Ramage and the Freebooters

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

As Ramage stood at the taffrail, night-glass to his eye and watching the opening where the Jorum had smashed through the raft, Jackson murmured:

'Like a ferret watching a rabbit hole!'

'Mutinous words, Jackson. Five dozen lashes at least.'

Jackson chuckled. 'Well, I'd sooner be on the ferret's side...'

'And flattery doesn't get promotion in this ship.'

Seeing the first privateer was now fifty yards from the gap but there was no sign of movement in the second, Ramage said: 'You'd better check that the lads in the boat are ready and their slow-match hasn't gone out.'

The privateer was now hoisting her mainsail and foresail. The wind was easterly, eight or nine knots.

And Ramage's hand was trembling with excitement, making it doubly difficult to follow the movements of the privateer in the night-glass, which inverted the image. But, he warned himself, the minutes it took that privateer to reach the Jorum were going to be among the most important in his life.

There was a hail from the shore. He swung round and answered.

'From Evans, sir: the Triton's a mile off, just south-west of the headland and he's going to loose off a rocket—Gawd, there it goes now!'

'Very well, tell Evans------'

'An' he's lighting the bonfire—we got a lot more brushwood to keep------'

'Very well, get back to Evans and tell him the first privateer's trying to get out. Smartly now!'

'Aye aye, sir!'

As Ramage turned back to watch the privateer his body went rigid: blast! Another mistake. The Jorum's boat should be setting off to warn Southwick. Who to send? He wanted to hold on to Jackson...

The privateer was two hundred yards off, the phosphorescence of her bow wave giving her a pale green moustache. Neatly trimmed.

'Stafford! Jackson! Lay aft here!'

Both men were beside him in a moment.

'Jackson—I'm changing the plan. Stafford—you've got to go at once in the boat to Mr Southwick. You see the privateer? Good—well, the Triton's a mile south-west of the entrance. Get out to her as fast as you can, tell Mr Southwick the position here and—listen carefully—tell him to heave-to right off the entrance. If there's shooting going on, he's to wait for daylight. But if he sees two white lights at our bow, one above the other, send a boat in for orders. Take a false-fire and a slow-match so Mr Southwick sees you. Hurry I'

'Best o'luck, sir!'

'Thanks, Stafford. Now, Jackson, you do your job here on board: get the gear out of the boat!'

The privateer was now a hundred yards off, approaching fast: she'd picked up a puff of wind and was bringing it with her. Hell fire, she was making four or five knots ... The cable —she'd barely feel the bump.

'Jackson—you ready?'

'Aye aye, sir, here at the mainchains.'

'Very well. Everyone else standing by?'

A low chorus told him the men were ready and waiting, several of them crouched below the bulwark holding the slow-matches which looked like red glow-worms.

'Swivels!' Ramage called softly. 'Not a man to fire until I give the order. Aim at the quarterdeck."

Fifty yards—and doing more than five knots. No, less— hard to tell because she was foreshortened. Her sails, broad off with the sheets eased to catch every scrap of wind, seemed enormous.

Would she open fire? He imagined privateersmen sighting along the barrels, each gun loaded with many grapeshot, each one a piece of solid iron the size of a hen's egg. Men sighting and ordering their crews to train a few degrees this way or that, preparing to fire right at the Jorum's quarterdeck, just where he was standing: just the position he had told his own men to aim for in the privateer.

Bile tasted sour in his throat as he almost vomited: he was cold, perspiration like ice on his forehead, his mouth full of saliva now and more coming every second, welling up under his tongue, his teeth furred. Just fear, and his duty to hide it from the men... Too dose now for the night-glass and he put it down, wrenching out his pistols.

Stretching out each thumb to cock them helped steady his nerves. Click, click. Two duelling pistols ready for action against a privateer. Each lead ball might dent the paintwork, but holding them helped him. Nothing like a firm grip on a pistol butt to instil bravery.

Twenty-five yards—barely her own length. Blast, how long did it take for a----- And he shouldn't be standing there anyway! He turned and sprinted forward, almost weeping at his stupidity. As he reached the bow and stood with his foot on the cable, he looked hurriedly across at the black bulk of the privateer gliding along, the silence broken only by the lapping of water at her bow.

She'd almost reached the cable: her stem must be within a few yards.

Why didn't they fire into the Jorum? Stupid question— the flash of the guns would blind the privateer's captain.

The sudden jerk on the cable so startled Ramage that he leapt back and it was a second before he yelled:

'Jackson! Light up!'

Almost at once the unreal, bright blue glow from the false-fire lit up the whole bay.

And slowly the privateer slewed round until she was heading for- the opposite shore, her booms and gaffs crashing as they gybed over.

'Swivels—fire!'

And all along the Jorum's side the flash-crash of the guns firing—one, two-three-four, five. The uneven spacing showed each man was aiming carefully, not firing just because the next one did.

'Into their rigging now—rockets!'

Blast, if he had the night-glass he'd be able to----- Suddenly the unearthly hiss and meteor-trail of two signal rockets racing almost horizontally across the bay straight at the privateer, exploding in showers of sparks as they hit, large red pieces ricocheting in all directions—red pieces which suddenly burst into red stars. And a few moments later he saw tongues of flame as burning fragments lodging in sails and rigging were fanned by the wind.

