by Pope, Dudley
But whatever the effect of the explosion boat, Ramage thought inconsequentially, one thing was certain: afterwards the gunner’s mate would need a certificate signed by him to send to the Board of Ordnance explaining why so much powder had been used up in such a short time… And he visualized the letter he’d probably receive later from the Admiralty expressing Their Lordships’ ‘displeasure’, the result of a peevish protest from the Ordnance Board. Bureaucrats thrived on war – to them the smoke of battle transmuted itself into hundreds of orderly piles of forms and certificates, affidavits and letters, neatly tied with the familiar pink tape, and men killed in battle were swiftly disposed of by two strokes of a pen – simply a two-letter entry against each name, ‘DD’, the official abbreviation for ‘Discharged Dead’.
Realizing he was rubbing his forehead again, Ramage turned away. ‘Mr Southwick, make sure the jolly boat is ready to be hoisted out, and have a white cloth lashed to a boarding pike as a flag of truce. And I’ll have all the guns loaded, if you please.’
In a couple of minutes the little Kathleen would be ready for bluff and for battle. Divisions, Gianna’s shooting match, the men dancing to John Smith’s fiddle – all seemed to have happened days ago. Even now splashes of spray had mottled the polished brasswork with patches of dried salt. And, he reflected ironically, the decks are thick with wet sand where, only three or four hours ago, Southwick methodically searched for even one dry grain.
Another three minutes and he’d head directly for the frigate, which was now fine on the starboard bow. He looked significantly at Gianna and then turned to Antonio. ‘I’d be grateful if you’d both go down below in a few minutes.’
The Italian nodded and stretched out his hand. ‘Gianna told me to return your stake.’
Ramage took the ring, saw it was not his own and glanced at Gianna. Her right hand was instinctively clasping the middle finger of her left, where he guessed she was wearing his. She looked as if – with a sudden shock Ramage saw that Antonio had the same expression – as if they were saying a silent farewell to a condemned man. Turning away, slipping her signet ring on to the little finger of his left hand, he felt cold, as if the warmth had suddenly gone from the sun. The frigate was black and big; she seemed to roll much less now and her ports were open and the guns run out.
CHAPTER FIVE
The Spanish frigate was La Sabina. She was lying almost stern-to fine on Kathleen’s larboard bow, and her name in bold letters right across her transom was picked out with too much gilding and red paint. Ramage looked impatiently at his watch, the vane at the masthead to see if the wind was constant, and then at the boat towing fifty yards astern. Thin wisps of smoke from the burning portfires were seeping out from under the canvas cover.
With the telescope he could clearly see the stubby black gun barrels poking out of the ports on La Sabina’s starboard side. Presumably they were trained as far aft as possible, and as soon as he got nearer they’d make good leading marks – by keeping this side of the line of the barrels he’d be outside their arc of fire.
As the men reeled in the log Southwick reported the Kathleen was making just over five knots. The easterly wind was right aft, and with the ship on the larboard tack the great boom of the mainsail was swung right over, blanketing both jib and foresail which, with no wind to keep them full, slatted with the cutter’s roll. Ramage glanced at his watch again. If the portfires burned evenly, he had eight minutes to go – barely enough.
Inexorably the seconds sped by. The black paint of the frigate’s hull was shiny and the over-elaborate ornamentation on her transom stood out boldly. Many pounds’ worth of gold leaf on the quarter galleries alone showed the captain to be a rich man, since he’d have paid for it with his own money.
How far now? Without the telescope he could just make out men on her decks, so she was less than half a mile ahead – about six minutes at the Kathleen’s present speed. The hands of his watch showed the portfires should fire the powder in five minutes. He was running it close; much too close.
Glancing round the cutter, he was surprised how cool and detached he felt. Or was it resignation? His father had often said, ‘If you can’t do anything about it, don’t fret about it!’ A dozen seamen were aft, waiting to pay out the rest of the grass warp: waiting to lengthen the monkey’s tail at the last moment to give it a longer reach as the cutter turned. Southwick gave him an inquiring look, anxious to put more distance between the Kathleen and the bags of powder in the smoking jolly boat, but Ramage shook his head.
The two men at the helm were having a hard time. The pressure on the big mainsail was not being balanced by pressure on the flapping headsails forward so the cutter was trying to come up into the wind, with the result that she was edging herself up to larboard. Ramage snapped an order to the quartermaster and in a few moments the frigate was once again fine on the larboard bow. She was growing noticeably larger and he could distinguish individuals among a group of men standing at the taffrail (just over seven hundred yards away, he noted). Some were much taller than the others. No – a quick glance through the telescope showed the smaller ones were leaning on the taffrail holding muskets to their shoulders. Sharpshooters, with orders to pick off the officers and men at the helm…
Ramage called to Jackson and told him to hold the watch.
‘For the next four minutes read out the remaining minutes and half minutes starting…now!’
The Kathleens were silent, all looking ahead at the squat stern of the frigate. Hell! The barrels of the aftermost broadside guns began to foreshorten, and now Ramage could see farther along her starboard side. She was yawing and if the wind and sea continued to swing her round a few more degrees her aftermost three or four guns would be able to fire into the Kathleen. Then slowly she paid off and the gun barrels lengthened.
