Ramage and the Freebooters

by Dudley Pope

‘I know that, blast you!’ Ramage snapped. ‘But not that wrong. Anyway, we’ve looked into the place with a telescope twice from seaward.’

  ‘Sorry sir.’

  Clearly he wasn’t; nor did Ramage’s short temper at times like this upset him.

  They were approaching the palms fast now.

  ‘It’s a narrow spit, by God!’ Jackson exclaimed. ‘Why, it isn’t four yards wide!’

  Through the palms Ramage could now see the star-speckled water of the outer bay extending for several hundred yards, with mountains on both sides. And then he saw the mountains almost meeting to form the slot in the cliffs that was the entrance from seaward. It was dead ahead, and Jackson saw it a moment later, just as Gorton ran back to report it.

  But there was no way to it: the palm trees cut it off!

  With a growing sense of desperation, knowing the spit was barely forty yards away, Ramage forced himself to look slowly from side to side, eyes straining in the darkness for a glimpse of a channel. But there was nothing; just mountains to starboard sloping down to the spit which stretched across to join the mountains on the other side. He shrugged his shoulders. Twenty yards, fifteen, ten…

  ‘Stand by!’ he shouted. ‘Brace yourselves!’

  The initial shock shouldn’t be too great: the Jorum’s forefoot would ride up the sloping sand until it could force its way no farther.

  Five yards…any second now: her bowsprit was almost between two palm trees. And – but it was between two palm trees and still going on: the bow wasn’t lifting as she rode up on the sand, nor was she slowing.

  Both Jackson and Gorton swore in disbelief.

  A violent crash shook the Jorum, timber wrenching against timber, but she kept going: one palm tree toppled to starboard, another to port. Somewhere ropes were parting, slashing into the water on either side like great whips.

  ‘Take the helm, Jackson!’

  Ramage leapt to look over the side as the Jorum swept on in the darkness, more palms toppling – one hooked in the bowsprit was being carried along – until she was sailing through the middle of the spit, with the sound of timber scraping along her hull.

  And in the water, swirling, turning, lit by patches of pale green phosphorescence, Ramage could see baulks of timber, lighter planks, and several palm trees floating.

  The cunning devils! No wonder no one had ever seen in – or out – of the lagoon!

  But now what? As he jumped back to the tiller he saw the seaward entrance clearly, dead ahead and about 750 yards away. To larboard a narrow sandy beach ran round the edge of the bay; to starboard more sand at the foot of the hills but the pale green of phosphorescence showing where the sea lapped round isolated rocks.

  Do something, you damned fool, he told himself; otherwise you’ll be out to sea again! Astern there was a clear gap in the spit where the Jorum had burst through.

  ‘Hard over!’ he hissed at Jackson. ‘We’ll beach her on the larboard side there, abreast those two rocks!’

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ Jackson said cheerfully. ‘That’ll leave Dupont’s crowd on the other shore!’

  ‘Stand by!’ Ramage shouted, ‘we’re going to beach. This time we’ll do it properly!’

  Several of the men cheered and others laughed; then as a few of them began chanting ‘Tritons! Stand by the Tritons!’ the rest took it up until every man in the Jorum, Ramage included, was shouting it at the top of his voice.

  Even as he bellowed Ramage felt an insane urge to giggle: how many ships had ever been run aground deliberately with their crews yelling what was almost a battle cry?

  Then she hit: her bow rose slightly, canting up the bowsprit as though she was meeting a sea, and she stopped. Timber creaked, then there was a crunch as the foremast slowly leaned forward, ropes twanging as they parted under the strain, the foresail flapping as it went with the mast. For the last part of its fall the mast seemed to speed up; then it crashed down on the starboard bow, splintering the bulwarks.

  The sudden silence was broken first by the squawking of birds disturbed by the schooner’s unexpected arrival: then the frogs, frightened into a momentary silence, resumed their usual chattering.

  Ramage called: ‘Anyone hurt?’ but there was no reply.

  ‘Jackson – take half a dozen men and search through the wreckage of the foremast in case anyone’s trapped.’