Jackson was tugging his arm. 'She's aground, she's aground, sir!'

Ramage nodded numbly: he hadn't noticed. Yes, her bearing wasn't changing: she was lying at the same angle to the north shore as the Jorum was to the south. And with a bit of luck she'd bilged herself on a rock! Had she taken on a list, or was it an illusion caused by her sails swinging? And down by the stern? Hard to tell with the false-fire throwing such weird shadows.

But she was still full of privateersmen: full of men who, if they could get on board the Jorum (and they might yet), would slit their throats and enjoy doing it.

'Swivels!' Ramage snapped. 'Fire!'

As the whiplash crack of the five guns echoed back and forth across the bay Ramage turned to Jackson and snarled:

'What happened to the musketoons?'

'All ready, sir.'

'Musketoons—open fire, smartly now!'

Damn and blast, what----- 'Jackson, get aft and see if there's any sign of the second privateer weighing. The night-glass is on the rudderhead.'

One by one the musketoons added their quota of musket balls. The false-fire, spluttering away by the mainchains with two men standing near with buckets of water in case it set fire to the ship, was dazzling him., but it helped the men aiming.

He saw that one by one the swivels were being re-loaded, but his anger was ebbing. There were few seamen who'd show a moment's mercy to privateersmen, but somehow this seemed like cold-blooded murder.

'Lookouts report no sign of movement from the second one, sir,' Jackson reported, handing him the night-glass. 'I had a good look. Men on deck—all crowded up trying to get a tight of what's happening here.'

'Very well.'

'Swivels are loaded, sir.'

'Very well.'

'And the musketoons.'

'Very well.'

'They'll finish us off to a man if they get the chance, sir...'

'I know,' Ramage said dully. 'Five more rounds each from the swivels and the musketoons. We've got to save some powder and shot for the other one...'

'Aye aye, sir,' Jackson said, and because he knew his captain he took a few paces before giving the order to resume firing.

The bonfire was burning brightly on top of the hill. Had Stafford managed to reach the Triton"? Through the glass he saw the privateer's transom had been smashed in by the Jorum's swivels. There were a few men at her bow and some others in the water, swimming towards the beach.

The moment Jackson woke him, Ramage realized it was dawn: the few stars still visible were disappearing in a cold grey light. He was cold and stiff from lying on deck in the lee of the taffrail.

'The Triton's still hove-to just off the entrance. No sign of life on the privateer opposite but there's movement on the other one in the lagoon.'

Jackson helped Ramage stand up. 'Hope you feel fresher now, sir.'

'I feel like a corpse. And you?'

'Fine sir, but I had an hour's more sleep than you.'

'Where's a tub?'

Jackson pointed to a wooden bucket by the hatch coaming. Ramage walked over, knelt down and ducked his head into it Suddenly he stood up, rubbing his eyes and swearing.

'Jackson, you damned fool! I meant fresh water!'

'But it was, sir—someone must've emptied it and refilled it from over the side!'

Although his eyes were stinging. Ramage was now certainly wide awake. He blinked a few times and then looked seaward. And there was the Triton, foretopsail backed, lying hove-to just outside the entrance. The privateer opposite, sails still hoisted, seemed deserted.

In the few moments before he had fallen asleep an hour ago, leaving Gorton in command while he had a brief rest, he'd had an idea and was thankful sleep hadn't erased it from his memory. Now to test it.

'Gorton, Jackson—here a moment.'

Without any preliminaries he abruptly asked the schooner captain: 'Just imagine you command the second privateer. Would you have guessed why the first one went aground?'

'From that distance, I'd have reckoned the false-fire dazzled 'em and they missed the channel.'

'You wouldn't have guessed the cable was there?'

'No, sir,' Gorton said emphatically. 'And the rockets went off after they'd turned.'

'Very well. You're still the second privateer's skipper. What would you do now?'

Gorton thought for a moment, then said emphatically: 'Wait for daylight—say another half an hour—and then make a bolt for it.'

'And you think you'd succeed?'

Gorton nodded.

'Why?'

'Because I'd reckon there's nothing the Jorum can do to confuse me—I'd be able to see the channel. And what's more, I'd keep shooting at her—which the first one couldn't do for fear of dazzling herself.'

'So the fact the Jorum's here wouldn't bother you.'

'No sir. After all, the privateer carries six-pounders. She knows we've only got the swivels.'

'But she can see the Triton hove-to at the entrance,' Ramage pointed out.

'Wouldn't bother me, sir—with due respect,' he added quickly. 'Let's see—the privateer gets out on this easterly rind. But that's a head-wind for the Triton. To cover the entrance the Triton's got to stay hove-to, heading north-east on one tack or south-east on the other. Either way that means she's got the entrance fine on one bow or other.'

'So?'

'So I'd steer straight for her—don't forget the privateer's fore-and-aft rigged—making sure I keep out of the way of her broadside guns.

'Now,' Gorton said excitedly, waving a finger. The Triton wont' know which tack to fill on to stop me 'cos she doesn't know if I'm going to pass across her bow or under her stern. But whichever I do, in this light wind, she won't get round in timer Gorton sounded utterly confident and Ramage knew he'd spoken honestly—and sensibly. He nodded. 1 agree; not a thing she can do to stop you.'

