Ramage and the Freebooters

by Dudley Pope

  ‘May I ask…’

  Ramage, surprised at the American’s bewilderment, said, ‘After we broke through the raft, we had a devil of a job trying to see where the channel was, didn’t we?’

  Jackson agreed.

  ‘But they’ve been in and out dozens of times and know where the channel is,’ Ramage continued. ‘Very well, they get abeam of us, nicely in the middle of the channel, but jumpy because we’re firing on them with the swivels…’

  Unintentionally Ramage paused, visualizing its happening.

  ‘…Suddenly the ship hits something. If you were the skipper what’d be your first reaction?’

  ‘That we’d hit a rock!’

  ‘But you know you’re in the channel.’

  ‘Then I’d be damned uneasy, sir!’

  ‘What would you do?’

  ‘Well, I’d take a quick look over the side and make sure!’

  ‘All of which,’ Ramage said dryly, ‘would have wasted several seconds just as you’re abreast of the Jorum.’

  ‘True enough!’ Jackson said emphatically.

  ‘But you’d be even more jumpy if in fact the Jorum hadn’t, up to that moment, so much as fired a pistol at you.’

  The American waited, then knew that was all he was going to be told. He’d been through many adventures with his captain; on more than one occasion he’d known – or, he corrected himself, thought he knew – they’d be killed; but each time Mr Ramage had produced some apparently crazy idea which saved them.

  And yet, Jackson realized, the ideas usually revolved round one sort of – well, almost a rule, which Mr Ramage was always trying to din into him: surprise. You could nearly always lessen the odds by surprising the enemy.

  It had become a sort of game between them, too. All right, he thought, Mr Ramage had explained the purpose of the cable – just to make sure the first privateer captain is jumpy, so the cable’s only part of the plot. But as usual Mr Ramage had given him a clue – if the Jorum had not, up to that moment ‘so much as fired a pistol…’

  Suppose the moment Mr Ramage felt the privateer hit the cable he opened fire with the swivels, musketoons and pistols? No, that was too obvious; he had something else up his sleeve, and Jackson couldn’t fathom it.

  Ramage looked at his watch and then glanced aft. The three men standing there as lookout were reliable and one of them had the night-glass. Surely Dupont had managed to get on board one of the privateers by now? Ramage felt confident the man didn’t intend attacking the Jorum from the beach. He walked over to Gorton, calling to Jackson: ‘Muster the hands aft; I want to have a word with them.’

  As soon as the men were gathered round, with the three lookouts listening, Ramage stood with Gorton and explained his plan should the privateers try to sail out. As soon as he finished he asked if there were any questions, but there was none, and as he dismissed them the men scurried off in the darkness to prepare themselves.

  A few minutes later Ramage heard one lookout speak sharply to another and saw he now held the night-glass to his eye.

  Suddenly he turned.

  ‘Captain, sir: the nearest privateer’s weighing and she’s just hoisting a headsail!’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  As Ramage stood at the taffrail, night-glass to his eye and watching the opening where the Jorum had smashed through the raft, Jackson murmured: ‘Like a ferret watching a rabbit hole!’

  ‘Mutinous words, Jackson. Five dozen lashes at least.’

  Jackson chuckled. ‘Well, I’d sooner be on the ferret’s side…’

  ‘And flattery doesn’t get promotion in this ship.’

  Seeing the first privateer was now fifty yards from the gap but there was no sign of movement in the second, Ramage said: ‘You’d better check that the lads in the boat are ready and their slow-match hasn’t gone out.’

  The privateer was now hoisting her mainsail and foresail. The wind was easterly, eight or nine knots.

  And Ramage’s hand was trembling with excitement, making it doubly difficult to follow the movements of the privateer in the night-glass, which inverted the image. But, he warned himself, the minutes it took that privateer to reach the Jorum were going to be among the most important in his life.

  There was a hail from the shore. He swung round and answered.

  ‘From Evans, sir: the Triton’s a mile off, just south-west of the headland and he’s going to loose off a rocket – gawd, there it goes now!’

  ‘Very well, tell Evans–’

  ‘An’ he’s lighting the bonfire – we got a lot more brushwood to keep–’

  ‘Very well, get back to Evans and tell him the first privateer’s trying to get out. Smartly now!’

