Ramage and the Freebooters r-3

by Dudley Pope

  As he finished the last few strokes with the razor Ramage reflected it was a crude way of calming Southwick. Despite his original grumbling the old man had obviously enjoyed his brief hours in command of the Triton and was now thirsting for action. But Ramage knew that in the next half hour he needed every man on board the Triton to stay as calm as possible: one slip through excitement and the ship would be wrecked and the privateer allowed to escape. Then, in the mirror, he saw his own hand trembling—tiredness, of course. He looked himself in the eyes and grinned. Perhaps not tiredness but, thank God, not fear.

  And that dam' fool steward had put out his second-best uniform, as though it was Sunday, and there wasn't time to get out an old one. Hurriedly Ramage pulled on the silk stockings, dragged on his breeches, tucked in his shirt and looked round for the stock. Hmm, perhaps not such a dam' fool—the silk was pleasant against his neck. Boots—another pair, highly polished, and he had changed the throwing knife over to them.

  Pistols—newly-oiled and re-loaded. That'd be Jackson. He tucked them into the waistband, put on his coat and slipped the cutlass belt over his shoulder. A seaman's cutlass looked out of place—he should have an expensive, inlaid sword—but a cutlass was more effective. Jamming his hat on his head and ducking to dodge the beams, he went up on deck.

  Southwick handed him the telescope.

  The privateer was under way with her foresail and mainsail set. Men at the bow were catting the anchor and a jib was being hoisted. They had little more than a breeze; hardly strong enough to flatten the creases in the flaxen sails. Bow waves rippling over the flat water in ever-lengthening chevrons reminded Ramage of sailing a model boat across a village pond. Two knots? She was about level with the jetty, which meant she was two hundred "yards short of the sandspits and five hundred yards from the Jorum. Ramage looked across at Marigot Point on the north side of the entrance, and then at the south side. A line joining the two was four hundred yards from the Jorum. 'It'll be like a horse race with a starting line at each end and the finishing line in the middle!' Southwick commented.

  'Brace up the foretopsail, if you please, Mr Southwick.'

  Southwick bellowed orders, the yard was trimmed round and the brig gathered way.

  'Full and by, Mr Southwick.'

  'Aye aye, sir,' the Master said, turning to the quartermaster. With the chance of eddies from the hills, keeping the brig sailing as dose to the wind as possible was going to be difficult.

  Ramage walked over to the binnacle, looked at the compass and then at the windvane at the mainmasthead—east-northeast. Hhh... It was going to be dose. To succeed, Ramage had now to sail into the bay with the Triton hugging the north shore, forcing the privateer to keep on the south side and passing dose to the Jorum. 'I'll

  Close-hauled the Triton could sail six points off the wind; in other words she could steer south-east, which meant she could just about sail parallel with the north shore—and a glance showed him she was already doing that. But if the wind veered a few degrees, just fluked a little to the eastward, she would have to bear away into the middle of the channel. And then God alone knew what would happen.

  If she couldn't immediately wear round and sail out of the bay again, she'd run aground. Indeed, once she was halfway into the bay there probably wasn't room enough to wear round whatever happened, unless he boxhauled—juggling with the sails so she went astern to bring her bow round, or dub-hauled, letting go an anchor over the lee side so that it suddenly dragged the brig's bow round. Then, by cutting the cable and leaving the anchor behind, the Triton would be able to sail out again.

  But although either would be a close-run thing, neither would be necessary if he timed the manoeuvre correctly. Southwick's simile about a race, with the privateer starting at one end of the course and the Triton the other, wasn't a bad one; but Ramage knew success depended on him making sure both sailed the same distance ... The privateer would be three hundred yards from the Jorum as she passed between the two sandspits, and the Triton would be the same distance from Gorton's schooner, approaching from the opposite direction, when the cliff on the south side of the entrance bore south-west.

  And Ramage suddenly saw the privateer was that very moment in the channel between the two spits. He twisted round to see the bearing of the south side of the entrance. South by west—so he was already fifty yards or more behind in the race.

