Ramage and the Freebooters by Dudley Pope Page B

come up on deck to talk to ’em. I’ll make sure the top of the companionway’s clear.’
    ‘Yaas, Jacko,’ Maxton said in his smooth, sing-song voice.
    ‘We’ll keep a watch for Dyson. The advantage of being a coloured gennelman is no one sees me in the dark.’
    ‘Unless you open your mouth,’ Jackson said. ‘Those teeth of yours show up like a couple of rows of white marble tombstones.’
    Below them Stafford swore violently as though he had pricked a finger and the three men stopped talking at this pre-arranged warning.
    Jackson glanced down and, seeing Dyson pass Stafford and begin to climb the ladder, stood up and stepped back quietly. Pointing down, he hissed: ‘Dyson! Get him now!’
    The American hated sudden last minute changes in plan, but as an ‘idler’ who kept no watch, working only during the day, Dyson had no reason to come on deck after dark and this might be their only chance.
    Before the man’s head was level with the coaming Jackson was sauntering aft, his slow gait belying the tension that gripped him, making sure there were no seamen between the forehatch and the companionway.
    Hell! The two men at the wheel! They were Tritons and they’d be standing not more than a dozen feet from the companion. Jackson quickened his pace, praying that the Master or Mr Ramage would be near the wheel. As he walked he eased out the belaying pin which had been tucked down the side of his trousers.
    There were two shadowy figures forward of the wheel. Seamen or – no, he recognized Mr Ramage’s cocked hat outlined against the slightly lighter horizon.
    ‘Captain, sir!’ he said loudly just as he was abreast the capstan.
    Ramage recognized Jackson’s voice at once, guessed there was a particular reason why he called while several feet away and at once began walking towards him with Southwick following.
    ‘Captain here – that you, Jackson?’
    ‘Aye, sir. Thought I saw something over there on the starboard bow…’ As he reached Ramage he pushed him gently backwards. ‘…A fishing boat or something.’
    Ramage clutched Southwick’s arm and pulled him back, too, letting Jackson position them where he wanted.
    The Master was quick enough to recall Jackson was not on watch.
    ‘Lookouts haven’t reported it yet,’ he growled. ‘Suppose you were just leaning on the rail thinking o’ some doxy in Portsmouth. I can’t see anything.’
    Both Ramage and Southwick felt Jackson give them a warning touch and saw him turn away towards the approaching group.
    ‘Damned fellow’s probably drunk.’ Ramage commented loudly, nudging the Master again. ‘I can’t see anything either.’
    ‘Disgraceful,’ Southwick growled. ‘Dangerous having a fellow walking round the ship imagining things. Remember I once had a drunken sailor sitting out on the bowsprit-end in the dark pretending he was Commodore Nelson in another ship and shouting we’d collide. Gave a damned good imitation of the Commodore’s voice, too: fooled me completely – I dam’ nearly tacked: quite thought we were in for a collision.’
    ‘Me too,’ said Ramage. ‘Don’t bore me with that story, Mr Southwick: you forget I was commanding the ship.’
    ‘And you were, by God!’ exclaimed Southwick, and Ramage wasn’t too sure whether the Master was saying the first thing that came into his head, to divert the men at the wheel and cover whatever Jackson was doing, or whether he’d genuinely forgotten that the drunken seaman had been Stafford, and it happened in the Kathleen .
     
    Albert Dyson had been cook’s mate in the Triton for eleven months and in the Navy three years. The cook’s mate was the man who had to light the galley fire, clean out the ashes, polish the big copper kettles in which the food was cooked, and skim off the fat which floated to the surface of the water when salt meat was boiled.
    The removal of this fat, known as slush, provided the only call on any skills he had, since he needed no knowledge of cooking. The