The wind began to strengthen – he felt it on his face – and the cutter picked up speed, pitching rhythmically, and the boom rising slightly as the wind bellied the mainsail. Six knots now? No time for another cast of the log.
Tiny puffs of smoke along the frigate’s taffrail, barely glimpsed before the wind dispersed them, and faint popping noises – musket fire – at that range a nuisance but no more.
‘Three minutes and thirty seconds,’ said Jackson.
Ramage guessed the distance at six hundred yards and signalled to Southwick. At once the seamen began paying out the rest of the grass warp and the jolly boat dropped farther astern, the warp floating on the water like a long thin snake. Southwick swore as a bight of the rope twisted into a figure of eight, knowing a sudden jerk on the boat might shift the casks and snap the portfires, exploding the powder prematurely, but a seaman untwisted it before the weight on the boat came on.
Many more puffs of smoke along the frigate’s taffrail
‘Three minutes,’ Jackson chanted gloomily.
Two stern chase guns were poking out through the ports like accusing black fingers. If they hadn’t fired by now they never would – the Spaniards must have decided that with the rolling it was a waste of powder.
‘How much more to run?’
‘Nearly all gone,’ Southwick called. ‘Five fathoms or so left… There, that’s the lot. Steady lads, take the strain now. All hundred fathoms out, sir!’
So the jolly boat, the explosive red herring, was towing astern on the end of a two-hundred-yard rope tail.
‘Two minutes and thirty seconds,’ said Jackson, excitement beginning to show in his voice.
About four hundred yards, Ramage noted.
‘Mr Southwick! Overhaul the mainsheet. Stand by to bear up. Not a moment to lose when I give the word.’
Yards mattered now as he sailed the Kathleen right down to the frigate’s starboard quarter, carefully staying just enough to windward so the wind would blow the jolly boat down to the frigate when, fifty yards away, he turned the Kathleen round to larboard to head back the way she came for a moment – giving the tail a flick, in fact – and hove-to. Then, stopped with her ster
n to the frigate and the grass warp floating in her wake in a huge crescent, if he’d judged it correctly the wind would slowly blow the boat down towards the frigate, and if the portfires burned true… If, if, if!
‘Two minutes, sir,’ said Jackson, his voice revealing tension for the first time.
Spanish officers were standing among the men with muskets on the taffrail – he could distinguish their uniforms. Not even a stump of the mizzen left; it must have been a fantastic squall that hit her – or else, for all that new paint, her rigging was rotten.
Yet again Ramage glanced astern at the boat. She was towing beautifully, bow riding high but the stern not squatting so much that water slopped up over the transom. No sign of even a whisp of smoke: he swore – had the portfires gone out? A quick glance with the telescope did not reassure him. More popping from ahead and a man at the second carronade on the Kathleen’s larboard side screamed with pain and another dropped silently to the deck. Ramage stared curiously, trying to recognize the sprawled figure.
‘One and a half minutes!’ Jackson said.
Startled at the realization he had only ninety seconds left, Ramage looked again at the frigate. She had suddenly become enormous and even as he shouted to Southwick to put the helm down it seemed impossible for the Kathleen’s enormously long bowsprit to miss swiping the frigate’s starboard quarter as she swung round to larboard.
With all that preparation, Ramage swore to himself, he’d let a wounded man divert his attention long enough to wreck the whole bloody manoeuvre. He rubbed the scar on his brow, fighting back the panic trying to get him in its grip.
For a moment as the tiller went over there seemed total confusion on the Kathleen’s deck; one group of seamen sheeted in the mainsail at the run; others hardened in jib and foresail sheets and both sails filled with a bang as the cutter’s bow swung to larboard and brought them out from under the sheltering lee of the mainsail. The sudden weight of wind in both sails tried to push her bow off to starboard and the quartermaster ran to help the two men hold the heavy tiller.
‘One minute to go,’ bawled Jackson, dodging round the busy men as he tried to stay within earshot of Ramage and yet still keep an eye on the watch.
He’d overshot by – oh God! As the Kathleen’s turn brought the frigate’s great squat transom flashing down the starboard side, Ramage found himself looking up at a row of faces, some half-hidden by muskets, and just had time to notice several of the men were wriggling and jabbing with their elbows to get enough room to aim as they were jostled by some officers trying to peer down at the cutter.
Little flashes of flame, puffs of smoke and that ridiculous popping. More shouts of pain on the Kathleen’s deck and he was conscious of falling men. A glance back showed that by some miracle the jolly boat seemed to be in roughly the right position. Musket balls whined close in ricochet. Every musket seemed to be aimed at him. The frigate swung round to the quarter as the Kathleen continued turning; then she was astern.
‘Mr Southwick! Back the jib and let fly the foresail sheets! Keep the helm hard down!’