'My oath!' Jackson interjected. 'After all this we've got to let one of 'em slip through our fingers!' Then, seeing Ramage glowering at him and rubbing his brow, he added hastily, 'I mean it'd be a pity if we did, sir.'

'Jacko's right, sir,' Gorton said. 'Surely------' he broke off, correctly interpreting the American's expression, and added cautiously: 'What had you in mind, sir?'

'The quickest way of getting yourself killed is to assume your enemy can't work out what you'll do. Particularly as— in this case—you've only one course of action yourself. What you've described is the only thing the privateer can do.'

Both Jackson and Gorton nodded like penitent schoolboys, but a few moments later Gorton said:

'I can see that, sir, but I'm afraid I can't see what else the Triton can do either!'

'Forget the Triton for a moment and try to guess at what point the privateer's virtually defenceless!'

'Just as she's going out through the entrance!' Jackson interrupted promptly.

'More than that,' Gorton corrected. 'From the time: she passes us until she gets to the entrance, sir? That's about three hundred yards.'

Ramage nodded, feeling embarrassed at his earlier pomposity.

'Yes. and from where she's anchored now to here is a good six hundred yards. So if the Triton's waiting hove-to six hundred yards off the entrance and gets under way at the same time, she can beat in...'

'And catch the privateer in the entrance and either drive her on the rocks or blow her to pieces with a broadside!' Gorton said triumphantly.

'Preferably both!' Jackson added 'Preferably both,' Ramage repeated. 'Now listen, Gorton, the Jorum's cable isn't likely to help this time—they might see it and panic, but I doubt it. Yet for the Triton to have the best chance—she's going to have trouble weathering the headland if the wind doesn't shift—the Jorum's going to have to make a diversion; just enough to stop the privateersmen from concentrating too hard!'

'We didn't do too badly last time,' Jackson said.

'No—but that was in the dark. How many rockets left?'

'Only two,' Gorton said, 'I counted 'em just now. Plenty of powder and shot for the swivels and musketoons, and we can make some smoke with false-fires.'

By now Ramage was hardly listening. He'd been putting off the decision for some time, but now he had made up his mind. Whoever was commanding the Triton if she hit a rock or was put aground, so the privateer escaped, would face a court of inquiry and probably a court martial. It was not fair to leave Southwick to face that.

But—and this was the reason for delaying the decision— Southwick would be very disappointed if Ramage resumed command now. Yet Ramage knew he should: the chances of intercepting the privateer without damage were—well, slender. Southwick might hesitate to ram, for example; but losing the brig would be a small price to pay if it finally squared the privateer's yards.

'Gorton, I'm returning to the Triton and you'll------' he broke off, remembering for the first time since they'd escaped from the lagoon that Gorton was by no means under his command, and corrected himself. 'I propose leaving some Tritons on board here, and I'd like you to remain with your men and take command of the whole party.'

'Fine, sir!' Gorton exclaimed excitedly, 'we'll do the best we can!'

'Very well. I'll take Jackson, Stafford, Evans and Fuller. How many Tritons do you want?'

Twenty minutes later Ramage was standing on the quarterdeck of the Triton, relating to Southwick everything that had happened since he'd boarded the Jorum off Grenada, and then hearing the Master's report of what he had done with the Triton. Southwick rounded off his report with a reference to the usefulness of the bonfires on the headland and then added:

Two seamen under open arrest, I'm afraid, sir.'

'What charges?'

'Fighting, sir.'

'Fighting?1

'Yes sir—while at quarters.'

Ramage sighed. Seamen fighting with each other while the ship was cleared for action...

'What were they fighting about?'

'We had the grindstone up on deck to put a sharp on some of the cutlasses, and the men lined up for their turn. Seems these two started arguing about who was in front of which...'

'Not fighting with cutlasses, for Heaven's sake?'

'Well, in a way. One punched the other who fetched the first man a dip on the side of the head with the flat of his cutlass.'

'Drunk?'

'No, neither of 'em.'

'Hmm. Well, that can wait.'

Ramage picked up a telescope and looked at the entrance to Marigot. On the southern side of the outer bay he could see the Jorum quite clearly, with the first privateer grounded on the north bank opposite. Beyond them the gap in the palms where the raft had been smashed aside gave him a good view of the second privateer on the far side of the inner bay, directly in line with the gap. It wasn't quite light enough yet to distinguish men moving about.

Southwick joined him, 'Having a look at the lie of me land, sir?'

Ramage nodded. 1 was just dunking how the raft of palm trees fooled us.'

''Twas a good job young Stafford told me about it when he came on board: if I'd seen that gap in daylight I'd have wondered why the hell we never sent a boat in to look when we were up this way last week.'

'I still don't know why we didn't spot mere was something odd.'

Southwick chuckled. 'Don't fret over that, sir. I had a good look at the chart. What happened is our chart's a bit out—it shows the lagoon smaller than it really is. And both those sandspits have each grown out another ten yards. The chart's fifteen years old...'

'Where did we get it from?'

'Master of one of the frigates in Barbados gave me a sight of his and I made a copy. Original survey was by the Jason' 'I wish there'd been time to get my father's charts before we left England.'

