by Dudley Pope
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 others 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 showed 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 back 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 sacking 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 bellowed more orders to the men trimming the sails.
Once again the 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.
A flurry among the men grouped round the privateer’s tiller showed it had been well-aimed. Then there were flashes along her side, followed by the dull thumps of the guns firing.
The double crash of the Triton’s next two carronades firing was followed by fifteen feet of the privateer’s bulwark abreast the quarterdeck disappearing in a shower of splinters and dust, with screams echoing over the water. Those splinters had been flung across her deck like wooden scythes, cutting men down with dreadful wounds.
More flashes from the privateer’s guns, and this time splintering wood and the clanging of metal against metal in the Triton’s bow. Ramage saw the forwardmost carronade ha
d been slewed round by the impact of the shot and every man in its crew flung across the deck like stuffed scarecrows. The Triton’s fourth and fifth carronades crashed out; both tore into the privateer’s hull almost on the waterline, splintering the planking, and leaving rusty-coloured stains in the wood.
The smoke was making him cough and his eyes were watering, but he could see the privateer would run aground any second now unless she put her helm down in the next twenty yards. And if she put her helm down she’d crash alongside the Triton. Then he saw there was no one standing at the privateer’s tiller, and a startled glance showed why: the Triton’s second and third rounds had also smashed away the tiller: the privateer was steering herself and was bound to go aground!
‘Mr Southwick! I’m going to wear round, shoot up into wind, let go the larboard bower anchor and drift back. We may need a spring on the cable to get our broadside to bear.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’
The old man’s white hair, fluffed out like the head of a mop, made him look like a benevolent parson taking an early morning stroll towards the church rather than a man itching to board an enemy ship and deal out death and destruction with the enormous sword whose scabbard was banging against his leg at every step.
In a few moments the Master had given the necessary orders: half a dozen men ran forward to prepare the anchor; the men at the sheets and braces acknowledged his warning to ‘Step out smartly when the captain gives the word!’
And the moment Ramage saw the privateer’s bow lift as she hit the sandy beach, he shouted: ‘Quartermaster, hard a’ starboard! Hands stand by to wear ship!’
And swiftly the brig began turning, her jib-boom pointing along the cliffs on the south side, right across the entrance, then along the cliffs on the north side. Finally, as she came round to the closest she could sail to the wind, Ramage glanced over at the privateer and continued his stream of orders for trimming yards and sails with: ‘Quartermaster! Shoot her right up into the wind. Forward there – are you ready with the anchor?’
An answering hail told him the cable was free to run.
‘Starboard-side guns – as we drift back, fire as you bear without further orders!’
The Triton was now past the grounded privateer and shooting up towards the sandspits into the wind’s eye. Already the sails were pressing against the masts as the wind blew from ahead, although Ramage kept the yards braced hard up.
Quickly the brig lost way and Southwick, peering through a gun port, called: ‘No way on, sir.’
‘Let go, forward!’
The anchor splashed into the sea.
‘Mr Southwick, brace up the foretopsailyard!’
With yard and sail square to the wind the brig would drift back faster and Ramage prayed the wind direction wouldn’t change: he wanted to continue veering more cable, letting the brig drop back until she was abreast the privateer.
As soon as the yard was hauled round, Ramage told Southwick to keep on veering cable until they were in position.
Suddenly the brig’s stern began to sheer over to the south shore, yet the wind hadn’t shifted. Then, glancing at the men at the wheel, Ramage roared: ‘Quartermaster! Helm amidships, you blockhead!’
The quartermaster had kept the wheel over from the sudden turn with the result that as soon as the brig started to go astern the rudder began to get a bite on the water and push her stern round.
An explosion, the splintering of wood, the whine of grapeshot, and splinters right behind him showed the privateer had managed to train a gun round. The full charge of grapeshot had smashed into the larboard side of the Triton’s taffrail, ripping away a good deal of wood. But not a man was wounded.
And yard by yard, like a bull being driven backwards, the Triton was easing astern, Southwick watching and gesticulating to the men.
Ramage walked over to the aftermost carronade and, with a grin at its crew looked through the gun port. The carronade was already trained as far aft as possible. Another twenty yards would do it.
The gun captain moved over as Ramage knelt behind the gun and peered along the sight.
In a moment or two the gun would be aiming directly at the foot of the mainmast, round which was grouped at least a dozen privateersmen.
‘No need to worry about rolling!’
The gun captain, a white strip of cloth round his head showing he had been one of the party in the Jorum, grinned. ‘There’ll be a hit with every one sir: won’t waste even one of them grapes!’
As Ramage stepped aside the man looked along the barrel, took up the strain on the trigger line in his right hand, glanced round the gun to make sure every man was clear, looked along the barrel again and jerked the line.
The carronade leapt back in recoil, smoke spurting from the muzzle; but without waiting to see where the shot had gone the men hurriedly began sponging out the barrel and reloading.
