by Dudley Pope
Much pointed at Jackson and his crew preparing the stern-chasers. “You can’t use those, sir: you’ll have to rely on the four-pounders.”
Ramage’s eyebrows rose. “Why not, pray?”
“Well, you see the—”
“Much!” Stevens interrupted sharply, “watch your tongue! There’ll be a day o’ reckoning in Falmouth …”
Ramage glared down at the Captain. “You tell me, then, and be quick about it!”
“The eyebolts won’t hold the breechings when they recoil,” Stevens said hurriedly, his eyes on Ramage’s sword. “There’s a bit o’ rot there. Just dig into the wood with that sword o’ yours if you don’t believe me.”
“He’s right, sir,” Much said. “When the guns recoil they’ll run wild and kill your fellows. Here, I’ll show you.”
“Don’t bother,” Ramage said, knowing the two men would not lie about something that could be disproved by walking a couple of paces, and suddenly remembering that Stevens had long ago mentioned trouble with the builder over some green wood. “Well, carry on, Mr Much: get every fraction of a knot out of this ship. Where were you, by the way?”
Much took two long-barrelled pistols from his belt: ornate guns which looked well cared for. “I went to fetch these. Had to load ‘em.”
Ramage nodded and Much went to join Southwick at the binnacle.
The privateer was half a mile away: perfect range for the stern-chasers. And, Ramage thought ruefully, apart from being a good target, she was a beautiful sight, with her black hull glistening. He could just distinguish the muzzles of her guns on the lee side: the way she was thrashing along, the starboard scuppers must be running deep with water.
So much for my idea of wearing round after firing a broadside: she’ll attack from to leeward because her larboard side guns are dry: there’ll be no risk of priming powder being wet in the pans …
“Secure both those guns,” Ramage said to Jackson. “We can’t use ‘em. I want the broadside guns loaded with grape and canister, and spread the Tritons among the guns’ crews. At least one per gun. Jump to it; we’ve only minutes left.”
Captain Wilson was talking to Yorke, and when Ramage walked to the taffrail to look once again at the privateer the soldier came over to him.
“Owe you an apology, Ramage,” he said abruptly.
“Accepted, Wilson; you weren’t to know.”
“Feel a fool. Yorke’s been telling me about—”
“Quite!” Ramage said hastily, knowing Stevens could probably hear. “All your barkers are ready?”
“All loaded and issued to the men,” he said cheerfully. “And a barrel full of extra ones”—he pointed to an up-ended cask forward of the mainmast from which the muzzles of several more muskets protruded.
“Good—you stand by them: there’ll be some hot work in a few minutes.”
“We’ll show ‘em!” Wilson declared as he marched forward.
“Sorry,” Yorke said quietly, “I had to tell him some of it because he was just about to point one of his musketoons at you and force you to hand the ship back to Stevens.”
The prospect was so ludicrous that Ramage burst out laughing. “Can all this get any more complicated?”
“We might end up with the French on our side,” Yorke said lightly. “At least they haven’t tried to kill you yet.”
“They’ll be a bit more skilful than the bosun, once they get a chance!”
“It’s a blow about the stern-chasers. Much was speaking the truth. I believed him anyway but checked and the wood is ripe all round the bolts.”
“I saw you prodding. Just look at Johnny Frenchman,” Ramage said with sudden savageness. “Perfect target—dammit, we’re hardly pitching. It’d be shooting at a sitting bird, and with a bit of luck we might have fetched one of her masts down.”
“I wonder why she hasn’t given us a round or two from her bow-chasers—she must have ‘em.”
“Why bother? Her Captain can see how fast he has been overtaking us. He’s probably puzzled why we’ve suddenly come up a couple of points and done some overdue sail trimming, but he’s not going to risk damaging our masts. He’s certain he can catch us, and he wants to be sure his prize crew can sail the Arabella to France.”
“What do you—” Yorke began and broke off, looking over Ramage’s shoulder. Ramage turned to find Stevens standing there, white-faced and a hand on the taffrail for support.
“I … I’m sorry,” Stevens said, his voice low, and his tone contrite. “I’m afraid I … er, gave way to panic.”
