Ramage and the drum beat

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

As he stood balancing on a carronade waiting for the men to gather round him Ramage wondered how much his face had revealed in the past half an hour. Had it shown the slight doubt which had swelled into something approaching paralysing fear? Did it even now betray the tingling exhilaration which was beginning to grip him like drunkenness?

He was surrounded by a sea of eager, excited and unshaven faces: the men were stripped to the waist and most of them had rags tied round their heads to stop perspiration running into their eyes. They looked tough - almost wild - eager and confident. And they were silent. There was just the occasional creak of the tiller and the slopping of the sea under the counter as the cutter pitched slightly. A few gulls wheeled and mewed astern, as if trying to attract the cook's mate's attention and tell him it was time a bucket of rubbish was emptied over the side.

‘I told you earlier,' he began, 'that we'd only be spectators at the ringside. Well, I was wrong: we're going to be one of the prize-fighters and—'

He paused, surprised at the men's burst of cheering and, realizing the men liked the boxing metaphor, quickly rephrased what he was going to say.

'—and I just want to make sure you know where we land our first punch. Well - you can see the Dons are trying to make a bolt round the end of our line. It looks as though Sir John can't see for smoke. Anyway, you all saw the Commodore leave the line to head them off, and it's touch and go whether he can get in among the leaders in time.

'That's where we come in. There they are - you can see 'em all bunched up, with the San Nicolas leading.' He gestured over the bow and saw he had little time left.

'Well, I'm certain that if we can do something to stop the San Nicolas or make her alter course suddenly, the rest of that lubberly bunch astern of her will get so confused they'll run aboard each other. If we can cause enough confusion to delay 'em just ten or fifteen minutes that'll be enough for the Commodore and Captain Collingwood.

'So this is what we're going to do. Most of you have served in a ship of the line. You know her weak spot - the jibboom and bowsprit. Knock them off and nine times out of ten down comes the foremast.

'We've got one punch and that's where it's got to land. You can see we're heading for the San Nicolas. She can only fire her bow-chasers at us, and frankly they don't scare me. At the last moment I shall turn to larboard - like a boxer stepping back to deliver a punch - and then suddenly turn to starboard, slap across her bows. If I time it right our mast should snap off her jibboom and with a bit of luck her bowsprit should catch in our rigging.

'What happens after that is anyone's guess. My guess is that for a few moments before her stem hits us our whole weight will be hanging on her bowsprit, and she'll start dragging us along. But the minute she does hit us, she'll start to roll us over - and as we go we'll be pulling even harder on the bowsprit. I'll tell you later whether we sink before the bowsprit gives way!'

Again the men cheered. A glance forward showed he had at the most two minutes left to explain what he wanted.

'Now whatever happens, one thing's certain: as we hit the San Nicolas there'll be a few moments before anything happens. During that time the dozen men I've chosen will try to get on board her and cut every sheet, halyard and brace they can reach. It won't be easy but it shouldn't be impossible because they won't expect to be boarded. In fact they'll be expecting to watch us drown.

'Jackson - step over there and the rest join him. There - they are the twelve, and they have absolute priority in boarding: the rest of you must give 'em a hand if need be. After that, you're all welcome to join the party!'

They laughed and there was a chorus of 'Rely on us, sir!'

'Fine. But no needless risks. If you can't board the San Nicolas, try and save yourselves. Those hammocks piled up there will float and there'll be plenty of wreckage. Grab anything for the moment and hang on. Don't give up hope, however long you have to wait.

'There'll be a lot of smoke and a lot of noise, and there's a danger you'll mistake each other for Dons. So' - Ramage was glad he'd just remembered - 'the challenge is "Kathleen" and the reply ...' Damn, he couldn't think of anything.

'Nick!' shouted a seaman.

'Very well,' Ramage grinned, 'the reply is "Nick". Not "Old Nick", if you please!'

'Kathleen!' bawled a man.

'Nick!' roared the rest.

Ramage held up his hand.

'The rendezvous - the San Nicolas's quarterdeck!'

Again the men roared their approval.

'And remember this: every halyard, every brace, every sheet you see - cut it!don't go for the Dons first, go for the sheets and braces. With them cut, the ship's helpless and then you can tackle the Dons. And make a noise - that's what frightens 'em. Shout and slash - and challenge!'

'Shout and slash!' The men bellowed, 'Kathleen, Nick! Shout and slash!'

