Governor Ramage R. N. (14 page)

As he watched the frigate, Ramage heard yelling and shouting coming from the
Peacock;
excited cries that carried over the noise of carronades and musketoons.

The shouting was in French, and he thought he could hear “Board her!” being constantly repeated. He went back to the bulwark and tried to concentrate his thoughts while, one after another, the carronades gave enormous, heavy coughs as they fired and then crashed back in recoil in a series of rumbles which shook the whole deck.

The stretch of water between the two ships, the waves slopping darkly but constantly reflecting the flash of gunfire, was too narrow. Too late, Ramage realized what was happening. The
Peacock,
sheering away from the approaching
Greyhound,
was running aboard the
Triton.

“Stand by to repel boarders!” Ramage shouted at the top of his voice and at the same instant realized he was unarmed: the cutlass given him by Southwick was still stuck in the deck somewhere. He could hear the Master repeating his cry, but it was unnecessary: there was not a man in the
Triton
who did not realize there was no chance of the
Triton
avoiding the
Peacock
crashing alongside.

Ramage glanced back at the
Greyhound:
she was coming up fast—she had perhaps two ship's lengths to go before she was alongside the
Peacock.
A matter of minutes, almost moments. And in that time the bunch of cut-throats in the
Peacock
—obviously French privateersmen, although he hadn't the slightest idea how they got there—would have slaughtered every man in the
Triton.

There was no point in standing up here on the bulwark like a pheasant on a gate, Ramage told himself; he could see all that was necessary from the deck. He jumped down and ran over to the rack of boarding pikes fitted round the mainmast. As he snatched one, the brig gave a sudden lurch: the
Peacock
had crashed alongside.

Boarding nets, Ramage thought with irritation: I didn't order them to be rigged up. But there was no sudden swarm of screaming Frenchmen over the top of the
Triton's
bulwarks; instead the men at the guns continued sponging, loading, ramming, running out and firing into the French ship.

As he realized the enemy was not still alongside he saw Southwick was standing beside him, shouting something … “Managed to turn to starboard enough to dodge … Should I repeat it if the
Peacock—”

“Yes, right now!” Ramage yelled as he felt the
Peacock
crash alongside once more and saw men holding on to her rigging, poised to jump and waving cutlasses that glinted in the flash of the guns.

Every available Triton was waiting at the bulwarks. Many had muskets, with cutlasses slung over their shoulders; others held boarding pikes, the seven-feet-long ash staves with long, narrow spear tips.

A flash and a noise like tearing canvas warned Ramage that a roundshot from one of the
Peacock's
guns had missed him by a matter of inches. Then he saw, in the flash from one of the
Triton's
guns, eight or ten Frenchmen toppling from the
Peacock's
main shrouds. It took him a few seconds to realize that the
Triton's
Marines were clearing the
Peacock's
rigging by firing volleys from the musketoons. It said something for the coolness of the Marine corporal …

Suddenly there were twenty Frenchmen screaming and scrambling at the bulwarks where Ramage had been standing: they had all leapt at the same instant and, Ramage guessed, misjudged the distance slightly in the darkness. Instinctively Ramage lunged with the boarding pike, felt the wood jar his arms as the point came hard up against bone, and wrenched it back ready to stab again into the mass of men.

Jackson and Stafford were beside him, screaming like madmen and slashing with their cutlasses; a stream of blasphemy in Italian, the Genoese accent unmistakable, showed that Rossi was close by.

More Frenchmen were streaming on board and overrunning the carronades, and out of the corner of his eye Ramage saw Jackson slip. A Frenchman paused above him, bracing to slash down with his sword. Without thinking Ramage hurled the boarding pike like a spear and caught the Frenchman in the side of the chest. As he fell, Jackson got to his feet again and waved cheerfully before leaping at the nearest group of boarders.

Ramage caught sight of a cutlass lying on the deck, snatched it up and turned back towards the
Peacock.
There was a bellow of wrath a few feet away and he caught sight of Southwick, hat-less and his white hair sticking up like a mop, slashing away with his enormous sword and driving three Frenchmen before him.

