Halfway back to the Calypso, Ramage looked first at the French ship, and then at the British. The French frigate looked as though she had been hit by a sudden storm; most of her remaining yards were a-cock-bill, as though the ship was in mourning, the yards forming crosses. Other yards had fallen to the deck or swung over the side. The ship was rolling from side to side even more slowly now in her massive death throes.
By contrast the Calypso sat in the water like a gull, foretopsail backed, guns still run out, and - he counted carefully - three shot holes caused by the French. They showed up as rusty marks in the hull, although the real damage would be inside, where the shot hit, spraying up great splinters of wood or ricocheting.
He looked back at the French ship to count her shot holes. There were eight in the hull between the fore and mainmasts, so the Calypso's shooting had been good. So it should have been; conditions and range were ideal.
Then the red cutter was alongside and Ramage scrambled back on board the Calypso, followed by Renwick, whom Ramage signalled to go down below with the canvas-wrapped box. Ramage waited at the entry port as the Marines brought up the two French officers. He told them to help the wounded one down to Mr Bowen, the Calypso's surgeon. After that he paused and saw that the Calypso's green cutter was now among the Frenchmen struggling in the water or clinging to wreckage, picking up survivors, and the jolly boat was only a few yards away, while the launch was still being hoisted out. The wind was slowly drifting the Calypso down towards the men, who were struggling towards her, those that could not swim kicking out as they held whatever was keeping them afloat.
As he watched, the extra seamen in the green cutter helped the Frenchmen on board, and as soon as the boat was full the men at the oars bent their backs and sent the boat surging towards the Calypso, pursued by shrill shouts from the survivors left behind.
He looked at Aitken, who was waiting patiently, knowing how Ramage would hate what he had to say. "We have three dead from the shot that dismounted the gun, sir, and five wounded - from splinters."
"How many badly?"
"One, sir. Bowen says he'll probably be all right, though. The other four will be back on duty in a week."
"The dead?"
"Instantaneous, sir. Cut down as the gun spun off the carriage."
Surgeon Bowen could be relied on: he would come up to the quarterdeck later to report in detail on the wounded men. He had served with Ramage long enough, and together they had suffered enough casualties in battle, for him to know the routine.
Aitken said: "The xebec the lookout reported earlier, sir: she's closing us fast. Seem to be three or four men in it, and there's a flag or something flying from the upper end of the lateen yard. Might be local fishermen out for some pickings," Aitken added, but Ramage shook his head.
"They'd arrive after dark . . ."
"The sea's calm enough," Southwick commented, knowing the exact moment when to interrupt his captain's thoughts and stop him brooding. "We'll save these Frenchmen. But their ship hasn't much longer to go . . ."
"When I left her I didn't think I'd get off before she capsized," Ramage said. "The rolling doesn't look too bad from here, but on board . . ."
"The way her masts snatch on the shrouds - you just look at it," Southwick said, looking round for Ramage's telescope and passing it to him.
He saw that either the Furet's rigging had not been set up very tight with the lanyards in the first place, or her hull was distorting, because her masts were like tall pines buffeted by gusts of wind. As she rolled to larboard the masts gave an enormous twitch and tightened all the shrouds on the starboard side with another violent jerk which Ramage thought would have parted them.
Even as he watched the ship, the frequency of the roll seemed to be slowing down but it was increasing in amplitude, the masts swinging like inverted pendulums.
"All that water swilling round as though it was inside a bladder," Aitken said miserably. His love of ships and the sea made him hate to watch a ship die, even if she was an enemy. "Fancy scuttling her . . ."
"They didn't," Ramage said. "She sprang the butts of some planks just as we started to catch up. Seems a mortar shell burst in her wake as she came out of Porto Ercole, so one of the bomb ketches can claim her. The French didn't find any damage - until we started closing up on her and they began to drive her hard. Then she sprang a butt, then more went. . . That was why she suddenly luffed up - the water was pouring in."
"Those bomb ketches earned their pay today," Southwick commented. "Whew, just look at that!"
The frigate rolled towards them and, for a moment, seemed about to capsize: the remaining yards came swinging round the masts like flails, again to hang vertically, and they could see several guns dropping across the deck, ripping away the bulwarks on one side as the train and side tackles and breechings tore out the eyebolts, and then falling to crash through the other. As the Furet staggered back again, like a drunken man making an enormous effort to stay on his feet, they could see that the bulwarks, jagged where the guns had fallen, were now like the smashed-in battlements of a besieged castle.
The red cutter was back among the survivors, picking up more men as the jolly boat and then the launch returned to the Calypso and sodden, spluttering Frenchmen climbed up the side, to be met by seamen who marched them forward to the fo'c'sle while others kept them covered with muskets.
Southwick waved down at the bosun, who called back: "That makes seventy-three, sir. I reckon there's another couple of hundred left."
"Looks like it from up here," the master said, "but there's no rush, they've all found floating wreckage or hammocks. She had a full complement, from the look -"
He broke off as the Furet rolled slowly to starboard, so that for a few moments he was looking down on to her decks, the view of a bird hovering seven or eight hundred feet above her when she was floating normally. Now he saw more guns breaking loose from the larboard side and falling across the ship, smashing their way into the sea through the bulwarks.
Water pouring into the ship through the starboard gunports, now immersed, built up the air pressure down below and water spurted up through unexpected holes like whales spouting; suddenly a dozen or more casks popped out of the hatches like, as Southwick commented, peas rolled out of a measuring mug. Still the great masts continued to heel; several of the yards dropped so that once again they were perpendicular to the masts; then the tips of the yards touched the water as she continued rolling over, her larboard side rising like a surfacing whale as the starboard sank. With a graceful but despairing slow movement she turned upside-down, the black planking vanishing as she capsized, to be replaced by the coppered bottom of the ship. The copper was reddish here and green there and tried to reflect the sunlight; whole sections were missing, and there the teredo borers would have riddled the wood . . . The ship paused for a minute or two, white swirls of frothing water showing where air was still forcing its way out of the hull as water poured in and looking, from this distance, like grotesque whirlpools swirling round a half-tide rock.
Suddenly they were all looking at a great smooth patch of sea, and while they absorbed that shock, dozens of pieces of wood came to the surface, some of them long topsail and topgallant yards which shot up several feet like leaping sword-fish before dropping back to float as if it were kindling tossed into a village pond. Great bubbles of air belched up and slowly the wind waves covered the smooth patch where the Furet had been.