Again Ramge held up his hand for silence.

'Very well, men, time's getting short. He glanced at the San Nicolas and to the men's delight exclaimed, 'It's so short we're up to the bitter end! Right, don't hang around gossiping!'

With that he jumped down and beckoned to Edwards.

'Get those braziers lit. Are the bags of powder properly dampened?'

'Aye, sir, I've been trying some over a candle flame, like you said. Reckon I've got just the right dampness now.'

'Carry on then!'

The San Nicolas's starboard bow looked like the side of a large house viewed a hundred yards off. With the telescope Ramage looked again at the Spanish ship's bowsprit and jibboom, together more than eight feet long and jutting out from her bow like an enormous fishing rod. The inboard end, the bowsprit, would be some seventy feet long and probably three feet in diameter, but much of its length was inside the ship: coming in over the stem at a sharp angle, it was held by the heavy knightheads, passing down through the deck to butt up against its step just forward of the foremast. The jibboom, the thinner extension of the bowsprit, was probably fifty feet long and a little over a foot in diameter.

The whole of Ramage's plan was based on one essential fact of ship construction: because the foremast of a ship of the line, made up of four sections one above the other, was set so far forward, its main support forward came from stays leading down to the bowsprit and jibboom. Destroy the outer end of the jibboom and you could be fairly sure the jerk on the foreroyal stay would bring the highest, the foreroyal mast, toppling down, while smashing the whole jibboom would probably bring down the topgallant mast as well. Breaking off the bowsprit where it passed over the figurehead would carry away the stays holding the foremast and foretopmast. In other words the whole mast could go by the board.

This defect in ship design was why every captain feared a collision; particularly feared that while sailing in line ahead at night or in fog he would get too close to the ship next ahead so that his jibboom or bowsprit struck the other ship's taffrail.

It was all a gamble, and Ramage knew it was useless calculating whether or not the puny Kathleen could do the job - that's why he had chosen his dozen men. But because of the enormous bulk of the Spanish ship, the sheer heights involved made even the dozen men’s ability to board her a matter of chance. The top of the Kathleen’s bulwarks forward were ten feet above her waterine, and amidships only seven feet. Again Ramage cursed himself: there was a time when thinking merely wasted valuable minutes and acted like a powerful magnifying glass on your doubts. There were times – and this was one of them – where you copied the bull and not the matador: you put your head down and charged.

The braziers suddenly began to blaze as the kindling caught fire and set the men down to leeward coughing and spluttering. Ramage’s dozen men, led by Jackson, grouped round the larboard shrouds gripping their odd collection of cutlasses, half-pikes, tomahawks and butcher’s cleavers.

The San Nicholas was almost dead ahead, looming so large Ramage forced himself to look away.

'I shall luff up for a moment, Mr. Southwick, then turn to starboard. As soon as I give the word let fly all the sheets and halyards. Make sure they're overhauled and ready to run.'

To the quartermaster he said: 'Steer directly for the San Nicolas.'

He tucked his pad inside his shirt; pulled out the pistols, checked there was enough powder in the pans and jammed them back in his belt; then bent down to undo the strap over the sheath of the throwing knife inside his boot.

By the time he looked at the San Nicolas she was only eight hundred yards or so away.

'Edwards! Smoke, please!'

Edwards bellowed down a hatch and men came scrambling up with wooden cartridge boxes, each going to a particular brazier. At the one farthest forward. Edwards took the bag of powder from the box, slit the corner and gingerly shook some of the damp, caked gunpowder on to the burning brazier. At once thick clouds of oily yellow smoke billowed up.

Edwards ducked up to windward and looking aft called: 'How's that, sir?'

'Fine, Edwards. Carry on with the rest of them!'

The men promptly extracted the bags, slit the ends and began shaking powder into the braziers. Within a minute billowing smoke covered the whole ship and Ramage ran to the weather side to get a clearer view as the acrid fumes set men coughing and gasping.

'Quartermaster - come here and pass on my orders: the men at the helm will have to cough and bear it!'

A red eye winked at the San Nicolas's bow, then another, as her bow-chasers fired and the puffs of smoke drifted ahead of the great ship. There was a sound like the tearing of canvas - the noise of shots passing close overhead. He counted the seconds - the Spaniards must have reloaded by now, but they did not fire. Perhaps they were confused at the sight of the cutter. From where he stood the smoke pouring up from the braziers hid the mainsail and he guessed it probably went high enough to hide the topsail as well. The rolling bank of yellow smoke, caught by the wind, was already obscuring the horizon to leeward.