Swiftly the men hauled the jib to windward so it tried to push the cutter’s bow to starboard but was balanced by the mainsail and rudder trying to force the bow round to larboard, like two children of equal weight at either end of a seesaw. The Kathleen began to slow down. As she stopped she began to roll, the noise of rushing water ceased, and the popping of muskets was much louder.
Jackson shouted ‘Thirty seconds!’ just as Ramage looked for the jolly boat.
The wind was drifting it swiftly, the drag of the grass warp turning it broadside on to lie parallel with the frigate and perhaps fifty yards away. Ramage wasn’t sure how it happened, but the boat was in exactly the right position, the warp linking it to the Kathleen making an almost perfect crescent superimposed on the smooth water of her wake.
‘Time!’ bawled Jackson, and nothing happened.
For several moments hope clouded judgement in Ramage’s mind; after all that, he thought wearily, surely at least one of the portfires must be still alight, but he felt too sick with disappointment to look again with the telescope for a wisp of smoke. Fifteen minutes was the maximum burning time for a portfire, and fifteen minutes, sixteen by now, had elapsed.
Southwick was steadily cursing in a low monotone; Edwards, white-faced, watched the jolly boat as if stunned; Gianna stood unconcerned, looking astern at the frigate curiously; and Ramage, conscious of yet another fusillade of musketry, was deciding he’d better get the Kathleen under way again before the sharpshooters picked them all off.
It was only then he registered that Gianna was standing near him amid the thudding and whining of musket balls and instinctively gave her a violent shove that sent her flat on her face, hard up against the taffrail. At the same moment Edwards clutched his arm, obviously hit by a shot and Ramage heard a curious clang beside his leg.
Suddenly a blinding flash from the direction of the jolly boat was followed by a deep, muffled explosion, and a blast of air. The flash turned into a billowing mushroom of smoke, and jagged pieces of wood – the remains of the boat – curved up slowly through the air in precise parabolas before spattering down on to a sea across which concentric waves rolled outwards from where the boat had been, like the ripples from a rock flung into a pond.
‘Half that amount of powder would do the job for you, sir,’ Edwards said quietly.
‘Yes. And I hope our friends over there haven’t missed the point.’
‘The bang was a bit late though, wasn’t it, sir?’ Jackson said with a grin.
‘Aye,’ said Edwards, ‘but if you’d been a friend of mine you’d have flogged the glass.’
Ramage laughed rather too loudly. Flogging the glass – turning the half-hour glass a few minutes too soon to shorten a watch on deck – was an old trick.
‘Never mind, Edwards, it worked perfectly.’
Edwards gave Ramage an odd look as though he was drunk and had difficulty in focusing his eyes, nodded and collapsed at his feet, still clutching an arm from which blood spurted. In a moment Gianna was kneeling beside the man ripping away the sleeve.
CHAPTER SIX
Ramage was just going to climb down the Kathleen’s side to the waiting boat when Jackson pointed at his sword and offered him a cutlass. Ramage pulled the sword and scabbard out of the belt and flung it down. That explained the curious clang – a musket shot had hit and bent the blade and ripped away part of the scabbard. Still, better to be unarmed when boarding an etiquette-conscious Spaniard than have a cutlass, which was a seaman’s weapon, and Ramage waved it away. The fact that he boarded completely unarmed would not be lost on the Spanish.
The boat shoved off and Jackson looked like a lancer in the stern sheets, tiller in one hand and in the other a boarding pike to which a white cloth had been lashed as a flag of truce.
The men rowed briskly and as smartly as if going alongside a flagship, and soon the boat was under the lee of La Sabina. As Ramage looked up at her, realizing it was not going to be easy to board because she was rolling so much, he was surprised to see water running out of the scuppers and down the ship’s side. How on earth could she be getting sea on deck?
While Jackson was giving the last orders which would bring the boat alongside, Ramage looked back at the Kathleen and felt his confidence ebbing fast as he saw how tiny the cutter appeared, even though she was hove-to barely a couple of hundred yards away. From the deck of the frigate she must seem about as threatening as a harbour bumboat.
The bowman hooked on with a boat-hook and Ramage jammed his hat on his head, waited a moment until the boat rose on a crest, and jumped on to one of the side steps – the thick battens fixed parallel, one above the other, up the ship’s side. The Spaniards had been thoughtful enough to let the manropes fall so that he had handholds.
He hurried up the first three battens in case the frigate rolled to leeward and a wave soaked his feet, then slowed up to avoid arriving at the gangway hot and breathless
. While climbing he decided that if he did not reveal he spoke Spanish he might learn a lot from unguarded remarks. If none of them spoke English – which was unlikely – he’d use French. Faces lining the bulwark were watching him, and as Jackson shoved off with the boat, leaving him alone on board, for a moment Ramage felt a loneliness verging on panic; he was away from the ship with whose command he had been entrusted; he was – and now he had to admit it – completely disobeying orders; and he was at the mercy of the Spaniards. If they chose to ignore the accepted behaviour governing flags of truce and make him a prisoner (or, more likely, a hostage) Southwick was unlikely to have the skill to drift down another explosion boat and successfully blow off the frigate’s stern even if he had the nerve to sacrifice his captain’s life.