Ramage and the Freebooters (48 page)

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 her, 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 reloads 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 closing 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 he 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 others 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 showed 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 back 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 sacking 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 the
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!