Southwick walked up through the smoke, handkerchief over his mouth and nose, eyes redder than usual, and coughing.

'We must look a fantastic sight, sir! I bet the Dons wonder what the devil's gone wrong with us! I heard a couple of shots go overhead but that's all.'

'They haven't fired again.'

Southwick looked ahead. 'She's a big bitch.'

Ramage grunted.

Southwick pointed over the larboard quarter.

The Captain, every inch of canvas drawing, was well over half-way between the British line and the Santisima Trinidad. As they watched, a hoist of flags broke out and fluttered from the Captain's signal halyards.

'Jackson - signal book!' Ramage shouted, training the telescope. 'Quickly - our pendant, numeral twenty-three! Mr. Southwick, have it acknowledged. Well, Jackson? Hurry, man!'

'Twenty-three, sir: 'To take possession of the enemy's ships captured"!'

Ramage laughed: the Commodore was a cool fellow to have time for jokes. Cool enough, he suddenly realized, to know the signal would be a tonic for the Kathleens.

'Mr. Southwick - pass the Commodore's signal to the ship's company!'

There was no time to comb the book for a witty reply; in fact both the book and the other papers in the weighted bag ought to have been sunk by now.

'Jackson - put the book into the bag and heave it over the side!'

'Now hear this!' Southwick bellowed through the speaking trumpet (so loud, Ramage thought wryly, they'll hear in the San Nicolas), 'now hear this - an order from the Commodore to the Kathleen. We've got to take possession of all the enemy ships we capture! So no skulking off to the spirit room and getting beastly drunk just because you capture a two-decker: leave a couple of men in command, then use her boats to go over and take a three-decker! Leave the Santisima Trinidad for me personally!'

Few of the men could see Southwick but through the smoke came a volley of cheers mixed with happy roars of 'Kathleen, Nick! Kathleen, Nick!'

Southwick grinned at Ramage, who merely nodded. He'd been watching the San Nicolas as the men cheered. No condemned man cheered the hangman when he recognized him. Fortunately the Kathleens didn't recognize him, and they cheered.

Yet the Spaniards too had been overconfident: the San Nicolas's anchor cables were already led out through the hawse and bent to the anchors - a thing usually done when the harbour was in sight because at sea the ends of the cables were stowed below. The carving of the St. Nicolas figurehead was beautifully done, rich with gilt and flesh tones, even if the rest of the ship was shabby.

The last five hundred yards.

'Jackson - are you all ready there?'

'Aye aye, sir!'

'Stand by the sheets and halyards, Mr. Southwick!'

'Aye aye, sir.'

Now for it. Time was slowing down. Keep calm. Speak slowly.

'Quartermaster, half a point to port,' he drawled.

'Half a point to port it is, sir.'

The slight alteration of course brought the San Nicolas round to fine on the cutter's starboard bow, ready for the last-minute turn, and Ramage had to run forward to see her because of the smoke pouring from the braziers. Both ships were on almost opposite courses and as far as the Spaniards knew apparently going to pass each other to starboard and fifty yards apart.

And the smoke streaming up from the braziers along the Kathleen's entire length was drifting off to leeward in a huge, ever-advancing bank into which the Spanish ship was heading. From the San Nicolas she must seem to be on fire from stem to stern.

Four hundred yards. less, perhaps. With one foot on the forward carronade slide Ramage watched the two-decker ploughing on, enormous, relentless, implacable - and seemingly invulnerable. The sea curving up and over in thin feathers of water at her bow was pale green. Groups of men on her fo'c'sle were looking down at him. Both bow chasers flashed red and spurted smoke. Somewhere overhead he heard wood splintering.

This was a fish's view of a fat angler on a river bank, the bowsprit and jibboom jutting out like the rod in his hand. So much gilt and red and blue paint on the headrails. Popping of champagne corks - yes: Spanish soldiers kneeling and resting their muskets on the rail as they fired. She was pitching slightly in the swell waves - just enough to make aiming difficult. And they could see little to shoot at anyway because of the smoke. Only him, he suddenly realized: everyone else was farther aft. The foredeck felt lonely.

