'Master of one of the frigates in Barbados gave me a sight of his and I made a copy. Original survey was by the Jason' 'I wish there'd been time to get my father's charts before we left England.'
'Yes,' Southwick growled, 'but it's time Their Lordships started issuing charts. We'd have been in a mess if I hadn't been able to copy that one. And this damned coral sometimes grows a foot a year, so if the chart's fifteen years old a shoal can have fifteen feet less water over it.'
'We need an Irish pilot,' Ramage said dryly, and South-wick laughed at the memory of a story well known in the Fleet of a frigate bound for an Irish port several miles up a river. The pilot seemed such an odd fellow that the captain asked if he knew the river well. Just as the pilot assured him he 'Knew every rock in it,' there was a thump that shook the ship, and he'd added: 'And that's one of 'em, sorr!'
After telling Southwick to shift the Triton's position by five hundred yards, keeping her hove-to farther to the north so that she could lay the entrance with the present wind, and call him the moment there was a sign of movement on board the privateer, Ramage went below to his cabin for a brisk wash and shave and change into clean clothes.
One look in the mirror startled him: the reflection showed a stranger with bloodshot; wild-looking eyes, cheeks sunken with new wrinkles slanting out down either side of the mouth. This stranger staring at him had the look of a man hunted—like a Seeing privateersman who'd stolen the tattered and dirty uniform of a King's officer.
The steward came in with hot water. He refrained from asking how it had been boiled since, with the ship at general quarters, the galley fire had been doused. An hour ago on board the Jorum, he mused, the idea of dean clothes, hot water and a sharp razor seemed remote, just a memory of a way of life led many years earlier. Now, vigorously brushing the lather on his face, the hours in the Jorum seemed equally remote. Opening the razor and nestling his little finger under the curved end, he took the first stroke and swore violently as the blunt blade seemed to be ripping the skin from his face. The damned steward—he could get boiled water without a fire, press clothes splendidly, serve at table so unobtrusively as to seem invisible. But stropping a razor was beyond him.
Angrily Ramage hooked up the leather strop and hurriedly stropped the razor first on the coarse side and then on the smooth. Gingerly he tried it. Not much better, but thank goodness he had a full set, seven ebony-handled razors, each with a different day of the week engraved on the heel of the blade. In future, he decided, six days shall thou labour and the seventh thou shalt not shave! He stuck out his chin for the last few strokes when there was a shout from on deck :
'Captain, sir!'
He went to the skylight and answered.
Southwick called down excitedly: 'The Jorum's hoisted a blue flag—looks more like a shirt, sir!'
'Very well—she's spotted activity on board the privateer. Acknowledge it. When it comes down it means the privateer's weighing.'
'Aye aye, sir.'
The comfortable tiredness Ramage had felt soaking into him as he shaved had now vanished. But the rest of the lather was drying on his face, tightening the skin unpleasantly, and Southwick was still standing there, waiting for orders.
'I'll finish shaving, Mr Southwick.'
'Aye aye, sir.'
Just as Ramage turned away Southwick called down again:
'Blue flag's coming down, sir!'
'I'll finish shaving, Mr Southwick.'
'Aye aye, sir,' Southwick said with as much disapproval as he dare register.
As he finished the last few strokes with the razor Ramage reflected it was a crude way of calming Southwick. Despite his original grumbling the old man had obviously enjoyed his brief hours in command of the Triton and was now thirsting for action. But Ramage knew that in the next half hour he needed every man on board the Triton to stay as calm as possible: one slip through excitement and the ship would be wrecked and the privateer allowed to escape. Then, in the mirror, he saw his own hand trembling—tiredness, of course. He looked himself in the eyes and grinned. Perhaps not tiredness but, thank God, not fear.
And that dam' fool steward had put out his second-best uniform, as though it was Sunday, and there wasn't time to get out an old one. Hurriedly Ramage pulled on the silk stockings, dragged on his breeches, tucked in his shirt and looked round for the stock. Hmm, perhaps not such a dam' fool—the silk was pleasant against his neck. Boots—another pair, highly polished, and he had changed the throwing knife over to them.
Pistols—newly-oiled and re-loaded. That'd be Jackson. He tucked them into the waistband, put on his coat and slipped the cutlass belt over his shoulder. A seaman's cutlass looked out of place—he should have an expensive, inlaid sword—but a cutlass was more effective. Jamming his hat on his head and ducking to dodge the beams, he went up on deck.
Southwick handed him the telescope.
The privateer was under way with her foresail and mainsail set. Men at the bow were catting the anchor and a jib was being hoisted. They had little more than a breeze; hardly strong enough to flatten the creases in the flaxen sails. Bow waves rippling over the flat water in ever-lengthening chevrons reminded Ramage of sailing a model boat across a village pond. Two knots? She was about level with the jetty, which meant she was two hundred "yards short of the sandspits and five hundred yards from the Jorum. Ramage looked across at Marigot Point on the north side of the entrance, and then at the south side. A line joining the two was four hundred yards from the Jorum. 'It'll be like a horse race with a starting line at each end and the finishing line in the middle!' Southwick commented.
'Brace up the foretopsail, if you please, Mr Southwick.'
Southwick bellowed orders, the yard was trimmed round and the brig gathered way.
'Full and by, Mr Southwick.'
'Aye aye, sir,' the Master said, turning to the quartermaster. With the chance of eddies from the hills, keeping the brig sailing as dose to the wind as possible was going to be difficult.
Ramage walked over to the binnacle, looked at the compass and then at the windvane at the mainmasthead—east-northeast. Hhh... It was going to be dose. To succeed, Ramage had now to sail into the bay with the Triton hugging the north shore, forcing the privateer to keep on the south side and passing dose to the Jorum. 'I'll
Close-hauled the Triton could sail six points off the wind; in other words she could steer south-east, which meant she could just about sail parallel with the north shore—and a glance showed him she was already doing that. But if the wind veered a few degrees, just fluked a little to the eastward, she would have to bear away into the middle of the channel. And then God alone knew what would happen.
If she couldn't immediately wear round and sail out of the bay again, she'd run aground. Indeed, once she was halfway into the bay there probably wasn't room enough to wear round whatever happened, unless he boxhauled—juggling with the sails so she went astern to bring her bow round, or dub-hauled, letting go an anchor over the lee side so that it suddenly dragged the brig's bow round. Then, by cutting the cable and leaving the anchor behind, the Triton would be able to sail out again.
But although either would be a close-run thing, neither would be necessary if he timed the manoeuvre correctly. Southwick's simile about a race, with the privateer starting at one end of the course and the Triton the other, wasn't a bad one; but Ramage knew success depended on him making sure both sailed the same distance ... The privateer would be three hundred yards from the Jorum as she passed between the two sandspits, and the Triton would be the same distance from Gorton's schooner, approaching from the opposite direction, when the cliff on the south side of the entrance bore south-west.