For a few moments there was nothing for him to do, except look astern at the Neptune and wonder. Would the Calypso's sails draw in time so that, secured alongside the Hasard by the grapnels, she could pivot round, turning the Hasard and forcing the French frigate between her and the Neptune for long enough to act as a shield?
Would the grapnel lines hold the two ships close enough together? Anyway, at the moment the Calypso's hull was pressed hard against the Hasard: open gunports in both frigates would be jamming against each other as they rolled in the swell; the two ships' chainplates would probably lock; just long enough, Ramage prayed, for the Calypso to wrench the Frenchman round.
He stared ahead over the Calypso's bow. Yes, the horizon was beginning to shift. The Santissima Trinidad and her attackers, which had been on the beam, were gradually drawing round on to the quarter. The Calypso's sails were filling enough to lever round the Hasard.
But in time?
He looked astern at the Neptune. She was rolling heavily in a swell wave which shook the wind from her sails and then let them fill with a bang. Two hundred yards? Perhaps less.
But supposing this trick worked, what then? Would the Neptune heave-to and try to save the French frigate? Or (Ramage looked across the line of battle and through a gap saw more British ships coming into battle) would the Neptune make a bolt for the north, towards Cadiz and in the company of the van ships, which (so far, anyway) showed no sign of turning back to come to the help of the centre and rear?
Among thirty-three line-of-battle ships, one frigate more or less should make no difference - unless the captains were old friends: joined together by some revolutionary act in the past, or friends from the time that the Neptune's captain also commanded a frigate?
Now the Calypso was turning the Hasard fast: topgallants, topsails and courses against the Frenchman's topsails only: the two ships were fairly spinning! Now both frigates had their sterns pointing at the line of battle - and the Neptune was a ship's length away: Ramage could make out the planking of her hull, interrupted by the black stubby fingers of her guns, run out ready. Her sails were patched; they were old, pulled out of shape by too much use. And he could almost distinguish the lay of the rope of her rigging. The foretopsail yard curved so much it looked as if it was sprung. Dun-coloured hull, mast hoops black.
Would she risk a raking broadside into the Calypso's stern? Unless every gun was carefully aimed, there was a good chance that some of the shot would rake the Hasard too.
Ramage shook his head to clear his thoughts. There was nothing more to be done about the Neptune: the Calypso was doing her best to force round the Hasard as a shield, the smoke was now streaming forward over the Calypso's quarterdeck as she turned in the wind.
"Belay that smoke, Mr Southwick! Have the men heave those braziers over the side. You're now in command!"
With that Ramage unsheathed his Patriotic Fund sword with his right hand and hauled out a pistol with his left. "Come on!" he shouted at Jackson and made for the quarterdeck ladder, followed by Aitken.
The Hasard's maindeck was crowded. The lines of the grapnels flung aboard the Frenchman from the Calypso's deck were stretched tight, holding the two frigates together, and from the ends of the yards more grapnels were swung out and hooked into the Hasard's rigging.
There were still pockets of smoke across the French ship's deck and Ramage ducked through a gunport, leapt across the gap to one of the Hasard's open ports - noting that the lids just caught each other, despite the tumblehome - and a moment later he was racing for the Hasard's quarterdeck, shouting "Calypsos, to me Calypsos!"
A Frenchman lunged at him with a half-pike and Ramage slashed it to one side with his sword. Blurred in the corner of his eye he saw the muzzle of a musket pointing at him, but from behind there was a sharp crack: presumably Jackson's pistol had taken care of it.
There were some of the Calypso's Marines: Sergeant Ferris was holding the barrel of a musket and swinging the butt round his head like a flail as he ploughed through a group of Frenchmen, roaring curses and threats.
Ramage saw a screaming Frenchman running at him with a cutlass, flung his pistol left-handed into the man's face and sliced upwards with his sword. As the man collapsed he leapt over the body and made for the quarterdeck ladder.
He was conscious that Jackson was beside him and Aitken, shouting threats in broad Scottish, was just behind. Grinning faces blurred as he ran but he just had time to register they were Calypsos.
Suddenly someone was tugging his shoulder and shouting. Aitken. "There she goes! By God we did it! There she goes!"
An excited Aitken was pointing over the larboard quarter and, across the Hasard's quarterdeck, Ramage saw the enormous bulk of the Neptune sliding past. He registered that she was a fine sight - and that her guns were not firing: the Calypso was completely shielded by the Hasard though, judging by the slatting of canvas, Southwick and his men must be doing some hasty sail trimming.
Now he was almost at the top of the quarterdeck ladder, slashing at a Frenchman's legs and hurriedly leaning to one side as the man fell. And there was the entire quarterdeck, a replica of the Calypso's but full of men fighting desperately, cutlasses slashing and pikes jabbing.
"The wheel!" Ramage shouted, and with Jackson and Aitken they slashed and parried their way towards it. A French officer, dead from a gaping head wound, hung over the wheel, his coat caught in a spoke. Ramage had just reached the binnacle when a cursing, sword-slashing Rennick reached it from the other side.
"Steady!" Ramage bellowed, recognizing the bloodlust in the Marine officer's face.
"Oh, it's you, sir!" Rennick exclaimed, as though startled in the midst of the frenzy. With that he turned and rushed aft, to where Marines were still fighting it out with a group of French seamen.
From forward the popping of pistols and muskets and the clashing of cutlass blades showed that neither the waist nor the fo'c'sle had been secured, and then Ramage realized that most of the fighting on the quarterdeck had suddenly stopped and a Frenchman - Ramage recognized him as an officer - was shouting at the top of his voice that the ship surrendered. At that moment for Ramage everything went black.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Ramage came to knowing at first that he was lying on a hard deck, that his head rang as though inside a bell, and someone was pouring water over him from a bucket - salt water, which made his eyes sting.
As the red mist cleared from his eyes and with a great effort he managed to get them to focus, he found he was lying on the Hasard's quarterdeck with Jackson dousing him and Aitken kneeling beside him while Rennick, musket at the ready, stood at his feet.
There was still the smell of the Calypso's powder smoke and he could just distinguish a group of seamen - French seamen - being guarded by a party of the Calypso's Marines.
"Are you all right now, sir?" Aitken said anxiously.
No bones were broken; only his head throbbed as though an enthusiast was whacking it with a caulker's maul.
"Wha' happened?"
"As that French officer shouted that he surrendered the ship, you stopped to listen and one of the French seamen fetched you a crack across the head with the butt of a musket."
"Feels as though he dropped an 18-pounder on me," Ramage muttered. "Have we secured the ship?"
"Yes, sir," Aitken assured him. "The French officer," he added, "is waiting to surrender his sword to you - and apologize."
"The captain?"
"No, second lieutenant. The only surviving officer. Seems Rennick and his Marines did for the others."
"Too bad," Ramage growled, struggling to stand up. "Here, give me your shoulder."