  ‘Aye aye, sir!’

  As Ramage turned back to watch the privateer his body went rigid: blast! Another mistake. The Jorum’s boat should be setting off to warn Southwick. Who to send? He wanted to hold on to Jackson…

  The privateer was two hundred yards off, the phosphorescence of her bow wave giving her a pale green moustache. Neatly trimmed.

  ‘Stafford! Jackson! Lay aft here!’

  Both men were beside him in a moment.

  ‘Jackson – I’m changing the plan. Stafford – you’ve got to go at once in the boat to Mr Southwick. You see the privateer? Good – well, the Triton’s a mile south-west of the entrance. Get out to her as fast as you can, tell Mr Southwick the position here and – listen carefully – tell him to heave-to right off the entrance. If there’s shooting going on, he’s to wait for daylight. But if he sees two white lights at our bow, one above the other, send a boat in for orders. Take a false-fire and a slow-match so Mr Southwick sees you. Hurry!’

  ‘Best o’ luck, sir!’

  ‘Thanks, Stafford. Now, Jackson, you do your job here on board: get the gear out of the boat!’

  The privateer was now a hundred yards off, approaching fast: she’d picked up a puff of wind and was bringing it with her. Hell fire, she was making four or five knots… The cable – she’d barely feel the bump.

  ‘Jackson – you ready?’

  ‘Aye aye, sir, here at the mainchains.’

  ‘Very well. Everyone else standing by?’

  A low chorus told him the men were ready and waiting, several of them crouched below the bulwark holding the slow-matches which looked like red glow-worms.

  ‘Swivels!’ Ramage called softly. ‘Not a man to fire until I give the order. Aim at the quarterdeck.’

  Fifty yards – and doing more than five knots. No, less – hard to tell because she was foreshortened. Her sails, broad off with the sheets eased to catch every scrap of wind, seemed enormous.

  Would she open fire? He imagined privateersmen sighting along the barrels, each gun loaded with many grapeshot, each one a piece of solid iron the size of a hen’s egg. Men sighting and ordering their crews to train a few degrees this way or that, preparing to fire right at the Jorum’s quarterdeck, just where he was standing: just the position he had told his own men to aim for in the privateer.

  Bile tasted sour in his throat as he almost vomited: he was cold, perspiration like ice on his forehead, his mouth full of saliva now and more coming every second, welling up under his tongue, his teeth furred. Just fear, and his duty to hide it from the men… Too close now for the night-glass and he put it down, wrenching out his pistols.

  Stretching out each thumb to cock them helped steady his nerves. Click, click. Two duelling pistols ready for action against a privateer. Each lead ball might dent the paintwork, but holding them helped him. Nothing like a firm grip on a pistol butt to instil bravery.

  Twenty-five yards – barely her own length. Blast, how long did it take for a –

  And he shouldn’t be standing there anyway! He turned and sprinted forward, almost weeping at his stupidity. As he reached the bow and stood with his foot on the cable, he looked hurriedly across at the black bulk of the privateer gliding along, the silence broken only by the lapping of water at her bow.

  She�
��d almost reached the cable: her stem must be within a few yards.

  Why didn’t they fire into the Jorum? Stupid question – the flash of the guns would blind the privateer’s captain.

  The sudden jerk on the cable so startled Ramage that he leapt back and it was a second before he yelled: ‘Jackson! Light up!’

  Almost at once the unreal, bright blue glow from the false-fire lit up the whole bay.

  And slowly the privateer slewed round until she was heading for the opposite shore, her booms and gaffs crashing as they gybed over.

  ‘Swivels – fire!’

  And all along the Jorum’s side the flash-crash of the guns firing – one, two-three-four, five. The uneven spacing showed each man was aiming carefully, not firing just because the next one did.

  ‘Into their rigging now – rockets!’

  Blast, if he had the night-glass he’d be able to –

  Suddenly the unearthly hiss and meteor-trail of two signal rockets racing almost horizontally across the bay straight at the privateer, exploding in showers of sparks as they hit, large red pieces ricocheting in all directions – red pieces which suddenly burst into red stars. And a few moments later he saw tongues of flame as burning fragments lodging in sails and rigging were fanned by the wind.

