by Dudley Pope
'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 dose 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 re-loaded, 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 tight 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.'
&nb
sp; '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 rind. 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 wont' 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 timer Gorton sounded utterly confident and Ramage knew he'd spoken honestly—and sensibly. He nodded. 1 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 action 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.
'Gorton, I'm returning to the Triton and you'll------' he broke off, remembering for the first time since they'd escaped from the lagoon that Gorton was by no means under his command, and corrected himself. 'I propose leaving some Tritons on board here, and I'd like you to remain with your men and take command of the whole party.'
'Fine, sir!' Gorton exclaimed excitedly, 'we'll do the best we can!'
'Very well. I'll take Jackson, Stafford, Evans and Fuller. How many Tritons do you want?'
Twenty minutes later Ramage was standing on the quarterdeck of the Triton, relating to Southwick everything that had happened since he'd boarded the Jorum off Grenada, and then hearing the Master's report of what he had done with the Triton. Southwick rounded off his report with a reference to the usefulness of the bonfires on the headland and then added:
Two seamen under open arrest, I'm afraid, sir.'
'What charges?'
'Fighting, sir.'
'Fighting?1
'Yes sir—while at quarters.'
Ramage sighed. Seamen fighting with each other while the ship was cleared for action...
'What were they fighting about?'
'We had the grindstone up on deck to put a sharp on some of the cutlasses, and the men lined up for their turn. Seems these two started arguing about who was in front of which...'
'Not fighting with cutlasses, for Heaven's sake?'
'Well, in a way. One punched the other who fetched the first man a dip on the side of the head with the flat of his cutlass.'
'Drunk?'
'No, neither of 'em.'
'Hmm. Well, that can wait.'
Ramage picked up a telescope and looked at the entrance to Marigot. On the southern side of the outer bay he could see the Jorum quite clearly, with the first privateer grounded on the north bank opposite. Beyond them the gap in the palms where the raft had been smashed aside gave him a good view of the second privateer on the far side of the inner bay, directly in line with the gap. It wasn't quite light enough yet to distinguish men moving about.
Southwick joined him, 'Having a look at the lie of me land, sir?'
Ramage nodded. 1 was just dunking how the raft of palm trees fooled us.'
''Twas a good job young Stafford told me about it when he came on board: if I'd seen that gap in daylight I'd have wondered why the hell we never sent a boat in to look when we were up this way last week.'
'I still don't know why we didn't spot mere was something odd.'
Southwick chuckled. 'Don't fret over that, sir. I had a good look at the chart. What happened is our chart's a bit out—it shows the lagoon smaller than it really is. And both those sandspits have each grown out another ten yards. The chart's fifteen years old...'
'Where did we get it from?'
'Master of one of the frigates in Barbados gave me a sight of his and I made a copy. Original survey was by the Jason' 'I wish there'd been time to get my father's charts before we left England.'
'Yes,' Southwick growled, 'but it's time Their Lordships started issuing charts. We'd have been in a mess if I hadn't been able to copy that one. And this damned coral sometimes grows a foot a year, so if the chart's fifteen years old a shoal can have fifteen feet less water over it.'
'We need an Irish pilot,' Ramage said dryly, and South-wick laughed at the memory of a story well known in the Fleet of a frigate bound for an Irish port several miles up a river. The pilot seemed such an odd fellow that the captain asked if he knew the river well. Just as the pilot assured him he 'Knew every rock in it,' there was a thump that shook the ship, and he'd added: 'And that's one of 'em, sorr!'
After telling Southwick to shift the Triton's position by five hundred yards, keeping her hove-to farther to the north so that she could lay the entrance with the present wind, and call him the moment there was a sign of movement on board the privateer, Ramage went below to his cabin for a brisk wash and shave and change into clean clothes.
One look in the mirror startled him: the reflection showed a stranger with bloodshot; wild-looking eyes, cheeks sunken with new wrinkles slanting out do
wn either side of the mouth. This stranger staring at him had the look of a man hunted—like a Seeing privateersman who'd stolen the tattered and dirty uniform of a King's officer.
The steward came in with hot water. He refrained from asking how it had been boiled since, with the ship at general quarters, the galley fire had been doused. An hour ago on board the Jorum, he mused, the idea of dean clothes, hot water and a sharp razor seemed remote, just a memory of a way of life led many years earlier. Now, vigorously brushing the lather on his face, the hours in the Jorum seemed equally remote. Opening the razor and nestling his little finger under the curved end, he took the first stroke and swore violently as the blunt blade seemed to be ripping the skin from his face. The damned steward—he could get boiled water without a fire, press clothes splendidly, serve at table so unobtrusively as to seem invisible. But stropping a razor was beyond him.
Angrily Ramage hooked up the leather strop and hurriedly stropped the razor first on the coarse side and then on the smooth. Gingerly he tried it. Not much better, but thank goodness he had a full set, seven ebony-handled razors, each with a different day of the week engraved on the heel of the blade. In future, he decided, six days shall thou labour and the seventh thou shalt not shave! He stuck out his chin for the last few strokes when there was a shout from on deck :
'Captain, sir!'
He went to the skylight and answered.
Southwick called down excitedly: 'The Jorum's hoisted a blue flag—looks more like a shirt, sir!'
'Very well—she's spotted activity on board the privateer. Acknowledge it. When it comes down it means the privateer's weighing.'
'Aye aye, sir.'
The comfortable tiredness Ramage had felt soaking into him as he shaved had now vanished. But the rest of the lather was drying on his face, tightening the skin unpleasantly, and Southwick was still standing there, waiting for orders.
'I'll finish shaving, Mr Southwick.'
'Aye aye, sir.'
Just as Ramage turned away Southwick called down again:
'Blue flag's coming down, sir!'
'I'll finish shaving, Mr Southwick.'
'Aye aye, sir,' Southwick said with as much disapproval as he dare register.