“Eventually gave way to panic,” Ramage said coldly, “hence the bruise on your head. It’s the previous hour that you’ll have difficulty explaining away to the Post Office.”
“I’m ashamed,” he said in his familiar doleful voice. “I was weighed in the balance and found wanting, but I hope the good Lord in his wisdom will forgive me.”
“Speaking for myself,” Yorke said sourly, “I’m damned if I do. Thanks to you we all stand a good chance of marching into Verdun prison in a couple of weeks’ time.”
“But Mr Ramage is in command now,” Stevens sneered. “It’s up to him whether we escape or surrender.”
Yorke took a step towards him and said, his voice hard, “Quite true, Stevens. But just you remember that with the privateer less than a mile away, the first thing Mr Ramage did on taking command was to get the sails trimmed and the ship on a proper course. The second was to stop you cutting the main brace. And the third was to send the ship’s company to quarters. There are plenty of witnesses, Stevens, and that evidence alone would be more than enough to see you hanged at Tyburn for treason.”
“Ah, how right you are,” Stevens said contritely, but obviously not alarmed at the thought. “Mr Ramage, in the few minutes we have left please tell me what I can do to help save ourselves.”
“Keep out of my way,” Ramage said uncompromisingly, and turned back to Yorke. “We haven’t gained much. If we’d had the ship going like this at the start we’d have kept to windward until after nightfall. As it is, we’ve put off the attack by a quarter of an hour.”
“So what do you propose doing?”
“Not much choice. Our French friend is all ready to board us. That means dozens of men on his deck waiting with cutlasses and pistols, and many of them probably half drunk by now …”
“And all getting in each other’s way!”
“Exactly! We can take advantage of that by making her tack and wear a few times. Force her on to the starboard tack, for instance, so all the larboard side guns get drenched. Do a few unexpected things so all those boarders are thoroughly confused.”
“You make it sound easy,” Yorke said gloomily, “but what unexpected things?”
Ramage could see that Jackson now had all the Arabella’s four-pounders loaded, and from the positions the men were standing, he had made a former Triton the captain of each gun. Much was marching up and down the deck, watching the luffs of the sails, and Southwick stood four-square at the binnacle, a pistol in each hand and, from the way the helmsmen were holding the wheel, ensuring both men steered better than they had ever believed they could.
“Just look at her,” Ramage said. “She’s heeling so much she can only use her weather-side guns. That means she’s got to attack us from to leeward. Very well, the moment she begins to draw up alongside to starboard—just as her first gun will bear—we suddenly tack. Our turn away to larboard should take her completely by surprise so we’re off on the other tack before her Captain can sort out sail-trimmers from boarders.”
“If we don’t, he’ll rake us. This transom”—Yorke gestured the width of the Arabella’s stern—”will look like a torn fishnet.”
“And so will you and I,” Ramage said.
“Supposing we do take him by surprise,” Yorke said doubtfully. “Then what? Eventually he tacks and draws alongside again. You won’t catch him twice with that trick.”
“After that we make it up as we go along. Dangerous to
have a rigid plan in a situation like this; you have to keep your mind flexible.”
“I’ll be thankful to keep a flexible head on my shoulders,” Yorke said, the light tone in his voice showing he agreed with Ramage’s plan. “Just look at her thundering along! Her skipper knows his job, blast him.”
“Let’s hope he’s shipped the usual bunch of murderous land-lubbers who are handier at waving a cutlass than hauling on a sheet. Anyway, keep an eye on things here: I’m going to give Southwick and Much their orders.”
Walking forward to join Southwick at the binnacle, Ramage saw that the bosun was working again, his cutlass back in its scabbard, obeying Much’s orders. But it was risky relying on him: Jackson had better take over his functions.
It took only three minutes to give Southwick, Much and Jackson their instructions. Both Much and Southwick assured him the helmsmen were converted to the idea of steering an exact course, so he was able to use the combination that had always worked so well in the past; he remained free to watch the enemy and exploit every tactical opportunity, simply giving Southwick the briefest orders. Southwick would remain at the conn, giving orders to the helmsmen and passing sail orders to Much. Jackson’s job would be to supervise the guns, making sure the guns’ crews worked fast, and shifting men around if there were casualties. Ramage gave him strict instructions to fire at the privateer’s rigging in the hope of sending a mast by the board. Yorke would deal with the mailbags. That left Wilson. It took only a minute to tell the soldier he was free to open fire with his musketoons as soon as the enemy was in range, using Bowen and any men Jackson could spare temporarily from the larboard guns.
