Ramage & The Freebooters

by Pope, Dudley

  The Jorum was now steering north parallel with the coast and making better than six knots. If the privateers came from the north they too could make six, since the wind was east, so they would be approaching each other at twelve knots.

  The puzzling thing was that there were no suitable bays anywhere along the west side of St Lucia where the freebooters could be hiding – unless they’d moved into one from somewhere else as soon as they had the signal. Sweeping the coast with the telescope he could not make out anything resembling a sail. He could still see more than twelve miles – so they were unlikely to meet anything for an hour.

  He suddenly noticed a smell of cooking, and Gorton said: ‘Thought your men’d like a good meal a’fore tonight’s work: nothing like a warm lining for a fighting man’s stomach!’

  ‘They’ll appreciate it,’ Ramage said vaguely, still thinking of distances, speeds, the chances of wind changes.

  ‘They wouldn’t let me serve ’em lunch – said they had grub with them.’

  Then Ramage remembered there was no reason why the men should still remain below. After mentioning it to Gorton out of politeness, he called the Tritons up on deck.

  Breathing steam straight from a kettle while squatting in a large oven must be something like this, Ramage thought miserably. The last of the heavy planks covering the hatch had thudded into position an hour ago and the canvas cover stretched over them, the battens holding it down kept in position by wedges driven home with a mallet.

  One of the seamen belched contentedly, announcing: ‘Got a fine supper out o’ this, anyway.’

  ‘Aye,’ another man agreed. ‘Dunno what it all was, but that spinach stuff was good.’

  ‘Not spinach – that’s callalou,’ Maxton corrected.

  ‘Don’t spoil it wi’ a name like that!’

  The first man belched again. ‘Bananas good, too.’

  Maxton grunted. ‘Not the best. Tasted more like bluggers.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Bluggers.’

  ‘Thought you said summat else. What’s “bluggers”?’

  ‘You’d think they were bananas,’ Maxton said, enjoying his knowledge. ‘For eatin’ raw we have figs – you call them bananas. Then plantains – bigger’n bananas, and we cook ’em. No good for eatin’ raw. Then there’s bluggers. Cook them, too.’

  Ramage, realizing Maxton’s ‘bluggers’ were in fact ‘bluggoes’, interrupted: ‘Belay that, now; I want to check off everything. Everyone’s wearing a strip of cloth round his head?’

  There was a chorus of agreement.

  ‘Very well then; don’t forget, anyone without a white band is an enemy, except for the Jorums, but they’ll be shut up out of the way, I expect. Now, those men with musketoons should have them loaded and on half-cock. Report as I call your names.’

  Starting with Jackson he called out the six names.

  He then named the men who had been issued with grenades and each replied that his grenades were ready.

  ‘Now, all pistols loaded and at half-cock. Report any not loaded.’

  There were no replies.

  ‘And rockets and false-fires?’

  ‘Here, sir,’ two voices answered.

  ‘Very well. Once I give the word, not a sound. And when I shout “Get ’em!” you know what that means?’

  There was a deafening ‘Aye aye, sir!’

  ‘And the challenge…?’

  ‘“Triton!”’ the men roared.

  ‘And the reply?’

  ‘“Jacko!”’

  ‘Mister Jacko,’ Jackson said in mock protest, and again the men laughed, knowing Ramage had deliberately chosen the American’s nickname, although not to honour the American, but because, like the word ‘Triton’, it was distinctive; easily shouted and easily distinguished.

  ‘Very well then,’ Ramage said. ‘And don’t forget, from the time we’re boarded and until they start taking the hatch covers off and I give an order, not a word. Anyone wanting to cough or sneeze must shove his head under a sack.’

  That had been a good idea of Gorton’s, and throwing several hundredweight of cocoa beans over the side to provide the empty sacks gave the men a little more room, too.

  Ramage estimated it was now eight o’clock, so it would have been dark on deck for more than an hour. Twisting round his legs to make himself more comfortable as he sat across two casks, he grunted as the butt of a pistol dug in just below his ribs.

