by Dudley Pope
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 bun 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, me privateers-men 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 head-sails slatted viciously, 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 forum 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 privateers-men 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. 1 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 die Fleet—that's if he's not hanged at the foreyardarm.'
'But you won't------'
'I'll probably inform the Admiral, yes.'
'But, ski' 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 I Yes, several boats were rowing near-by, 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 wer
e 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 privateers-men were on board the Jorum at the moment, and if Gorton and his crew had been 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 knock 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 'eg 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.
'Stand by, Tritons!' he whispered hoarsely, his voice almost drowned as one of the big beams was suddenly lifted and dragged dear, exposing a long narrow slot through which he could see stars shining. The weak flame of the lantern lit the underside of furled sails and part of the rigging, so that it looked like long spiders' webs covered with hoar frost.
Another plank lifted and was dragged dear, and the sight of a man's head outlined against the sky. A second man standing astride the gap and bending down to lift an end of the next beam. And a third and a fourth man helping, lifting and hurling it clear so it fell to the deck with a crash.
Six more beams to be lifted out. Would someone pick up the lantern and peer down into the hold to see what the Jorum was carrying before the last was hoisted dear?
Ramage's question was answered by one of the men calling to someone several yards away. 'Tell Dupont and the rest of 'em we're nearly ready.'
Footsteps receding? Ramage was certain he heard the tread of someone walking along a wooden jetty. But where on earth could they be, with a jetty? Damnation! So concerned about the jetty, Ramage had wasted several seconds before realizing he must attack immediately, before 'Dupont and the rest of 'em' arrived, and promptly bellowed:
'Get'em, Tritons!'
As he grabbed the edge of the coaming and swung himself up it seemed the entire hold erupted with hundreds of men screaming 'Tritons! Tritons! Tritons!'
The four men lifting off the beams ran for the bulwark yelling wildly in fear and surprise. A pistol exploded just beside Ramage and one of the men sank slowly to the deck, as if overcome with weariness. The second hesitated a moment, standing on top of the bulwark, and another pistol fired, toppling him over. By now the third and fourth man had leapt dean over the bulwark and were running along the jetty towards the shore.
Ramage turned and ran aft, surprised to hear himself screaming 'Tritons!' and instinctively striking sideways as a sword blade gleamed momentarily in the darkness. Sensing rather than seeing there was a group of four or five men standing near the tiller, he slashed at the dark shape of his attacker with the cutlass while trying to drag a pistol from his waistband with his left hand.
A surge of Tritons overwhelmed the men by the tiller and, as Ramage realized his opponent was a better than average swordsman the man suddenly flung his cutlass at Ramage's head and leapt over the side into the water.
Within a couple of minutes there was almost complete silence on the schooner's deck and the croaking of frogs and screams of frightened birds was all Ramage could hear as he hurriedly checked his men. No one had even a scratch to report. The first two privateersmen were dead beside the bulwark; two of the five standing aft were dead, the rest dying.
'Jackson! Make the prisoners say what happened to Gorton. Evans, you ready with those signal rockets? Right, fire one and make sure it doesn't foul the rigging!'
Even before Jackson had time to start, one of the Tritons was calling that Gorton and the rest of the Jorum's crew were tied up in the cuddy, and a minute later, while Ramage peered around him, trying to make out where the schooner was and if the two privateers were near-by, Gorton came up, swinging his arms as if he was cold.
'You've got the ship back then, sir!' he exclaimed. 'Sorry about this slapping but the ropes numbed my arms. We're in Marigot, sir. They didn't make any secret of it. As soon as someone called Dupont came on board—he's their leader— we were going to have our throats cut!'
Ramage peered round, still trying to spot where the privateers were anchored, and Gorton said, 'There's one of them over there...' pointing to the east, where Ramage could just pick out the shape of a vessel dark against the mangroves growing to the water's edge. 'And the other's just beyond.'
'Find a------'
He spun round with an oath as a sudden hissing roar and a flash behind him seemed a prelude to the schooner blowing up; but a rocket snaking up into the sky to burst into five red stars told him Evans had carried out his orders.
'Gorton—keep an eye on those privateers: watch for boats pulling over towards us. Can you find your night-glass?'
'Aye aye, sir!'
'Jackson—take all the men with musketoons and half a dozen more and get out along that jetty: stop this fellow Dupont and his men!'
What now? Everything was happening so fast and not at all the way he had expected: instead of all twenty of the Tritons fighting a sudden, short and savage battle with all the privateersmen, it might now turn into a long-drawn-out siege, with the Jorum a fortress.
Could th
e Triton ever get into here? If the privateers put springs on their cables and hauled themselves round they could train their broadsides on to the Jorum... Jackson had already assembled the men with musketoons and had them scrambling over the bulwark on to the jetty, but he was arguing with several other men who wanted to be among the other half dozen.
'Take more, Jackson!'
'Aye aye, sir!' With that Jackson and the rest of the men were scrambling over the bulwark and running along the jetty.
Gorton called: 'Boats leaving both privateers, sir.'
Ramage acknowledged. Would they try to board, or land on the shore and attack along the jetty?
But what was puzzling him was Gorton's certainty that this was Marigot Bay. It seemed completely landlocked.
'Where's the entrance?'
Gorton grunted. 'That's what's puzzling me, sir. There's the high hills to the south—they're dear enough. And to the north—that's the ridge there. Well, the entrance is between the two.'
'But it's dosed off completely—why, you can see palm trees growing across.'
'I know, sir.'
Suddenly a loud popping and flashing of flame at the landward end of the jetty showed that Dupont and his men were attacking. The musket flashes seemed almost continuous from landward, punctuated by the occasional heavier boom of one of the Tritons' musketoons firing. Jackson's men were heavily outnumbered—and they hadn't much shelter. Even worse, they were having to stay dose to the jetty so Dupont's men couldn't cut off their escape route back to the schooner.
Ramage rubbed his brow. From the other side the privateers' boats were approaching fast. No shooting—obviously they were hoping they wouldn't be seen; hoping that Dupont and his men attacking along the jetty would occupy the Tritons' attention.
And in the meantime the Jorum was secured alongside the jetty, no longer a Trojan horse but a bullock tied up in a stall at the slaughterhouse. And the French call us rosbifs, Ramage thought irrelevantly.
Although the musket-fire on shore was easing, it was now interspersed with the challenge 'Triton!' showing it was almost hand-to-hand. The privateers' boats were perhaps fifty yards away. And he felt a slight breeze on the back of his neck, from the north-east he noted automatically, and then nearly jumped with the realization it was blowing towards the palm trees on the sandspit...