  Damn and blast; he always seemed to be daydreaming. The sky over the hills to the south was pinkish now: it'd be sunrise in fifteen minutes. But he realized fifty yards didn't matter too much—they'd meet that much this side of the Jorum, and by then Gorton and his men would have done their best. And the cable might have scared them...

  Southwick said: 'Shall I start the lead going, sir?'

  'No point; we're committed to this course. But I'd be glad if you'd go forward and keep a lookout for isolated rocks.'

  The privateer was past the spit now and running before the breeze: a soldier's wind with her booms broad off, her sails tinged by the pinkish light of the rising sun.

  The leeches of the brig's sails fluttered and Southwick turned on the quartermaster:

  'Steer small, damn you.'

  Must have been a back eddy off the cliffs because the fluttering stopped even before the men began to turn the wheel. And the cliffs were close. No wonder Southwick wanted a man in the forechains heaving a lead—it wasn't often that one of the King's ships drawing eleven feet forward and nearly thirteen aft sailed so dose inshore The privateer was bearing up a few degrees now to follow the slight bend in the channel.

  Was her captain left-handed or right-handed? It might make a difference, Ramage suddenly realized, since in the next few minutes he had to guess which side the man would try to dodge past the Triton: had to guess moments before the man gave any indication by altering course or trimming sails. A right-handed man would tend to keep to his left, to the south side of the channel. And the Triton hugging the north side might decide him. If he was right-handed.

  At each of the Triton's ten carronades the crew stood ready: each gun was loaded with grapeshot; each had the lock fitted in place with the captain holding the trigger line in his right hand, the second captain standing by ready to cock it at the last moment There'd be no last-minute traversing because they'd fire as the privateer passed. And a seaman was peering out of each port, quietly reporting to the captain of his gun the privateer's position.

  And near each gun the high bulwarks bristled with cutlasses, pistols and tomahawks tucked into any fitting that would hold them, ready to be snatched up the instant Ramage gave the order to board.

  Gracefully—for she was a rakish-looking schooner with a sweeping sheer—the privateer followed the curve of the channel, keeping to the south side. She had perhaps two hundred yards to run before she reached the Jorum. So far so good, Ramage thought—unless the Triton hit a rock. And there wouldn't be time to avoid one, so Southwick was wasting his time. He called the Master back to the quarterdeck.

  Southwick had just arrived aft when the dull boom of a gun echoed between the cliffs, followed by another, then several at once.

  As Ramage looked over at the Jorum, cursing Gorton for opening fire too soon, he was startled to see there was no smoke from her swivels and Southwick exclaimed:

  'It's that damned grounded privateer!'

  So the survivors must have gone back on board! Smoke was drifting away from tier, towards the Triton. And because she had turned to starboard before she went aground, her larboard-side guns covered the entrance; covered the approach Triton, with the range decreasing every moment.

  'Poor shooting, all fell short,' Southwick said disgustedly. 'Still, up fifty yards and the next broadside should get us.'

  'Give 'em a hail and tell 'em.'

  More gunfire—coughs rather than the heavier thumps of the grounded privateer's guns. And now smoke was drifting away from the Jorum. Then a curious popping, six distinct shots. Gorton had fired his swivels, then the musketoons, to harry them
.

  'I hope he re-loads in time for our friend,' Southwick commented.

  'He will, but anything that distracts our friend is a help.'

  She was half-way between the spit and the schooner: 175 yards.

  'Second broadside's due now, sir.'

  Out of the mass of cordage that made up the Triton's standing and running rigging—it weighed more than seven tons—only half a dozen pieces were really vulnerable; but if even one of the half dozen was cut by a stray shot the Triton ... quickly Ramage dismissed the thought.

  By now the second broadside should have arrived, but it hadn't. Did that mean Gorton's swivels and musketoons, sweeping the deck almost as effectively as if raking her, had killed or wounded enough of the men working the guns?

  Nor was there a second broadside from the Jorum. Gorton was saving that for the second privateer, which was close now and bearing away a few degrees to stay in the deepest part of the channel.

  Along the Triton's larboard side the cliffs were receding and becoming less vertical, the bare rock hidden by bushes.

