CHAPTER SEVEN

"Haystacks," Southwick growled, giving one of his sniffs that expressed contempt without wasting words or breath. "A soldier's wind - and it'd have to be a gale - is the only thing that'll get them going."

"At least they can lay the course," Ramage said mildly, "and it's a nice sunny day."

"Aye, but it'll be winter and blowing a maestrale before we get to Porto Ercole," Southwick said. "Or a sirocco - we just need a few days of strong south winds; then these dam' bombs would end up aground at Genoa."

The Calypso was gliding along in an almost flat sea under only a maintopsail; the foretopsail had been furled half an hour ago, "Otherwise we'll dishearten those two lads," Ramage had told Aitken, gesturing at the Brutus and the Fructidor. They were once again abeam, with every square foot of working canvas set and, in the case of the Fructidor, an awning or a large tarpaulin hoisted out on a boom as a rudimentary stunsail in the hope of coaxing a little more speed from a hull designed to carry cargo.

Southwick had given yet another sniff, this time one which Ramage recognized as indicating either disapproval or disagreement. He raised an eyebrow and looked round at the master, who said: "I doubt if those dam' bomb ketches have ever before been sailed so fast in a wind like this: but for all that, if Wagstaffe and Kenton think they'll get a broadside from you if they're left behind, I guarantee they'd find another half a knot from somewhere."

It was then that Ramage noticed both ships were trimmed down by the bow. He had seen their waterlines when they were at anchor - the bow high because one of the anchors was on the sea bottom. He had forgotten to look again when they weighed anchor, adding the weight of the anchor, and perhaps the cable too, if it was stowed well forward which it probably was, to leave as much space as possible for the original task of carrying cargo.

"Let's pass within hail," Ramage said sourly, irritated with himself. "I'll give them an extra half a knot with only one shout."

While a puzzled Southwick gave the orders to the quartermaster, Ramage looked round. Along the whole larboard side, from north to south, stretched the mainland of Italy, with Punta Ala now on the Calypso's quarter. Argentario was jutting out like a mountain which, complete with its surrounding foothills, had been pushed out into the sea. It was fine on the larboard bow, seven or eight miles away, just too far for the long and sandy causeways joining it to the mainland to be visible to the naked eye. Because the nearest one was still below the curve of the horizon only the tips of the pine trees could be seen; the sand in which they grew was out of sight.

The small island topped by a fortress and now on the starboard bow was Giglio. He remembered once trying to teach Stafford how to pronounce the name. He had been the junior lieutenant of a frigate at the time, so it seemed like a century ago. It was impossible to teach the Cockney to say the soft, liquid "g" which was spoken with the teeth almost together. He had finally compromised with the first "g" sounding like the "j" in "jelly" so that Stafford had produced "jeel-yoh!", which was certainly an improvement on Giggly-oh. Now Giglio was on the starboard bow, the even tinier island of Giannutri beyond, fine on the starboard bow.

On Argentario was the little town and port at the northern end, Santo Stefano, which would be hidden from sight until the last moment and protected from attackers by the great fortress built on a hill overlooking it.

The first time he had seen it he had been the fifth lieutenant of a frigate which had just been sunk by a French ship of the line. Now he had more experience and certainly he was a post captain, but somehow, apart from the different uniform he now wore (with the single epaulet showing he was a post captain with less than three years' seniority) and the fact that he commanded this frigate, did he really feel any different?

He thought about it and decided that the difference was slight. Perhaps there was a sameness (despite the passing of the years) because still serving with him were some of the men who had shared those few desperate hours spent rescuing Gianna. A young lieutenant, a few seamen and an open boat to do the job for which the admiral had originally sent a frigate . . . And most of those seamen were at this very moment over in the Fructidor serving with her nephew. "Yes, Mr Orsini," they all said respectfully, as the law and custom of the Navy required, but there must be many times when they thought not of the fourteen-year-old boy but of his twenty-four-year-old aunt. None of them had ever seen her kingdom of Volterra, but they knew it was not far to the north-east, just over a few hills and now ruled by the French. But they all knew its heir at present was Paolo, and it must cross their minds that many young men heir to such a kingdom would take good care to stay alive, living comfortably, luxuriously, in some place like London, certainly not serving in a British frigate and always finding his way into any boarding party that seemed likely to cross swords with the French.

"Speaking trumpet, sir," Southwick said, and Ramage saw that the master had brought the Calypso close along the lee side of the Fructidor and, like starlings on the bough of a tree, Kenton, Paolo and several others were lining the bulwark and looking up at him as he stood at the quarterdeck rail. Ramage remembered his days as a young lieutenant. No doubt they were very worried: usually when a senior officer brought his frigate close alongside in circumstances like these it meant trouble.

He lifted the speaking trumpet to his lips, hating the smell of the brass, polished that morning with brick dust but already corroding again from the salt air. Why the makers did not japan the whole trumpet, mouthpiece as well as the bell, he would never know.

"Kenton - ahoy there, Kenton!"

"Sir?"

"You're trimmed down by the bow - at least a foot. Shift some weight right aft. Have some men carry shells from theforward locker and stow 'em aft." An empty shell weighed about eighty-five pounds. "Try a dozen and see if you increase speed. If you don't, try half a dozen more. Is she griping?"

"Yes, sir. We've been trying to trim the sails to check it."

"Well, it's probably because you're down by the head. Check the helm now and then again later to see if it improves."

"Aye aye, sir."

Ramage nodded towards Southwick. "Let's give the glad news to the Brutus, although Wagstaffe should have worked it out for himself. It's obvious he didn't check the draught forward and aft before he weighed this morning and enter it in the log."

"I should have thought of it myself," Southwick said ruefully.

"Me, too," Aitken added as the master called a new course to the quartermaster.

Fifteen minutes later Wagstaffe listened as his captain's voice came across the water, distorted by the speaking trumpet, but hitting him like ricocheting musket shot. He waved shamefacedly and shouted back, "Aye aye, sir." Cursing under his breath, he turned to Martin. "She's griping, she sails like a haystack, we can't get the sails settling to balance her properly . . . And we never thought we might be trimmed down by the bow! It's so obvious now. You take the helm so that we can be sure whether or not shifting those shells aft helps us. We'll start off with a cast of the log to see our present speed."

Over in the Fructidor pairs of seamen with carrying-bars resting across their shoulders staggered aft with shells knee-high, hooked on to the ropes. Weighing less than a hundredweight, an empty shell was not heavy for two men to carry with a bar, but it was awkward: as they walked it swung like a pendulum because the ketch was rolling slightly with the following wind, and while one man was looking at the shell, trying to avoid it swinging into the back of his knees, he would stub his toe on a ringbolt or walk into a cask or a hencoop lashed down on the deck, stumbling and causing the shell to hit his mate.