'Yes,' Southwick growled, 'but it's time Their Lordships started issuing charts. We'd have been in a mess if I hadn't been able to copy that one. And this damned coral sometimes grows a foot a year, so if the chart's fifteen years old a shoal can have fifteen feet less water over it.'

'We need an Irish pilot,' Ramage said dryly, and South-wick laughed at the memory of a story well known in the Fleet of a frigate bound for an Irish port several miles up a river. The pilot seemed such an odd fellow that the captain asked if he knew the river well. Just as the pilot assured him he 'Knew every rock in it,' there was a thump that shook the ship, and he'd added: 'And that's one of 'em, sorr!'

After telling Southwick to shift the Triton's position by five hundred yards, keeping her hove-to farther to the north so that she could lay the entrance with the present wind, and call him the moment there was a sign of movement on board the privateer, Ramage went below to his cabin for a brisk wash and shave and change into clean clothes.

One look in the mirror startled him: the reflection showed a stranger with bloodshot; wild-looking eyes, cheeks sunken with new wrinkles slanting out down either side of the mouth. This stranger staring at him had the look of a man hunted—like a Seeing privateersman who'd stolen the tattered and dirty uniform of a King's officer.

The steward came in with hot water. He refrained from asking how it had been boiled since, with the ship at general quarters, the galley fire had been doused. An hour ago on board the Jorum, he mused, the idea of dean clothes, hot water and a sharp razor seemed remote, just a memory of a way of life led many years earlier. Now, vigorously brushing the lather on his face, the hours in the Jorum seemed equally remote. Opening the razor and nestling his little finger under the curved end, he took the first stroke and swore violently as the blunt blade seemed to be ripping the skin from his face. The damned steward—he could get boiled water without a fire, press clothes splendidly, serve at table so unobtrusively as to seem invisible. But stropping a razor was beyond him.

Angrily Ramage hooked up the leather strop and hurriedly stropped the razor first on the coarse side and then on the smooth. Gingerly he tried it. Not much better, but thank goodness he had a full set, seven ebony-handled razors, each with a different day of the week engraved on the heel of the blade. In future, he decided, six days shall thou labour and the seventh thou shalt not shave! He stuck out his chin for the last few strokes when there was a shout from on deck :

'Captain, sir!'

He went to the skylight and answered.

Southwick called down excitedly: 'The Jorum's hoisted a blue flag—looks more like a shirt, sir!'

'Very well—she's spotted activity on board the privateer. Acknowledge it. When it comes down it means the privateer's weighing.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

The comfortable tiredness Ramage had felt soaking into him as he shaved had now vanished. But the rest of the lather was drying on his face, tightening the skin unpleasantly, and Southwick was still standing there, waiting for orders.

'I'll finish shaving, Mr Southwick.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

Just as Ramage turned away Southwick called down again:

'Blue flag's coming down, sir!'

'I'll finish shaving, Mr Southwick.'

'Aye aye, sir,' Southwick said with as much disapproval as he dare register.

As he finished the last few strokes with the razor Ramage reflected it was a crude way of calming Southwick. Despite his original grumbling the old man had obviously enjoyed his brief hours in command of the Triton and was now thirsting for action. But Ramage knew that in the next half hour he needed every man on board the Triton to stay as calm as possible: one slip through excitement and the ship would be wrecked and the privateer allowed to escape. Then, in the mirror, he saw his own hand trembling—tiredness, of course. He looked himself in the eyes and grinned. Perhaps not tiredness but, thank God, not fear.

And that dam' fool steward had put out his second-best uniform, as though it was Sunday, and there wasn't time to get out an old one. Hurriedly Ramage pulled on the silk stockings, dragged on his breeches, tucked in his shirt and looked round for the stock. Hmm, perhaps not such a dam' fool—the silk was pleasant against his neck. Boots—another pair, highly polished, and he had changed the throwing knife over to them.

Pistols—newly-oiled and re-loaded. That'd be Jackson. He tucked them into the waistband, put on his coat and slipped the cutlass belt over his shoulder. A seaman's cutlass looked out of place—he should have an expensive, inlaid sword—but a cutlass was more effective. Jamming his hat on his head and ducking to dodge the beams, he went up on deck.

Southwick handed him the telescope.

The privateer was under way with her foresail and mainsail set. Men at the bow were catting the anchor and a jib was being hoisted. They had little more than a breeze; hardly strong enough to flatten the creases in the flaxen sails. Bow waves rippling over the flat water in ever-lengthening chevrons reminded Ramage of sailing a model boat across a village pond. Two knots? She was about level with the jetty, which meant she was two hundred "yards short of the sandspits and five hundred yards from the Jorum. Ramage looked across at Marigot Point on the north side of the entrance, and then at the south side. A line joining the two was four hundred yards from the Jorum. 'It'll be like a horse race with a starting line at each end and the finishing line in the middle!' Southwick commented.

'Brace up the foretopsail, if you please, Mr Southwick.'

Southwick bellowed orders, the yard was trimmed round and the brig gathered way.

'Full and by, Mr Southwick.'

'Aye aye, sir,' the Master said, turning to the quartermaster. With the chance of eddies from the hills, keeping the brig sailing as dose to the wind as possible was going to be difficult.