  As the American ran forward Ramage turned to Gorton: ‘Man the swivels: larboard side cover the beach, starboard side the rest of the bay.’

  ‘But what happened, sir?’ The man seemed dazed.

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘The spit – we just…’

  ‘Both spits are still there – look, there’s the one on the north side with the clump of palms, and there’s the southern one, with the other clump. The channel’s between the two – where we came through.’

  ‘But – so help me, sir,’ Gorton burst out, ‘there were palm trees right across there. You saw them!’

  Ramage laughed, realizing Gorton hadn’t understood the privateersmen’s trick.

  ‘Yes, plenty of palm trees. Only they were growing in a great raft. Haul the raft to one side, two privateers and their prize go in through the gap; haul the raft back and close it again, and there’s a complete row of palm trees hiding the inner bay. If you’re looking through the entrance with a telescope from seaward you’d simply think your bearing made it appear the tips of the spits overlapped slightly; you’d never dream the “overlap” was a raft of palms hiding a jetty and a couple of privateers!’

  Gorton swore softly.

  With the Jorum hard aground and no chance of floating off on a rising tide – the rise and fall here was only a few inches – Ramage gave the order to furl the mainsail, and then posted lookouts.

  Then he sat down on the tiller, thankful for a few minutes in which to collect his thoughts but realizing that being aground on the southern shore of the outer bay was not really much different from being secured alongside the jetty on the northern shore of the lagoon, except that Dupont and his men now had a couple of miles’ walk to get at them, unless they had more boats.

  In a few minutes, he thought to himself, he’d send some men on shore to climb up the hills at the entrance to see if the Triton was in sight. It was time to light a bonfire and fire another rocket to help Southwick before Dupont arrived or the privateers tried to make a bolt for it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  With his lungs feeling they were about to burst and the muscles in his shins aching so much he was almost crying with pain, Jackson hauled himself up to the rock on top of the cliffs forming the southern entrance to Marigot and looked seaward. For many seconds the darkness was just a red haze, the air whistling in his throat as he struggled for breath and perspiration running into his eyes despite the white cloth round his head.

  Gradually, as he regained his breath and his head stopped throbbing, the horizon took on a definite outline. And to the south-west, a small dark shadow in the distance, he saw the brig.

  He was too weary to be impatient with Mr Ramage: he knew Mr Southwick would be there. The swearing and grumbling behind him grew louder, then the crackling of twigs as men barged their way through the low bushes. A moment later Gorton, followed by several Tritons, joined him.

  ‘Ah – just nicely placed to catch the offshore wind, Jacko!’ he commented. ‘He’ll be up here in an hour. Wonder if he saw our rocket?’

  ‘Doubt it,’ Jackson said. ‘Is Evans here?’

  ‘Aye and m’rockets.’

  ‘The rest of you men – start collecting stuff for bonfires,’ Gorton said. ‘One here, one there and a third just beyond.’

  Gorton pointed down to the entrance to Marigot and said to Jackson. ‘Not very wide…’

  ‘No – I’m not surprised they towed us in.’

  From up here Jackson could just make out the gap where the Jorum smashed through the raft, showing the channel between the sandspits leading into the lagoon. And almost directly below where he
stood was the dark shape of the Jorum, like a stranded whale thrown up on a beach.

  The two privateers, which had been anchored at the inner side of the lagoon, were indistinguishable against the background of mangrove swamps, showing they were very close in because the water of the bay was smooth and shining in the darkness.

  ‘What d’you reckon Mr Ramage plans to do, Jacko?’ Gorton asked.

  ‘Don’t reckon he has a plan. Can’t have, if you think about it. We can’t start anything; just wait to see what the privateers do and hope the Triton gets here in time. We’ve done our share – it’s up to her now.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Well, we’ve found the privateers’ base and they’re still in it. Until the Triton gets here we’ve got to stop ’em getting out if they try to bolt, because if they get to sea we’d never catch them. But that’s all, as far as I can see.’

  ‘Is that why he beached the Jorum just down there?’

  ‘Yes, though if they really try to sail we probably can’t stop them with your swivels. Knowing Mr Ramage, my guess is he reckons the privateers won’t try to because they think we can stop ’em!’

