Ramage and the Dido (34 page)

Yes, it was a hot and humid night: already he could feel the perspiration soaking through his clothes. But he was thankful there was little wind. Wind meant waves and waves meant a slop at the bow which could be spotted by the French lookouts. Thank goodness there was almost no phosphorescence tonight. It was extraordinary how one night it would be bright and another night there would be almost none at all. One thing was certain – had there been much of it then it would give away the positions of all six boats, warning the French long before they could actually see the outline of the raiders.

Forty yards, perhaps less. Jackson had brought the launch round – with the two pinnaces following – in a half-circle, so that he stayed out of the arcs of fire of the
Achille
’s
guns and approached from dead ahead, the direction it would be hard for the French lookouts to see, because of the network of rigging supporting the jib-boom and bowsprit.

Ramage loosened the two pistols stuck in his belt: they were digging into his ribs, and they would jab him when he climbed. He hitched at his sword, making sure it was free in the sheath, ready to be drawn instantly. He was, he realised ruefully, behaving just like a nervous man, but damnation, he
was
nervous: not at the thought of boarding the Frenchman, but at what they might find. Fifty or five hundred – they were not the sort of odds to attract a gambler…

Thirty yards – no more. Jackson was hissing an order at the nearest oarsmen and they were passing it forward, from man to man. The rate of rowing slowed. The
Achille
was huge now, looming over them – and there was no challenge. No shooting from aft, either, so that the other boarding party had not arrived yet. He had thought of trying to synchronise the two attacks, but finally decided against it: the trouble involved increased the risk that they would be discovered if one or other party had to wait in the darkness.

Twenty yards – and Jackson was beginning to put the tiller over and hissing another order to the oarsmen nearest him. The
Achille
was now like the side of a huge cliff; her rigging was outlined against the star-filled sky like a fishnet, and the masts stood up like enormous trees, reaching up into the blackness.

Ten yards, and the men on the starboard side tossed their oars. Ramage poised himself, ready to leap upwards at whatever projection would give him a foothold. Still no challenge and, mercifully, still no shooting from astern. In the few seconds before the launch came alongside the French ship he thought how extraordinary it was that she was keeping such a poor lookout.

Then he smelled the stench of rotting seaweed and realised that it had been growing beneath the waterline but had been exposed when the bow had lifted as the ship had run on to the reef. He noticed that the French had not let go an anchor – an indication of how firmly she was wedged. Probably firmly enough to make this boarding quite unnecessary, but one could not be sure.

Then, in a frantic rush, the launch was alongside and he was leaping up, grasping at a loop of rigging and kicking out with his feet to find a foothold. The wood was slippery from the weed but his feet found the edge of a plank that was standing proud. He levered himself upwards, kicking and grasping, until he found he had reached the headrails. He ducked through them and worked his way up to the beakhead bulkhead, conscious just as he reached it that a French voice was shouting a challenge.

Several more men from the launch had managed to scramble up, and were almost alongside him. In fact as he looked below, the whole bow of the ship seemed to be a wriggling mass of men. He stretched up again and got a grip on the Marine’s walk, the short strip of gangway leading from the fo’c’sle to the bowsprit. Then he swung himself up, kicking and struggling, until he was sprawled on the walk, and a few moments later found himself on the fo’c’sle, only a few feet from the foremast.

By now the French voice was shouting hysterically: it had stopped challenging and was calling out an alarm. Obviously there had been a single lookout forward, and he must have been dozing. Ramage heard a voice answer in the distance and knew it would be only a matter of moments before the men boarding aft would be spotted. The shooting would start any second now, and as he stood upright on the fo’c’sle he wrenched out the pistols from his belt.

He suddenly realised that Jackson, Stafford and Rossi, all puffing from their exertions, were standing beside him at the forebitts, beside the foremast. More men were climbing up the beakhead bulkhead while others were scrambling up on to the Marine’s walk.

Suddenly there was the rattle of musket fire from aft and shot ricocheted off the mast. ‘Start those fires!’ shouted Ramage, knowing that any moment a barrage of musketry fire could sweep the deck.

