Once he'd decided to go on he was angry with himself for the alternate bouts of fear and calm, confidence and uncertainty. And then he also realized that although the Commodore might have had similar doubts (though hardly similar fears) he'd nevertheless quit the line and was going to try, and that was all that mattered. If the Kathleen could give him an extra fifteen or twenty minutes, they might make all the difference between complete failure and a partial success ...
And he must put a term to idle thoughts and daydreams: the San Nicolas was coming up fast, and there was no room for mistakes. Edwards had the braziers ready, lashings holding the four legs of each one against the ship's roll, and they were half full of old shavings and scraps of wood and chunks of pitch, a few screws of paper tucked in the bottom ready for lighting.
Ramage's dozen men were arming themselves with a variety of weapons. Jackson had a cutlass in his hand and a butcher's cleaver - presumably borrowed or stolen from the cook's mate - swinging at his belt from a line through the hole in the wooden handle. Stafford had cut down the haft of a boarding pike so that he had in effect a three-sided dagger blade on a three-foot handle, and he was practising swinging a cutlass with his right hand and lunging the pike with the left. He'd arrived at the old main-gauche, Ramage realized, without ever having seen the shadier side of knightly combat. Maxton, the coloured seaman, had a cutlass in each hand and was slashing at an imaginary enemy with such fast inward swings that Southwick commented to Ramage, 'He could cut a man into four slices before anyone saw him move.'
'He was born with a machete in his hand,' Ramage replied, remembering Maxton's comment at Cartagena. 'He learned to swing a blade cutting down sugar cane.'
Still the San Nicolas ploughed on. The nearer she came the less graceful she appeared: the cutwater could not soften the bulging bow, the bow wave was no longer a feather of white but a mass of water being shoved out of the way by the brute force of a ponderous hull. Her sails were no longer shapely curves but overstretched, overpatched and badly-setting. The beautiful lady in the distance was proving on closer inspection to be a raddled woman of the streets.
But there was no mistaking that raddled or not the San Nicolas had teeth: the muzzles of her guns were dozens of stubby black fingertips poking out of the ports. In a few minutes he'd be able to see details of the gilt work on her bow and figure head. She was about a mile off.
Stafford was teasing Fuller again. 'Wotcher want wiv that pike?' he demanded. 'Use a rod and a big fish 'ook, mate; yer won't need bait. Just cast yer 'ook so it 'itches in their breeches!'
Fuller grunted an oath and continued chopping the pike haft to shorten it.
'Fishes could teach you a thing or two.'
'Ho yus! Reely brainy, fish. So brainy they bite your 'ooks. Takes brains, that do.'
‘There's more brain in a cod's head than your whole body, y'clacking picklock!'
'Belay that,' Southwick interrupted. 'Keep it for the Dons.'
He then walked over to Ramage with his sword. 'Perhaps you'd care to use this, sir. It's served me well.'
It was enormous. Ramage could visualize a bearded Viking waving it with two hands as he leapt on shore from a longboat. But as he drew it from the scabbard he realized it was beautifully balanced.
'I'd appreciate it, Mr. Southwick,' he said, 'and I hope I'll put it to good use.'
The Master beamed and slipped the shoulder belt over Ramage's head.
As the San Nicolas came on, Ramage noted thankfully the rest of the leading group were instinctively closing in astern of her. And in behaving like driven cattle crowding together behind their leader to pass through a gate, they were increasing his chances of creating confusion.
'A cast of the log if you please, Mr. Southwick. Jackson, pass me my pistols. Quartermaster, what are you heading?'
Ramage wanted to know the Kathleen's exact course and speed, and after looking at the Captain he glanced at his sketch. Southwick stood beside him, studied the pencil lines and shook his head.
'The Commodore won't make it'
Ramage shrugged his shoulders again and pointed towards the British line. The Excellent had already quit the line and was following the Captain.
'Perhaps not. But we don't seem to be keeping a very sharp lookout, Mr. Southwick. I trust we haven't missed any signals?'
'Bit difficult to know where to watch,' Southwick said sourly. 'So dam' much going on!'
'You merely have to watch; I've got to think and plan as well!' flared Ramage.
'Sorry, sir.'
'So am I,' Ramage said hurriedly. 'We're all a bit jumpy. Well, I'd better say a few words to the ship's company: time's getting short. Muster 'em aft, Mr. Southwick.'
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
As he stood balancing on a carronade waiting for the men to gather round him Ramage wondered how much his face had revealed in the past half an hour. Had it shown the slight doubt which had swelled into something approaching paralysing fear? Did it even now betray the tingling exhilaration which was beginning to grip him like drunkenness?
He was surrounded by a sea of eager, excited and unshaven faces: the men were stripped to the waist and most of them had rags tied round their heads to stop perspiration running into their eyes. They looked tough - almost wild - eager and confident. And they were silent. There was just the occasional creak of the tiller and the slopping of the sea under the counter as the cutter pitched slightly. A few gulls wheeled and mewed astern, as if trying to attract the cook's mate's attention and tell him it was time a bucket of rubbish was emptied over the side.
‘I told you earlier,' he began, 'that we'd only be spectators at the ringside. Well, I was wrong: we're going to be one of the prize-fighters and—'
He paused, surprised at the men's burst of cheering and, realizing the men liked the boxing metaphor, quickly rephrased what he was going to say.
'—and I just want to make sure you know where we land our first punch. Well - you can see the Dons are trying to make a bolt round the end of our line. It looks as though Sir John can't see for smoke. Anyway, you all saw the Commodore leave the line to head them off, and it's touch and go whether he can get in among the leaders in time.
'That's where we come in. There they are - you can see 'em all bunched up, with the San Nicolas leading.' He gestured over the bow and saw he had little time left.
'Well, I'm certain that if we can do something to stop the San Nicolas or make her alter course suddenly, the rest of that lubberly bunch astern of her will get so confused they'll run aboard each other. If we can cause enough confusion to delay 'em just ten or fifteen minutes that'll be enough for the Commodore and Captain Collingwood.
'So this is what we're going to do. Most of you have served in a ship of the line. You know her weak spot - the jibboom and bowsprit. Knock them off and nine times out of ten down comes the foremast.