  He’d thought that once all the batch covers had been put back on, the waiting would have been worse than during the day; but the men were so cheerful his fears had almost vanished. To them the prospect of a good fight was as good as a night on shore in Plymouth with five gold guineas in their pockets. Better, as he had heard one of the men comment, since they wouldn’t have thick heads in the morning. Not thick heads, he had reflected gloomily; but several of them might be dead or badly wounded.

  Someone was shaking him and he woke with a start to find Jackson whispering hoarsely, ‘Did you hear the knocks, sir?’

  Blearily Ramage said: ‘No – how many?’

  ‘Two double knocks.’

  ‘Vessel in sight!’ Ramage was thankful Jackson had been with him when he had arranged the code by which Gorton would signal, banging the hatch coaming with a belaying pin.

  Suddenly there were four evenly spaced knocks.

  A single knock after sighting meant the vessel was ahead, two was to larboard, three to starboard, four astern…

  So the vessel was coming up astern.

  ‘Don’t shout, but make sure everyone’s awake. Each man shake the one nearest him!’

  Ramage felt the familiar symptoms of fear fighting with excitement.

  Shouting on deck – too loud for orders. A hail to another ship?

  A full minute passed and then suddenly a sharp double knock: another vessel! Two even knocks – to larboard!

  Keep the men informed, Ramage remembered.

  ‘Listen,’ he whispered loudly. ‘Two vessels in sight – one astern, one to larboard.’

  More shouting, then a sudden brief tattoo from two belaying pins: the agreed signal for ‘Vessel or vessels are definitely enemy’.

  ‘Both privateers,’ Ramage whispered and heard a few contented growls from the men.

  Shouts on deck, the noise of sheets being hauled, a metallic rumble as the tiller was put over, the heavy rudder’s pintles grinding on the gudgeons.

  The shouting on the Jorum’s deck sounded desperate now: Ramage had warned Gorton that his men should simulate panic, and they were making a good job of it.

  Suddenly the whole ship shuddered from an enormous rasping crash along the larboard side: one of the privateers had run aboard, and shouts and the thudding of feet just above their heads told the Tritons that the freebooters were swarming over the Jorum’s bulwarks.

  ‘Lubberly crowd,’ Jackson whispered.

  Ramage said nothing; his imagination already working hard. In the darkness the privateer had obviously misjudged the distance and in coming alongside her prize had hit harder than intended. Ramage thought of a plank split – maybe even the butt ends of a plank or two sprung at the waterline. Water beginning to pour in and the hold slowly filling, perhaps unnoticed on deck until the schooner became sluggish in the water. The privateersmen, probably unused to the way she handled, would attribute it at first to the fact she was heavily laden with cargo… And in the hold, battened down, the Tritons.

  Even if Gorton noticed and, to save them, told the privateersmen the Tritons were trapped below, the privateersmen would be foolish to release twenty fully armed men: no, they would just quit the schooner and leave them to drown!

  Ramage realized most of the shouting on deck had stopped: what there was seemed to be between the privateer alongside and her consort nearby.

  The sluicing of water past the Jorum’s hull had stopped, leaving an eerie quietness round them, and she began rolling heavily, while above them the mainsail, foresail and headsails slatted vi
ciously, shaking the masts.

  Obviously the capture was complete. For the freebooters the hunt was over; all that remained now was to carry the carcass home. He heard someone giving orders – the man seemed to be standing just above him – in a mixture of French, English and patois.

  Hard to be sure of the speaker’s nationality.

  The squeaking and rumbling of the sheets rendering through blocks; the metallic rasping of the rudder fittings as the tiller was put over; the change in the Jorum’s motion, and then once again the noise of water swirling past: the privateersmen had the schooner under way.

  A few minutes later, conscious his clothes were soaking with perspiration caused as much by excitement as by heat, Ramage reckoned the Jorum was now sailing on much the same course as she was before the capture. The privateers’ base was still to the northward.