  Jackson was tugging his arm. ‘She’s aground, she’s aground, sir!’

  Ramage nodded numbly: he hadn’t noticed. Yes, her bearing wasn’t changing: she was lying at the same angle to the north shore as the Jorum was to the south. And with a bit of luck she’d bilged herself on a rock! Had she taken on a list, or was it an illusion caused by her sails swinging? And down by the stern? Hard to tell with the false-fire throwing such weird shadows.

  But she was still full of privateersmen: full of men who, if they could get on board the Jorum (and they might yet), would slit their throats and enjoy doing it.

  ‘Swivels!’ Ramage snapped. ‘Fire!’

  As the whiplash crack of the five guns echoed back and forth across the bay Ramage turned to Jackson and snarled: ‘What happened to the musketoons?’

  ‘All ready, sir.’

  ‘Musketoons – open fire, smartly now!’

  ‘Damn and blast, what–’

  ‘Jackson, get aft and see if there’s any sign of the second privateer weighing. The night-glass is on the rudderhead.’

  One by one the musketoons added their quota of musket balls. The false-fire, spluttering away by the mainchains with two men standing near with buckets of water in case it set fire to the ship, was dazzling him, but it helped the men aiming.

  He saw that one by one the swivels were being reloaded, but his anger was ebbing. There were few seamen who’d show a moment’s mercy to privateersmen, but somehow this seemed like cold-blooded murder.

  ‘Lookouts report no sign of movement from the second one, sir,’ Jackson reported, handing him the night-glass. ‘I had a good look. Men on deck – all crowded up trying to get a sight of what’s happening here.’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘Swivels are loaded, sir.’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘And the musketoons.’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘They’ll finish us off to a man if they get the chance, sir…’

  ‘I know,’ Ramage said dully. ‘Five more rounds each from the swivels and the musketoons. We’ve got to save some powder and shot for the other one…’

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ Jackson said, and because he knew his captain he took a few paces before giving the order to resume firing.

  The bonfire was burning brightly on top of the hill. Had Stafford managed to reach the Triton? Through the glass he saw the privateer’s transom had been smashed in by the Jorum’s swivels. There were a few men at her bow and some others in the water, swimming towards the beach.

  The moment Jackson woke him, Ramage realized it was dawn: the few stars still visible were disappearing in a cold grey light. He was cold and stiff from lying on deck in the lee of the taffrail.

  ‘The Triton’s still hove-to just off the entrance. No sign of life on the privateer opposite but there’s movement on the other one in the lagoon.’

  Jackson helped Ramage stand up. ‘Hope you feel fresher now, sir.’

  ‘I feel like a corpse. And you?’

  ‘Fine sir, but I had an hour’s more sleep than you.’

  ‘Where’s a tub?’

  Jackson pointed to a wooden bucket by the hatch coaming. Ramage walked over, knelt down and ducked his head into it. Suddenly he stood up, rubbing his eyes and swearing.

  ‘Jackson, you damned fool! I meant fresh water!’

  ‘But it was, sir – someone must’ve emptied it and refilled it from over the side!’

  Although his eyes were stinging. Ramage was now certainly wide awake. He blinked a few times and then looked seaward. And there was the Triton, foretopsail backed, lying hove-to just outside the entrance. The privateer opposite, sails still hoisted, seemed deserted.

  In the few moments before he had fallen asleep an hour ago, leaving Gorton in command while he had a brief rest, he’d had an idea and was thankful sleep hadn’t erased it from his memory. Now to test it.

  ‘Gorton, Jackson – here a moment.’

  Without any preliminaries he abruptly asked the schooner captain: ‘Just imagine you command the second privateer. Would you have guessed why the first one went aground?’

  ‘From that distance, I’d have reckoned the false-fire dazzled ’em and they missed the channel.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have guessed the cable was there?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Gorton said emphatically. ‘And the rockets went off after they’d turned.’

  ‘Very well. You’re still the second privateer’s skipper. What would you do now?’

  Gorton thought for a moment, then said emphatically: ‘Wait for daylight – say another half an hour – and then make a bolt for it.’