Ramage walked over to the binnacle, looked at the compass and then at the windvane at the mainmasthead—east-northeast. Hhh... It was going to be dose. To succeed, Ramage had now to sail into the bay with the Triton hugging the north shore, forcing the privateer to keep on the south side and passing dose to the Jorum. 'I'll

Close-hauled the Triton could sail six points off the wind; in other words she could steer south-east, which meant she could just about sail parallel with the north shore—and a glance showed him she was already doing that. But if the wind veered a few degrees, just fluked a little to the eastward, she would have to bear away into the middle of the channel. And then God alone knew what would happen.

If she couldn't immediately wear round and sail out of the bay again, she'd run aground. Indeed, once she was halfway into the bay there probably wasn't room enough to wear round whatever happened, unless he boxhauled—juggling with the sails so she went astern to bring her bow round, or dub-hauled, letting go an anchor over the lee side so that it suddenly dragged the brig's bow round. Then, by cutting the cable and leaving the anchor behind, the Triton would be able to sail out again.

But although either would be a close-run thing, neither would be necessary if he timed the manoeuvre correctly. Southwick's simile about a race, with the privateer starting at one end of the course and the Triton the other, wasn't a bad one; but Ramage knew success depended on him making sure both sailed the same distance ... The privateer would be three hundred yards from the Jorum as she passed between the two sandspits, and the Triton would be the same distance from Gorton's schooner, approaching from the opposite direction, when the cliff on the south side of the entrance bore south-west.

And Ramage suddenly saw the privateer was that very moment in the channel between the two spits. He twisted round to see the bearing of the south side of the entrance. South by west—so he was already fifty yards or more behind in the race.

Damn and blast; he always seemed to be daydreaming. The sky over the hills to the south was pinkish now: it'd be sunrise in fifteen minutes. But he realized fifty yards didn't matter too much—they'd meet that much this side of the Jorum, and by then Gorton and his men would have done their best. And the cable might have scared them...

Southwick said: 'Shall I start the lead going, sir?'

'No point; we're committed to this course. But I'd be glad if you'd go forward and keep a lookout for isolated rocks.'

The privateer was past the spit now and running before the breeze: a soldier's wind with her booms broad off, her sails tinged by the pinkish light of the rising sun.

The leeches of the brig's sails fluttered and Southwick turned on the quartermaster:

'Steer small, damn you.'

Must have been a back eddy off the cliffs because the fluttering stopped even before the men began to turn the wheel. And the cliffs were close. No wonder Southwick wanted a man in the forechains heaving a lead—it wasn't often that one of the King's ships drawing eleven feet forward and nearly thirteen aft sailed so dose inshore The privateer was bearing up a few degrees now to follow the slight bend in the channel.

Was her captain left-handed or right-handed? It might make a difference, Ramage suddenly realized, since in the next few minutes he had to guess which side the man would try to dodge past the Triton: had to guess moments before the man gave any indication by altering course or trimming sails. A right-handed man would tend to keep to his left, to the south side of the channel. And the Triton hugging the north side might decide him. If he was right-handed.

At each of the Triton's ten carronades the crew stood ready: each gun was loaded with grapeshot; each had the lock fitted in place with the captain holding the trigger line in his right hand, the second captain standing by ready to cock it at the last moment There'd be no last-minute traversing because they'd fire as the privateer passed. And a seaman was peering out of each port, quietly reporting to the captain of his gun the privateer's position.

And near each gun the high bulwarks bristled with cutlasses, pistols and tomahawks tucked into any fitting that would hold them, ready to be snatched up the instant Ramage gave the order to board.

Gracefully—for she was a rakish-looking schooner with a sweeping sheer—the privateer followed the curve of the channel, keeping to the south side. She had perhaps two hundred yards to run before she reached the Jorum. So far so good, Ramage thought—unless the Triton hit a rock. And there wouldn't be time to avoid one, so Southwick was wasting his time. He called the Master back to the quarterdeck.

Southwick had just arrived aft when the dull boom of a gun echoed between the cliffs, followed by another, then several at once.

As Ramage looked over at the Jorum, cursing Gorton for opening fire too soon, he was startled to see there was no smoke from her swivels and Southwick exclaimed:

'It's that damned grounded privateer!'

So the survivors must have gone back on board! Smoke was drifting away from tier, towards the Triton. And because she had turned to starboard before she went aground, her larboard-side guns covered the entrance; covered the approach Triton, with the range decreasing every moment.

'Poor shooting, all fell short,' Southwick said disgustedly. 'Still, up fifty yards and the next broadside should get us.'

'Give 'em a hail and tell 'em.'

More gunfire—coughs rather than the heavier thumps of the grounded privateer's guns. And now smoke was drifting away from the Jorum. Then a curious popping, six distinct shots. Gorton had fired his swivels, then the musketoons, to harry them.

'I hope he re-loads in time for our friend,' Southwick commented.

'He will, but anything that distracts our friend is a help.'

She was half-way between the spit and the schooner: 175 yards.

'Second broadside's due now, sir.'

Out of the mass of cordage that made up the Triton's standing and running rigging—it weighed more than seven tons—only half a dozen pieces were really vulnerable; but if even one of the half dozen was cut by a stray shot the Triton ... quickly Ramage dismissed the thought.

By now the second broadside should have arrived, but it hadn't. Did that mean Gorton's swivels and musketoons, sweeping the deck almost as effectively as if raking her, had killed or wounded enough of the men working the guns?

