Ramage took one last look round the horizon (almost a formality, since Kenton's telescope would have spotted even a distant gull perched on a bottle).
"Very well, stand down from general quarters." Kenton saluted and then turned away, grasping the japanned speaking trumpet. The son of a half-pay captain, he had inherited all his father's seagoing characteristics except a stentorian voice. Kenton's shouted orders needed the help of the speaking trumpet to lob his voice as far as the fo'c'sle.
The men ran in the guns and secured them, covered the flintlocks with aprons, small canvas hoods that tied down securely to protect the flint and mechanism from salt spray, put pistols and muskets back into the deck lockers, slipped the ash staves of the long boarding pikes into the racks round each mast, and then made their way below.
Ramage saw the fourth lieutenant coming up the quarterdeck ladder to relieve Kenton. Young Martin was, with Kenton, the newest of the Calypso's lieutenants but at twenty-three or four - Ramage could not remember which - Martin had already experienced as much action as most officers saw in a lifetime. The son of the master shipwright at the Chatham Dockyard, Martin was known throughout the ship as "Blower", an improbable nickname used openly by his fellow officers and discreetly by the rest of the ship's company and bestowed out of admiration, because Lieutenant William Martin was a superb flautist. He played the wooden tube as though it was a part of his own body: the sheer pleasure that it and music gave him found an echo among the men, who did not care whether he was playing an obscure piece of baroque music or one of the traditional forebitters, used when the men were heaving at the capstan, bringing the anchor home.
Ramage watched the two young lieutenants: Kenton reporting the course and any orders from the captain that remained unexecuted (there was none), plus any unusual occurrences, thus carrying out the captain's standing orders for handing over the deck. The two lieutenants now faced forward, and Ramage guessed they were discussing the convoy. Yes, there were still seventy-two ships, and considering all things they were in reasonable formation. For that Ramage knew he could thank a night of steady southeasterly winds and probably the impression he had made at the convoy conference. But steady winds and past impressions did not last; one should never trust the weather or one's memory . . .
A convoy under way with dawn breaking is always an impressive sight, and he continued looking at the ships. The increasing pinkness now spreading over the eastern horizon like a water-colour wash gave the flax of the merchant ships' sails a warmth which was gently shaded by the curve into which the wind pressed them. Yet it was hard to believe the ships were more than toys being pulled by unseen strings across a village pond: at this distance each seemed much too small to be carrying hundreds of tons of valuable cargo in her hold. For all that, cargoes from the West Indies were smelly rather than exotic, he reminded himself, mostly molasses and hides . . . Sometimes there were more aromatic spices such as nutmeg, but molasses were a touchy cargo, liable to absorb the smell of anything else stowed near it.
In England it was an hour before noon. In France about the same. What was Sarah doing at this moment? Could she be at home with her parents - in London, or their estate in Norfolk? Or was she a prisoner in France? Bonaparte must be a vile man: never before had women been treated as prisoners of war - at least, among civilized people. Nor, for that matter, were civilians accidentally caught in a country by a sudden war - oh, to hell with it; continually worrying would not tell him whether or not she was safe, although worrying was all he could do. Worry and watch over these damned mules across 3,500 miles of the Western Ocean - more if the winds played tricks and headed them.
"The Emerald, sir," Martin reported, his voice seeming to come from another planet. "Wheft at the foretopmast - 'To communicate with the commander of the convoy'."
"Very well," Ramage said in the usual response. "Can you see any other sail beyond her? Has the Robuste hoisted any signal?"
If there was an emergency - a privateer in sight or a French man-o'-war - then the Emerald would have hoisted the appropriate signal, and the Robuste would have sighted her as well. No, Sidney Yorke had a routine message to pass - probably, Ramage guessed, the opening round in the social invitations exchanged between the more important merchant ships and escorts. In fact it was usually restricted to the commander and one or two merchant ships whose masters were old friends. Whatever the circumstances, such invitations broke up the monotony of the voyage, both for the officers invited and the men who had to row them over: the hospitality usually included the men, and it was a wise coxswain who kept an eye on the drinking in the fo'c'sle.
"Well, Mr Martin, let's pass within hail of the Emerald and see what she has to say."
"Aye aye, sir."
"And Mr Martin, let's do it in the fewest tacks and gybes possible, from this position. Over to her and back here again."
"Aye aye, sir," Martin said doubtfully, knowing this was a test.
Just half an hour later, with the rising sun bringing a freshening wind, the Calypso bore away a couple of points and surged close under the Emerald's quarter, the frigate's bow butting up sheets of spray as she sliced through the bulky merchantman's big quarter wave.
Right aft Ramage could see Sidney and Alexis waving: the girl seemed to be jumping up and down with excitement, and even the ship's master stood at the taffrail, a hand upraised.
Now Sidney had a speaking trumpet to his mouth and Ramage rapidly reversed the one he was grasping, holding the mouthpiece to his ear like a deaf beggar.
"Dinner . . . today . . . you . . . nephew . . . Southwick ... as many officers as you ..."
And then, as Ramage waved an acknowledgement, the Calypso was past her and angling across the bow of the ship leading the next column, which had her rail lined with white faces - it must be disturbing to have a frigate steering at you, even though for only a minute or two.
Then the Calypso was out ahead of the convoy and just as Martin was going to bring her about, to tack round the eastern side of the convoy again, Ramage stopped him. "That was well done, but we'll carry on and do a circumnavigation of the whole convoy. Won't do any harm to let the mules know we can turn up alongside 'em while they're busy having breakfast. Hey, what's the matter with you? You look as though you're going to faint!"
"I'm all right now, sir; it was just those last few minutes!"
A startled Ramage stared at the youth. "Blower" treated musket shot and cannon balls with contempt. What on earth could make him go white like that? "What 'last few minutes'?"
"Passing under the stern of the Emerald so close, sir. I know the owner is a friend of yours, and the lady was watching, too."
Ramage smiled as he shook his head. "Martin, remember this: the fact the owner of that ship is a friend of mine didn't make her one foot nearer or farther away."
"No sir," Martin agreed, "but if we'd hit her the crash would have sounded a thousand times louder."
Poor "Blower", he had been determined to bring the Calypso close enough for them to hear the Emerald's hail, even if he scared himself to death. He did not realize that if there had been a collision the responsibility would have been Ramage's but, Ramage realized, this was not the time to point that out: "Blower" had handled the ship splendidly under the impression that one mistake would see him court-martialled and dismissed the Service. It was an experience which added to his confidence.
"At least a thousand times louder," Ramage said.
Southwick knew he had eaten too much but the dinner given by Mr Yorke was more like a banquet than anything he had eaten on board a ship for a long time. Those John Company fellows were supposed to live like pashas (indeed he had eaten some good meals on board ships of the Honourable East India Company), but nothing to compare with what the Emerald had to offer. John Company masters ran to heavy and highly-spiced food; a curry so hot you lost the taste in the furnace created in your mouth, and found comfort in the stream of perspiration erupting on your face. A course like that, Southwick thought sadly, was the kind of thing that "old India hands" loved, and once they had caught their breath again they could make half an hour's animated conversation out of the piquancy. Well, usually they had not much else to discuss, so curry often became a staple subject, the rules and standards as well defined (and as boring) as a political speech.