  ‘And you think you’d succeed?’

  Gorton nodded.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’d reckon there’s nothing the Jorum can do to confuse me – I’d be able to see the channel. And what’s more, I’d keep shooting at her – which the first one couldn’t do for fear of dazzling herself.’

  ‘So the fact the Jorum’s here wouldn’t bother you.’

  ‘No sir. After all, the privateer carries six-pounders. She knows we’ve only got the swivels.’

  ‘But she can see the Triton hove-to at the entrance,’ Ramage pointed out.

  ‘Wouldn’t bother me, sir – with due respect,’ he added quickly. ‘Let’s see – the privateer gets out on this easterly wind. But that’s a head-wind for the Triton. To cover the entrance the Triton’s got to stay hove-to, heading north-east on one tack or south-east on the other. Either way that means she’s got the entrance fine on one bow or other.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So I’d steer straight for her – don’t forget the privateer’s fore-and-aft rigged – making sure I keep out of the way of her broadside guns.

  ‘Now,’ Gorton said excitedly, waving a finger. ‘The Triton won’t know which tack to fill on to stop me ’cos she doesn’t know if I’m going to pass across her bow or under her stern. But whichever I do, in this light wind, she won’t get round in time!’

  Gorton sounded utterly confident and Ramage knew he’d spoken honestly – and sensibly. He nodded. ‘I agree; not a thing she can do to stop you.’

  ‘My oath!’ Jackson interjected. ‘After all this we’ve got to let one of ’em slip through our fingers!’ Then, seeing Ramage glowering at him and rubbing his brow, he added hastily, ‘I mean it’d be a pity if we did, sir.’

  ‘Jacko’s right, sir,’ Gorton said. ‘Surely–’ he broke off, correctly interpreting the American’s expression, and added cautiously: ‘What had you in mind, sir?’

  ‘The quickest way of getting yourself killed is to assume your enemy can’t work out what you’ll do. Particularly as – in this case – you’ve only one course of a
ction yourself. What you’ve described is the only thing the privateer can do.’

  Both Jackson and Gorton nodded like penitent schoolboys, but a few moments later Gorton said: ‘I can see that, sir, but I’m afraid I can’t see what else the Triton can do either!’

  ‘Forget the Triton for a moment and try to guess at what point the privateer’s virtually defenceless!’

  ‘Just as she’s going out through the entrance!’ Jackson interrupted promptly.

  ‘More than that,’ Gorton corrected. ‘From the time she passes us until she gets to the entrance, sir? That’s about three hundred yards.’

  Ramage nodded, feeling embarrassed at his earlier pomposity.

  ‘Yes, and from where she’s anchored now to here is a good six hundred yards. So if the Triton’s waiting hove-to six hundred yards off the entrance and gets under way at the same time, she can beat in…’

  ‘And catch the privateer in the entrance and either drive her on the rocks or blow her to pieces with a broadside!’ Gorton said triumphantly.

  ‘Preferably both!’ Jackson added.

  ‘Preferably both,’ Ramage repeated. ‘Now listen, Gorton, the Jorum’s cable isn’t likely to help this time – they might see it and panic, but I doubt it. Yet for the Triton to have the best chance – she’s going to have trouble weathering the headland if the wind doesn’t shift – the Jorum’s going to have to make a diversion; just enough to stop the privateersmen from concentrating too hard!’

  ‘We didn’t do too badly last time,’ Jackson said.

  ‘No – but that was in the dark. How many rockets left?’

  ‘Only two,’ Gorton said. ‘I counted ’em just now. Plenty of powder and shot for the swivels and musketoons, and we can make some smoke with false-fires.’

  By now Ramage was hardly listening. He’d been putting off the decision for some time, but now he had made up his mind. Whoever was commanding the Triton if she hit a rock or was put aground, so the privateer escaped, would face a court of inquiry and probably a court martial. It was not fair to leave Southwick to face that.

  But – and this was the reason for delaying the decision – Southwick would be very disappointed if Ramage resumed command now. Yet Ramage knew he should: the chances of intercepting the privateer without damage were – well, slender. Southwick might hesitate to ram, for example; but losing the brig would be a small price to pay if it finally squared the privateer’s yards.