Ramage & The Drum Beat

by Pope, Dudley

  A Spanish officer waving his sword like a madman – twice over his head, then pointing at the Kathleen. Over his head again – curious fellow: maybe he’s trying to inspire his men. The great bulging sails so badly patched – seams stitched too tight and uneven so the material crinkled.

  One hundred yards. He’d never smash that great jib-boom: it was like the trunk of a great pine tree sticking out over a precipice.

  Perhaps the jib-boom but certainly not the bowsprit.

  Waiting for the executioner’s axe to fall after you’ve put your head on the block must be like this. For God’s sake do something. Wait. Seventy-five yards. Wait, wait, wait! All right – turn round…

  ‘Mr Southwick! Ready at the halyards and sheets?’

  Acknowledged. Then he remembered he’d already asked that. Ten seconds to go. Memory pictures sped through his head: Gianna, mother, father; the tower of Buranaccio in the moonlight when he rescued Gianna; Southwick’s excited bloodshot eyes; Jackson’s grin and Stafford’s imitation of the Commodore.

  Turn again. Calmly. Loud enough for the man to hear.

  ‘Quartermaster! Helm hard a’port!’

  The Kathleen’s bowsprit began swinging to starboard towards the San Nicolas. Slowly, oh so slowly. Too slowly! No, perhaps not. Anyway, too late to worry…

  No – he’d timed it perfectly! The Kathleen’s foretopmast stay would hit the outer end of the San Nicolas’ bowsprit.

  ‘Mr Southwick! Let fly halyards and sheets!’

  Beside him the banging of a blacksmith’s hammer on the anvil: musket balls hitting the barrel of the carronade. Musket balls aimed at him. Poor shooting.

  Without looking up at the San Nicolas he turned and ran through the smoke to join the boarding party at the main shrouds. Several of the men, including Jackson, were already waiting half-way up the ratlines, looking ahead as the Kathleen’s sharp turn began to bring the San Nicolas into view, poised for the desperate leap to board her. He prayed no one would jump too soon and fall into the sea between the two ships. Splashing water – the San Nicolas’ bow wave!

  He hitched round the cutlass belt so Southwick’s sword was out of the way, hanging behind him like a grotesque tail, and as he rammed his hat hard on his head there was the crack and snap of splintering wood and a jolt shook the cutter: God! She’d managed to get closer than he’d expected before her topmast stay hit the San Nicolas’ bowsprit A crash aloft – he didn’t bother to glance up: the stay had torn down the topmast.

  A momentary spasm of fear in case the rest of the mainmast should go, tearing down the ratlines on which the boarders were perched. The shrouds vibrated, twanging with the strain; a seaman losing his grip fell, arms and legs flailing, hitting the deck a few feet away with a grunt which could have indicated unconsciousness or annoyance.

  Then chaos: a great black bulging shape suddenly towering above him in the smoke – the San Nicolas’ bow. A moment’s silence then her stern smashed into the Kathleen’s side just forward of the mast, biting deep into the planking with a shock which nearly knocked him down. A nightmare of noise – wood cracking and crunching; ropes whiplashing as they snapped under enormous strain; water splashing, surging, gurgling; men shouting with almost maniacal voices, insane cries of ‘Kathleen! Kathleen! Kathleen!’ – cries coming, suddenly, and almost unbelievably from above him, from the San Nicolas.

  And slowly the Kathleen heeled: the San Nicolas’ bow was rolling her over as it rode into her hull, pressing her down under the massive curving forefoot.

  A rope swung past. Without realizing what he was doing he leapt up and out and grabbed it, managing to hold on with desperate energy, to find himself swinging over the water and the wreck of the cutter like a pendulum.

  On an upward swing he had a momentary glimpse of Jackson and other boarders scrambling through the lower rail. As he swung down again he saw below him the Kathleen’s gashed hull impaled by the San Nicolas’ stern.

  By flexing and stretching his legs he tried to get sufficient momentum to swing high enough to reach the anchor cable, but even as he began soaring up on the final swing the whole anchor came adrift and fell into the water with a splash and tearing of timber. He just managed to twist round in time to get a leg astride the lower rail with a thump which drove all the air out of his lungs. For a few moments, gasping for breath and trembling with excitement, he sat helpless, watching Jackson and Stafford just above him dodging through the main rail.