Nor was there a second broadside from the Jorum. Gorton was saving that for the second privateer, which was close now and bearing away a few degrees to stay in the deepest part of the channel.

Along the Triton's larboard side the cliffs were receding and becoming less vertical, the bare rock hidden by bushes.

The privateer was obviously making a knot or so more than the Triton, and Ramage was thankful. He'd misjudged the point where he intended meeting the privateer: the whole bay was dosing in, and there was less room to manoeuvre than he thought. The fact the privateer would be well past the Jorum before he intercepted her was to the Triton's advantage. Nice of the enemy to cover up one's mistakes.

Unwittingly emphasizing it, Southwick said conversationally: 'Reckon you've timed it nicely, sir. He's still got that cable...'

And Ramage realized he'd forgotten that, too.

'I hope so, Mr Southwick,' Ramage said cautiously, wondering what else be had forgotten.

The Triton, was, if anything, losing the wind. Since it was blowing the length of the two bays, maybe the northern spit was blanketing it. Or perhaps the privateer was bringing the breeze down with her.

'Wind's puffy,' Southwick said. 'We'd look silly if we ran into a dull patch and she sneaked by us!'

Ramage, busy calculating distances and with the thought already nagging him, snapped: 'If we do, you can lead the boats towing us round.'

And the privateer was nearly up to the Jorum: thirty yards —twenty—hard to judge from this angle. Gorton's men would be carefully training round the swivels; the musketoons resting on the bulwark capping. Had the privateer spotted the cable?

A puff of smoke right aft in the Jorum as one swivel fired and a moment later he heard the report. Smoke at the privateer's bows—she had swivels too. Then Ramage heard the sharp double crack of two more of the Jorum's swivels.

Smoke was spurting from the privateer's larboard side now: she must be almost abreast the Jorum for her broadside guns to bear. One—two, three—four—five: the whole broadside. And steadily the schooner's swivels and musketoons puffed smoke, the noise of all the guns reaching the Triton as a roll of thunder.

Then suddenly the privateer turned hard a' starboard, apparently heading straight for her grounded consort, the smoke of her guns still streaming from her ports and the big foresail and mainsail crashing over. Southwick swore softly, excitement in both his voice and choice of words.

But Ramage was not sure. Was it the cable? Or had one of the Jorum's swivels killed everyone at the tiller, leaving the privateer out of control for a few moments? Would they wear round again?

The Triton was barely two hundred yards away from her now and, snatching up the telescope, Ramage could see the holes torn in her bulwarks by the Jorum's grapeshot. He swung the telescope over to the schooner for a moment and it confirmed his fears. The Jorum was a shambles; it was a miracle she'd been able to fire the remaining swivels after the privateer's single broadside.

Then, the telescope trained back on the privateer, he saw several men running to the tiller—although there were two men at it already—while other were frantically hauling at the foresail and mainsail sheets.

It'd been the cable. She'd hit it and her captain, feeling the bump, must have instinctively ordered the helm down. But the privateer had shot so far across the channel that— no! The cable was no longer there!

'She's parted the cable!' he said abruptly to Southwick. 'They're trying to wear round.'

'Shall we board or ram, sir?'

'Wait and see!'

With the privateer now only 150 yards ahead and no indication whether she would be able to wear round before running aground, Ramage was tempted to add 'I wish I knew.'

'She's turning, sir!'

Slowly at first. They'd been able to see her long profile, from the end of her bowsprit to her taffrail, as she'd swung across the channel—but now it was shortening as she turned towards the Triton. Ramage could see they'd managed to haul in the mainsail almost amidships: in a few moments, if they were lucky, it'd swing across and spin the privateer round on her heel, her bow heading for the entrance.

Ramage suddenly ran to a gun port and looked over the side. One glance snowed him there wasn't enough depth of water between the Triton and the north shore for the privateer to squeeze through; in fact, it was a miracle the brig hadn't gone aground herself. As he came bark to the binnacle he found he had made up his mind.

Up to that moment Ramage had felt strangely calm and detached—perhaps because the Triton could only continue sailing full and by—but now he was getting excited at the prospect of quick decisions; of sudden gambles, heavy stakes slammed down to profit from an opponent's mistake.

But, tugging at the pistols in his waistband to make sure he could draw them easily, Ramage fought the excitement.

The privateer's main boom crashed over, followed by the foresail, and almost at once she began to turn faster.

'She'll make it!' Southwick called, watching the shoals close to the beach.

'Now you'll get a run for your money!'

Me too, Ramage thought to himself: the privateer was turning as fast as a soldier doing an about-turn. Round she came, bowsprit sucking out like an accusing finger, pointing momentarily at the Triton with both masts in line, but as she continued swinging the masts opened up again. Hell, she was swinging fast now.

'Looks as if she's going to run ashore on the opposite bank!' Southwick called.

If she did she'd be only a hundred yards to seaward of the Jorum; but she wouldn't. Southwick could be very stupid at times.

One broadside from the Triton wouldn't do the job; Ramage was certain of that.

'Mr Southwick—we'll be turning nine points to starboard in the next few moments!'

'Aye aye, sir!'