Three hundred yards. The San Nicolas's standing and running rigging a complicated cobweb against her sails and the sky. St. Nicolas's features discernible, and he did not seem very saintly: a lot of pink paint on his cheeks - he looked as if he drank too much wine. Grape for the Saint, grapeshot for Nicholas.

Again the double flash of the bow-chasers: a dragon winking bloodshot eyes. So close the shot passing sounded like tearing calico. He could make out the seams in her hull planking. Greyish patches on the black paint where salt had dried. They must usually keep a canvas cover over the figurehead - or paint it once a week.

Two hundred yards. Plenty of popping now but he didn't hear the ricochet of musket balls. The double crack of the bow-chasers - they can't depress them enough now to hit the hull, but pray to God they don't hit the mast.

A Spanish officer waving his sword like a madman - twice over his head, then pointing at the Kathleen. Over his head again - curious fellow: maybe he's trying to inspire his men. The great bulging sails so badly patched - seams stitched too tight and uneven so the material crinkled.

One hundred yards. He'd never smash that great jibboom: it was like the trunk of a great pine tree sticking out over a precipice.

Perhaps the jibboom but certainly not the bowsprit.

Waiting for the executioner's axe to fall after you've put your head on the block must be like this. For God's sake do something. Wait. Seventy-five yards. Wait, wait, wait! All right - turn round...

'Mr. Southwick! Ready at the halyards and sheets?'

Acknowledged. Then he remembered he'd already asked that. Ten seconds to go. Memory pictures sped through his head: Gianna, mother, father; the tower of Buranaccio in the moonlight when he rescued Gianna; Southwick's excited bloodshot eyes; Jackson's grin and Stafford's imitation of the Commodore.

Turn again. Calmly. Loud enough for the man to hear.

'Quartermaster! Helm hard a'port!'

The Kathleen's bowsprit began swinging to starboard towards the San Nicolas. Slowly, oh so slowly. Too slowly! No, perhaps not. Anyway, too late to worry ...

No - he'd timed it perfectly! The Kathleen's foretopmast stay would hit the outer end of the San Nicolas's bowsprit.

'Mr. Southwick! Let fly halyards and sheets!'

Beside him the banging of a blacksmith's hammer on the anvil: musket balls hitting the barrel of the carronade. Musket balls aimed at him. Poor shooting.

Without looking up at the San Nicolas he turned and ran through the smoke to join the boarding party at the main shrouds. Several of the men, including Jackson, were already waiting half-way up the ratlines, looking ahead as the Kathleen's sharp turn began to bring the San Nicolas into view, poised for the desperate leap to board her. He prayed no one would jump too soon and fall into the sea between the two ships. Splashing water - the San Nicolas's bow wave!

He hitched round the cutlass belt so Southwick's sword was out of the way, hanging behind him like a grotesque tail, and as he rammed his hat hard on his head there was the crack and snap of splintering wood and a jolt shook the cutter: God! She'd managed to get closer than he'd expected before her topmast stay hit the San Nicolas's bowsprit. A crash aloft - he didn't bother to glance up: the stay had torn down the topmast.

A momentary spasm of fear in case the rest of the mainmast should go, tearing down the ratlines on which the boarders were perched. The shrouds vibrated, twanging with the strain; a seaman losing his grip fell, arms and legs flailing, hitting the deck a few feet away with a grunt which could have indicated unconsciousness or annoyance.

Then chaos: a great black bulging shape suddenly towering above him in the smoke - the San Nicolas's bow. A moment's silence then her stem smashed into the Kathleen's side just forward of the mast, biting deep into the planking with a shock which nearly knocked him down. A nightmare of noise - wood cracking and crunching; ropes whiplashing as they snapped under enormous strain; water splashing, surging, gurgling; men shouting with almost maniacal voices, insane cries of 'Kathleen! Kathleen! Kathleen!' - cries coming, suddenly, and almost unbelievably, from above him, from the San Nicolas.

And slowly the Kathleen heeled: the San Nicolas's bow was rolling her over as it rode into her hull, pressing her down under the massive curving forefoot.

A rope swung past. Without realizing what he was doing he leapt up and out and grabbed it, managing to hold on with desperate energy, to find himself swinging over the water and the wreck of the cutter like a pendulum.

On an upward swing he had a momentary glimpse of Jackson and other boarders scrambling through the lower rail. As he swung down again he saw below him the Kathleen's gashed hull impaled by the San Nicolas's stem.