Lanterns suddenly appeared and he saw several slowmatches sparkling in the darkness. There was a glow as someone took a candle from a lantern and used it to light a piece of cloth.

Now the musketry fire from aft was closer: the French were advancing along the deck towards them. What had happened to the boarders aft? Just as he wondered, Ramage noticed that some of the muskets and pistols were now aimed aft: at last the rest of the Didos had appeared. They had a far more difficult task than the men boarding over the bow: there was much less to hold on to.

‘Come on,’ Ramage called, ‘let’s get some fires started amidships.’ He noticed that one of his men was crumpled up on the deck, obviously hit by a musket ball, and then Jackson shouted:

‘Here they come!’

Ramage just had time to see a group of Frenchmen running along the gangway each side, heading towards them, cutlass blades reflecting in the flash of muskets and pistols. By now many more men, including Gilbert, Louis, Auguste and Albert, had joined him and Ramage led them along the starboard gangway, to meet the French halfway.

The fire from the muskets and pistols had stopped: obviously the French were not going to stop and reload, so now it would be a fight with cutlasses and boarding pikes – except that the Didos had not yet fired their pistols. How many Frenchmen were there? It was difficult to distinguish in the darkness. How many were trying to drive off the Didos attacking from aft? Impossible to say. Perhaps fifty, maybe more. The Didos had the slight temporary advantage that the French would be sleepy, just roused out of their hammocks, but they would soon be wide awake: there was nothing like a few gunshots to get rid of sleepiness.

Ramage cocked the pistols as he ran, cursing as he bumped into various projections which all seemed to have been fitted shin-high. He found himself ahead of the others but heard Jackson shouting at them to hurry.

Then the first of the French were only a few feet away, running towards him shouting at the tops of their voices. Ramage stopped and raised his pistols, aiming into the midst of the mass. He squeezed the triggers and the twin flash of them firing blinded him momentarily.

And then the French were on him. He threw away the pistols and wrenched his sword from its sheath and at the same time Jackson was alongside him, shouting defiance and slashing with his cutlass. Ramage sliced at a boarding pike jabbing at him and then ducked backwards to avoid a swinging cutlass. There was only the starlight now, apart from the occasional flash of a pistol or musket, and he found himself fighting shadows.

He felt rather than saw a cutlass blade rip his right sleeve and immediately stabbed into the darkness with his sword. He felt the blade entering flesh and heard a shriek of pain. Then behind him he heard a roar as Southwick joined the fight, and Ramage could imagine him twirling his sword two-handed, his white hair flying.

By now more Didos were running along the gangway to join him and the French were halted. He cut at a shadowy Frenchman and heard a grunt as the man collapsed. He recognised a stream of French curses as coming from Auguste and Gilbert. Then he glanced forward for a moment and saw that a small fire had been started by the forebitts and the wind was fanning it.

It was also throwing a flickering light on the Frenchmen, and Ramage jabbed again at a bearded and wild-eyed man who was slashing away with his cutlass with all the abandon of a frenzied axeman chopping at a tree trunk. The man collapsed like a pricked bladder, and Ramage guessed he had been drunk.

There was now a lot of shouting from aft, and Ramage guessed that the Didos who had boarded from aft had now sorted themselves out and were driving the French back so that they could start some fires. Another glance forward showed at least two more fires had been started, one against the beakhead bulkhead and another by the knightheads. And out of the corner of his eye he saw men scrambling up the foreshrouds – the topmen whose job was to start fires aloft among the sails.

All at once the French rallied and fought their way a few feet along the gangway, shouting and slashing with cutlasses. For a minute or two Jackson and his men were driven back, and Ramage and Southwick found themselves fighting side by side, surrounded by Frenchmen. Cutlass clanged against cutlass, men grunted and shouted, and for a moment Ramage thought he and the old master would be overwhelmed, but suddenly Jackson appeared out of the darkness with Rossi and Stafford, all of them shouting ‘Dido’ at the tops of their voices, to distinguish themselves in the darkness.

