He took a deep breath, lifted the speaking trumpet to his lips and shouted the orders that sent the topmen swarming aloft. On the deck other men were standing by, ready to haul or let go. The quartermaster leaned forward slightly waiting for the order that would bring the Juno up into the wind.
Then he gave a stream of orders. As the Juno began to turn, the courses, topsails, and topgallants lost their swelling shapes as clew lines pulled the corners upwards and diagonally inwards towards the masts. Only the foretopsail remained, rippling as the wind came round on the frigate's beam.
Ramage was watching the other frigate, now on the Juno's starboard bow. A quiet order to the quartermaster and the Juno turned into the wind, so that the foretopsail was pressed against the mast, slowing the ship down. The other frigate was dead ahead and the backed foretopsail had almost stopped the Juno.
From the fo'c'sle Southwick signalled that all was ready; the bower anchor was hanging clear, the stock clear and below the bowsprit shrouds. The last gun of the salute fired and the smoke streamed aft. Jackson, perched by the mainchains, called that the way was off the ship and Ramage gave his prearranged signal to Southwick. A moment later the anchor splashed into the water and the cable thundered out through the hawse, the smell of singeing rope drifting back to the quarterdeck as friction scorched the thick manila cable. Now the back topsail was beginning to push the Juno astern, putting a strain on the cable and digging in the anchor. In the meantime the rest of the sails were being neatly furled. Then the foretopsail, its work done, was clewed and furled.
As Aitken went forward to start hoisting out the cutters he reported to Ramage: 'No signals yet from the flagship, sir, but there are five telescopes watching us!'
Ramage, looked at the other frigate and then walked to the forward end of the quarterdeck. He could just see the anchor buoy bobbing in the water. The Juno, more by luck than judgement, was where he wanted her. Aloft the sails were furled so tightly that the yards looked bare. Five telescopes, eh?
There was an excited squeak from Orsini, who came rushing to Ramage, signal book in hand. 'Signal from the flagship, sir. The Captain of the ship signified to report on board the flagship.' He paused, as though making sure that Ramage had grasped it, and then added: ‘The ship signified is 637, and that's us, sir.'
Ramage suppressed a grin at the enormous importance Paolo placed on every word. 'Very well, acknowledge - and keep a sharp eye open for more signals.'
Southwick came aft to report the amount of cable veered, and he took some bearings which he noted on the slate kept hooked on the binnacle box: they would show whether or not the anchor was dragging. Leaving the Master as officer of the deck, Ramage went down to his cabin and glanced in the mirror to make sure his stock had not creased in the hour since he had put on a fresh one. He put on his sword, wiped his face with a towel and picked up the canvas bag containing the dispatches for the Admiral, a copy of his own orders, the Juno's log and the rest of the forms he had been busy filling in for the past few days. He took a second canvas bag, even bulkier: that was for Aitken to give to Wagstaffe. After Ramage was on board the flagship and reporting to the Admiral, Wagstaffe could take over the rest of the letters, newspapers and small packets. There were times, he thought crossly, when one of the King's ships seemed to carry more private mail than a Post Office packet ship.
Baker knocked on the door of the cabin. 'Captain, sir, your cutter is ready.'
He went up on deck, gave the larger canvas bag to Aitken, listened to Southwick reporting that the anchor was not dragging, and walked to the gangway. The side-ropes, newly scrubbed, were rigged and the bos'n's mates and side boys were waiting. A minute later he was sitting in the sternsheets of the cutter and clutching the bag, while Jackson was giving orders for the boat to shove off.
Ramage looked up at the Juno's curving sides. Yes, she looked smart enough and he was glad she had that yellow strake: it emphasized her sheer nicely. And the figurehead - the men had made a good job of painting Juno. The flesh tones had seemed rather lurid viewed from the fo'c'sle, but from a distance they seemed natural.
The men bent at the oars, steady strokes that made the cutter leap across the chop kicked up by the wind. Ramage wondered for the hundredth time what Admiral Davis had in store for him. Just as he left the quarterdeck Southwick had muttered: 'It'll be convoys, sir,’ and looking round at the other three frigates at anchor Ramage was sure the Master was right. All three frigates were smartly turned out; all were glistening with more paint than the Navy Board allowed, with touches of gold leaf here and there, showing their captains had dipped into their own pockets to buy the extra to make their ships smart. They reeked of prize money, Ramage thought. Glistened with prize money, he corrected himself. These three frigates were obviously the Admiral's favourites. One of them would carry out the sealed orders in the canvas bag he was holding on his knees.
CHAPTER SIX
Henry Davis, Rear-Admiral of the Red and Commander-in-Chief of His Majesty's ships and vessels upon the Windward and Leeward Islands station, was a short, round-faced man in late middle-age, with stiff black eyebrows that stuck out of his forehead like boot brushes, but he had an open, cheerful face and after greeting Ramage on the quarterdeck of the Invincible he led the way down to the great cabin. He had eyed the canvas pouch that Ramage was carrying and was obviously anxious to get his hands on the dispatches and orders it held, but he concealed his impatience.
The cabin was enormous by comparison with the Juno's and furnished as became an admiral in a ship of the line: half a dozen leather-covered armchairs, one of the largest wine-coolers Ramage had ever seen - made of mahogany and shaped like a fat Greek urn - and a sideboard with a rack in which half a dozen cut-glass decanters glittered in the sunlight reflecting through the sternlights. One of the two swords hung in racks in the forward bulkhead was an ornate ceremonial scimitar with a beautifully chased and gilded pommel, the other a curved fighting sword: obviously the Admiral favoured the cavalry type of sabre. The curtains drawn back on either side of the sternlights were a deep red damask woven with intricate patterns of silver thread - the same design, Ramage noted, as the ceremonial sword pommel. Probably bought in Persia, or presents from some Turkish potentate. Together they gave the cabin an atmosphere more suited to some bearded pasha,
'A drink?' the Admiral inquired, waving Ramage to one of the chairs. ‘The usual, or there is fresh lime or lemon juice. No ice I'm afraid; the damned schooner hasn't arrived from Nova Scotia. The last consignment lasted only a week; the fools didn't pack it properly. They said they were short of straw, so two thirds of it melted before they got here. Said they had to pump most of the way down.' He gave a mirthless laugh. 'Odd to think that a ship laden with ice blocks could sink itself with the ice melting...’
It could not, since ice took up more cubic space than the water it produced, but only a callow midshipman would point that out to an Admiral. 'A lime juice, if I may, sir,'
The Admiral stared suspiciously at Ramage from under his jutting eyebrows. 'You do take a drink, though?’
Ramage saw the mottled complexion and bulbous nose of a man who obviously enjoyed a good brandy and hurriedly nodded his head. 'Indeed, sir; it's just that I'm very thirsty. It's hot here in the bay, after the Atlantic'
The Admiral grunted approvingly. 'Hate this damned bay m'self, but at least it's cooler on board than on shore. My wife - she took the coolest house we could find, but at night, when the wind drops ...' He shook a small silver bell vigorously and when a steward appeared ordered a rum punch for himself and a fresh lime juice for Ramage.