By flexing and stretching his legs he tried to get sufficient momentum to swing high enough to reach the anchor cable, but even as he began soaring up on the final swing the whole anchor came adrift and fell into the water with a splash and tearing of timber. He just managed to twist round in time to get a leg astride the lower rail with a thump which drove all the air out of his lungs. For a few moments, gasping for breath and trembling with excitement, he sat helpless, watching Jackson and Stafford just above him dodging through the main rail.

Then he began climbing up after them and saw below the San Nicolas's jibboom hanging down, smashed into three pieces. With a curious detachment he registered the fact he'd succeeded in doing what he'd set out to do. He glanced down at the Kathleen - she was lying on her side like a stranded whale, the underwater section of her hull dark green with slime and weed and speckled with barnacles. And one of the flukes of the San Nicolas's fallen anchor had pierced her hull and the strain on the cable was helping to hold her so she did not roll over completely.

His brain was racing and even as he climbed he realized the Kathleen would fill in a very few minutes and, if her shrouds could take the strain, her dead weight pulling down on the San Nicholas's bowsprit might break it off short and bring the mast with it. Then ... but there was no more time to think: Jackson and Stafford were screaming at him and gesticulating upwards.

Already the San Nicolas's splintered foreroyal and topgallant masts were hanging down and now the foretopmast was bending forward like a bow. Even as he watched it suddenly split like a bamboo cane and slowly toppled down, bringing the yard and topsail with it. For a moment he thought it would crash on him, but the weight of the yard slewed it round so it plunged over the larboard side.

Yet the wreck of the Kathleen was still being thrust through the water by the sheer bulk of the San Nicolas. Some Kathleens were standing on the side of the hull - which was almost horizontal - and quite unhurriedly (or so it seemed to Ramage) grasping various pieces of the Spanish ship's severed rigging and beginning to climb up hand over hand to get on board.

Ramage scrambled up on to the platform and in a moment was with Jackson, Stafford and several others crouching close against the beakhead bulkhead waiting for a hail of musket fire from the Spanish soldiers who before the collision had been firing into the Kathleen from the rail just above. But there was not so much as a face at the rail. Smoke which bit into the lungs and seared nostrils was still drifting from the Kathleen and when Ramage leaned cautiously over the head-rails and looked aft he saw a few Spaniards on the fo'c'sle at the bulwarks looking down to see what was happening under their bow.

At once he realized the beakhead bulkhead was hiding the group of Kathleens: no one realized they were on board. For the next few minutes the Spaniards' efforts would be concentrated on clearing away the wreckage of the mast and yards - and any moment the Kathleen would sink. If her last plunge snapped off the bowsprit, his task would be complete. So for the moment, he realized thankfully, there was nothing more the Kathleens need do: it'd be better to wait hidden on the beakhead platform. The Spaniards were already in complete confusion. If they showed any signs of sorting themselves out the Kathleens could discomfort them again with all the advantages of surprise.

He gave orders to Jackson and to Stafford. The Cockney beckoned three men and climbed down to the lower rail and, out of sight of the Spaniards, began hauling other Kathleens on board as they swarmed up the hanging ropes and wreckage. Each man, soaking wet and shivering, then joined the group huddled against the bulkhead.

Anxiously Ramage watched. Of his 'Cartagena Sextet' Rossi was missing. And there was no sign of Southwick. Finally he could wait no longer.

'Jackson - go down and help Stafford. See if there's any sign of Mr. Southwick.'

How long before some Spaniards came along the gangplank to the bowsprit - the 'Marine's Walk', as it was called - and discovered them? Ramage told two of the men with half pikes to stand guard and, as soon as anyone set foot on it, dispose of them quickly and silently with a sharp upward jab.

Spaniards shouting like men demented, stern voices of authority swamped by yells of confusion and panic, the slopping of water under the bow, the steady thumping against the hull as waves caught the wreckage of the masts and yards hanging over the side - and even as Ramage absorbed the impressions, he sensed the ship slowly beginning to swing to larboard, up into the wind. He felt dizzy with relief - the San Nicolas, leading the Spanish van, was out of control!

