improves."
"Aye aye, sir."
Ramage nodded towards Southwick. "Let's give the glad news to the Brutus, although Wagstaffe should have worked it out for himself. It's obvious he didn't check the draught forward and aft before he weighed this morning and enter it in the log."
"I should have thought of it myself," Southwick said ruefully.
"Me, too," Aitken added as the master called a new course to the quartermaster.
Fifteen minutes later Wagstaffe listened as his captain's voice came across the water, distorted by the speaking trumpet, but hitting him like ricocheting musket shot. He waved shamefacedly and shouted back, "Aye aye, sir." Cursing under his breath, he turned to Martin. "She's griping, she sails like a haystack, we can't get the sails settling to balance her properly . . . And we never thought we might be trimmed down by the bow! It's so obvious now. You take the helm so that we can be sure whether or not shifting those shells aft helps us. We'll start off with a cast of the log to see our present speed."
Over in the Fructidor pairs of seamen with carrying-bars resting across their shoulders staggered aft with shells knee-high, hooked on to the ropes. Weighing less than a hundredweight, an empty shell was not heavy for two men to carry with a bar, but it was awkward: as they walked it swung like a pendulum because the ketch was rolling slightly with the following wind, and while one man was looking at the shell, trying to avoid it swinging into the back of his knees, he would stub his toe on a ringbolt or walk into a cask or a hencoop lashed down on the deck, stumbling and causing the shell to hit his mate.
Jackson and Stafford stood by the taffrail with a long rope, one end of which they had already secured to an eyebolt on one side of the ship. As the carriers, perspiring and cursing, arrived with a shell, Stafford lifted it while Jackson unhitched the two hooks from the carrying handles on each side of the fuse-hole and together they swung it over to the pile they were building. As Stafford steadied it, Jackson threaded the line through both handles and they waited for the next shell to arrive.
Rossi and Gutteridge staggered over. "You look like a couple of drunken milkmaids carrying a pail of curdled milk," Stafford jeered.
Both men twisted the beam so that the shell swung at Stafford, who had to leap back a couple of paces to avoid it cracking him across the shins. They had to wait a few moments for it to stop swinging, so that Stafford could lift it and enable Jackson to release the hooks.
Kenton was sitting astride the bulwark on the larboard side abreast the mainmast, staring down into the water. "How many is that?" he shouted to Jackson.
"Eight, sir." Then, knowing that Kenton was concentrating on the water surging by so that he could estimate if the ship was sailing any faster, he added: " 'bout 650 pounds, sir, nearly a third of a ton."
Kenton watched the water passing the ship like a mill-race. A third of a ton taken from forward and put aft. That made a difference of two thirds of a ton in the trim - didn't it? He was never very good at these sorts of calculations, and tried to picture the ship: right, there's a third of a ton up there in the bow. I pick it up. The bow is now a third of a ton lighter. I put it down on the stern - and the stern is a third of a ton heavier. So the total effect is that the bow has a third less and the stern a third more, which makes two thirds. It sounds right, but it's too easy. To change the trim by two thirds of a ton by carrying only one third?
"Well, helmsman?"
"She's a lot easier already, sir," the seaman replied. "She b'aint be griping now. Afore we shifted them shells aft her bow was wandering like a sheep trying to find which 'ole in the 'edge she strayed through."
By now Kenton was sure the ship was sailing faster. She was forging ahead of the Brutus, and from the way the other bomb's sails were filled it was not just a lucky fluke of the wind. He swung his leg back over the bulwark and picked up his telescope to examine the Brutus.
Wagstaffe's men were just reeling in the line after taking a cast of the log. There was the first pair of men carrying a shell, with four others - six or eight, in fact - waiting impatiently for more to be handed up from the shot locker. The Fructidor had put on perhaps a knot by just doing as Mr Ramage said.
"A pity, sir," Paolo said, shaking his head with a sadness more befitting a priest talking to his errant flock, "a pity we didn't think of it ourselves, then we would have gone ahead of the Brutus without Mr Wagstaffe realizing what was happening. Now he does it and he'll catch up."
"Well, we didn't think of it, and we are going faster," Kenton said crossly, annoyed with himself. "And you can practise your navigation. Get out your quadrant and put our position on the chart. You can fix it in two different ways - vertical sextant angles and bearings on the highest peak of Monte Argentario, and the mountain of Elba - you can just see it, but don't place too much reliance on it because of the distance - and the one on Giglio. Then horizontal angles of each end of Giglio and the westernmost edge of Argentario."
Paolo groaned and then brightened up. "I haven't the heights of the peaks, sir."
"I've written them in on the chart," Kenton said coldly, remembering his own ingenuity with excuses when he had been a midshipman not so long ago. "Argentario's 2,000 feet, Giglio's 1,600 and the highest peak on Elba is 3,300. All nice round numbers. You didn't leave your quadrant on board the Calypso, did you?" he asked suspiciously.
"No, sir," Paolo said miserably.
Kenton stopped, wondering if the boy was depressed at the thought that Volterra was only fifty miles away to the north of them, halfway between Siena and the sea. It must be strange for a boy to think that so close was not only his home but the kingdom he might eventually rule if the Marchesa never had a son and if Paolo survived, though this seemed unlikely the way the lad pitched into action. Still, Volterra might be only fifty miles from the Fructidor but, Kenton began to suspect, the only thing making the boy unhappy at the moment was the prospect of working out some vertical sextant angles. They would be passing Argentario and preparing to round up for Porto Ercole before he had finished . . . Hmm, at last he was coming up on deck with his quadrant, slate and piece of chalk.
As Stafford held the twelfth shell and Jackson slipped the line through the handles he said: "Wiv a bit o' luck we'll use these termorrer, so we'd 'ave 'ad ter carry 'em up anyway."
"We haven't carried them at all, and we'll probably use the forward mortar anyway if we do open fire," Jackson said, "so you may get landed with carrying them forward."
"That'll be the day," Stafford muttered. "I didn't get landed with it this time, no more did you."
Stafford suddenly nudged Jackson and whispered: "Just watch Mr Orsini. 'E's gettin' in such a muddle 'e'll soon be trying to take a sight wiv the slate and chewing the chalk ..."
"He's covered the slate with figures. He'll soon have to start using the other side."
The two men then saw that the third lieutenant was watching the Brutus with his telescope and the other bomb was no longer falling astern. Stafford nudged Jackson again and murmured: "I think Mr Wagstaffe's now got 'is dozen shells stowed aft..."
At that moment the lookout aloft hailed excitedly: "Deck there!" and when Kenton answered he called down: "There's a sail just coming clear of Giggley-oh, sir. Looks like a frigate. Ooh! There's another . . . and another!"
Kenton waited but the lookout finally concluded: "That's the lot, sir: three frigates."