  Then he began climbing up after them and saw below the San Nicolas’ jib-boom hanging down, smashed into three pieces. With a curious detachment he registered the fact he’d succeeded in doing what he’d set out to do. He glanced down at the Kathleen – she was lying on her side like a stranded whale, the underwater section of her hull dark green with slime and wood and speckled with barnacles. And one of the flukes of the San Nicolas’ fallen anchor had pierced her hull and the strain on the cable was helping to hold her so she did not roll over completely.

  His brain was racing and even as he climbed he realized the Kathleen would fill in a very few minutes and, if her shrouds could take the strain, her dead weight pulling down on the San Nicholas’ bowsprit might break it off short and bring the mast with it. Then…but there was no more time to think: Jackson and Stafford were screaming at him and gesticulating upwards.

  Already the San Nicolas’ splintered foreroyal and topgallant masts were hanging down and now the foretopmast was bending forward like a bow. Even as he watched it suddenly split like a bamboo cane and slowly toppled down, bringing the yard and topsail with it. For a moment he thought it would crash on him, but the weight of the yard slewed it round so it plunged over the larboard side.

  Yet the wreck of the Kathleen was still being thrust through the water by the sheer bulk of the San Nicolas. Some Kathleens were standing on the side of the hull – which was almost horizontal – and quite unhurriedly (or so it seemed to Ramage) grasping various pieces of the Spanish ship’s severed rigging and beginning to climb up hand over hand to get on board.

  Ramage scrambled up on to the platform and in a moment was with Jackson, Stafford and several others crouching close against the beakhead bulkhead waiting for a hail of musket fire from the Spanish soldiers who before the collision had been firing into the Kathleen from the rail just above. But there was not so much as a face at the rail. Smoke which bit into the lungs and seared nostrils was still drifting from the Kathleen and when Ramage leaned cautiously over the head-rails and looked aft he saw a few Spaniards on the fo’c’sle at the bulwarks looking down to see what was happening under their bow.

  At once he realized the beakhead bulkhead was hiding the group of Kathleens: no one realized they were on board. For the next few minutes the Spaniards’ efforts would be concentrated on clearing away the wreckage of the mast and yards – and any moment the Kathleen would sink. If her last plunge snapped off the bowsprit, his task would be complete. So for the moment, he realized thankfully, there was nothing more the Kathleens need do: it’d be better to wait hidden on the beakhead platform. The Spaniards were already in complete confusion. If they showed any signs of sorting themselves out the Kathleens could discomfort them again with all the advantages of surprise.

  He gave orders to Jackson and to Stafford. The Cockney beckoned three men and climbed down to the lower rail and, out of sight of the Spaniards, began hauling other Kathleens on board as they swarmed up the hanging ropes and wreckage. Each man, soaking wet and shivering, then joined the group huddled against the bulkhead.

  Anxiously Ramage watched. Of his ‘Cartagena Sextet’ Rossi was missing. And there was no sign of Southwick. Finally he could wait no longer.

  ‘Jackson – go down and help Stafford. See if there’s any sign of Mr Southwick.’

  How long before some Spaniards came along the gangplank to the bowsprit – the ‘Marine’s Walk’, as it was called – and discovered them? Ramage told two of the men with half-pikes to stand guard and, as soon as anyone set foot on it, dis
pose of them quickly and silently with a sharp upward jab.

  Spaniards shouting like men demented, stern voices of authority swamped by yells of confusion and panic, the slopping of water under the bow, the steady thumping against the hull as waves caught the wreckage of the masts and yards hanging over the side – and even as Ramage absorbed the impressions, he sensed the ship slowly beginning to swing to larboard, up into the wind. He felt dizzy with relief – the San Nicolas, leading the Spanish van, was out of control!

  With the Kathleen athwart her bow, her great topmast and yards over the side dragging like an anchor, and the wind still filling the sails set on the other masts with nothing forward to balance them but the single sail left on the remains of the foremast, her stern was being forced round, throwing her bow up into the wind. And unless the Spaniards quickly braced the yards hard up to stop the wind getting forward of the beam, every sail would soon be a’back. Then, given the normal ration of confusion, the San Nicolas would quickly gather sternway and begin to drive astern through the rest of Cordoba’s ships which were following close in her wake. Ramage could scarcely believe that the little Kathleen had achieved so much.

