Ramage & the Rebels (43 page)

The men who sailed the schooner, setting fire to her at the last moment as she crashed alongside the
Delft,
would have to take their chance in the water, leaping over the side and swimming, and hoping that the baulks of timber hurled into the air by the explosions did not land on their heads. The
Calypso
's boats should approach from the side away from the
Delft
and pick them up, providing that flying wreckage and sharks had left anything to save.

Southwick bustled up and said conversationally: “It's going to take some good timing to shoot up into the wind so that she carries her way and gets alongside the
Delft,
sir.”

“I've been thinking about that.”

“Not above half a mile to get the canvas drawing well and plenty of way on her.”

“A little over half a mile.”

“Doesn't give you much time to get the feel of the ship, and you'll have to start lighting her up below before you're actually alongside, or else there's a chance the Dutchmen will get on board or cut away the grapnels—or if the chain beats ‘em, the rigging from which they're hanging.”

“True,” Ramage said patiently.

“And an unlucky shot through that brandy won't help either. They'll be firing at you, of course.”

“I hadn't anticipated them pelting me with flowers, but their broadside guns won't bear until almost the last moment.”

“Musketry, though,” Southwick said gloomily. “There'll be plenty of that; musket balls falling like rain. You'll need spare men ready to take over at the tiller, because the Dutch will be aiming at them.”

“Look,” Ramage said finally, “I've made up my mind. I am taking the
Nuestra Señora
alongside, and you are staying on board the
Calypso.
And I don't want to hear that sad story again of how you missed the chase across the island. If you could have run a mile you'd have been welcome. If you can swim a mile you can come with the
Nuestra Señora.
”

“Don't need to swim a mile, begging your pardon.”

“You couldn't swim a hundred yards, so let's have no more arguing.”

“But you are taking Jackson, aren't you, sir?”

“Jackson, Stafford, Rossi, Baker—he'll take over command if anything happens to me—Rennick and fourteen more men. Twenty to handle a fireship—quite apart from those helping to hoist sails who will leave before we get under way. That's quite enough. Half a dozen would be sufficient.”

“I wish you'd tow a boat, sir, so you can be sure of escaping.”

“We've gone over that,” Ramage said impatiently. “The painter will get foul of the rudder or some such thing: and a boat rowing away would make a fine target for Dutch muskets in the light of the flames. They'll never see swimmers and even if they did they'd never hit them.”

“Well, you know what you're doing, sir,” Southwick said in a voice which implied just the opposite.

“Thank you,” Ramage said stiffly. “If you'll learn to swim and lose two stone in weight, you can command all the fireships you want.”

By half past two the
Nuestra Señora de Antigua
was ready, Jackson and Stafford stood at the big curved tiller and Ramage waited close by with Baker. Down below Rennick had several lanthorns ready, the new candles inside burning steadily but their light hidden by screens of sacking. When the word came from the quarterdeck the candles would be taken out and used to light the fuses to the powder casks and the piles of combustibles which would start the pitch and tar burning and eventually ignite the brandy in the casks. The powder exploding should in turn send off first the
Nuestra Señora
's own magazine and then the
Delft
's.

Ramage could feel the wind steady on his face. It had backed to the east-north-east, so that it was blowing across the channel from the Punda side to Otrabanda not quite at right-angles. The privateers, the
Calypso
and the
Delft
were all lying head to wind, their bows pointing to Punda. The moon had not yet risen—Ramage had planned his attack for an hour earlier—but the stars were bright, the banks of the channel and the quays grey ribbons with the bulky ships black between them.