Picking up the speaking trumpet, Ramage shouted: 'Larboard-side gun captains, fire without further orders as soon as you bear!'

To the quartermaster he snapped: 'Stand by now!'

And the privateer was now darting diagonally across the Triton's bow, picking up speed every moment.

Ramage, rubbing his brow, tried to judge the precise moment to order the helm hard over to turn the Triton on to an almost parallel course and precisely placed so her broadside guns would bear. Almost parallel—converging just enough to squeeze the privateer so she had to choose between running ashore or crashing alongside the Triton. Turning a moment too soon would let her suddenly bear up and slip by under the Triton's stern: a moment too late would let her slip out ahead. If she managed to get a fifty-yard start there'd be no catching her...

Quickly he changed his plan: there'll be no sudden turn: he'd do it slowly, slowly...

'Quartermaster, starboard a point. Mr Southwick, smartly now with the sheets and braces!'

The Triton turned almost a dozen degrees, bringing the privateer dead ahead again for a few moments and a hundred yards away. Then, as the brig steadied on the new course, the privateer continued passing diagonally across her bow.

Southwick was beside him now, speaking trumpet clenched in his hand. Ramage saw Jackson watching him rubbing the scar and took his hand away.

'Quartermaster, a point to starboard!'

Southwick bellowed more orders to the men trimming the sails.

Once again me Triton was, for a few seconds, heading directly for the privateer, until she straightened up when the turn was completed. Seventy-five yards away—less in fact.

Ramage knew Southwick must be puzzled why he didn't wait and then make one quick nine-point turn to bring the Triton alongside the privateer immediately. But this way Ramage knew he was forcing the privateer farther and farther over to the south shore; cutting down the only chance the enemy had of suddenly bearing up under the Triton's stern.

'Quartermaster—another point to starboard!'

Once again the sails were trimmed as the wheel was put over; once again the Triton's bow pointed at the privateer for a few moments.

Fifty yards, and the old Master was giving Ramage an anxious look.

One man from each of the larboard side carronades was peering out of the port, keeping his gun captain informed. The pinkness had gone out of the sky; it was getting light fast. The privateer had splendid lines; a beautiful ship with raking masts.

Then Ramage saw a wind shadow coming fast down the bay—it'd catch the privateer first in a few moments and give her another knot or so: just enough to let her slip through.

All right!

'Hard a' starboard!' Ramage bellowed. 'Smartly now!'

The quartermaster leapt to the wheel as the men spun it; Southwick shouted encouragement to the sail-trimmers. Slowly the Triton began turning. Too slowly—Ramage swore softly as he watched the end of the jib-boom swinging against the land: it was moving so slowly that—ah, faster now: the Jorum dead ahead for a second, then the privateer. And, as the Triton continued turning, she was suddenly almost abeam.

'Larboard guns, stand by!'

His heart was pounding in a hollow chest; it had been sheer luck.

'Quartermaster—steady as you go! Come on to the same course as that devil!"

Both the Triton and the privateer were now sailing almost side by side, steering a course which converged on the beach and, inside a couple of hundred yards, would put them both ashore.

A crash from forward made both Ramage and Southwick swear; then a spurt of smoke, the rumbling recoil of the forwardmost carronade, the reek of powder drifting aft to catch in their throats, warned them the first of the Triton's guns had been brought to bear.

A flurry among the men grouped round the privateer's tiller showed it had been well-aimed. Then there were flashes along her side, followed by the dull thumps of the guns firing.

The double crash of the Triton's next two carronades firing was followed by fifteen feet of the privateer's bulwark abreast the quarterdeck disappearing in a shower of splinters and dust, with screams echoing over the water. Those splinters had been flung across her deck like wooden scythes, cutting men down with dreadful wounds.

More flashes from the privateer's guns, and this time splintering wood and the clanging of metal against metal in the Triton's bow. Ramage saw the forwardmost carronade had been slewed round by the impact of the shot and every man in its crew flung across the deck like stuffed scarecrows.

The Triton's fourth and fifth carronades crashed out; both tore into the privateer's hull almost on the waterline, splintering the planking, and leaving rusty-coloured stains in the wood.

The smoke was making him cough and his eyes were watering, but he could see the privateer would run aground any second now unless she put her helm down in the next twenty yards. And if she put her helm down she'd crash alongside the Triton. Then he saw there was no one standing at the privateer's tiller, and a startled glance showed why: the Triton's second and third rounds had also smashed away the tiller: the privateer was steering herself and was bound to go aground!

'Mr Southwick! I'm going to wear round, shoot up into wind, let go the larboard bower anchor and drift back. We may need a spring on the cable to get our broadside to bear.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

The old man's white hair, fluffed out like the head of a mop, made him look like a benevolent parson taking an early morning stroll towards the church rather than a man itching to board an enemy ship and deal out death and destruction with the enormous sword whose scabbard was banging against his leg at every step.

In a few moments the Master had given the necessary orders: half a dozen men ran forward to prepare the anchor; the men at the sheets and braces acknowledged his warning to 'Step out smartly when the Captain gives the word!'

And the moment Ramage saw the privateer's bow lift as she hit the sandy beach, he shouted:

'Quartermaster, hard a' starboard! Hands stand by to wear ship!'

