Ramage and the Freebooters (40 page)

‘Well, Jackson must have done the job. Fetch must be dealt with and the signal passed.’

‘Unless they all got drunk – or walked into a trap. Or that Fetch fellow was too smart for them,’ Southwick growled.

Since the remark merely emphasized his own unspoken fears and it was unlike the Master to be depressed, Ramage snapped: ‘Or the wind might drop and we’ll miss them at the rendezvous.’

‘It might,’ Southwick said, missing Ramage’s sarcasm. ‘Often does drop at night.’

Ramage made no reply: he’d lose his temper with the old fellow if he wasn’t careful. He opened the night-glass again and looked up towards St George.

Over there at this moment, within the circle contained by the telescope’s lens, Claire was at Wilson’s house and probably making polite conversation with the Colonel’s lady; Sir Jason would probably be playing whist – had he found a new butler yet?

Ramage shivered. He’d left his coat in the cabin and although chilly it was not entirely the wind. But he was thinking of Rondin’s words. When spoken, the praise and businessman’s cold-blooded approach had alternately embarrassed and surprised him. But now their significance was sinking in. Rondin had tried to deter him because he thought a better opportunity of destroying the privateers would come along. But Ramage felt instinctively it would be foolish to miss the present one.

Although their spy in Government House was out of action, the privateersmen had too much at stake to shrug their shoulders and go elsewhere. No, they’d quickly set up a new system, and it wouldn’t be difficult: someone watching for a schooner sailing, beating a drum for a few moments from a high hill over the harbour – and vanishing into the rain forests until the next schooner sailed. Not as effective a spy as the butler – who obviously found out many other secrets – but equally effective as far as catching the schooners was concerned.

Ramage knew it was his only chance. And all the while Admiral Robinson waited in Barbados. In London the Admiralty, the West Indian Committee and the underwriters would soon be needing scapegoats to placate them. Rondin was right – if one had plenty of time. But Ramage knew time was the only thing he lacked.

‘Keep on imagining I can hear tom-toms,’ Southwick grumbled.

‘It’s that stomach of yours: you ate too much for supper.’

‘I did, too,’ Southwick admitted. ‘But it’ll be a few hours a’fore I can sit down to a quiet meal again without fretting about whether the quartermaster’s gone to sleep.’

‘You haven’t much to grumble about,’ Ramage said unsympathetically. ‘You’ll have twenty-four hours at the most. What about me – twenty-four months of it. Well, nearly twelve anyway.’

‘You’re welcome to every minute,’ the old Master said with a sudden cheery frankness. ‘Just don’t go and get yourself killed and leave me to take the ship back to Barbados!’

‘Barbados? I thought you said you were going to run her up on a reef in the dark?’

‘Aye, that’d take a load off my mind. Then I can hire a schooner for the King’s service and go back to Barbados as a passenger–’

Ramage cut him short. ‘If you can spare a moment of your fast-vanishing leisure to order a cast of the log – and repeat it every fifteen minutes – you’ll avoid having me fretting.’

‘Aye aye, sir.’

‘I’m going below for half an hour. Keep an eye on the course steered.’

‘Aye aye, sir.’

‘And keep a sharp lookout.’

This time Southwick made little attempt to keep the irritation out of his voice, ‘Aye aye, sir.’

Moodily Ramage walked to the companionway, not knowing Southwick had deliberately pretended irritation because he knew his young captain’s nerves were bar taut and the reply would make him realize it by the time he reached the cabin.

No sooner had he sat down to write up the log than Ramage remembered he’d forgotten to bring the slate with him and angrily shouted through the skylight for Southwick to pass it. As soon as it was passed down he copied the details and handed it back to the seaman waiting overhead.

Then he went over to the chart spread out on the table, each corner held down by a weight to prevent it rolling up again. He plotted the three bearings, pencilled in a tiny cross and wrote the time beside it. From the cross he checked off the course he’d given Southwick to steer, knowing it was a waste of time since he had already checked it several times earlier, long before darkness fell, and the
Triton
had been in the precise position he had intended when he had given the order to alter course.

