Ramage and the Freebooters

'Best o'luck, sir!'

'Thanks, Stafford. Now, Jackson, you do your job here on board: get the gear out of the boat!'

The privateer was now a hundred yards off, approaching fast: she'd picked up a puff of wind and was bringing it with her. Hell fire, she was making four or five knots ... The cable —she'd barely feel the bump.

'Jackson—you ready?'

'Aye aye, sir, here at the mainchains.'

'Very well. Everyone else standing by?'

A low chorus told him the men were ready and waiting, several of them crouched below the bulwark holding the slow-matches which looked like red glow-worms.

'Swivels!' Ramage called softly. 'Not a man to fire until I give the order. Aim at the quarterdeck."

Fifty yards—and doing more than five knots. No, less— hard to tell because she was foreshortened. Her sails, broad off with the sheets eased to catch every scrap of wind, seemed enormous.

Would she open fire? He imagined privateersmen sighting along the barrels, each gun loaded with many grapeshot, each one a piece of solid iron the size of a hen's egg. Men sighting and ordering their crews to train a few degrees this way or that, preparing to fire right at the Jorum's quarterdeck, just where he was standing: just the position he had told his own men to aim for in the privateer.

Bile tasted sour in his throat as he almost vomited: he was cold, perspiration like ice on his forehead, his mouth full of saliva now and more coming every second, welling up under his tongue, his teeth furred. Just fear, and his duty to hide it from the men... Too dose now for the night-glass and he put it down, wrenching out his pistols.

Stretching out each thumb to cock them helped steady his nerves. Click, click. Two duelling pistols ready for action against a privateer. Each lead ball might dent the paintwork, but holding them helped him. Nothing like a firm grip on a pistol butt to instil bravery.

Twenty-five yards—barely her own length. Blast, how long did it take for a----- And he shouldn't be standing there anyway! He turned and sprinted forward, almost weeping at his stupidity. As he reached the bow and stood with his foot on the cable, he looked hurriedly across at the black bulk of the privateer gliding along, the silence broken only by the lapping of water at her bow.

She'd almost reached the cable: her stem must be within a few yards.

Why didn't they fire into the Jorum? Stupid question— the flash of the guns would blind the privateer's captain.

The sudden jerk on the cable so startled Ramage that he leapt back and it was a second before he yelled:

'Jackson! Light up!'

Almost at once the unreal, bright blue glow from the false-fire lit up the whole bay.

And slowly the privateer slewed round until she was heading for- the opposite shore, her booms and gaffs crashing as they gybed over.

'Swivels—fire!'

And all along the Jorum's side the flash-crash of the guns firing—one, two-three-four, five. The uneven spacing showed each man was aiming carefully, not firing just because the next one did.

'Into their rigging now—rockets!'

Blast, if he had the night-glass he'd be able to----- Suddenly the unearthly hiss and meteor-trail of two signal rockets racing almost horizontally across the bay straight at the privateer, exploding in showers of sparks as they hit, large red pieces ricocheting in all directions—red pieces which suddenly burst into red stars. And a few moments later he saw tongues of flame as burning fragments lodging in sails and rigging were fanned by the wind.

Jackson was tugging his arm. 'She's aground, she's aground, sir!'

Ramage nodded numbly: he hadn't noticed. Yes, her bearing wasn't changing: she was lying at the same angle to the north shore as the Jorum was to the south. And with a bit of luck she'd bilged herself on a rock! Had she taken on a list, or was it an illusion caused by her sails swinging? And down by the stern? Hard to tell with the false-fire throwing such weird shadows.

But she was still full of privateersmen: full of men who, if they could get on board the Jorum (and they might yet), would slit their throats and enjoy doing it.

'Swivels!' Ramage snapped. 'Fire!'

As the whiplash crack of the five guns echoed back and forth across the bay Ramage turned to Jackson and snarled:

'What happened to the musketoons?'

'All ready, sir.'

'Musketoons—open fire, smartly now!'

Damn and blast, what----- 'Jackson, get aft and see if there's any sign of the second privateer weighing. The night-glass is on the rudderhead.'

One by one the musketoons added their quota of musket balls. The false-fire, spluttering away by the mainchains with two men standing near with buckets of water in case it set fire to the ship, was dazzling him., but it helped the men aiming.

He saw that one by one the swivels were being re-loaded, but his anger was ebbing. There were few seamen who'd show a moment's mercy to privateersmen, but somehow this seemed like cold-blooded murder.

'Lookouts report no sign of movement from the second one, sir,' Jackson reported, handing him the night-glass. 'I had a good look. Men on deck—all crowded up trying to get a tight of what's happening here.'

'Very well.'

'Swivels are loaded, sir.'

'Very well.'

'And the musketoons.'

'Very well.'

'They'll finish us off to a man if they get the chance, sir...'

'I know,' Ramage said dully. 'Five more rounds each from the swivels and the musketoons. We've got to save some powder and shot for the other one...'

'Aye aye, sir,' Jackson said, and because he knew his captain he took a few paces before giving the order to resume firing.

The bonfire was burning brightly on top of the hill. Had Stafford managed to reach the Triton"? Through the glass he saw the privateer's transom had been smashed in by the Jorum's swivels. There were a few men at her bow and some others in the water, swimming towards the beach.

The moment Jackson woke him, Ramage realized it was dawn: the few stars still visible were disappearing in a cold grey light. He was cold and stiff from lying on deck in the lee of the taffrail.

'The Triton's still hove-to just off the entrance. No sign of life on the privateer opposite but there's movement on the other one in the lagoon.'

Jackson helped Ramage stand up. 'Hope you feel fresher now, sir.'

'I feel like a corpse. And you?'

'Fine sir, but I had an hour's more sleep than you.'

'Where's a tub?'

Jackson pointed to a wooden bucket by the hatch coaming. Ramage walked over, knelt down and ducked his head into it Suddenly he stood up, rubbing his eyes and swearing.

'Jackson, you damned fool! I meant fresh water!'

'But it was, sir—someone must've emptied it and refilled it from over the side!'

Although his eyes were stinging. Ramage was now certainly wide awake. He blinked a few times and then looked seaward. And there was the Triton, foretopsail backed, lying hove-to just outside the entrance. The privateer opposite, sails still hoisted, seemed deserted.

In the few moments before he had fallen asleep an hour ago, leaving Gorton in command while he had a brief rest, he'd had an idea and was thankful sleep hadn't erased it from his memory. Now to test it.

'Gorton, Jackson—here a moment.'

Without any preliminaries he abruptly asked the schooner captain: 'Just imagine you command the second privateer. Would you have guessed why the first one went aground?'