And Ramage suddenly saw the privateer was that very moment in the channel between the two spits. He twisted round to see the bearing of the south side of the entrance. South by west—so he was already fifty yards or more behind in the race.
Damn and blast; he always seemed to be daydreaming. The sky over the hills to the south was pinkish now: it'd be sunrise in fifteen minutes. But he realized fifty yards didn't matter too much—they'd meet that much this side of the Jorum, and by then Gorton and his men would have done their best. And the cable might have scared them...
Southwick said: 'Shall I start the lead going, sir?'
'No point; we're committed to this course. But I'd be glad if you'd go forward and keep a lookout for isolated rocks.'
The privateer was past the spit now and running before the breeze: a soldier's wind with her booms broad off, her sails tinged by the pinkish light of the rising sun.
The leeches of the brig's sails fluttered and Southwick turned on the quartermaster:
'Steer small, damn you.'
Must have been a back eddy off the cliffs because the fluttering stopped even before the men began to turn the wheel. And the cliffs were close. No wonder Southwick wanted a man in the forechains heaving a lead—it wasn't often that one of the King's ships drawing eleven feet forward and nearly thirteen aft sailed so dose inshore The privateer was bearing up a few degrees now to follow the slight bend in the channel.
Was her captain left-handed or right-handed? It might make a difference, Ramage suddenly realized, since in the next few minutes he had to guess which side the man would try to dodge past the Triton: had to guess moments before the man gave any indication by altering course or trimming sails. A right-handed man would tend to keep to his left, to the south side of the channel. And the Triton hugging the north side might decide him. If he was right-handed.
At each of the Triton's ten carronades the crew stood ready: each gun was loaded with grapeshot; each had the lock fitted in place with the captain holding the trigger line in his right hand, the second captain standing by ready to cock it at the last moment There'd be no last-minute traversing because they'd fire as the privateer passed. And a seaman was peering out of each port, quietly reporting to the captain of his gun the privateer's position.
And near each gun the high bulwarks bristled with cutlasses, pistols and tomahawks tucked into any fitting that would hold them, ready to be snatched up the instant Ramage gave the order to board.
Gracefully—for she was a rakish-looking schooner with a sweeping sheer—the privateer followed the curve of the channel, keeping to the south side. She had perhaps two hundred yards to run before she reached the Jorum. So far so good, Ramage thought—unless the Triton hit a rock. And there wouldn't be time to avoid one, so Southwick was wasting his time. He called the Master back to the quarterdeck.
Southwick had just arrived aft when the dull boom of a gun echoed between the cliffs, followed by another, then several at once.
As Ramage looked over at the Jorum, cursing Gorton for opening fire too soon, he was startled to see there was no smoke from her swivels and Southwick exclaimed:
'It's that damned grounded privateer!'
So the survivors must have gone back on board! Smoke was drifting away from tier, towards the Triton. And because she had turned to starboard before she went aground, her larboard-side guns covered the entrance; covered the approach Triton, with the range decreasing every moment.
'Poor shooting, all fell short,' Southwick said disgustedly. 'Still, up fifty yards and the next broadside should get us.'
'Give 'em a hail and tell 'em.'
More gunfire—coughs rather than the heavier thumps of the grounded privateer's guns. And now smoke was drifting away from the Jorum. Then a curious popping, six distinct shots. Gorton had fired his swivels, then the musketoons, to harry them.
'I hope he re-loads in time for our friend,' Southwick commented.
'He will, but anything that distracts our friend is a help.'
She was half-way between the spit and the schooner: 175 yards.
'Second broadside's due now, sir.'
Out of the mass of cordage that made up the Triton's standing and running rigging—it weighed more than seven tons—only half a dozen pieces were really vulnerable; but if even one of the half dozen was cut by a stray shot the Triton ... quickly Ramage dismissed the thought.
By now the second broadside should have arrived, but it hadn't. Did that mean Gorton's swivels and musketoons, sweeping the deck almost as effectively as if raking her, had killed or wounded enough of the men working the guns?
Nor was there a second broadside from the Jorum. Gorton was saving that for the second privateer, which was close now and bearing away a few degrees to stay in the deepest part of the channel.
Along the Triton's larboard side the cliffs were receding and becoming less vertical, the bare rock hidden by bushes.
The privateer was obviously making a knot or so more than the Triton, and Ramage was thankful. He'd misjudged the point where he intended meeting the privateer: the whole bay was dosing in, and there was less room to manoeuvre than he thought. The fact the privateer would be well past the Jorum before he intercepted her was to the Triton's advantage. Nice of the enemy to cover up one's mistakes.
Unwittingly emphasizing it, Southwick said conversationally: 'Reckon you've timed it nicely, sir. He's still got that cable...'
And Ramage realized he'd forgotten that, too.
'I hope so, Mr Southwick,' Ramage said cautiously, wondering what else be had forgotten.
The Triton, was, if anything, losing the wind. Since it was blowing the length of the two bays, maybe the northern spit was blanketing it. Or perhaps the privateer was bringing the breeze down with her.
'Wind's puffy,' Southwick said. 'We'd look silly if we ran into a dull patch and she sneaked by us!'
Ramage, busy calculating distances and with the thought already nagging him, snapped: 'If we do, you can lead the boats towing us round.'
And the privateer was nearly up to the Jorum: thirty yards —twenty—hard to judge from this angle. Gorton's men would be carefully training round the swivels; the musketoons resting on the bulwark capping. Had the privateer spotted the cable?
A puff of smoke right aft in the Jorum as one swivel fired and a moment later he heard the report. Smoke at the privateer's bows—she had swivels too. Then Ramage heard the sharp double crack of two more of the Jorum's swivels.
Smoke was spurting from the privateer's larboard side now: she must be almost abreast the Jorum for her broadside guns to bear. One—two, three—four—five: the whole broadside. And steadily the schooner's swivels and musketoons puffed smoke, the noise of all the guns reaching the Triton as a roll of thunder.
Then suddenly the privateer turned hard a' starboard, apparently heading straight for her grounded consort, the smoke of her guns still streaming from her ports and the big foresail and mainsail crashing over. Southwick swore softly, excitement in both his voice and choice of words.
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?