Sir Henry was on the quarterdeck but tactfully walking back and forth at the taffrail, well behind Ramage and obviously intent on leaving the Calypso's captain a free hand to do what was necessary.
Aitken gave the quartermaster a course to steer: north-east, roughly the same as the approaching French frigate but also one which gained time: although Ramage had been able to guess that the signal flags were obviously the challenge for the day, the Frenchman would not in turn be able to read flags hoisted in the Calypso as the British frigate began running dead before the wind: it would be like looking at a page on edge and trying to read the printing.
The scirocco and the frigate: Ramage cursed his luck. By and large he did not believe in luck: bad luck was usually the alibi used by those nincompoops whose plans went awry, although they never credited good luck when their plans succeeded. Yet now was hardly the time for such thoughts.
The French frigate had been approaching fast, the thickening scirocco haze and failing light making her seem a grey phantom surging towards them low in the water, rising and dipping over the ridge-and-furrow of the swell waves. But Ramage saw that the distance was now remaining almost constant as the Calypso came clear of the island and began setting more sail.
"Fore and maincourses, if you please Mr Aitken," Ramage said, looking towards the west. Twilight. How long before darkness would help hide the Calypso in its mantle?
Running away from a French frigate! Still, it was not often that a French ship saw the Calypso's transom . . . But now she had to be a plover. He looked forward, startled for a moment as the forecourse, the largest and lowest of the sails on the foremast, was let fall and Aitken, speaking trumpet to his lips, shouted orders for the afterguard to brace the yard and sheet home the sail. A moment later the maincourse tumbled, and Ramage could imagine the maintopmen cursing that the foretopmen had beaten them by a few seconds.
The Calypso surged forward as the brisk wind bellied out thousands of square feet of extra canvas to bring the ship alive, and Ramage saw men running across the maindeck like ants suddenly disturbed. Yet every apparently aimless movement was carefully controlled, sending each available man to the guns to cast off the lashings which prevented the carriages moving when the ship pitched and rolled, and heaving a strain on the train tackles.
Powder boys (the nippers of ten minutes earlier) would any moment be scurrying up from the magazine, each carrying a cylindrical wooden cartridge box containing a shaped bag of powder. Then the gun captains would arrive to bolt on the flintlocks (which because of their vulnerability to rust were stowed below when not in use) and the rest of their gear: prickers for preparing the cartridges, long lanyards which attached to the triggers of the locks, allowing them to fire the guns beyond the recoil, and horns of priming powder.
All you need do - all you have done, Ramage corrected himself - is give the orders: there is no need to stand here ensuring they are being carried out properly: that is why you have a first lieutenant like Aitken, and other officers like Kenton, and Hill (getting ready for action for the first time in the Calypso), and Martin, Paolo and, of course, Southwick.
Down below, Bowen would be laying out surgical instruments and bandages, spreading a tarpaulin over a small section of the deck in case there were a number of wounded; the carpenter would be sounding the well, and he would be doing it regularly if they went into action, his sounding rod sliding down the long tube to the bottom of the bilge, revealing if any water was leaking in through hidden shotholes.
If you have given all the necessary orders, Ramage told himself, it is time you started thinking about what this damned French frigate's appearance means. Well, it means your original idea of sheltering in the lee of Giglio until the scirocco blows itself out, and then going over to Port' Ercole, has gone by the board.
So now you have to keep out of this wretched frigate's way for the next two or three days, so that the garrison commander on Giglio does not realize he was hoodwinked. Also it is vital that no alarm is raised by the French on the mainland so that extra guards will be watching the second group of hostages.
But just consider being chased for three days by this frigate, which is identical with the Calypso, and therefore of the same strength in terms of guns and, since there is no reason to suppose otherwise, as fast and weatherly . . .
So the Calypso has first to be a plover, protecting her chicks or the eggs she is hatching in the shallow depression on the ground that passes for her nest. On the approach of an enemy, be it stoat, fox or human, the plover runs away, one wing dragging as though she is hurt, trying to lure the threat away from the nest. Her shrill cries of distress and injured appearance usually work.
Could the Calypso be as effective as a plover? The more he thought about it, the more certain he was that she could not: by the time the scirocco blew itself out, the two frigates would have had to fight each other, and one would have been destroyed or captured.
Very well, he must make sure it was not the Calypso, and if the French were not to raise the alarm, then the fight had to take place out of sight of lookouts on the mainland. Or at least the French on shore must not be able to connect the sea fight with the Port' Ercole hostages.
Come to think of it, as long as the Giglio commandant did not connect the frigate with his former hostages, there was nothing to fear. More important, there was no reason why the commandant should, so long as that frigate to the south did not open fire on the Calypso while still in sight of Castello.
At that moment Ramage saw General Cargill coming up the quarterdeck ladder, buckling on a sword. "What's all the commotion about, eh?" he demanded.
Ramage shrugged and pointed at the small grey shadow now astern. "A French frigate."
"Ha, and how are you going to engage her, eh?"
"We're not," Ramage said calmly. "We're trying to avoid her - it will be dark in an hour."
"Avoid her! You mean you're running away?" Cargill shouted, banging the hilt of his sword. "Why, that's cowardice!"
Ramage walked to within a foot of the man, not wanting everyone to hear the conversation. "You will answer for that remark later," he said coldly. "In the meantime I must ask you to leave the quarterdeck."
"I'll be damned if I will!" Cargill exclaimed. "If there's going to be fighting, my post is here."
"You've already decided there's not going to be any fighting, and I must remind you that I am in command of this ship. If you do not go below I shall place you under an arrest and two Marines will take you below."
Cargill, eyes shifty, suddenly realized that he had just called Ramage a coward on his own quarterdeck and that Ramage had challenged him to a duel. Perhaps he had been a little hasty, Cargill admitted to himself, but dammit the fellow was running away. And anyway, who was he to threaten to arrest a field officer? A pipsqueak of a captain threatening to arrest a general!
He felt a tap on the shoulder and whirled to find Sir Henry standing there; it was obvious the admiral had heard the entire conversation.
"General Cargill, I suggest you go down to your cabin."
"But this fellow Ramage is -"
"Go down to your cabin and wait for Captain Ramage's seconds to call on your seconds," Sir Henry said. "No gentleman can be called a coward without demanding satisfaction. And, if I might express a personal opinion, no gentleman would call the captain of one of the King's ships a coward on his own quarterdeck unless that person fully understood what was happening."