With the Kathleen athwart her bow, her great topmast and yards over the side dragging like an anchor, and the wind still filling the sails set on the other masts with nothing forward to balance them but the single sail left on the remains of the foremast, her stern was being forced round, throwing her bow up into the wind. And unless the Spaniards quickly braced the yards hard up to stop the wind getting forward of the beam, every sail would soon be a'back. Then, given the normal ration of confusion, the San Nicolas would quickly gather sternway and begin to drive astern through the rest of Cordoba's ships which were following close in her wake. Ramage could scarcely believe that the little Kathleen had achieved so much.

Gunfire - close astern, too! Peering round between the headrails he saw the Captain approaching - she was perhaps six hundred yards away, smoke from her guns streaming to leeward. Almost at once another broadside (which from its noise could come only from the Santisima Trinidad) echoed across the sea.

Someone tugged his sleeve and he turned to find Southwick grinning at him, the white hair plastered down over his ears and forehead making him look like a bedraggled but happy old English sheepdog just emerging from the village pond.

Ramage gripped his shoulders. 'Are you hurt?'

'No, sir! The mainsheet took a turn round my leg and I couldn't get free, though.'

'Standing in a bight of rope, Mr. Southwick,' Ramage accused him with a grin. 'How many times have you rubbed down a man for that?'

'Aye,' Southwick admitted, 'and I'd still be down there if it hadn't been for Stafford and Jackson.'

'What did they do?'

'Came down again and cut me free. I was a bit rough with them because I thought they'd quit you.'

Ramage laughed. 'No, we're taking it easy: the Dons don't seem to have spotted us and they're doing quite well without our help - for the moment, anyway.'

Astern the rumble of guns was louder and closer. Still the San Nicolas's bow continued swinging slowly to larboard, and a moment later noises like giant hands slapping wet cloth showed her sails were being taken a'back.

Southwick grinned at Ramage. 'No, they don't need our help!'

More Kathleens were climbing up on to the platform. The cutter, still on her side, was almost completely submerged: air escaping through hatches hissed and whistled out in great spurts and bubbles, like a sea monster gasping in its death throes.

Southwick pointed at the shrouds hooked over the bowsprit. 'Can't understand how they're holding. Wouldn't believe it if I wasn't seeing it myself.'

Suddenly they both jumped with fear: without warning the huge bowsprit snapped like a carrot a few feet ahead of the figurehead. Ramage recovered just in time to yell 'Duck!'

Then came the crackling and groaning of a massive piece of timber splintering like a tree falling under a woodsman's axe, and the whole foremast and foreyard slowly toppled over the starboard side, part of the foresail draping across the fo'c'sle and the rest hanging down in the water, hiding the wreck of the Kathleen like a pall.

'Anyone hurt?' demanded Ramage.

There was no reply.

The gunfire was nearer: much nearer. In fact he was sure a British ship was firing into the San Nicolas's stern because all the shouting in Spanish came from aft.

Then a whole broadside shook the ship.

'My God!' growled Southwick, 'She's being properly raked!'

'Look sir,' Jackson exclaimed.

The Salvador del Mundo had put her helm up and was passing along the San Nicolas's larboard side and even as they watched Stafford yelled from across the platform, 'The Excellent!Cor, just look at 'er. Just like she was at Spithead!'

Captain Collingwood's ship was passing close along the other side of the San Nicolas and a ripple of red flashes sent the Kathleens crouching once again in a tangled heap against the bulkhead as the Excellent’s full broadside hit the San Nicolas. The whole ship shook as the heavy roundshot thudded into her timbers, and the little iron eggs of grapeshot sounded like metal rain, clanging as many ricocheted off metal.

Then the Excellent was past. The San Nicolas did not reply; instead, through the bulkhead, the Kathleens could hear the chilling, almost demented screaming of badly wounded men.

On the larboard side yet another Spanish ship was passing, keeping in the wake of the Salvador del Mundo. The Excellent began bracing up her yards, obviously intending to pass across the San Nicolas's bows to engage the other two ships.

Suddenly a thump shook the San Nicolas as though she had run on a rock. Ramage and Southwick glanced at each other, mystified. There was a sudden silence: the shouting stopped for several moments - even the wounded were quiet - and then began again with many voices raised in near panic. Ramage looked down to see the Kathleen had vanished - she'd obviously sunk when her shrouds tore away the San Nicolas's bowsprit - and then scrambled up to peer over the bulkhead across the fo'c'sle. First he saw why the Spaniards had not spotted the Kathleens or anyway left them alone: in falling, the various sections or the foremast had swept the fo'c'sle clear, tearing guns from their carriages or overturning them, wrecking the belfry, shattering the fore-bitts and smashing some of the deck planking. Torn sails, some hanging over the side, hid more damage. Then he saw the reason for the thump: the massive stern of the San Josef was jammed hard up against the San Nicolas's larboard side, her huge red, gold and red ensign flapping languidly against the main shrouds.