There had been no sign of Dutch guard-boats; they were obviously relying on lookouts on board. What was that Captain expecting? Did he anticipate an attack by “English?” He would expect a battle of broadsides, and perhaps an attempt to board. He knew there was little chance of the
Calypso
weighing and trying to get alongside because the channel was too narrow (particularly without a pilot to warn of shoals) for frigates to manoeuvre drawing more than sixteen feet. By now then, the Dutch might have decided the
Calypso
would do nothing until daylight—or even that Ramage might realize he really was trapped and negotiate the surrender of his ship. Or—the thought had only just struck him—perhaps van Someren intended to have the big guns from the two forts hauled round to the town at daylight so that from the quays on each side they could if necessary help the
Delft
's guns pound the
Calypso
to pieces. Each fort had twenty-five or so 24-pounders, which meant that the
Calypso
would be receiving the fire equivalent to a ship of the line, and unable to reply to most of it … It was curious how neither he nor any of his Lieutenants had thought of the Dutch doing it. Underestimating the enemy was a bad mistake, but the fireship idea had occupied all their thoughts.

There were groups of men at both the
Nuestra Señora
's masts, ready to haul on halyards to hoist the great mainsail, foresail, forestaysail and jib. There were a couple more headsails that could be hoisted, but they would take time and meant only more sheets to be trimmed, more ropes to get snagged; trying to free a headsail because of a jammed sheet was a distraction he was anxious to avoid. As it was, the sheets had been led round so that the headsails would be hoisted backed, so that the schooner's bow began to pay off to starboard as the anchor cable was cut, ensuring she was on the right tack and would not have to go about.

Two men waited at the bitts with axes, ready to cut the anchor cable. Rennick and his men were below—Satan and his firemen, Southwick had called them—and Rossi was here on deck with the port fires, sacking, some old sails and blocks of pitch that should cause a fine blaze, helped by the folds of the mainsail as soon as the halyards were let run.

He looked over to starboard and could just make out the black hull of the
Calypso,
but she had the
Delft
beyond and the harbour entrance. The tree frogs sounded sharp and noisy, even this far from the shore, a constant squeaky noise like a block that needed greasing. The four Dutch guards, two on the
Nuestra Señora
and two on the next privateer, now prisoners in the
Calypso,
must wonder what the devil was going on. Very soon, he thought grimly, they would be certain the end of the world had come.

Ramage, calling down to Rennick to stove in the tar barrels so that it began seeping into the wood, began to walk forward. It was a strange sensation. Like all the rest of his party he wore only trousers and a shirt; his bare feet padding over the deck, the soles of his feet detecting the unevenness of the schooner's planking. He had a Sea Service pistol in his waistbelt, just in case, but if he had not fired it when the time came to dive overboard, it would be another weapon for the
Calypso
's gunner to list as “lost in action.”

There was no point in waiting any longer to get under way because everything was ready. Everything except the Captain's courage, which he knew had vanished: his knees had a curious springiness about them, and his shin and thigh muscles had melted; there seemed to be bile at the back of his throat and his stomach was on the verge of heaving, as though he had eaten bad meat for supper. By now he was at the mainmast, and the men were waiting expectantly. “Hoist away,” he said, “and overhaul the mainsheet. And no noise!”

The blocks had been greased within the past hour, but it usually took a few spins of the sheaves to work the grease in. The blocks on the gaff were no exception, but by the time the sail began to creep up the mast he was abreast the foremast, repeating his order for the foresail. The few remaining gaskets were taken off the foresail and its gaff began creeping up the mast, pulling up the sail and having no apparent connection with the men hauling down on the halyards.

The mainsail was up, with a few more swigs on the peak halyard needed to top up the gaff, but the canvas was only rippling, not flogging, as the wind blew down both sides so that the sail did not draw. Flogging canvas on a night like this would sound like rolling gunfire.

Now the foresail was up and as the men topped up the gaff Ramage gestured to the men at the headsail halyards. At once narrow triangles of canvas rose up the stays, but instead of taking up the bellying curve of sails drawing they became almost flattened, held aback by the sheets so that the wind pushed against them, thrusting the bow over to starboard. But by then Ramage had walked up to the bow, where the two men waited with axes.

Yes, the
Nuestra Señora
's bow was being pushed round towards the entrance. “Cut!” he snapped, and the first axe blade thudded into the cable, followed by the second. Five blows and the end of the cable whiplashed out over the bow and at once the schooner, no longer held by her anchor, swung round to starboard so that she headed along the channel, pointing at the
Calypso
and the harbour entrance.