And swiftly the brig began turning, her jib-boom pointing along the cliffs on the south side, right across the entrance, then along the cliffs on the north side. Finally, as she <'?«"? round to the closest she could sail to the wind, Ramage glanced over at the privateer and continued his stream of orders for trimming yards and sails with:

'Quartermaster! Shoot her right up into the wind. Forward there—are you ready with the anchor?'

An answering hail told him the cable was free to run.

'Starboard-side guns—as we drift back, fire as you bear without further orders!'

The Triton was now past the grounded privateer and shooting up towards the sandspits into the wind's eye. Already the sails were pressing against the masts as the wind blew from ahead, although Ramage kept the yards braced hard up.

Quickly the brig lost way and Southwick, peering through a gun pott, called:

'No way on, sir."

'Let go, forward!'

The anchor splashed into the sea.

'Mr Southwick, brace up the foretopsailyard!'

With yard and sail square to the wind the brig would drift back faster and Ramage prayed the wind direction wouldn't change: he wanted to continue veering more cable, letting the brig drop back until she was abreast the privateer.

As soon as the yard was hauled round, Ramage told Southwick to keep on veering cable until they were in position.

Suddenly the brig's stern began to sheer over to the south shore, yet the wind hadn't shifted. Then, glancing at the men at the wheel, Ramage roared:

'Quartermaster! Helm amidships, you blockhead!'

The quartermaster had kept the wheel over from the sudden turn with the result that as soon as the brig started to go astern the rudder began to get a bite on the water and push her stern round.

An explosion, the splintering of wood, the whine of grape-shot, and splinters right behind him showed the privateer had managed to train a gun round. The full charge of grapeshot had smashed into the larboard side of the Triton's taffrail, ripping away a good deal of wood. But not a man was wounded.

And yard by yard, like a bull being driven backwards, the Triton was easing astern, Southwick watching and gesticulating to the men.

Ramage walked over to the aftermost carronade and, with a grin at its crew looked through the gun port. The carronade was already trained as far aft as possible. Another twenty yards would do it.

The gun captain moved over as Ramage knelt behind the gun and peered along the sight.

In a moment or two the gun would be aiming directly at the foot of the mainmast, round which was grouped at least a, dozen privateersmen.

'No need to worry about rolling!'

The gun captain, a white strip of cloth round his head showing he had been one of the party in the Jorum, grinned. 'There'll be a hit with every one sir: won't waste even one of them grapes!'

As Ramage stepped aside the man looked along the barrel, took up the strain on the trigger line in his right hand, glanced round the gun to make sure every man was dear, looked along the barrel again and jerked the line.

The carronade leapt back in recoil, smoke spurting from the muzzle; but without waiting to see where the shot had gone the men hurriedly began sponging out the barrel and reloading.

Ramage looked out through the port, keeping clear of the rammer. Not a man had been left standing by the privateer's mainmast—which was now pocked with what looked like rust marks, showing where the grapeshot had hit it. Then he saw two red eyes winking from the privateer's forward gun ports.

There was no time to jump back behind the bulwark. Splintering wood all round the port, clanging metal, the whining of ricochets, and he felt blood soaking his face and uniform. No pain; no report for Admiral Robinson that his orders had at last been carried out; a vacancy for the Admiral to promote a favourite; not to see Gianna again; Southwick sailing the Triton back to Barbados. Thoughts ran helter-skelter through his mind as he reeled back from the port.

A man was holding him, preventing him falling; a man with a cockney voice, anxiously repeating the question: 'You all right, sir?'

Stafford—he recognized the voice. Eyes stinging, head hurting—not much, numbed perhaps. No pain elsewhere. And, as he glanced down, no blood either.

He realized he'd been soaked with sea water thrown up by the shot. He rubbed his head, but the pain was at the back. He must have banged it against the top of the port as he'd jumped back.

He reassured Stafford, feeling foolish until he realized no one else knew the wounds he'd imagined. The Triton's next carronade fired, then the third, fourth and fifth in quick succession.

Now Southwick was standing beside him, his first words drowned by the thump of the aftermost carronade firing again.

Then a thud as more shot hit somewhere forward.

'Damn and blast 'em,' Southwick roared. There goes the jib-boom!'

Again a carronade fired—the men were keeping up a high rate of fire: must remember to mention it later.

Just as Ramage went to the nearest gun port someone hailed:

'Captain, sir! The Frenchies are shouting and waving a white flag!'

'Check fire,' Ramage yelled. 'Southwick—speaking trumpet!'

Through the port he could see a group of men right up in the bows of the privateer gesticulating. One was waving a white cloth. His shirt?

Reversing the trumpet and putting the mouthpiece to his ear, Ramage listened.

An English voice shouting. An agitated, frightened voice cracking in the effort to be heard. And shouting that the privateer surrendered.

'Mr Southwick, send away the boarders. Guns' crews stand fast.'

Was the old Master disappointed?

'And Mr Southwick—after you've taken the surrender of this one you'd better go over and secure the other one. And bring Gorton back with you...'

'Aye aye, sir!' Southwick exclaimed gleefully. Taking the surrender of two prizes in five minutes—not many can claim that, sir!'

'No,' Ramage said and, remembering the chances he'd been taking among the rocks and reefs in the last half an hour, added mildly, 'and it's an honour I'm willing to forgo in the future!'