By now the flickering of fires forward was lighting up the Frenchmen and Ramage was able to see that there were several bodies lying on the gangway. There was a spurt of pistol fire from aft as the other Didos fired and then attacked with cutlasses and boarding pikes.

How many men were there fighting on the gangways? Ramage estimated about twenty-five French and the same number of British were fighting on this side, and guessed an equal number were fighting it out on the larboard gangway. But the important thing was that fires were being started: as the French were being held on the gangways, the men were able to set fire to the greased cloths and, any moment now, the sails.

The fire by the forebitts was now big enough to start a glow which lit the underside of the rigging and forecourse; Ramage could make out the belfry and the galley chimney. The fire, he thought grimly, had taken a good hold and beneath it – admittedly many feet away in the bowels of the ship – was the magazine.

Ramage parried a sudden attack from a Frenchman wielding a cutlass like a scythe and slashed him across the throat. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Southwick launch himself at a group of Frenchmen, his great sword jerking in front of him like a flail.

He could again distinguish Jackson, Rossi and Stafford: they had been joined by Gilbert, Louis, Albert and Auguste, and they were making concentrated attacks where the Frenchmen seemed thickest, keeping up a constant cry of ‘Dido’.

Just then Ramage saw that the great forecourse above his head was now ablaze: the wind was spreading the flames and it was burning like the wick of a gigantic lantern, beginning to throw strong shadows the length of the ship. He watched a burning piece of the sail float down and land on the deck, still aflame. While that was happening flames were running up the rigging from the deck as they got a grip on the tarred rope, and Ramage hoped the topmen would find a way down without burning themselves.

How long would it take the French to realise they were in greater danger from the fires than the boarders? What would they do? Anyone trying to put out fires would be attacked by boarders, yet their attempt to deal with the boarders was failing.

As if to emphasise that, Ramage found the Frenchmen in front of him were being driven back along the gangway: step by step they were going back aft, although soon they would back into their comrades fighting off the Didos who had boarded aft. A quick glance showed at least half a dozen fires were now burning on the fo’c’sle, and the blaze by the forebitts had really taken hold, spreading along the deck planking. The forebitts themselves were now burning, looking like tree stumps.

If only they could drive the Frenchmen away from the main rigging, so that topmen could get up to set the maincourse alight. Just as the thought occurred, Ramage saw flames spreading along the mizen topsail – men must have got aloft there as soon as anyone got on board, and with the wind acting as a bellows the flames were spreading rapidly.

Gradually it was getting light on board the
Achille
as flames spread forward and aloft: the wind was freshening, as if allying itself with the British, and Ramage could smell the burning and could see smoke wreathing itself in the flames.

With a desperate howl a group of Frenchmen tried to break through to the fo’c’sle, obviously intent on getting at the fire round the forebitts, but the Didos beat them back, driving them even further aft. By now they were abaft the mainshrouds, and Ramage saw some of his men run from forward, weave their way through the group of men fighting, and scramble hand over hand up the ratlines.

He was just plunging back into the fight when he was startled to see both Jackson and Stafford break away and run forward. Ramage paused a moment to watch them and then saw that they had run to a large piece of blazing foresail, which had just fallen to the deck. Slashing at it with their cutlasses, they sliced away burning sections and spread them out over the deck to start more fires.

By the time Ramage looked aft again to the maincourse, he saw it was now ablaze and the topmen were scrambling back along the footropes to safety. The wind was spreading the fire and Ramage guessed that the flames would run up the rigging and set the topmast alight.

Both the forecourse and the maincourse were now well ablaze and the mizen topsail was now burning. He could see the topmen who had set that sail alight now scrambling down the mizen ratlines. The three blazing sails looked like fiery crosses and Ramage imagined what a fine sight they must make from the
Dido
:
Aitken and his men would have no doubt about the success of the operation so far.

He could hear the crackling of flames above the shouting and clanging of cutlasses, and wind eddies were now bringing smoke from the burning sails down to deck level. He just had time to ward off a boarding pike wielded by a huge Frenchman and was about to lunge at him with his sword when the man collapsed and a jubilant Orsini, waving a bloodstained cutlass, shouted: ‘Not many left now!’