Ramage looked out through the port, keeping clear of the rammer. Not a man had been left standing by the privateer’s mainmast – which was now pocked with what looked like rust marks, showing where the grapeshot had hit it. Then he saw two red eyes winking from the privateer’s forward gun ports.
There was no time to jump back behind the bulwark. Splintering wood all round the port, clanging metal, the whining of ricochets, and he felt blood soaking his face and uniform. No pain; no report for Admiral Robinson that his orders had at last been carried out; a vacancy for the Admiral to promote a favourite; not to see Gianna again; Southwick sailing the Triton back to Barbados. Thoughts ran helter-skelter through his mind as he reeled back from the port.
A man was holding him, preventing him falling; a man with a cockney voice, anxiously repeating the question: ‘You all right, sir?’
Stafford – he recognized the voice. Eyes stinging, head hurting – not much, numbed perhaps. No pain elsewhere. And, as he glanced down, no blood either.
He realized he’d been soaked with sea water thrown up by the shot. He rubbed his head, but the pain was at the back. He must have banged it against the top of the port as he’d jumped back.
He reassured Stafford, feeling foolish until he realized no one else knew the wounds he’d imagined. The Triton’s next carronade fired, then the third, fourth and fifth in quick succession.
Now Southwick was standing beside him, his first words drowned by the thump of the aftermost carronade firing again.
Then a thud as more shot hit somewhere forward.
‘Damn and blast ’em,’ Southwick roared. ‘There goes the jib-boom!’
Again a carronade fired – the men were keeping up a high rate of fire: must remember to mention it later.
Just as Ramage went to the nearest gun port someone hailed: ‘Captain, sir! The Frenchies are shouting and waving a white flag!’
‘Check fire,’ Ramage yelled. ‘Southwick – speaking trumpet!’
Through the port he could see a group of men right up in the bows of the privateer gesticulating. One was waving a white cloth. His shirt?
Reversing the trumpet and putting the mouthpiece to his ear, Ramage listened.
An English voice shouting. An agitated, frightened voice cracking in the effort to be heard. And shouting that the privateer surrendered.
‘Mr Southwick, send away the boarders. Guns’ crews stand fast.’
Was the old Master disappointed?
‘And Mr Southwick – after you’ve taken the surrender of this one you’d better go over and secure the other one. And bring Gorton back with you…’
‘Aye aye, sir!’ Southwick exclaimed gleefully. ‘Taking the surrender of two prizes in five minutes – not many can claim that, sir!’
‘No,’ Ramage said and, remembering the chances he’d been taking among the rocks and reefs in the last half an hour, added mildly, ‘and it’s an honour I’m willing to forgo in the future!’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
As the Triton, with the Jorum in tow, followed the two privateers for the last two miles down the coast to St George, Ra
mage listened to Southwick speculating why La Merlette should be anchored in the Roads.
‘Anyway, shows the Admiral did buy her in,’ the Master concluded more cheerfully. ‘That means we’ll all see a bit o’ prize money – if those thieving agents don’t get up to their usual tricks.’
With a new mainmast, La Merlette looked a fine ship, he added. ‘And a nice command for one of the Admiral’s favourites.’
Ramage nodded. A nice command, and a fast ship. Ideal, in fact, for carrying orders between the islands. And he had little doubt that her new commanding officer had, locked up in his desk, a letter for him from the Admiral.
‘Must say they look nice,’ Southwick said, gesturing to the Triton’s two prizes ahead. ‘Still plenty of work for the shipwrights ’afore they’re really ready for sea!’
Again Ramage nodded. It’d taken two days to refloat the two privateers and the Jorum, and he was thankful none was leaking. Two days’ work had repaired them enough to be ready for sea but the Jorum’s foremast had been too badly damaged to repair, so it had been hoisted on board and the Triton had taken her in tow.
Southwick chuckled. ‘I’ll take a small bet that Gorton never reckoned he’d ever be doing this!’
Ramage glanced up. ‘Doing what?’
‘Well, acting as prizemaster to two prizes. Not bad, considering.’
Had the old Master guessed?
‘Considering what?’
‘Come come, sir,’ Southwick chided. ‘He’s got “Run” written all over him!’
‘Maybe, but I’ve left my spectacles in England. He’s been more useful to us than twenty extra petty officers.’
‘Oh I wasn’t criticizing, sir,’ Southwick said hastily. ‘In fact it was a good idea on your part making him prizemaster. I can just imagine their faces in St George when Gorton sails ’em in and goes alongside the careenage!’
‘It’s about the only reward he’ll get,’ Ramage said.
‘It’ll be more than enough. He as good as told me so.’
‘Good – and I’m glad Appleby understood. Anyway, I had to put him in the Jorum – she could whip our masts out if she started yawing around!’