Without further orders men were casting off the headsail sheets and making them up on the starboard side so that the sails began to draw; three men were enough to trim the foresail sheet because for a moment there was no weight on the sail, and four more tailed on to the mainsheet.

And the
Nuestra Señora de Antigua
began to come alive: with all the sails drawing she was already picking up speed and Ramage called: “Sail-hoisters—to your boat!” The boat was towing astern, ready for them, and he walked aft, expecting the dozen or so extra men on board to rush past him to jump into the boat, cast off and row for the
Calypso.
He had reached the quarterdeck, looking up at the set of the sails and glancing forward to see the
Calypso
getting closer, when he realized that not a man had moved. “Sail-handlers! To your boat!” he called.

There seemed many fewer men on deck now. What the devil was going on? Or had he had a momentary lapse and not noticed the men leaving?

“Jackson! Has the sail-handling party left?”

“It—er, I haven't been watching them, sir.”

“What the devil is happening? Where are the men?” “Hiding, sir,” Jackson said bluntly. “They want to lend a hand setting fire to the ship!”

“But what—”

“They can all swim, sir,” Jackson said, leaning against the great wooden bar of the tiller. “How close should I pass astern of the
Calypso,
sir? I'm wondering if this side of the channel shoals—there are no quays abreast the
Delft
on the Otrabanda side.”

A fireship with thirty men on board … Still, better too many than too few … “Steady as you go,” he said to Jackson. The
Delft
was still out of sight, hidden by the
Calypso,
but the schooner would pass thirty yards astern of the British frigate, which any moment would cease to hide her from lookouts in the
Delft,
even if the Dutchmen had not already spotted the sails. Men tended to see only what they were looking for; with luck no one had told the Dutchmen to do anything but watch the
Calypso.

Mainsail drawing well—and it was a well-cut sail; he could see that much in the starlight. Foresail rather baggy, probably an older sail, but also drawing well. And the headsails trimmed to perfection, as though the men knew that Southwick had his night-glass trained on them.

And in the calm water the bow wave was a loud hiss as the schooner continued increasing speed, the wind on the larboard beam. Four knots, five and now six, Ramage estimated. Her bottom was clean, that much was certain; the copper sheathing had kept her clear of barnacles and weed. She picked up speed quickly and, he must remember, she would take time to lose way.

The
Calypso
was looming up fast, her three great masts and yards seeming black stripes against the stars. Still no sign of the
Delft.
Jackson and Stafford were quite happy at the tiller, easing the schooner slightly in puffs that were just enough to heel her a few degrees. Everyone would be watching from the
Calypso,
nightglasses jammed to straining eyes; lookouts on the seaward side would be hard put not to glance over their shoulders at the sight of a schooner racing up the channel in the starlight under all plain sail. There was phosphorescence in here too, so her bow wave would be a pale green flame, seeming alive.

There! A vague dark blob beyond the
Calypso
's stern; a blurring of stars low on the horizon, hidden by the Dutch frigate's masts and rigging. Two hundred yards to go!

“Rennick, ahoy down there! Start lighting up!”

Almost at once he could see black hatchways becoming pale yellow squares as lanthorns came out from behind screens and the candles were snatched up to light fuses and combustibles. The reek of tar, and also the sooty smell of guttering candles—no, that was from Rossi's lanthorns, which he had, very sensibly, put in the schooner's binnacle box.

“Rossi, stand by to light those port fires!”

One hundred and fifty yards to go, six ship's lengths or more. Flickering at the hatchways—Rennick's men were making a good start and the tar was probably flaring. The
Delft
must see the lights now—the flames, still small, were reflecting on the underside of the fore and main booms, lighting the rigging as delicate tracery and just catching the weave of the canvas. And the phosphorescence must make the bow wave and wash very obvious. Were the Dutch waiting with a broadside? He gave a quick order to Jackson which brought the schooner a point to larboard but the Dutch still could not train round their broadside guns far enough.