  So the two ships most probably sailed south to intercept the Jorum, keeping a certain distance apart to widen their field of view, spotted her before they were themselves sighted, and then turned on to her course. Neat – the one astern stopped her escaping to the south, forcing her to keep going northward if she tried to make a bolt for it; the one to larboard trapping her against the land, preventing her escaping to the open sea to the westward.

  He whispered to Jackson as he pulled out his watch, and as the American snapped a flint he saw in the light of the spark it was half past eight. He tried to concentrate because he could rarely solve a mathematical problem without pencil and paper.

  Now, when the last two small boats left, they would reach the land near the Pitons at about seven. They might pass a signal, but more likely they were supposed to make a signal only if the schooner did anything unusual. So, by half past six the men in the small boats were certain the Jorum was going to continue her course. At that time, as they disappeared from sight in the gathering gloom, Ramage had been able to see about a dozen miles up the coast and the Jorum was making six knots.

  Now for the hard part, and he tried to shut out the noise of the sea, the noise from on deck, and the creaking of the schooner’s hull as she rose and fell on the slight swell waves.

  Just as darkness fell, at seven, there were no ships in sight. But the privateers had intercepted about quarter past eight, so assuming they and the Jorum had been converging at twelve knots – allowing for them to manoeuvre into position – they had probably sailed from a bay twelve miles to the north.

  Twelve miles? But that was almost at Castries! Obviously he’d made a mistake. He started all over again, but for the second time came up with the same result. Well, his reasoning was wrong somewhere because there were only a few shallow bays before Marigot, into which he had looked carefully from the Triton, and then Castries itself and some rocky islets which couldn’t conceal an open boat, let alone a privateer… Oh, the devil take it; the privateers could have come from anywhere – from the south side of St Lucia, he suddenly realized; in fact the two small boats might have met them after dark off the Pitons!

  A sudden clatter on the hatch cover made him sit up with a start; then he leaned back, feeling foolish. The privateersmen must have put down some muskets or cutlasses – if they had been opening the hatches he’d have heard them hammering out the wedges.

  Jackson whispered, ‘I hope the skipper’s all right.’

  ‘Should be; I told him to surrender the ship as soon as he could without making them suspicious.’

  ‘He’s a good man.’

  ‘You ever served with him?’

  ‘No,’ Jackson said after a pause. ‘How did you know he’d “run”, sir?’

  ‘He’s got “R” written all over him.’

  ‘No, seriously, sir?’

  ‘Jackson, it’s always obvious when a man’s served in the Navy. Phrases he uses, the way things are done – there aren’t many schooners out here run Navy fashion. And I doubt if Gorton is his real name.’

  The American thought for a while, then whispered: ‘He “ran” before the war, sir.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter much whether an “R” is put after a name in peace or war, Jackson. Court martial and four hundred lashes through the Fleet – that’s if he’s not hanged at the foreyardarm.’

  ‘But you won’t–’

  ‘I’ll probably inform the Admiral, yes.’

  ‘But, sir!’ Jackson’s whisper was almost explosive.

  ‘I’ll probably inform the Admiral that Mr Gorton, skipper of the Jorum schooner, rendered exceptional service…’

  ‘Phew, sir, for a moment I thought…’

  ‘Stop thinking, Jackson; you’ll make yourself hoarse.’

  The Jorum sailed on without any sail trimming and, judging from the regular pitching and rolling, without changing course. Then, as Ramage heard shouting and, a few moments later, the noise of sheets being hauled and the squeaking of the rudder going hard over, he whispered: ‘Quick, Jackson – flint!’

  The sparks flashing over the watch face showed it was just an hour and a half since the schooner was boarded.

  More shouts, then bare feet scuffling across the deck; soft thuds which Ramage recognized as coils of rope being dropped on the deck – halyards for sure, the coils taken off the belaying pins and then overhauled ready to run.

  The schooner began to pitch more frequently as she came hard on the wind, butting into the waves which were shorter in the lee of the island. In fact –

  ‘Listen, sir!’ Jackson whispered. ‘Think I can hear breakers!’