  Gunfire – close astern, too! Peering round between the headrails he saw the Captain approaching – she was perhaps six hundred yards away, smoke from her guns streaming to leeward. Almost at once another broadside (which from its noise could come only from the Santísima Trinidad) echoed across the sea.

  Someone tugged his sleeve and he turned to find Southwick grinning at him, the white hair plastered down over his ears and forehead making him look like a bedraggled but happy old English sheepdog just emerging from the village pond.

  Ramage gripped his shoulders. ‘Are you hurt?’

  ‘No, sir! The mainsheet took a turn round my leg and I couldn’t get free, though.’

  ‘Standing in a bight of rope, Mr Southwick,’ Ramage accused him with a grin. ‘How many times have you rubbed down a man for that?’

  ‘Aye,’ Southwick admitted, ‘and I’d still be down there if it hadn’t been for Stafford and Jackson.’

  ‘What did they do?’

  ‘Came down again and cut me free. I was a bit rough with them because I thought they’d quit you.’

  Ramage laughed. ‘No, we’re taking it easy, the Dons don’t seem to have spotted us and they’re doing quite well without our help – for the moment, anyway.’

  Astern the rumble of guns was louder and closer. Still the San Nicolas’ bow continued swinging slowly to larboard, and a moment later noises like giant hands slapping wet cloth showed her sails were being taken a’back.

  Southwick grinned at Ramage. ‘No, they don’t need our help!’

  More Kathleens were climbing up on to the platform. The cutter, still on her side, was almost completely submerged: air escaping through hatches hissed and whistled out in great spurts and bubbles, like a sea monster gasping in its death throes.

  Southwick pointed at the shrouds hooked over the bowsprit. ‘Can’t understand how they’re holding. Wouldn’t believe it if I wasn’t seeing it myself.’

  Suddenly they both jumped with fear: without warning the huge bowsprit snapped like a carrot a few feet ahead of the figurehead. Ramage recovered just in time to yell ‘Duck!’

  Then came the crackling and groaning of a massive piece of timber splintering like a tree falling under a woodsman’s axe, and the whole foremast and foreyard slowly toppled over the starboard side, part of the foresail draping across the fo’c’sle and the rest hanging down in the water, hiding the wreck of the Kathleen like a pall.

  ‘Anyone hurt?’ demanded Ramage.

  There was no reply.

  The gunfire was nearer: much nearer. In fact he was sure a British ship was firing into the San Nicolas’ stern because all the shouting in Spanish came from aft.

  Then a whole broadside shook the ship.

  ‘My God!’ growled Southwick, ‘She’s being properly raked!’

  ‘Look sir,’ Jackson exclaimed.

  The Salvador del Mundo had put her helm up and was passing along the San Nicolas’ larboard side and even as they watched Stafford yelled from across the platform, ‘The Excellent! Cor, just look at ’er. Just like she was at Spithead!’

  Captain Collingwood’s ship was passing close along the other side of the San Nicolas and a ripple of red flashes sent the Kathleens crouching once again in a tangled heap against the bulkhead as the Excellent’s full broadside hit the San Nicolas. The whole ship shook as the heavy roundshot thudded into her timbers, and the little iron eggs of grapeshot sounded like metal rain, clanging as many ricocheted off metal.

  Then the Excellent was past. The San Nicolas did not reply; instead, through the bulkhead, the Kathleens could hear the chilling, almost demented screaming of badly wounded men.

  On the larboard side yet another Spanish ship was passing, keeping in the wake of the Salvador del Mundo. The Excellent began bracing up her yards, obviously intending to pass across the San Nicolas’ bows to engage the other two ships.

  Suddenly a thump shook the San Nicolas as though she had run on a rock. Ramage and Southwick glanced at each other, mystified. There was a sudden silence: the shouting stopped for several moments – even the wounded were quiet – and then began again with many voices raised in near panic. Ramage looked down to see the Kathleen had vanished – she’d obviously sunk when her shrouds tore away the San Nicolas’ bowsprit – and then scrambled up to peer over the bulkhead across the fo’c’sle. First he saw why the Spaniards had not spotted the Kathleens or anyway left them alone: in falling, the various sections or the foremast had swept the fo’c’sle clear, tearing guns from their carriages or overturning them, wrecking the belfry, shattering the fore-bitts and smashing some of the deck planking. Torn sails, some hanging over the side, hid more damage. Then he saw the reason for the thump: the massive stern of the San Josef was jammed hard up against the San Nicolas’ larboard side, her huge red, gold and red ensign flapping languidly against the main shrouds.