As Ramage walked aft to rejoin Yorke, Southwick said quietly: “Do you want a man to keep an eye on Stevens, sir?”
“No—I can’t trust a packetsman and can’t spare a Triton. I’ll tell Yorke to watch him.”
At the taffrail Yorke was watching the privateer, which had by now closed the gap to four or five hundred yards, sailing in the Arabella’s wake as though the packet was towing her. Stevens, standing by himself on the larboard side between the taffrail and the aftermost gun, occasionally gave the privateer a disinterested glance and looked round the Arabella’s deck with a curious detachment, as though aloof from all the activity.
Now, Ramage told himself, we just wait. There’s Stafford acting as captain of the aftermost four-pounder on the starboard side, and Rossi at the forward one. Maxton looked cheerful enough in command of the forward gun on the larboard side, and a young Scot named Duncan had the after one.
Yorke saw Ramage looking at the four guns and commented, “They seem to get smaller every time I look at them!”
“As long as they don’t get fewer! But,” he added ruefully, lowering his voice, “I don’t think I’d have taken over from Stevens if I’d known these stern-chasers were unusable. I was betting on them to chip off some of the Frenchman’s paint …”
“Rubbish!” Yorke said. “You’re like a wild Irishman: you couldn’t stay out of a fight whatever the odds!”
“We haven’t much choice, anyway. About five minutes to go.”
“If that.”
“I think you’d better send those bags of mail to Father Neptune. Use this larboard after gun’s crew. Duncan!” he called, “You and your men are under Mr Yorke’s orders for a few minutes.”
Stevens began walking forward, unhurried but obviously recovered, and carrying his battered hat. He had picked up his cutlass and it hung from the wide leather belt slung over his right shoulder.
Now Ramage could see a crowd of men perched on the privateer’s bowsprit. Something glinted in the sun—a cutlass being waved, and he imagined the stream of threats and insults its owner was hurling at the Arabella.
Yet there’s something odd about all this, he told himself. No privateer captain in his right mind would sail along the wake of a potential prize which he knew had two nine-pounder stern-chase guns. The Arabella’s pair may be useless, because of rotten wood round some ring bolts, but the Captain of the privateer doesn’t know that. All he knows is that his bowsprit is pointing down their barrels and they haven’t fired at him. It’s as though he knows they will not. Is that the reputation the Post Office packets have among the privateers? It seems the only possible explanation. But not every damned packet captured up to now could have had rot round the ring bolts of the breechings!
Having so much to think about has at least stopped me from getting frightened … Not frightened of being killed, anyway, but this weird ship of fools leaves me feeling as though I’ve spent a long and chilly night in a haunted church.
The Arabella’s jogging along nicely: plenty of way on her to carry her round when I give the word to tack. If anyone makes a mistake and we get caught in stays …
Here she comes … bearing away half a point to get out of our wake and ready to range up alongside. Those men perched along the bowsprit like vultures on a branch must be soaking wet from the spray. God, what a crowd—cutlasses, boarding pikes, tomahawks, not one of them has shaved for a month. One of them is bending over being seasick—or vomiting up an overdose of brandy.
Sudden puffs of smoke from her weather bow: the wind whipping the smoke away. Faint popping. They’ll be lucky if a musket ball hits the Arabella’s mainsail! Plenty of heads showing along the weather bulwark now and some enthusiastic fellows climbing up the ratlines ready to drop on board as soon as that black hull crashes alongside.
“Mailbags have all gone.”
“Thanks. Duplicates and triplicates of all Sir Pilcher’s despatches—just think of it!”
She’s going to come on to a parallel course—now! Forty yards to leeward. Just the range for four-pounders. Her bowsprit will begin to overlap us in a couple of minutes. Just time to let Stafford and Rossi have a crack at her with their four-pounders before we tack.
