"She was the Jason all right," Ramage said. "I recognized her and remember her figurehead, and she had it carved on her transom and nicely picked out with real gold leaf ..."
"So why did she open fire on us?" Southwick asked. "Must have been captured by the French. But those damned French gunners were drunk or something to have aimed so high."
"After our sails and rigging," Aitken said.
"Don't believe it," Southwick exclaimed. "They were firing roundshot. The Jason probably doesn't have dismantling shot in her locker, since few British ships carry it, but if you're after sails and rigging you use grape or case. A keg of case or grape through a sail shreds it well enough. A roundshot - well, you can see -" he gestured aloft, "- just a hole punched through the cloth; nothing that can't be patched or stitched."
"Very well," Ramage said, watching the Jason as the Calypso finally turned into her wake, "all that's over. What's she going to do now?"
"Beats me," Southwick admitted. "She's not even heading for the convoy. I'd understand her raking us in the hopes of sending one of our masts by the board, and then carrying on to attack the convoy - she's nicely placed to windward for that."
Aitken took his hat off and scratched his head, a signal which Ramage interpreted as meaning he had a suggestion about which he was doubtful. Ramage looked at him with raised eyebrows.
"I was wondering, sir, if whoever commands the Jason is puzzled because the convoy is surrounded by three French-built frigates? If he's a Frenchman, could he have thought three French frigates had captured the convoy and he was coming down to join us to drink a toast to Bonaparte? Then suddenly at the last moment he saw we had British colours and bore up to rake us? That would account for her captain staying on the same course now and not making for the convoy."
Before Ramage had time to answer, Southwick had seized on the same flaw that Ramage had spotted. "Why was she flying the Jason's pendant numbers and British colours, then? If she thought the Calypso was also French, surely she'd have been waving a Tricolour and some French signal or other? But approaching another French frigate under British colours - that'd be asking for trouble, apart from being quite unnecessary."
Aitken nodded. "Yes, you're quite right: I didn't think long enough before I spoke."
"We haven't much time," Ramage said, "so let's hear thoughts when they arrive!"
"What do you reckon, sir?" Southwick asked.
The more Ramage thought about it, the more puzzled he became. He acknowledged Jackson's report of the Jason's course. "I'm certain of only one thing: we aren't going to find any answers by following her so far astern: let fall the courses, Mr Aitken. Out with your quadrant, Mr Southwick, and let's have some angles on the Jason's masts: I want to know the minute we start overhauling her."
As Aitken turned away, calling out orders, Paolo, obviously annoyed at having no role to play so far, asked: "No signals for La Robuste or L'Espoir, sir?"
"No, they know that they have to stay with the convoy. This is just the moment that a privateer lurking on the horizon would be praying for."
As Southwick left the quarterdeck to get his quadrant and seamen swarmed up the ratlines and out on to the great lower yards to untie the gaskets securing the lowest and largest sails, Ramage relived the few brief minutes when the Jason raced across the Calypso's bow and her guns started firing.
There had been something he had noticed, something which, even while he was shocked by being raked by what everyone thought was a British ship, seemed odd. Something discordant, something which did not fit into the picture either of the French attacking under a ruse de guerre, or a - a what? Anyway, he'd noticed it in those split seconds but now he was damned if he could remember what it was. If he could remember, would it provide an answer? He was not even sure of that. It was in fact little more than a nagging thought, as though he had forgotten something but could not remember whether it concerned a button missing from a coat or to remind the butler that the dining room clock had stopped and needed winding.
The maincourse dropped from the yard with the gracelessness of a fat woman flopping into a low chair, but Aitken's staccato orders snapping across the deck from the mouth of the speaking trumpet sent some men forward hauling on the mainbrace and others aft, hardening in the sheets. A few moments later the forecourse came tumbling down, freed of the gaskets, and the yard was braced as the sail was sheeted home and trimmed.
Southwick bustled up with his quadrant, cursing that the courses would now get in the way, spoiling his view of the Jason.
"Not if you come over here," Ramage said from the starboard side of the quarterdeck.
The master stood, legs wide apart to balance himself against the rolling, and carefully adjusted the quadrant until it showed him the angle between the Jason's mizenmasthead and her waterline. He scribbled the figure down on the slate kept in the binnacle box drawer.
"Timed that nicely," he commented. "Just as our courses started to draw. We'll soon see what effect they're having."
Ramage nodded. "But we'll have to get up the stunsails unless ..." He did not finish the sentence for a few moments. "We have to keep the convoy in sight. If we haven't caught up with her by the time the convoy's drawing astern, we'll have to let her go"
"Then we'll never know what the devil's going on, sir," Southwick grumbled.
"Maybe not, but our job is to protect the convoy, and anyway, I'm anxious to get home!"
Southwick nodded in agreement about the convoy. "I can see that, sir: we don't want a long beat back. You can bet the wind'll die on us."
"Or La Robuste won't be tough enough on the stragglers, so that at dawn we'd find the convoy spread right over the horizon."
Southwick sighed as he lifted the quadrant once again. "They're like a crowd of schoolchildren, those mules," he grumbled. "Turn your back for a moment and they're up to all sorts o' mischief."
Then he gave a more contented sigh after looking at the scale. "Well, that's good news, sir: we're catching up fast!" He lowered the quadrant, yet Ramage could see that the old man was puzzled. "We're catching up faster than setting the courses can account for - at least, by my reckoning."
"Those Frenchmen may have only just captured the ship," Ramage said. "It'd take a few days for them to get the best out of her."
"Not if her officers are proper seamen," Southwick said contemptuously.
"Come on, be fair," Ramage chided. "The poor beggars spend most of their time swinging round an anchor in places like Brest. Our blockade doesn't give them much chance of getting experience at sea."
"My heart," Southwick said, giving his chest a thump, "it fairly bleeds for them."
"And well it might, right now," Ramage said teasingly. "Just put yourself in their place on board the Jason. They nearly collided with an enemy they were trying to rake, failed to send even one mast by the board or cut any important piece of rigging, or destroy a sail. Now, as if that wasn't enough, their target is not only chasing them but catching up. And there isn't a damned thing that they can do - that they know how to do - to make their ship go faster."
Southwick sniffed as he lifted the quadrant. "Don't go on, sir, you'll have me in tears . . . Ah!" he exclaimed as he looked at the curved scale and read off the angle. He then looked up at the frigate ahead, took another reading and then said: "If they weren't French, sir, I'd say they were deliberately dawdling, trying to trap us into coming alongside."
"They're not actually going any slower, surely?" Ramage asked. "I get the impression that they're still making about the same speed as when they crossed our bow, and that once we bore away and followed in her wake we didn't start overhauling her until we let fall the courses."