  Ramage dropped down again.

  ‘What did you see sir?’ Southwark asked excitedly. ‘What was it?’

  ‘Somehow we’ve run aboard the San Josef – or she’s run aboard us! I can’t make out how she got there, but her transom’s tucked hard up against our larboard side at the main chains. The Captain’s lost her foretopmast but she’s closing on our starboard quarter – it looks as though the Commodore’s going to lay her aboard us!’

  The men began to chatter among themselves.

  ‘Quiet, you fools,’ hissed Southwick. ‘There are five hundred or so Dons still on board this ship!’

  Ramage realized that if the Commodore really did board, the San Josef might send over men to help the San Nicolas – it’d be easy enough: they merely had to jump on board.

  ‘Listen, men. There are enough of us to help the Captain’s boarders. I know most of you aren’t armed, but we’ll split into two parties. My original boarders will go first and make for the quarterdeck. Mr Southwick will lead the rest of you – you’ll find plenty of the Dons’ muskets and pikes lying around. And once you get aft keep on shouting “Kathleens here!” otherwise you’ll find yourselves shot or run through by the Captains.

  ‘Mr Southwick – while my party makes for the quarterdeck, I want yours to keep along the larboard side to cover the San Josef. If she sends men over it’ll be up to you to stop them.’

  With that Ramage climbed up the bulkhead for another look. The San Josef was still jammed against the San Nicolas; the Captain was four hundred yards off and bearing down for the San Nicolas’ quarter.

  He dropped down to the platform again and, remembering he still had Southwick’s sword, began to take off the belt, but the Master stopped him.

  ‘You’ll be leading, sir. I’ll find a cutlass.’

  Ramage protested but saw Southwick wanted him to keep it.

  ‘Now, where are my men?’

  Jackson, Stafford and the others crowded round him.
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br />   ‘Right – all of you against the bulkhead. The rest stand by to give us a leg up: we want to surprise ’em. Now, no shouting until I shout “Kathleens”. We may get quite a way aft before they spot us coming.’

  Again the San Nicolas shook to the sound of an enormous thump. One of the seamen gave Ramage a leg up. The Captain’s bow had hit the San Nicolas’ starboard quarter: her bowsprit was right across the Spanish ship’s poop, her spritsail yard hooked up in the mizzen shrouds. Already the Captain’s boarding parties were grouped along her bulwarks ready to jump, and there were soldiers among them – he remembered she was carrying a detachment of the 69th Foot. As Ramage called down to Southwick to warn the men of the soldiers, there was a cracking of musket fire from the troops in the San Nicolas and Ramage saw several of the Captain’s men fall.

  ‘Right men, up you come. Give me a shove, blast you!’

  The man heaved up so hard Ramage pitched right over the rail and, before he could get his balance, fell flat on his back on the fo’c’sle, the hilt of Southwick’s sword knocking all the breath out of him. More of the Kathleens came up over the rail and Jackson was kneeling beside him.

  ‘You hit, sir?’

  ‘No, I tripped. Come on!’

  In a moment Ramage was on his feet leading the men in a wild dash across the fo’c’sle, scrambling over the thick folds of the foresail, pieces of masts and yards and tangled cordage. Right aft he could see British seamen’s cutlasses glinting as they scrambled from the Captain’s spritsail yard on to the San Nicolas’ mizzen rigging. Spanish soldiers were shooting up at them and sailors stood ready with boarding pikes. Then a rattle of musket fire from the Captain cut down several of the Spaniards.

  Meanwhile the bow of the San Josef was swinging and she’d soon be lying right alongside the San Nicolas.

  Suddenly he realized he was empty-handed: Southwick’s sword was bumping the back of his legs – he hadn’t hauled the belt round. As he ran he dragged at it, grabbed the hilt and by drawing it over his head managed to get it clear. He tugged a pistol from his belt and cocked it with his left thumb. Three Spaniards suddenly appeared from behind a gun they’d obviously been skulking there out of the way – and ran aft yelling to raise the alarm. Jackson flung his half-pike like a spear and the farthest fell, a rag doll tossed on the floor, making the two others turn.