"Anyway, you're leading him away from Port' Ercole," Sir Henry commented. "But no doubt you have plans for when you get nearer to Elba. For after dawn tomorrow. Tomorrow! I must admit I'm finding it hard to get adjusted: this morning we're prisoners in Castello at Giglio: this afternoon we're having dinner on board one of the King's ships; this evening we're being chased by a French frigate!"
Ramage noted that the admiral did not ask what Ramage's plans were. He was either being very tactful, or keeping his own yards clear. By not knowing about Ramage's intentions (and therefore neither approving nor disapproving), if Ramage subsequently faced a court-martial or court of inquiry, the admiral would be in the clear.
Ramage was sufficiently sure of himself not to give a damn, but he was curious because he was beginning to like Sir Henry and there was one class of people for whom Ramage had unconditional contempt and that was trimmers. What was it Swift had written? Ah, yes.
"To confound his hated coin,
All parties and religions join,
Whigs, tories, trimmers."
Trimmers: men who hovered, always ready to change sides or allegiances if there was any advantage to be had. Politicians were always trimmers by nature; no man not a natural trimmer would go into politics in the first place. But generals, admirals, prelates and the like could be trimmers by choice (turncoats by a less polite name). Was Sir Henry trimming or being tactful?
"Although we're now steering for Elba," Ramage said casually, "we'll soon be coming back to the north-east."
"North-east!" Sir Henry repeated, his brow wrinkling. "Oh, thanks for warning me: I'd have been alarmed, otherwise!" He thought a few moments, and then looked questioningly at Ramage, nodding astern towards the French frigate as he spoke. "Do you think he'll follow you? Especially if he's bound for Porto Ferraio? Might think you have some special orders."
So Sir Henry was being tactful, not a trimmer! "I've considered that, sir. If he doesn't follow, we'll just be grateful and go back to Giglio!"
"We need luck," Sir Henry said. "By the way, I hope I'm not in the way up here?"
Ramage, embarrassed at having such a senior admiral being so tactful, said quickly: "No, sir, of course not: you and Lord Smarden have the freedom of the ship."
Sir Henry smiled and nodded again, and Ramage sensed that he too shared his own distaste for Admiral Keeler, as well as for General Cargill.
Ramage saw Southwick coming up the quarterdeck ladder. "If you'll excuse me sir: the master is bringing me the new course."
Southwick handed Ramage a piece of paper.
"Nor'east by north a quarter north? Very precise, Mr Southwick. Are you sure you've allowed enough quarter points for a northgoing current?" Ramage asked teasingly.
"I wrote it down in the hope you'd bet me a guinea I'd be wrong, sir," Southwick said. "That course should bring us precisely between those two southern towers, the Torri dell' Uccellina. The northern one is tall and reddish, if you remember, and stands on a hill a thousand feet high, and the other is short and dark grey."
Ramage looked at Southwick, pretending doubt. "All right, a guinea. Mind you, it hasn't escaped my notice that we'll see Monte dell' Uccellina first, and from that we'll be able to spot the tall tower . . ."
Southwick grinned cheerfully. "Better a mountain well ahead than breakers under the bow! That sandy beach'll have just the right slope to put us high and dry if we hit it. And, sir, that course assumes you'll be altering course now . . ."
Ramage gave the piece of paper to Aitken. "We'll steer that and hope for the best," he said. "And watch our friend astern!"
Aitken gave the course to the quartermaster, who asked for it to be repeated. Southwick muttered: "There you are, sir, people think you've gone off your head!"
Aitken picked up the speaking trumpet and was already shouting orders to trim the yards and sheets as the four men at the great wheel turned it, two standing to windward and two to leeward, while the quartermaster kept an eye on the nearest of the two compasses and the weather luffs of the sails.
Slowly the Calypso's bow swung round to starboard, putting the wind nine points on the starboard quarter. Such a change in course would hardly go unnoticed in the French frigate, even though the visibility was closing in rapidly as night fell.
There was no mistaking the tension in Ramage as he watched the frigate astern. She had not altered course: instead she ploughed on to the north, sails bellying, bow shouldering aside the waves in great smothers of spray. No phosphorescence, Ramage noted thankfully. But no hint of her altering course either: she is ignoring the Calypso. And that is ironic - but no! The outline of her hull is changing, her yards are being braced up, the distance between her three masts is narrowing . . . Finally the masts were in line. Once again the frigate was following in the Calypso's wake.
"Wonder what they're thinking now," commented Southwick.
"Her captain has probably just remembered that we never answered his challenge," Ramage said. "I was hoping he'd carry on to the north and leave us alone so we could go back to wait in the lee of Giglio."
"It's an odd feeling, running away from a Johnny Crapaud," Southwick commented, "even if it's not really running away."
"You sound like that damned general," Ramage said coldly. "To him battle is 'a direct frontal attack in regular order' - no matter that the Austrians lost every battle where they tried it against the French." Ramage thought for a moment and added bitterly: "Why should I be responsible for killing even one Calypso if I can capture or destroy that damned frigate without losing a single life?"
"You know me well enough that I don't have to argue, sir. I'm not responsible for the present fashion at the Admiralty of judging a captain's skill in action by the size of the butcher's bill. I've seen that it's usually just the opposite: stupid captains have the heaviest casualties. Will you be challenging that general?" he asked in studied casualness.
"It won't be necessary. The man's a coward and a bully himself: he'll apologize." He nodded towards the quartermaster. "Tell him that if he steers a quarter point either side of the course I'll have him flogged."
"Aye, that'll scare him," Southwick muttered as he walked across the deck, trying to recall the last flogging that Ramage had ordered. Yes, Spithead, many years ago, a mutineer, and even then only a few lashes . . . Strange that some captains regularly ordered at least a couple of dozen lashes every week, yet Mr Ramage has never flogged a man since he was made post. Was it the ships' companies or the captains? That's a daft question; give a captain three months in command, and then it was rule of thumb: a bad ship's company pointed to a bad captain.
He warned the quartermaster, who warned the men at the wheel, but as he walked back, Southwick believed the quartermaster when he had exclaimed that they were holding the course so carefully it looked as if the compass needle had stuck.
"How far off is she?" Ramage asked Southwick, nodding at the frigate and wanting a second opinion.
"Half a mile. Hard to judge in this light, but I reckon no more. Another ten minutes and it'll be too dark to see her."
"It's more important she sees us. Get the lamptrimmer to inspect the poop lantern: I might decide to use that, and I don't want it smoking."
"But then the damned Frenchman will follow our every move!" Southwick exclaimed. "We'll never escape!"
"Exactly," Ramage said coolly. "Not only that: if by now he suspects we might be British, he'll be even more puzzled when we show a poop lantern for him to follow us. Might even convince him his suspicions are wrong . . ."