More flashes from the privateer's guns, and this time splintering wood and the clanging of metal against metal in the Triton's bow. Ramage saw the forwardmost carronade had been slewed round by the impact of the shot and every man in its crew flung across the deck like stuffed scarecrows.
The Triton's fourth and fifth carronades crashed out; both tore into the privateer's hull almost on the waterline, splintering the planking, and leaving rusty-coloured stains in the wood.
The smoke was making him cough and his eyes were watering, but he could see the privateer would run aground any second now unless she put her helm down in the next twenty yards. And if she put her helm down she'd crash alongside the Triton. Then he saw there was no one standing at the privateer's tiller, and a startled glance showed why: the Triton's second and third rounds had also smashed away the tiller: the privateer was steering herself and was bound to go aground!
'Mr Southwick! I'm going to wear round, shoot up into wind, let go the larboard bower anchor and drift back. We may need a spring on the cable to get our broadside to bear.'
'Aye aye, sir.'
The old man's white hair, fluffed out like the head of a mop, made him look like a benevolent parson taking an early morning stroll towards the church rather than a man itching to board an enemy ship and deal out death and destruction with the enormous sword whose scabbard was banging against his leg at every step.
In a few moments the Master had given the necessary orders: half a dozen men ran forward to prepare the anchor; the men at the sheets and braces acknowledged his warning to 'Step out smartly when the Captain gives the word!'
And the moment Ramage saw the privateer's bow lift as she hit the sandy beach, he shouted:
'Quartermaster, hard a' starboard! Hands stand by to wear ship!'
And swiftly the brig began turning, her jib-boom pointing along the cliffs on the south side, right across the entrance, then along the cliffs on the north side. Finally, as she <'?«"? round to the closest she could sail to the wind, Ramage glanced over at the privateer and continued his stream of orders for trimming yards and sails with:
'Quartermaster! Shoot her right up into the wind. Forward there—are you ready with the anchor?'
An answering hail told him the cable was free to run.
'Starboard-side guns—as we drift back, fire as you bear without further orders!'
The Triton was now past the grounded privateer and shooting up towards the sandspits into the wind's eye. Already the sails were pressing against the masts as the wind blew from ahead, although Ramage kept the yards braced hard up.
Quickly the brig lost way and Southwick, peering through a gun pott, called:
'No way on, sir."
'Let go, forward!'
The anchor splashed into the sea.
'Mr Southwick, brace up the foretopsailyard!'
With yard and sail square to the wind the brig would drift back faster and Ramage prayed the wind direction wouldn't change: he wanted to continue veering more cable, letting the brig drop back until she was abreast the privateer.
As soon as the yard was hauled round, Ramage told Southwick to keep on veering cable until they were in position.
Suddenly the brig's stern began to sheer over to the south shore, yet the wind hadn't shifted. Then, glancing at the men at the wheel, Ramage roared:
'Quartermaster! Helm amidships, you blockhead!'
The quartermaster had kept the wheel over from the sudden turn with the result that as soon as the brig started to go astern the rudder began to get a bite on the water and push her stern round.
An explosion, the splintering of wood, the whine of grape-shot, and splinters right behind him showed the privateer had managed to train a gun round. The full charge of grapeshot had smashed into the larboard side of the Triton's taffrail, ripping away a good deal of wood. But not a man was wounded.
And yard by yard, like a bull being driven backwards, the Triton was easing astern, Southwick watching and gesticulating to the men.
Ramage walked over to the aftermost carronade and, with a grin at its crew looked through the gun port. The carronade was already trained as far aft as possible. Another twenty yards would do it.
The gun captain moved over as Ramage knelt behind the gun and peered along the sight.
In a moment or two the gun would be aiming directly at the foot of the mainmast, round which was grouped at least a, dozen privateersmen.
'No need to worry about rolling!'
The gun captain, a white strip of cloth round his head showing he had been one of the party in the Jorum, grinned. 'There'll be a hit with every one sir: won't waste even one of them grapes!'
As Ramage stepped aside the man looked along the barrel, took up the strain on the trigger line in his right hand, glanced round the gun to make sure every man was dear, looked along the barrel again and jerked the line.
The carronade leapt back in recoil, smoke spurting from the muzzle; but without waiting to see where the shot had gone the men hurriedly began sponging out the barrel and reloading.
Ramage looked out through the port, keeping clear of the rammer. Not a man had been left standing by the privateer's mainmast—which was now pocked with what looked like rust marks, showing where the grapeshot had hit it. Then he saw two red eyes winking from the privateer's forward gun ports.
There was no time to jump back behind the bulwark. Splintering wood all round the port, clanging metal, the whining of ricochets, and he felt blood soaking his face and uniform. No pain; no report for Admiral Robinson that his orders had at last been carried out; a vacancy for the Admiral to promote a favourite; not to see Gianna again; Southwick sailing the Triton back to Barbados. Thoughts ran helter-skelter through his mind as he reeled back from the port.
A man was holding him, preventing him falling; a man with a cockney voice, anxiously repeating the question: 'You all right, sir?'
Stafford—he recognized the voice. Eyes stinging, head hurting—not much, numbed perhaps. No pain elsewhere. And, as he glanced down, no blood either.
He realized he'd been soaked with sea water thrown up by the shot. He rubbed his head, but the pain was at the back. He must have banged it against the top of the port as he'd jumped back.
He reassured Stafford, feeling foolish until he realized no one else knew the wounds he'd imagined. The Triton's next carronade fired, then the third, fourth and fifth in quick succession.
Now Southwick was standing beside him, his first words drowned by the thump of the aftermost carronade firing again.
Then a thud as more shot hit somewhere forward.
'Damn and blast 'em,' Southwick roared. There goes the jib-boom!'
Again a carronade fired—the men were keeping up a high rate of fire: must remember to mention it later.
Just as Ramage went to the nearest gun port someone hailed:
'Captain, sir! The Frenchies are shouting and waving a white flag!'
'Check fire,' Ramage yelled. 'Southwick—speaking trumpet!'
Through the port he could see a group of men right up in the bows of the privateer gesticulating. One was waving a white cloth. His shirt?
Reversing the trumpet and putting the mouthpiece to his ear, Ramage listened.
An English voice shouting. An agitated, frightened voice cracking in the effort to be heard. And shouting that the privateer surrendered.
'Mr Southwick, send away the boarders. Guns' crews stand fast.'