Ramage and the Freebooters (49 page)

‘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 came 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 port, 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 grapeshot, 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 clear, 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!’

As the
Triton
, with the
Jorum
in tow, followed the two privateers for the last two miles down the coast to St George, Ramage listened to Southwick speculating why
La Merlette
should be anchored in the Roads.

‘Anyway, shows the Admiral did buy her in,’ the Master concluded more cheerfully. ‘That means we’ll all see a bit o’ prize money – if those thieving agents don’t get up to their usual tricks.’

With a new mainmast,
La Merlette
looked a fine ship, he added. ‘And a nice command for one of the Admiral’s favourites.’

Ramage nodded. A nice command, and a fast ship. Ideal, in fact, for carrying orders between the islands. And he had little doubt that her new commanding officer had, locked up in his desk, a letter for him from the Admiral.

‘Must say they look nice,’ Southwick said, gesturing to the
Triton’s
two prizes ahead. ‘Still plenty of work for the shipwrights ’afore they’re really ready for sea!’

Again Ramage nodded. It’d taken two days to refloat the two privateers and the
Jorum
, and he was thankful none was leaking. Two days’ work had repaired them enough to be ready for sea but the
Jorum’s
foremast had been too badly damaged to repair, so it had been hoisted on board and the
Triton
had taken her in tow.

Southwick chuckled. ‘I’ll take a small bet that Gorton never reckoned he’d ever be doing this!’

Ramage glanced up. ‘Doing what?’

‘Well, acting as prizemaster to two prizes. Not bad, considering.’

Had the old Master guessed?

‘Considering what?’

‘Come come, sir,’ Southwick chided. ‘He’s got “Run” written all over him!’

‘Maybe, but I’ve left my spectacles in England. He’s been more useful to us than twenty extra petty officers.’

‘Oh I wasn’t criticizing, sir,’ Southwick said hastily. ‘In fact it was a good idea on your part making him prizemaster. I can just imagine their faces in St George when Gorton sails ’em in and goes alongside the careenage!’

‘It’s about the only reward he’ll get,’ Ramage said.

‘It’ll be more than enough. He as good as told me so.’

‘Good – and I’m glad Appleby understood. Anyway, I had to put him in the
Jorum
– she could whip
our
masts out if she started yawing around!’

Half an hour later, for the wind was light in the lee of the land, the two former privateers tacked in through the harbour entrance and, at a signal from Southwick, the
Jorum
cast off the tow and anchored. As soon as the hawser was hauled on board the brig she anchored to windward.

As Southwick made sure the yards were square and ordered the boats to be hoisted out, the Marine sentry at the gangway reported a boat leaving
La Merlette
. A few minutes later Ramage was greeting her commanding officer as he stepped on board. He’d guessed correctly – it was Fanshaw, the lieutenant who’d been bustling around in the Admiral’s cabin on board the
Prince of Wales
.

Fanshaw was proud of his new command but obviously embarrassed that Ramage would guess why he’d been given it. Ramage led the way down to the cabin.

‘How does she sail?’ he inquired.

‘Well enough,’ Fanshaw said, his tone implying he was speaking from a wealth of experience of all types of ships.

As soon as Fanshaw was seated on the settee, Ramage inquired: ‘And what brings you from across the water?’

‘From the Admiral.’ Fanshaw produced a letter, and his voice told Ramage all he needed to know about its contents.

Putting it carelessly in his pocket he said: ‘I have to go on shore to see the military commander. Would you care to come?’

When Fanshaw nodded cautiously, Ramage picked up the report he’d written for Admiral Robinson the previous day, outlining how the privateers had been captured, and led the way on deck.

Colonel Wilson had been watching from the Fortress and was waiting on the battlements when Ramage arrived, his face flushed with pleasure, and before Ramage could say a word exclaimed: ‘I knew it, I knew it! So they’re the villains, are they–’ he pointed to the two privateers, which Gorton had now secured alongside in the careenage below. ’Well, I hope old Fishpot’s watching from Government House! Now, come along to my office and tell me all about it!’

Glancing at Fanshaw occasionally, Ramage told Wilson the whole story, and while the Colonel frequently slapped the top of his desk with glee, the lieutenant’s face was getting longer and longer. As Ramage finished, he said to Wilson, ‘I wonder if you’ll excuse me a moment – Lieutenant Fanshaw brought me a letter from the Commander-in-Chief.’

‘I know he did,’ Wilson said sourly, ‘he’s been pestering me for the past couple of days to find out what’s been going on.’

Ramage broke the seal and began reading. The letter was curt, telling him of the Admiral’s extreme displeasure at not having received a report from Ramage indicating that he was carrying out his orders to find and destroy the privateers, and giving him – Ramage hurriedly recalled the date – another five days. If the orders were not carried out by then he was to sail at once for Barbados and report on board the
Prince of Wales
.

Knowing his reaction would be reported to the Admiral, Ramage managed to keep his face impassive. He folded the letter slowly and put it in his pocket, taking out his report.

He tossed it to Fanshaw.

‘You’d better get under way at once and deliver that.’

Fanshaw glanced at the superscription and said without thinking: ‘That’s for me to decide!’

‘Do you have orders to the contrary from the Admiral?’ Ramage demanded.

‘Well – no, not exactly.’

‘Then you’d better sail at once or give me your reasons in writing why you refuse.’

‘But–’

‘What’s your seniority?’

‘Oh, all right. But I’ll have to–’

‘–tell the Admiral you refused to sail with an urgent despatch? Yes, do that by all means.’

Fanshaw stood up, said a stiff goodbye to the Colonel, nodded to Ramage and left the room.

‘Pompous young ass,’ Wilson commented as the door shut. ‘Isn’t
La Merlette
the slaver you captured?’

Ramage nodded.

‘And I’ll bet that lad was fetching and carrying for the Admiral, waiting for a plum to ripen and fall in his lap.’

Ramage grinned. ‘You seem to know a lot about the ways of the Navy.’

‘Hmm,’ Wilson growled, ‘favouritism’s not the Navy’s monopoly. By the way, the Fishpot’s very cross with you.’

‘I guessed as much.’

‘Hardly a surprise to me, either. Gave him your letter and he stamped and shouted. Reckoned he should have been consulted before you sailed. Told him I couldn’t agree.’

‘Thanks.’

Wilson waved a hand. ‘Pleasure was mine. Anyway, he wrote a report and sent it off to Admiral Robinson – hired one of Rondin’s schooners. She must have passed
La Merlette
on the way.’