Ramage dropped down again. /

'What did you see sir?' Southwark asked excitedly. 'What was it?'

'Somehow we've run aboard the San Josef - or she's run aboard us! I can't make out how she got there, but her transom's tucked hard up against our larboard side at the main chains. The Captain's lost her foretopmast but she's closing on our starboard quarter - it looks as though the Commodore's going to lay her aboard us!'

The men began to chatter among themselves.

'Quiet, you fools,' hissed Southwick. "There are five hundred or so Dons still on board this ship!'

Ramage realized that if the Commodore really did board, the San Josef might send over men to help the San Nicolas - it'd be easy enough: they merely had to jump on board.

'Listen, men. There are enough of us to help the Captain's boarders. I know most of you aren't armed, but we'll split into two parties. My original boarders will go first and make for the quarterdeck. Mr. Southwick will lead the rest of you - you'll find plenty of the Dons' muskets and pikes lying around. And once you get aft keep on shouting "Kathleens here!" otherwise you'll find yourselves shot or run through by the Captains.

'Mr. Southwick - while my party makes for the quarterdeck, I want yours to keep along the larboard side to cover the San Josef. If she sends men over it'll be up to you to stop them.'

With that Ramage climbed up the bulkhead for another look. The San Josef was still jammed against the San Nicolas; the Captain was four hundred yards off and bearing down for the San Nicolas's quarter.

He dropped down to the platform again and, remembering he still had Southwick's sword, began to take off the belt, but the Master stopped him.

'You'll be leading, sir. I'll find a cutlass.'

Ramage protested but saw Southwick wanted him to keep it.

'Now, where are my men?'

Jackson, Stafford and the others crowded round him.

'Right - all of you against the bulkhead. The rest stand by to give us a leg up: we want to surprise 'em. Now, no shouting until I shout "Kathleens". We may get quite a way aft before they spot us coming.'

Again the San Nicolas shook to the sound of an enormous thump.

One of the seamen gave Ramage a leg up. The Captain's bow had hit the San Nicolas's starboard quarter: her bowsprit was right across the Spanish ship's poop, her spritsail yard hooked up in the mizzen shrouds. Already the Captain's boarding parties were grouped along her bulwarks ready to jump, and there were soldiers among them - he remembered she was carrying a detachment of the 69th Foot. As Ramage called down to Southwick to warn the men of the soldiers, there was a cracking of musket fire from the troops in the San Nicolas and Ramage saw several of the Captain's men fall.

'Right men, up you come. Give me a shove, blast you!'

The man heaved up so hard Ramage pitched right over the rail and, before he could get his balance, fell flat on his back on the fo'c'sle, the hilt of Southwick's sword knocking all the breath out of him. More of the Kathleens came up over the rail and Jackson was kneeling beside him.

'You hit, sir?'

‘No, I tripped. Come on!'

In a moment Ramage was on his feet leading the men in a wild dash across the fo'c'sle, scrambling over the thick folds of the foresail, pieces of masts and yards and tangled cordage. Right aft he could see British seamen's cutlasses glinting as they scrambled from the Captain's spritsail yard on to the San Nicolas's mizzen rigging. Spanish soldiers were shooting up at them and sailors stood ready with boarding pikes. Then a rattle of musket fire from the Captain cut down several of the Spaniards.

Meanwhile the bow of the San Josef was swinging and she'd soon be lying right alongside the San Nicolas.

Suddenly he realized he was empty-handed: Southwick's sword was bumping the back of his legs - he hadn't hauled the belt round. As he ran he dragged at it, grabbed the hilt and by drawing it over his head managed to get it clear. He tugged a pistol from his belt and cocked it with his left thumb.

Three Spaniards suddenly appeared from behind a gun - they'd obviously been skulking there out of the way - and ran aft yelling to raise the alarm. Jackson flung his half pike like a spear and the farthest fell, a rag doll tossed on the floor, making the two others turn.

One with a pistol in his hand was by then a couple of yards from Ramage and aimed straight at his face. Forgetting his pistol, Ramage desperately swung Southwick's sword but saw the man's index finger whiten as he squeezed the trigger.

