The Triton was barely two hundred yards away from her now and, snatching up the telescope, Ramage could see the holes torn in her bulwarks by the Jorum's grapeshot. He swung the telescope over to the schooner for a moment and it confirmed his fears. The Jorum was a shambles; it was a miracle she'd been able to fire the remaining swivels after the privateer's single broadside.
Then, the telescope trained back on the privateer, he saw several men running to the tiller—although there were two men at it already—while other were frantically hauling at the foresail and mainsail sheets.
It'd been the cable. She'd hit it and her captain, feeling the bump, must have instinctively ordered the helm down. But the privateer had shot so far across the channel that— no! The cable was no longer there!
'She's parted the cable!' he said abruptly to Southwick. 'They're trying to wear round.'
'Shall we board or ram, sir?'
'Wait and see!'
With the privateer now only 150 yards ahead and no indication whether she would be able to wear round before running aground, Ramage was tempted to add 'I wish I knew.'
'She's turning, sir!'
Slowly at first. They'd been able to see her long profile, from the end of her bowsprit to her taffrail, as she'd swung across the channel—but now it was shortening as she turned towards the Triton. Ramage could see they'd managed to haul in the mainsail almost amidships: in a few moments, if they were lucky, it'd swing across and spin the privateer round on her heel, her bow heading for the entrance.
Ramage suddenly ran to a gun port and looked over the side. One glance snowed him there wasn't enough depth of water between the Triton and the north shore for the privateer to squeeze through; in fact, it was a miracle the brig hadn't gone aground herself. As he came bark to the binnacle he found he had made up his mind.
Up to that moment Ramage had felt strangely calm and detached—perhaps because the Triton could only continue sailing full and by—but now he was getting excited at the prospect of quick decisions; of sudden gambles, heavy stakes slammed down to profit from an opponent's mistake.
But, tugging at the pistols in his waistband to make sure he could draw them easily, Ramage fought the excitement.
The privateer's main boom crashed over, followed by the foresail, and almost at once she began to turn faster.
'She'll make it!' Southwick called, watching the shoals close to the beach.
'Now you'll get a run for your money!'
Me too, Ramage thought to himself: the privateer was turning as fast as a soldier doing an about-turn. Round she came, bowsprit sucking out like an accusing finger, pointing momentarily at the Triton with both masts in line, but as she continued swinging the masts opened up again. Hell, she was swinging fast now.
'Looks as if she's going to run ashore on the opposite bank!' Southwick called.
If she did she'd be only a hundred yards to seaward of the Jorum; but she wouldn't. Southwick could be very stupid at times.
One broadside from the Triton wouldn't do the job; Ramage was certain of that.
'Mr Southwick—we'll be turning nine points to starboard in the next few moments!'
'Aye aye, sir!'
Picking up the speaking trumpet, Ramage shouted: 'Larboard-side gun captains, fire without further orders as soon as you bear!'
To the quartermaster he snapped: 'Stand by now!'
And the privateer was now darting diagonally across the Triton's bow, picking up speed every moment.
Ramage, rubbing his brow, tried to judge the precise moment to order the helm hard over to turn the Triton on to an almost parallel course and precisely placed so her broadside guns would bear. Almost parallel—converging just enough to squeeze the privateer so she had to choose between running ashore or crashing alongside the Triton. Turning a moment too soon would let her suddenly bear up and slip by under the Triton's stern: a moment too late would let her slip out ahead. If she managed to get a fifty-yard start there'd be no catching her...
Quickly he changed his plan: there'll be no sudden turn: he'd do it slowly, slowly...
'Quartermaster, starboard a point. Mr Southwick, smartly now with the sheets and braces!'
The Triton turned almost a dozen degrees, bringing the privateer dead ahead again for a few moments and a hundred yards away. Then, as the brig steadied on the new course, the privateer continued passing diagonally across her bow.
Southwick was beside him now, speaking trumpet clenched in his hand. Ramage saw Jackson watching him rubbing the scar and took his hand away.
'Quartermaster, a point to starboard!'
Southwick bellowed more orders to the men trimming the sails.
Once again me Triton was, for a few seconds, heading directly for the privateer, until she straightened up when the turn was completed. Seventy-five yards away—less in fact.
Ramage knew Southwick must be puzzled why he didn't wait and then make one quick nine-point turn to bring the Triton alongside the privateer immediately. But this way Ramage knew he was forcing the privateer farther and farther over to the south shore; cutting down the only chance the enemy had of suddenly bearing up under the Triton's stern.
'Quartermaster—another point to starboard!'
Once again the sails were trimmed as the wheel was put over; once again the Triton's bow pointed at the privateer for a few moments.
Fifty yards, and the old Master was giving Ramage an anxious look.
One man from each of the larboard side carronades was peering out of the port, keeping his gun captain informed. The pinkness had gone out of the sky; it was getting light fast. The privateer had splendid lines; a beautiful ship with raking masts.
Then Ramage saw a wind shadow coming fast down the bay—it'd catch the privateer first in a few moments and give her another knot or so: just enough to let her slip through.
All right!
'Hard a' starboard!' Ramage bellowed. 'Smartly now!'
The quartermaster leapt to the wheel as the men spun it; Southwick shouted encouragement to the sail-trimmers. Slowly the Triton began turning. Too slowly—Ramage swore softly as he watched the end of the jib-boom swinging against the land: it was moving so slowly that—ah, faster now: the Jorum dead ahead for a second, then the privateer. And, as the Triton continued turning, she was suddenly almost abeam.
'Larboard guns, stand by!'
His heart was pounding in a hollow chest; it had been sheer luck.
'Quartermaster—steady as you go! Come on to the same course as that devil!"
Both the Triton and the privateer were now sailing almost side by side, steering a course which converged on the beach and, inside a couple of hundred yards, would put them both ashore.
A crash from forward made both Ramage and Southwick swear; then a spurt of smoke, the rumbling recoil of the forwardmost carronade, the reek of powder drifting aft to catch in their throats, warned them the first of the Triton's guns had been brought to bear.
A flurry among the men grouped round the privateer's tiller showed it had been well-aimed. Then there were flashes along her side, followed by the dull thumps of the guns firing.
The double crash of the Triton's next two carronades firing was followed by fifteen feet of the privateer's bulwark abreast the quarterdeck disappearing in a shower of splinters and dust, with screams echoing over the water. Those splinters had been flung across her deck like wooden scythes, cutting men down with dreadful wounds.