“Jackson! I’m going to bear away for a few seconds so you can use the starboard side guns. Stafford, Rossi—stand by! Get those guns trained as far aft as possible. Aim for the masts and don’t fire until your guns bear!”
A three-point turn should do it. Bear away, fire, up with the helm and then tack. That should surprise the beggars!
“Stand by for a three-point turn to starboard, Mr Southwick. No sail trimming: bear away, and then bear up the moment the second gun’s fired.”
There are Wilson and Bowen tucking themselves in by the main shrouds. Those musketoons won’t hurt the French but they’ll keep the lads’ spirits up: nothing like the banging of one’s own powder to induce bravery …
Thirty men perched on that bowsprit and one of them still being sick. Aye, wave those cutlasses and cuss and swear, but you’re going to get a shock in a moment … Tip of the bowsprit has another twenty yards to go. Neat patches in that mainsail. The gaff jaws are chafing the mast badly. Bottom clean—just some weed on the copper sheathing. One sheet ripped off near the stem—probably hit a floating log.
Ten yards … plenty of new rope up there: she must have had some successful cruises. Fifty or more heads along the bulwark. Is that the Captain standing up on the bulwark right aft? No wonder that fellow is sick—the bowsprit’s rising and falling twenty feet. Five yards. That might be your last retch, mon ami. What’s Gianna doing now? My right shoulder aches—the muscles probably jarred by the bosun’s cutlass.
“Bear away, Mr Southwick; three points to starboard! Steady, Stafford—give ‘em one for the Lord Mayor of London! Rossi, I’d like to tell the Marchesa you brought the foremast down!”
And the Tritons shouting their heads off! Bow beginning to swing—round she comes—don’t overdo it, Southwick old chap. Damn, we’re going to shave that bowsprit off! Wilson’s musketoon—and a man’s fallen off! Southwick’s steadying her up …
The aftermost gun gave a bronchitic cough, followed a moment later by the forward one. The carriages rumbled back in recoil as smoke swirled away in a thick oily cloud.
“Helm up, Mr Southwick!”
But the Maste
r had anticipated the order while Stafford and Rossi bellowed at their men to hurry with the reloading. And now the Arabella is turning fast, away from the privateer. In a few moments her stern will be pointing at the row of four-pounders.
Ramage found himself staring at the muzzles: for many moments, until the Arabella’s bow swung across the eye of the wind, and the yards were hauled and the sheets trimmed on the other tack, he had nothing to do but wait.
Suddenly the muzzle of the privateer’s aftermost gun winked red and smoke streamed along the afterdeck and curled over her taffrail. A sharp twang showed that one of the grapeshot had hit something metallic on board the Arabella; solid thuds told of hits on wood. But there were no shouts and screams of wounded men; no whiplashing of parted rigging.
Then the privateer had passed, still thrashing her way northwards while Southwick and Much took the Arabella away to the south-west.
Ramage turned to Yorke, who was staring over the starboard quarter at the privateer’s stern and saying, “You did it! It worked!”
“We were lucky,” Ramage said, “but—”
He broke off as he saw Stevens gesticulating. Suddenly half a dozen or more packetsmen left the guns, cutlasses in their hands, and ran to the sheets and braces.
Much grabbed Stevens by the throat and both men toppled over, struggling violently. Southwick shouted something at the helmsmen and, as the one bolted away from the wheel, pointed his pistol at the other.
“Stop them,” Ramage bellowed at the top of his voice and, drawing his sword, ran at the man chopping into the main brace. Within seconds individual fights between packetsmen and Tritons were going on all over the Arabella’s deck, but before Ramage reached his man the main brace parted with a bang and the huge yard began to swing. Forward Ramage could see the forecourse flapping and the foreyard swinging with no brace to control it.
As the Arabella lost way and her bow paid off, the whole ship out of control, Ramage saw the privateer had tacked and was steering straight for them, dropping her mainsail at the same time. And that is that, he thought bitterly; Stevens has won: he must have whispered his orders to the bosun while they were aft here with Farrell, and the bosun passed them on to the rest of the packetsmen.