  The privateer was obviously making a knot or so more than the Triton, and Ramage was thankful. He'd misjudged the point where he intended meeting the privateer: the whole bay was dosing in, and there was less room to manoeuvre than he thought. The fact the privateer would be well past the Jorum before he intercepted her was to the Triton's advantage. Nice of the enemy to cover up one's mistakes.

  Unwittingly emphasizing it, Southwick said conversationally: 'Reckon you've timed it nicely, sir. He's still got that cable...'

  And Ramage realized he'd forgotten that, too.

  'I hope so, Mr Southwick,' Ramage said cautiously, wondering what else be had forgotten.

  The Triton, was, if anything, losing the wind. Since it was blowing the length of the two bays, maybe the northern spit was blanketing it. Or perhaps the privateer was bringing the breeze down with her.

  'Wind's puffy,' Southwick said. 'We'd look silly if we ran into a dull patch and she sneaked by us!'

  Ramage, busy calculating distances and with the thought already nagging him, snapped: 'If we do, you can lead the boats towing us round.'

  And the privateer was nearly up to the Jorum: thirty yards —twenty—hard to judge from this angle. Gorton's men would be carefully training round the swivels; the musketoons resting on the bulwark capping. Had the privateer spotted the cable?

  A puff of smoke right aft in the Jorum as one swivel fired and a moment later he heard the report. Smoke at the privateer's bows—she had swivels too. Then Ramage heard the sharp double crack of two more of the Jorum's swivels.

  Smoke was spurting from the privateer's larboard side now: she must be almost abreast the Jorum for her broadside guns to bear. One—two, three—four—five: the whole broadside. And steadily the schooner's swivels and musketoons puffed smoke, the noise of all the guns reaching the Triton as a roll of thunder.

  Then suddenly the privateer turned hard a' starboard, apparently heading straight for her grounded consort, the smoke of her guns still streaming from her ports and the big foresail and mainsail crashing over. Southwick swore softly, excitement in both his voice and choice of words.

  But Ramage was not sure. Was it the cable? Or had one of the Jorum's swivels killed everyone at the tiller, leaving the privateer out of control for a few moments? Would they wear round again?

  The Triton was barely two hundred yards away from her now and, snatching up the telescope, Ramage could see the holes torn in her bulwarks by the Jorum's grapeshot. He swung the telescope over to the schooner for a moment and it confirmed his fears. The Jorum was a shambles; it was a miracle she'd been able to fire the remaining swivels after the privateer's single broadside.

  Then, the telescope trained back on the privateer, he saw several men running to the tiller—although there were two men at it already—while other were frantically hauling at the foresail and mainsail sheets.

  It'd been the cable. She'd hit it and her captain, feeling the bump, must have instinctively ordered the helm down. But the privateer had shot so far across the channel that— no! The cable was no longer there!

  'She's parted the cable!' he said abruptly to Southwick. 'They're trying to wear round.'

  'Shall we board or ram, sir?'

  'Wait and see!'

  With the privateer now only 150 yards ahead and no indication whether she would be able to wear round before running aground, Ramage was tempted to add 'I wish I knew.'

  'She's turning, sir!'

  Slowly at first. They'd been able to see her long profile, from the end of her bowsprit to her taffrail, as she'd swung across the channel—but now it was shortening as she turned towards the Triton. Ramage could see they'd managed to haul in the mainsail almost amidships: in a few moments, if they were lucky, it'd swing across and spin the privateer round on her heel, her bow heading for the entrance.

  Ramage suddenly ran to a gun port and looked over the side. One glance snowed him there wasn't enough depth of water between the Triton and the north shore for the privateer to squeeze through; in fact, it was a miracle the brig hadn't gone aground herself. As he came bark to the binnacle he found he had made up his mind.

  Up to that moment Ramage had felt strangely calm and detached—perhaps because the Triton could only continue sailing full and by—but now he was getting excited at the prospect of quick decisions; of sudden gambles, heavy stakes slammed down to profit from an opponent's mistake.

  But, tugging at the pistols in his waistband to make sure he could draw them easily, Ramage fought the excitement.

  The privateer's main boom crashed over, followed by the foresail, and almost at once she began to turn faster.