Irritated at his own jumpiness he flung down the pencil, went over to a cupboard and took out his case of duelling pistols. They were a gift from Sir Gilbert Elliot, the former Viceroy in Corsica, to mark the day when Ramage was given his first command, and were a splendid example of the gunmaker’s art: each stock was of richly grained walnut; the hexagonal barrels, shining blue in the dim light from the lantern, were long – too long for the rough and tumble of fighting, but ensuring accuracy – and the upper flat surface was ideal for aiming quickly.

He picked up one of them, flicked up the appropriately named hammer to expose the priming pan, blew into it to make sure there were no fine grains of priming powder still in the pan or touchhole, then pushed the hammer down again so that it covered the pan. Then, after checking that the jaws of the cock gripped the flint tightly, he cocked the gun and squeezed the trigger. The cock arched over faster than the eye could follow, the flint in striking the curved face of the hammer lifting it from the pan and making a satisfactory spark.

After repeating the procedure with the second pistol, he shook out lead shot, each the size of a schoolboy’s marble, from a green baize bag, and took some cloth wads from a compartment in the case.

Selecting two shots he rolled them on the desk and then held each of them up to the light. They were well-cast and, as far as he could see, perfectly spherical. Not that it would matter much at the ranges he’d be firing.

Holding one of the pistols with the muzzle pointing upwards, he took the larger of the two flasks from the case, put the funnel-shaped end in the muzzle and pressed the catch at the side which automatically allowed the correct amount of powder to drop into the barrel.

It took only a few moments to ram home both shot and wad, pour priming powder from the smaller flask into the pan and shut the hammer down again, making sure it was a tight fit and none of the priming powder could shake out.

After loading the second pistol he took his jacket and put a couple of dozen shot and wads in one pocket and the two powder flasks in another. A sudden thought struck him as he put the coat down on the settee, with the two pistols on top, and looked round for his hat.

Quickly he went up on deck and found Southwick.

‘In the dark,’ he said, ‘we can’t be sure of identifying each other. A fraction of a second might save a man’s life. Get the boatswain’s mate to cut up forty strips of white cloth – wide enough for each man to tie round his head. Explain the reason to them – anyone without a headband is fair game. Have someone take four over to the schooner for Jackson’s party.’

‘Don’t forget to wear one yourself, sir.’

‘What? Oh yes, of course.’

And Ramage realized he was more jumpy than he cared to admit; but for Southwick’s warning he’d have crammed his hat on his head when he went on board the schooner. If it had sailed, and if they could find it in the darkness.

A sudden yell from a lookout sent Ramage dashing up the companionway. Southwick pointed over the larboard side, where several small objects bobbed about, black on the dark grey of the sea.

‘Dozens of ’em,’ Southwick growled. ‘Thought they were rocks for a moment! Can’t make out what they are, even with the glass.’

Ramage called to the lookout who reported that they stretched diagonally across the brig’s bow from the larboard beam.

‘Back the foretops’l, Mr Southwick!’

Within moments of Southwick’s bellows the foretopsail yard was being braced round and the sheets trimmed again so the wind blew on to the forward side, trying to push the brig astern in opposition to the maintopsail trying to thrust her ahead. The opposing forces, balancing each other, stopped the ship within a few yards of the line of objects.

By then Ramage was on the fo’c’sle with the night-glass jammed to his eye. He snapped it shut and went aft to tell Southwick.

‘Casks and sacks – the
Jorum’s
ahead of us and to windward and has dumped some of her cargo.’

‘She got up here faster than I expected!’ Southwick exclaimed.

‘I told you these schooners were slippery. Let’s get under way again!’

Southwick shouted the orders which set the men bracing the foretopsail yard round again and the sail filled with a bang. Almost at once the brig stopped pitching gently, and the splashing as her stem and counter alternately slapped down on to the waves gave way to the steady sluicing of water as she gathered speed.

But more than ten minutes passed before Ramage was certain he had identified the mountain peaks that let them identify the few bonfires on shore as the village of Gouyave, while it took a timed run of fifteen minutes to establish their exact position and discover they were half a mile inshore of the rendezvous. By that time Ramage had the ship cleared for action and the carronades run out, using only the depleted crew.

Southwick’s cursing at their slowness was interrupted by a hail from the lookout on the starboard bow: ‘Sail ho! A point on the larboard bow, sir; about a couple of cables distant.’