  ‘He’s a cool one,’ Gorton said. ‘I was still trying to puzzle out why we went through the spit like that when he beached her.’

  Gorton’s admiration was genuine and frankly spoken, and Jackson said, ‘He’s a cool one all right. You get used to it, though! You ought to have been with us when we rammed a Spanish sail of the line in our last ship – a cutter not much bigger’n your schooner!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Tell you later – we’d better start getting back to the Jorum. Old Dupont could be paying us a visit soon!’

  Gorton nodded as he looked round and saw the men had built up three piles of brushwood and were having to scramble down the side of the hill to cut more. And the Triton would have no difficulty in laying the entrance on this tack.

  ‘Evans – loose off one of your rockets.’

  He saw the glow of a slow-match as Evans blew on it; then the rocket spurted flame for a moment before hissing up into the sky, to burst high over their heads.

  He looked over at the Triton, and a couple of minutes later a white rocket rose lazily from the brig and burst into several white stars. He knew Southwick would already have taken a bearing of Evans’ rocket and even now was probably bending over the chart, working out whence it had been launched.

  Gorton gave the men their instructions. ‘Light one bonfire in fifteen minutes’ time. Watch for any rockets from the Triton – they might send one up just to make sure it’s our bonfire and not one lit by the privateersmen. If you see one, then Evans is to fire one. Is that clear?’

  ‘Aye aye.’

  ‘The bonfire may last ten minutes. Now use your common sense how soon you light the second and third, but the third one must be burning when the Triton’s very close. Mr Ramage may send a boat to meet her, so make sure a man comes down to tell him when she’s a mile off.’

  ‘What if we spot anything back there – where the privateers are, or Dupont’s men?’ Evans asked.

  ‘Good point. Three pistol shots for privateers moving, two for Dupont’s men. And send a man down with a message as well – fast!’

  Ramage suddenly realized he’d made a bad mistake when Evans’ rocket soared up, and later he glanced up at the hill to see the glow of the first bonfire, a bright beacon signalling his stupidity.

  He sat down on the hatch coaming, cursing softly. Up to the moment the rocket was fired from the top of the hill all the privateersmen knew was that their prize schooner was a trap. There was nothing to make them suspect one of His Majesty’s brigs of war was in the offing.

  Most likely they would try to destroy the Jorum by boarding from the beach – probably waiting until daylight – and then sail both privateers to some other hiding place.

  It was unlikely the rocket fired from the Jorum when she was alongside the jetty would have alarmed them: an hour had passed without anything happening. But now the rocket from the hilltop and the bonfire was a clear warning that one of the King’s ships was close enough to need a beacon…

  And, Ramage told himself angrily, if Dupont – or whoever leads them – has any sense, he’ll make a bolt for it now: he’ll try to get both privateers to sea at once, before a warship arrives off the entrance to blockade him in.

  Ramage jumped up and walked along the deck cursing aloud, men scattering out of his way, startled at his behaviour. Suddenly his foot caught on a rope and he pitched flat on his face.

  Scrambling up and livid with anger he bellowed: ‘Jackson, why the devil’s this rope lying all over the deck?’

  ‘Dunno sir, I didn’t put it there.’

  ‘Who did?’

  Jackson hesitated, then said flatly, ‘Dunno, sir.’

  ‘Tell me, blast you, or I’ll have you flogged!’

  ‘Well sir, it’s part of the foremast shrouds, so in a way you…’

  It was farcical and Ramage knew it, suddenly bursting out laughing. The more he laughed the more farcical it seemed and everyone on board joined in. By the time he had managed to stop, Ramage thought of the men shouting their makeshift battle cry as the Jorum ran aground, and that set him off again until, hiccoughing and with tears streaming from his eyes, he staggered back to the coaming and sat down again.

  Gradually the laughing died down, and soon Jackson was standing in front of him.

  ‘Ship’s cleared for action, sir, and I’ve had the boat hoisted out, too.’

  ‘Good. Are you proposing a fishing trip with Fuller?’