  Ramage heard them at the same instant; the thud and scurry of seas hitting the foot of a cliff, breaking and swirling back, the sucking noise echoing.

  And several high-pitched squeaks from beyond the ship. Shouts – both distant and from the deck above. Oars creaking! Yes, several boats were rowing nearby, and the privateersmen calling to them – not angry or hectoring yells; more like greetings and replies.

  Sudden shouts from the deck and the slatting of canvas and banging of blocks as sails were lowered. The Jorum lost way and began to wallow. More shouting, from forward now, and then the heavy rasping of something being dragged across the deck.

  ‘They’re passing a hawser,’ Jackson whispered. ‘Maybe the boats are going to tow us in.’

  And they’d only do that if the schooner had to be manoeuvred into a berth or anchorage impossible for her to reach under sail, either because it was dead to windward or the channel too tortuous. Maybe both. Or perhaps high cliffs were blanketing the wind. Yes, Ramage thought, that was more likely.

  High cliffs? Well, nearly all the west coast of St Lucia was high cliff, and the only bay he could think of was Marigot – the entrance to that was narrow. He recalled the view through his telescope as the Triton was hove-to a hundred yards off the entrance: the parallel-sided bay at the opening which narrowed suddenly with a sandspit jutting out from either side and the circular lagoon beyond. On the chart it looked, he remembered, like the stopper of a decanter. Yet although Marigot had seemed an obvious place – particularly on the chart – it had been empty…

  The creaking of many oars in their rowlocks – the tow had started. Occasional shouts from forward, replies from aft. Someone in the bow was conning the ship, shouting directions to the men at the helm.

  Claire in St George, Gianna in London – or perhaps staying with his parents in Cornwall. The Governor would get his letter in a few hours. Southwick would be conning the Triton up towards the coast now – Ramage pictured him standing on the fo’c’sle, night-glass to his eye, scanning the black sprawl of the coastline, hoping for the sight of a sail, his brain automatically correcting for the fact a night-glass gave an inverted image so the sea and coastline, upside down, would look like the sky with black clouds low on the horizon.

  Two privateers – probably fifty men in each. And how many more at their base, into which the Jorum, the Trojan sea horse, was now being towed? Probably not more than twenty. More important though was how many privateersmen were on board the Jorum at the moment, and if Gorton and his crew had b
een taken off?

  More shouting and slowly the Jorum lost way and came to a stop, now neither pitching nor rolling; she was motionless, obviously lying in some quiet bay.

  Would the privateersmen start unloading the cargo immediately or wait until daybreak?

  ‘For wot we’s about to receive…’ whispered one of the men.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The thud of a mallet slamming on wood just above them, a muttered oath and a second thud, followed by the sound of the wedge falling to the deck, warned the Tritons that in a minute or two they’d be fighting for their lives. Another couple of thuds farther along and another wedge fell out. As the third was knocked out Ramage knew that completed the starboard side. The two on the fore side were then driven, followed by three on the larboard side and, with every one of the Tritons tensing, the first, then the second on the after side.

  ‘They’re using a lantern,’ Jackson whispered.

  ‘Must be,’ Ramage said humorously, ‘–only one bout of cursing.’

  ‘Means we’ll have the advantage – our eyes accustomed to the darkness.’

  For a moment Ramage weighed the advantages of kicking over the lantern as soon as they leapt out, then decided that the surprise and confusion outweighed it.

  A rasping as the four battens round the hatch were slid out, then the heavy canvas tarpaulin was dragged off.

  The tingling, as though his arms and legs had pins and needles; stomach shrinking, full of cold water; arm and leg muscles tensing but feeling weak, as if they’d let him down when the moment came for a supreme effort. Ramage’s breathing was shallow and perspiration felt cold now on his forehead.

  I have to lead these men, he told himself coldly: they look to me. He bent down and flipped open the strap over the sheath of his throwing-knife, then methodically picked up his pistols, checked each was at half-cock, and stuck them in the waist band of his breeches. Quietly he drew his cutlass.