‘Very well,’ Southwick acknowledged, jumping up on to a carronade with an alacrity which belied his age and bulk.

‘No sail set, sir: seems to be just lying there!’ the man added.

Again Southwick acknowledged and Ramage said: ‘Remember to check why the larboard lookout didn’t sight it,’ and warned, ‘Make sure there’s nothing else around.’

The chances of a trap were slight. But it wasn’t until all the lookouts spaced round the ship reported nothing else in sight that Ramage ordered Southwick to heave-to a cable’s distance to windward of the schooner.

For the past hour the two boarding parties had been kept below, the ship being sailed and cleared for action with the reduced crew. Now Ramage told Appleby to assemble the first party aft. While that was being done, he went down to his cabin, put on his coat, stuffed the two pistols into the top of his breeches, slung a cutlass belt over his shoulder and jammed his hat on his head.

As he took a last look round the cabin he saw a strip of white cloth lying on his desk. Cursing his memory he threw his hat on to the settee and tied the strip round his head. Hell, his forehead felt sore; God knows how many times he had rubbed the scar this evening, like a baby sucking its thumb.

Up on deck he found the men grouped aft by the taffrail with Appleby bending over the binnacle light reading out their names from a sheet of paper. Finally, the last of the men answered and Appleby reported: ‘All sixteen men present, sir.’

Sixteen? Ramage was puzzled for a moment, then realized the other four were already in the schooner.

And where the devil was the schooner now? He turned and saw her black shape close by to leeward. Even as he looked Southwick hailed it through the speaking trumpet.

‘What ship?’

‘The
Jorum
schooner, Mr Southwick, sir, lying to and awaiting orders.’

Ramage almost sighed with relief: Jackson’s voice and answering in the prearranged manner.

‘Ready for the boarding party?’

‘Aye aye, sir.’

‘How many?’

‘No more’n twenty, sir, and even then it’ll be a tight fit.’

Southwick swore and from below Ramage heard yells of disappointment from the other twenty men standing by.

‘All right, Jackson, I’m sending ’em over now.’

Ramage noted Southwick’s confident ‘I’. They’d already agreed that the Master took command from the moment the
Triton
hove-to near the schooner.

The jolly boat which had been towing astern was hauled alongside and ten of the boarding party were ferried over to the schooner. When it returned for the rest Ramage moved over to the ladder and, as soon as the last of the men disappeared over the side, reached out to shake Southwick’s hand.

‘Best o’ luck sir: hope to see you back on board very soon!’

‘Thanks, Southwick. If not, go round St Lucia and just steer east – you can’t miss Barbados; but even if you do, you’ll soon sight Africa!’

Southwick gave a full-bellied laugh and the men in the boat joined in.

A few minutes later Ramage was scrambling up the lee side of the schooner, followed by the boarders, to be greeted by her captain, a young white man who introduced himself as James Gorton.

‘All of Mr Rondin’s instructions have been carried out, sir,’ he reported. ‘But I daren’t jettison any more cargo to make extra room or we’ll be floating so light the privateers’d get suspicious.’

‘But we can get twenty men in the hold?’

‘Yes, sir. Not much room and it stinks o’ molasses and is running alive with cockroaches. No rats though – well, not many.’

Ramage saw that the canvas hatch cover had been rolled back and several of the wooden beams covering the hatch had been lifted off. From the hold there was the faint glow of a lantern.

‘Right,’ Ramage said crisply. ‘Let’s get my men below out of the way. Come on, boarders – down you go. Careful with those grenades and false-fires!’

The men moved silently across the narrow deck from the bulwark.

‘Jackson?’

‘Here, sir!’

Ramage moved forward, followed by the American, to be out of earshot of the schooner’s crew, who were gathered around Gorton at the hatch.

‘Did everything go off all right?’

‘Perfectly, sir. Found Fetch’s hut without any tacking back and forth. He was getting drunk with rum.’

‘Tie him up?’

‘No, sir.’

‘What then?’

‘There was a fight of it. We left him for dead.’

But Ramage knew Jackson too well: the American’s voice was too glib, too well rehearsed. It was the true story, but not the whole one.