Ramage and the Freebooters

Then the wind had picked up its strength and everyone on board knew they were in the Trades. Gradually the following seas increased in size, the Trade wind clouds arrived and settled down into their usual orderly formation.

In an hour or so, Ramage knew he must go down to his cabin and bring his log and journal up to date; but for the moment he stood in the sun, glorying at the way the Triton ran before the Trades.

Wave after wave—deep blue laced with white foam, but bright turquoise green when the sun's rays shone through the tumbling crests—swept up astern of the brig, making her yaw like a fat fishwife walking down the street.

A big crest would nudge her on the side of the counter and heave her stern round, and by the time the helmsmen had spun the wheel to bring her back on course another would have arrived to catch the opposite side and give her an unceremonious shove the other way, and the cheerfully cursing helmsmen would begin all over again.

Ramage wished he could be left alone for the whole voyage: he'd be happy enough spending it watching the clouds.

When dawn broke astern each day it usually showed a high bank of cloud to the eastward, although the night sky overhead was normally clear, speckled with so many stars that it seemed to be raining diamonds.

Soon after the sun appeared above the bank and started to get some heat in it, the mass of cloud vanished, as if dried up, and tiny clouds, just balls of white fluff, began to appear, apparently from nowhere. Within half an hour they would grow slightly and, almost imperceptibly, like dancers on an enormous ballroom floor, begin to move into a regular formation, part of a dainty quadrille repeated all over the sky.

By ten o'clock, as the hands were piped to exercise at the guns, the clouds would have formed into a dozen or so regular lines like so many skeins of swans flying one behind the other, converging on a point beyond the western horizon. Apart from the way they formed into lines, the shape of each cloud fascinated Ramage. Although the base was nearly always flat, the top was an irregular bulge and the front stretched out like a neck. Odd quirks of wind varied the shapes of the tops and fronts so that some clouds looked like a squadron of flying white dragons; others as if all the white marble effigies of recumbent knights had risen into the sky from the tops of their tombs. Still more seemed to be people's faces staring up into the sky—here a jovial and plump Falstaff sleeping off a wild night's drinking, there a lean and hungry-looking Cassius.

But whatever their shape, they always moved westward, as if drawn by some inexorable force; and below them the tumbling seas too moved westward driven, like the Triton, before the wind.

Always westward—except for the flying fish leaping up suddenly like tiny silver lances, skimming a few yards or a hundred, rising up the forward face of a wave and swooping over the crest and down again, miraculously staying a few inches above the sea until, leaving only a tiny ripple, they vanished as swiftly as they appeared. One, six, a dozen and even fifty at a time.

Then one of the crew would shout and everyone would crowd the ship's side to watch dolphins racing past, crossing close under the plunging bow, twisting swiftly in the water in a swirl of white and steely blue to pass so close across the bow again it seemed impossible the stem would not hit them. Then, a few minutes before noon each day, he and South-wick would be standing amidships, where the effect of the brig's pitching and rolling was less, quadrants in hand, taking one sight after another, a man calling the time. Minute by minute the sun's image in the quadrant's shaded mirrors —reflected down until it appeared to rest on the horizon, allowing the angle to be measured—continued rising slowly. Then it slowed and gradually came to a stop as the man called noon, and hung there a few moments, apparently motionless. Ramage and the Master would read off the highest angles shown on the quadrant and resume watching the sun until certain the altitude was begi

And then it was afternoon, with the sun—high now they were so far south and hot enough for an awning to be rigged over the quarterdeck—gradually dipping until it was dead ahead. The sunsets, different each evening, were always fantastic. The clouds would have fattened or lost formation and the setting sun, like an angry artist daubing paint, changed them into strange masses of garish yellow with red edges, or pink with a scarlet fringe, but above them and beyond them the sky too would be changing from the deep blue overhead to the palest blue on the horizon, cloud and sky contrasting raw colours and delicate tints.

Quickly the colours would go, leaving the clouds dull grey and, by comparison, menacing; then, with a sudde

And later, lying comfortably in his cot as it swung with the brig's roll, Ramage would hear the water rushing past the hull, roaring, bubbling, gurgling as the brig slowed momentarily in the trough of one wave, surged along on me forward face of the next, and then see-sawed as the crest passed beneath her and she slid into the trough.

Every glass, every bottle, every knife, fork and spoon in the sideboard rattled and clinked; everything that could move even an eighth of an inch in the cabin did so with all the noise it could muster. And the ship's hull groaned as the crests and troughs constantly stressed and supported, lifted and dropped. Stringers and futtocks, beams and knees creaked in protest. To a landman it would seem the ship was breaking up; to a seaman it meant the ship was showing its strength, bending like a flexing cane instead of remaining rigid and brittle.

But Ramage admitted there were bad days: days when the Trades suddenly stopped, leaving the Triton wallowing in a heavy sea without the press of wind in her sails to stop her rolling, the atmosphere humid and oppressive. The seas would flatten quickly, but for an hour or two it always seemed she would roll her masts out. The white puff-ball clouds disappeared and in their place grey-blue patches on the horizon would quickly spread into near black squalls rushing silently down on the ship, like a hawk dropping on its prey.

One moment she would be pitching and rolling with not enough wind to blow out a candle; then, its edge marked only by a white line of tiny crests, the squall would strike and in a matter of seconds the helmsman would be fighting the wheel to force the Triton to bear away under a reefed foretopsail.

Blinding rain, howling wind, the knowledge both you and the ship were fighting for your lives, the deck ru