  Jackson laughed. ‘Well sir, Fuller did bring his fishing line.’

  ‘Is that true?’

  Ramage knew the Suffolk man lived for fishing, and Jackson sounded serious.

  ‘Yes sir – he never moves without his line.’

  ‘Pity he’s up the hill, then, because you’re in for a long row soon.’

  ‘Can I pick my men now, sir?’

  ‘Yes – but you’re not going for a while.’

  As Jackson walked away Ramage looked at his watch. More than an hour since the Jorum broke through the raft – more than time enough for Dupont to lead his men round the bay – even allowing that he would have to climb into the hills to avoid the mangrove swamps. Or had Dupont boarded one of the privateers?

  Yes – that was a possibility. Each privateer was short of the fifty or so men, not to mention the boats, who had been killed with the grenades. Had they more boats? Unlikely – Ramage knew if he had been a privateer skipper faced with boarding the Jorum he would have sent off every available man and boat. Which also meant that if Dupont hadn’t a boat at the jetty, they’d have to make a raft to go on board the privateers because few of the men would be able to swim; certainly none would risk sharks by swimming in the dark.

  The devil take it; if only he could calculate all the possibilities at the same time, instead of having a series of afterthoughts which meant it was ages before he managed to make the right decisions. And his present tiredness didn’t help.

  All right, assume the privateers will make a bolt for it. To stop them the Jorum has the five swivels, half a dozen musketoons and a few pistols. And twice that number wouldn’t stop them – not desperate men always living in the shadow of the noose, knowing no one would show them mercy, that capture meant trial and the death sentence as pirates, whether or not they carried letters of marque.

  Very well. It was three hundred yards from the Jorum to the other side of the bay. How wide was the channel? How close did the privateers have to pass to get out? A couple of ideas drifted through his mind, but he had to concentrate on overcoming his weariness before he could hold on to them long enough to examine their possibilities.

  He called for Jackson and told him: ‘Find a leadline – or make one up. Then take the boat and run a line of soundings from here to the far shore over there. I want to see where the channel is, so we know how close the privateers have to pass.’

  W
ithin twenty minutes Jackson was back to report that although the channel was fifty yards wide, the deepest part was close to the Jorum, which was lying right on the southern edge where the water shoaled suddenly from five fathoms to one. On the north side it shoaled gradually, he said, adding: ‘Plenty of nasty little rocks sticking up, too, all along that side of the channel – like buoys at Spithead, sir!’

  ‘Could you drop a bight of the anchor cable over one of them?’

  Jackson slapped his knee. ‘To make a snare? Easy, sir!’

  ‘Carry on and do it, then. Pass it through the Jorum’s hawse first and we’ll haul in the slack later.’

  Jackson ran forward, calling for men.

  The first bonfire up on the hill had gone out. Orion’s belt, Sirius, Castor and Pollux… The stars were moving across the sky on their preordained curves. Curious that Betelgeuse was so red and Sirius so sparkling white. As he looked down again he found he was almost dazzled by the stars, the hillside across the bay seeming speckled with fireflies.

  Partly dazzled…again an idea slid through his mind. Dazzled! The men at the privateers’ helm, the captain probably standing in the bow conning her, anxious in the darkness to keep in the channel yet avoid the Jorum, and equally watchful for a sudden windshift or eddy off the cliffs.

  And as he gets abreast the Jorum…

  As the seamen heaved down on the windlass bars to turn the drum, which looked like an enormous cotton-reel, Ramage watched the cable curving upwards out of the sea, dripping as the strain squeezed out the water from between the strands.

  From the schooner the cable stretched right across the channel to the rock on the far side where it was secured, and forming a gigantic trip rope which would be invisible in the darkness.

  ‘Pity we can’t get a bit higher, sir,’ Jackson commented. ‘It’d take out their foremast for sure.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ Ramage said, ‘but anyway we can’t.’

  ‘Reckon it’ll damage them much?’

  ‘No – I doubt if it’ll damage them at all.’

  Jackson was silent for a minute or two, puzzling out its purpose if it wasn’t going to do any damage. He finally had to admit defeat.