Ramage and the Freebooters

That could only mean they knew all they needed to know. And, more significant, that nothing the schooner did now could affect the privateersmen's plans. And in turn that meant they would attack within a few hours; probably soon after nightfall. The trap was set; the Jorum was in it; the only question was when it would be sprung by the freebooters.

Swinging the telescope round to the south-west, Ramage searched for and then finally sighted the Triton's royals; two narrow strips of sail—the rest of the ship was below the curvature of the Earth—lit by the last rays of the sun which was already well below the horizon. Southwick was being sensible. Instead of keeping abeam of the schooner he was staying well back on her larboard quarter and, Ramage guessed, as night fell he'd haul his wind and beat up towards the coast, unseen in the darkness, and with a bit of luck he would be able to lay the island's capital and main port of Castries on one tack, whereas if he was dead to leeward he would have to make several tacks.

The Jorum was now steering north parallel with the coast and making better than six knots. If the privateers came from the north they too could make six, since the wind was east, so they would be approaching each other at twelve knots.

The puzzling thing was that there were no suitable bays anywhere along the west side of St Lucia where the freebooters could be hiding—unless they'd moved into one from somewhere else as soon as they had the signal. Sweeping the coast with the telescope he could not make out anything resembling a sail. He could still see more than twelve miles —so they were unlikely to meet anything for an hour.

He suddenly noticed a smell of cooking, and Gorton said:

'Thought your men'd like a good meal a'fore tonight's work: nothing like a warm lining for a fighting man's stomach!'

'They'll appreciate it,' Ramage said vaguely, still thinking of distances, speeds, the chances of wind changes.

'They wouldn't let me serve 'em lunch—said they had grub with them.'

Then Ramage remembered there was no reason why the men 'should still remain below. After mentioning it to Gorton out of politeness, he called the Tritons up on deck.

*

Breathing steam straight from a kettle while squatting in a large oven must be something like this, Ramage thought miserably. The last of the heavy planks covering the hatch had thudded into position an hour ago and the canvas cover stretched over them, the battens holding it down kept in position by wedges driven home with a mallet.

One of the seamen belched contentedly, announcing: 'Got a fine supper out o' this, anyway.'

'Aye,' another man agreed. 'Dunno what it all was, but that spinach stuff was good.'

'Not spinach—that's callalou,' Maxton corrected.

'Don't spoil it wi' a name like that!'

The first man belched again. 'Bananas good, too.'

Maxton grunted. 'Not the best. Tasted more like bluggers.' 'Like what?' 'Bluggers.'

'Thought you said summat else. What's "bluggers"?'

'You'd think they were bananas,' Maxton said, enjoying his knowledge. 'For eatin' raw we have figs—you call them bananas. Then plantains—bigger'n bananas, and we cook 'em. No good for eatin' raw. Then there's bluggers. Cook them, too.'

Ramage, realizing Maxton's 'bluggers' were in fact 'bluggoes,' interrupted: 'Belay that, now; I want to check oft everything. Everyone's wearing a strip of cloth round his head?'

There was a chorus of agreement.

'Very well then; don't forget, anyone without a white band is an enemy, except for the Jorums, but they'll be shut up out of the way, I expect. Now, those men with musketoons should have them loaded and on half-cock. Report as I call your names.'

Starting with Jackson he called out the six names.

He then named the men who had been issued with grenades and each replied that his grenades were ready.

'Now, all pistols loaded and at half-cock. Report any not loaded.'

There were no replies.

'And rockets and false-fires?'

'Here, sir,' two voices answered.

'Very well. Once I give the word, not a sound. And when I shout "Get "em!" you know what that means?'

There was a deafening 'Aye aye, sir!'

'And the challenge...?'

'"Triton!"' the men roared.

'And the reply?'

'"Jacko!"'

'Mister Jacko,' Jackson said in mock protest, and again the men laughed, knowing Ramage had deliberately chosen the American's nickname, although not to honour the American, but because, like the word 'Triton', it was distinctive; easily shouted and easily distinguished.

'Very well then,' Ramage said. 'And don't forget, from the time we're boarded and until they start taking the hatch covers off and I give an order, not a word. Anyone wanting to cough or sneeze must shove his head under a sack.'

That had been a good idea of Gorton's, and throwing several hundredweight of cocoa beans over the side to provide the empty sacks gave the men a little more room, too.

Ramage estimated it was now eight o'clock, so it would have been dark on deck for more than an hour. Twisting round his legs to make himself more comfortable as he sat across two casks, he grunted as the butt of a pistol dug in just below his ribs.

He'd thought that once all the batch covers had been put back on, the waiting would have been worse than during the day; but the men were so cheerful his fears had almost vanished. To them the prospect of a good fight was as good as a night on shore in Plymouth with five gold guineas in their pockets. Better, as he had heard one of the men comment, since they wouldn't have thick heads in the morning. Not thick heads, he had reflected gloomily; but several of them might be dead or badly wounded.

Someone was shaking him and he woke with a start to find Jackson whispering hoarsely, 'Did you hear the knocks, sir?'

Blearily Ramage said: 'No—how many?'

'Two double knocks.'

'Vessel in sight!' Ramage was thankful Jackson had been with him when he had arranged the code by which Gorton would signal, banging the hatch coaming with a belaying pin.

Suddenly there were four evenly spaced knocks.

A single knock after sighting meant the vessel was ahead, two was to larboard, three to starboard, four astern...

So the vessel was coming up astern.

'Don't shout, but make sure everyone's awake. Each man shake the one nearest him!'

Ramage felt the familiar symptoms of fear fighting with excitement.

Shouting on deck—too loud for orders. A hail to another ship?

A full minute passed and then suddenly a sharp double knock: another vessel! Two even knocks—to larboard Keep the men informed, Ramage remembered.

'Listen,' he whispered loudly. Two vessels in sight—one astern, one to larboard.'

More shouting, then a sudden brief tattoo from two belaying pins: the agreed signal for 'Vessel or vessels are definitely enemy.'

'Both privateers,' Ramage whispered and heard a few contented growls from the men.

Shouts on deck, the noise of sheets being hauled, a metallic rumble as the tiller was put over, the heavy rudder's pintles grinding on the gudgeons.

The shouting on the Jorum's deck sounded desperate now: Ramage had warned Gorton that his men should simulate panic, and they were making a good job of it.

Suddenly the whole ship shuddered from an enormous rasping crash along the larboard side: one of the privateers had run aboard, and shouts and the thudding of feet just above their heads told the Tritons that the freebooters were swarming over the Jorum's bulwarks.

'Lubberly crowd,' Jackson whispered.