The three seamen sitting at the table were chatting and teasing each other with the easy familiarity that comes from often-shared dangers. The tall, sandy-haired man who had a natural authority ran his fingers through his thinning hair. "So it's Barbados," he commented. "I guessed the captain wouldn't choose Antigua, after the trouble we had refitting this ship there."
"Nor me neither, Jacko," said Stafford, the Cockney in the trio. "Not after the way those dockyard people behaved. Reckon they're rich men now, on the Calypso alone. Nasty lot, they are; they've turned on their own people."
"But the Calypso's, just one of dozens of ships," said the plump, black-haired man whose accent betrayed his Italian origins. "They all get cheated."
Rossi, known to most of his shipmates as Rosey, in fact came from Genoa and was a volunteer in the Royal Navy, although since Bonaparte had later turned Genoa into the capital of the Ligurian Republic, the French might now claim that Rossi was a traitor to the French cause. Ramage had always assumed Rossi's original departure from Genoa was connected more with disagreement over the law rather than any personal disagreement with Bonaparte's politics. Not that it mattered; he was a fine seaman with uncomplicated loyalty: he was loyal to his friends (who were serving in his ship) and particularly Jackson and Stafford. He reserved for Captain Ramage what a priest (if Rossi had ever talked to one, which was doubtful) would call idolatry. Ramage's fluent Italian - he could mimic most of the regional accents - and deep love and knowledge of Italy made him Rossi's liege lord, if such things still existed.
"Still," Stafford said cheerfully, "the Calypso's made us rich too. And the Triton brig before her, and then the Kathleen cutter."
"Ah," Jackson interjected, "they've made us rich because we've risked our necks: we've used them to kill Frenchmen and capture their ships. If there's no risk, there's no profit; I've learned that much. But what did the storekeeper at English Harbour ever do to justify making a penny out of us? Or the boatswain, or the master shipwright, and all the rest of that sticky-fingered crowd of time-servers who are always lurking around there? Still, yellow jack or blackwater fever might yet take 'em off before they get home to spend their loot. It's an unhealthy spot, Antigua. Especially English Harbour, which has a fine cemetery ready for 'em. Come to think of it, some of the early ones must be there already!"
"The survivors should all be put in the Clink," Stafford said emphatically.
"The Clink?" asked a puzzled Rossi. "Where's that? We've never been there - have we?"
"You and I haven't," Jackson commented, "but I couldn't be sure about Staff. Go on, you tell him, Staff."
"I don't know what Jacko is being so clever about. The Clink - well, it's the prison in Southwark. Leastways, any prison's called a clink by the villains: comes from the clinking of their leg irons. But the original Clink was at Southwark - in London, on the south side of the river - where the vagabonds couldn't be arrested. A sort of . . ."
"Sanctuary," Jackson supplied.
"Yus, that's it: a sanker wherry. Dunno whether it was legal or if them as was going to do the arrestin' was just scared of goin' in there."
"I'll remember that," Rossi said.
" 'Ere, now listen," Stafford said hurriedly. "The sanker wherry bit was long ago. 'Undreds of years, maybe. Today, that Clink is a clink, like all the other clinks: just a prison."
"I'll remember," Rossi assured the Cockney.
"If I go to London it is to collect my prize money and I'll stay at an inn, not a clink."
"They don't always give you the choice," Stafford said darkly and shook a warning finger. "And watch out for them women; very light-fingered, some of them."
"We have them in Genoa, too," Rossi said reassuringly. "What do you reckon we'll share out for the two French frigates, Jacko?"
"Depends," Jackson said. "If the admiral in Barbados is short of frigates (he probably will be) he might pay a good price. Though of course his price has to be approved by the Admiralty. The Navy Board, rather. But they're good ships: no rot; no action damage; sails, spars and cordage in good condition - for Frenchies, anyway. Maybe he'll pay £10 a ton for each hull, so that'll be about £7,000 apiece, plus sails, cordage and stores. Hmm . . . about £10,000. That'll be some £2,500 shared out among us seamen. Doubled, of course, 'cos there are two ships."
Rossi was faster than Stafford in working out an individual share, which in any case varied with the man's rank. He nodded contentedly, and said: "If this war ever ends, and if we all live to see that day, I shall go back to Genoa a rich man. I may even become a latifondista: ha, that would be a joke!"
Stafford tried to repeat the word but said sympathetically: "It's somefing you get from rich livin'? Perhaps mercury'll cure it, since it helps the venereals. Seems unlucky if you get it, having fought so hard for your money."