  'She'll make it!' Southwick called, watching the shoals close to the beach.

  'Now you'll get a run for your money!'

  Me too, Ramage thought to himself: the privateer was turning as fast as a soldier doing an about-turn. Round she came, bowsprit sucking out like an accusing finger, pointing momentarily at the Triton with both masts in line, but as she continued swinging the masts opened up again. Hell, she was swinging fast now.

  'Looks as if she's going to run ashore on the opposite bank!' Southwick called.

  If she did she'd be only a hundred yards to seaward of the Jorum; but she wouldn't. Southwick could be very stupid at times.

  One broadside from the Triton wouldn't do the job; Ramage was certain of that.

  'Mr Southwick—we'll be turning nine points to starboard in the next few moments!'

  'Aye aye, sir!'

  Picking up the speaking trumpet, Ramage shouted: 'Larboard-side gun captains, fire without further orders as soon as you bear!'

  To the quartermaster he snapped: 'Stand by now!'

  And the privateer was now darting diagonally across the Triton's bow, picking up speed every moment.

  Ramage, rubbing his brow, tried to judge the precise moment to order the helm hard over to turn the Triton on to an almost parallel course and precisely placed so her broadside guns would bear. Almost parallel—converging just enough to squeeze the privateer so she had to choose between running ashore or crashing alongside the Triton. Turning a moment too soon would let her suddenly bear up and slip by under the Triton's stern: a moment too late would let her slip out ahead. If she managed to get a fifty-yard start there'd be no catching her...

  Quickly he changed his plan: there'll be no sudden turn: he'd do it slowly, slowly...

  'Quartermaster, starboard a point. Mr Southwick, smartly now with the sheets and braces!'

  The Triton turned almost a dozen degrees, bringing the privateer dead ahead again for a few moments and a hundred yards away. Then, as the brig steadied on the new course, the privateer continued passing diagonally across her bow.

  Southwick was beside him now, speaking trumpet clenched in his hand. Ramage saw Jackson watching him rubbing the scar and took his hand away.

  'Quartermaster, a point to starboard!'

  Southwick bellowe
d more orders to the men trimming the sails.

  Once again me Triton was, for a few seconds, heading directly for the privateer, until she straightened up when the turn was completed. Seventy-five yards away—less in fact.

  Ramage knew Southwick must be puzzled why he didn't wait and then make one quick nine-point turn to bring the Triton alongside the privateer immediately. But this way Ramage knew he was forcing the privateer farther and farther over to the south shore; cutting down the only chance the enemy had of suddenly bearing up under the Triton's stern.

  'Quartermaster—another point to starboard!'

  Once again the sails were trimmed as the wheel was put over; once again the Triton's bow pointed at the privateer for a few moments.

  Fifty yards, and the old Master was giving Ramage an anxious look.

  One man from each of the larboard side carronades was peering out of the port, keeping his gun captain informed. The pinkness had gone out of the sky; it was getting light fast. The privateer had splendid lines; a beautiful ship with raking masts.

  Then Ramage saw a wind shadow coming fast down the bay—it'd catch the privateer first in a few moments and give her another knot or so: just enough to let her slip through.

  All right!

  'Hard a' starboard!' Ramage bellowed. 'Smartly now!'

  The quartermaster leapt to the wheel as the men spun it; Southwick shouted encouragement to the sail-trimmers. Slowly the Triton began turning. Too slowly—Ramage swore softly as he watched the end of the jib-boom swinging against the land: it was moving so slowly that—ah, faster now: the Jorum dead ahead for a second, then the privateer. And, as the Triton continued turning, she was suddenly almost abeam.

  'Larboard guns, stand by!'

  His heart was pounding in a hollow chest; it had been sheer luck.

  'Quartermaster—steady as you go! Come on to the same course as that devil!"

  Both the Triton and the privateer were now sailing almost side by side, steering a course which converged on the beach and, inside a couple of hundred yards, would put them both ashore.

  A crash from forward made both Ramage and Southwick swear; then a spurt of smoke, the rumbling recoil of the forwardmost carronade, the reek of powder drifting aft to catch in their throats, warned them the first of the Triton's guns had been brought to bear.