The sword cut into the man's shoulder as Ramage waited for the flash from the pistol's muzzle which should have killed him. Then he saw the Spaniard had forgotten to cock the pistol.

Clutching his wounded shoulder, he spun round and as he fell the third man, cut down by Stafford, collapsed beside him. Stafford paused to pick up the pistol and followed Ramage.

Now he was abreast the mainmast. Drifting smoke hid much of the ship and several Spaniards were still standing to their guns and staring at the Captain, oblivious of the Kathleens running past.

Then Ramage was abreast the boats stowed amidships and running along the narrow gangway, dodging round more Spanish seamen who were still watching the bulk of the Captain, which was too far aft for them to train round their guns.

He saw a British officer - Edward Berry, just promoted and serving as a volunteer in the Captain - dropping down from the mizzen rigging on to the quarterdeck, a couple of dozen men following him. At the same instant a surge of Spaniards from the larboard side suddenly swept across the quarterdeck almost overwhelming Berry and his boarders.

The sharp clinking of sword against sword, the popping of pistols and muskets, more smoke, wild shouts - Ramage's own! A Spanish face in his way. The great sword swung and the face disappeared, but before Ramage could recover from the swing another man lunged with a cutlass. Ramage fired his pistol almost without aiming and the man screamed and fell to one side. As a third lunged with a pike Ramage tried to ward him off with the sword and an instant later Stafford's cutlass slashed into the man's side.

Ramage ran half blinded with excitement but seeing more men jumping on board from the Captain. At last the quarterdeck ladder - and a Spanish officer, backing down it with a British seaman above lunging at him, turned to jump and fell to Jackson's cutlass.

'Kathleens here!' Ramage bellowed up to the quarterdeck, 'We're the Kathleens!'

' 'Bout bloody time!' bawled the seaman and started back up the ladder to rejoin the fighting.

But pistols were firing in the captain's cabin and instead of going up the ladder Ramage ran under the half deck to find a dozen or more Spaniards shooting aft into the cabin through the closed door.

Jackson, Stafford and several others had followed him and as Ramage roared 'Kathleens! Come on the Kathleens!' the Spaniards turned, throwing away their pistols and swinging cutlasses and swords. There was no conscious thought, only instinct: parry a stabbing blade here, slice at a screaming Spaniard there, jump back to avoid a lunging cutlass point, sidestep and reach over to parry a wrist-jarring slash which would have split open Jackson's skull. A man in magnificent uniform and garlic-laden breath leapt forward with his sword but before Ramage could parry a blade flashed, the sword dropped from the man's hand and he fell. Glancing round, Ramage just had time to see Jackson grin and realize the Kathleens were standing amid a pile of bodies when the cabin door, riddled with pistol shot, suddenly burst open and a wild-eyed, smoke-begrimed seaman leapt through, cutlass in his hand, pausing a moment before attacking them.

'We're English!' yelled Stafford. 'Watch 'art, yer crazy loon!'

The strident Cockney voice stopped the man as effectively as a bullet, but he was flung aside by more men so Stafford repeated his yells.

Then the Commodore was standing there, hatless, sword in one hand and pistol in another.

He stared at Ramage for a moment, said with a grin of recognition, 'Ah! At least you obey my orders!' and ran past to get to the quarterdeck ladder.

Ramage followed but realized the fighting up there had stopped. Berry and his men were already herding the Spaniards over to the starboard side where they could be covered by muskets from the Captain's decks.

Commodore Nelson spoke a few words to Berry, pointing to the San Josef now lying alongside the San Nicolas, and Berry shouted for his men.

'Mr. Ramage!' called Nelson, 'I think we'll have that fellow as well!' and began running to the San Josef.

Without waiting for more orders, Berry's men and the Kathleens made a mad rush across the quarterdeck, the lithe little Commodore among the leaders, The San Josef’s bulwarks were considerably higher than the San Nicolas's and both Ramage and Nelson leapt into the main chains together. Nelson slipped, Ramage grabbed his arm until he regained his footing, and just as they began climbing a Spanish officer appeared above them on the quarterdeck, calling down that the ship had surrendered. Nelson gave a yell of delight and Ramage felt relief. Then there was a sudden flash at the gun port below and Ramage felt himself swirling slowly down, down, down, into a deep black well of silence.