But there was something odd about the Frenchmen now: no more were boarding and the shouting was dying down. In fact, he suddenly noticed, many of them were scrambling back on board the
Peacock.

Then the dull rumble of a heavy broadside warned him that the
Greyhound
frigate had just run aboard the
Peacock
on the larboard side.

All over the brig there were small groups of Tritons backing and slashing away with pikes and cutlasses at groups of similarly armed Frenchmen, but there was something else happening. Ramage knew he would have to pause a moment before he could fathom what it was. The screaming Frenchman with whom he was fighting suddenly collapsed, stabbed by Rossi's pike, and Ramage leapt sideways and made for the mainmast. Standing with his back against it, cutlass in his right hand, he looked across at the
Peacock
and realized that all three ships, locked together, were slowly swinging. The “something else” that puzzled him was the change in movement as they swung broadside on to the sea in the lee of the
Greyhound.

He stared at the
Peacock's
masts, and then at her shrouds. There was no doubt about it—she was drawing away from the
Triton.
A moment later a group of Frenchmen noticed it and scrambled on to the bulwark to try to get back on board. But the gap was too wide: the
Greyhound
must have rigged grapnels from the ends of her yards and these were holding the
Peacock
alongside. The
Triton
with nothing holding her against the
Peacock,
was drifting off to leeward.

There would be no more boarders now, and he must quickly rally the Tritons.

He ran to the wheel shouting, “Tritons! To me, Tritons!”

Other seamen took up the cry as they joined Ramage until it was a regular chant by thirty or more men, among them Southwick. Now he could clear the ship of the enemy, but as he was about to shout the orders he heard a terrible wail and saw that most of the remaining boarders had rushed to the larboard side and were looking at the
Peacock,
now ten yards away. Some of their shipmates appeared at her bulwarks and began throwing lines over the side. With that one Frenchman after another jumped into the sea and began splashing his way back to the
Peacock.

Within a minute Ramage and Southwick were staring at each other in amazement: there was not one able-bodied Frenchman left on board the
Triton.

“I want a dozen men to deal with the wounded,” Ramage told Southwick, “and all the larboard side guns are to be reloaded. Let's get the ship under way again and give the
Greyhound
a hand.”

Before all the wounded had been carried below and the sails trimmed, the firing from the
Peacock's
guns had become sporadic. The thunder of the
Greyhound's
broadsides continued for another four or five minutes before stopping abruptly, signalling that the
Peacock
had been captured.

An hour passed before Ramage, tacking the
Triton
up to windward again, found the convoy and got back into position. By then Bowen had reported the casualties to him. Six Tritons had been killed—all by the
Peacock's
six-pounders—and, by what Ramage privately thought could only be a miracle, only five had been wounded. The French boarding party had left eight dead behind, but had apparently taken their wounded with them. Privateersmen, never giving or asking quarter, took care of their wounded whenever it was possible.

The
Topaz
was back in position, leading the column; but there were only six ships in the column itself. Ramage wondered what had become of the second ship that came up the inside of the column. As far as he could remember, he had not noticed it firing a single shot … But all that mattered was that Maxine's ship was safe.

A
S THE grey dawn pushed the darkness westward away from the convoy, Ramage looked round the horizon anxiously until he sighted both the
Greyhound
and the
Peacock
over on the lee side of the convoy. It was still not light enough to distinguish detail, but since the
Peacock
had sail set, the Greyhounds must have had a busy night.

Ramage was weary. As soon as he could leave the ship to Southwick he had gone below to talk to the wounded, while on deck the dead were being sewn into hammocks ready for burial. After that he had gone to his cabin to write his report to Admiral Goddard—potentially the most dangerous part of the night's activities.

At daylight, with a clear horizon, the guns were secured and head-pumps rigged to scrub and holystone the deck. Large patches which had shown up black in the early light had finally revealed themselves as dried blood.

As they scrubbed, Stafford asked Jackson: “Will they take ‘er into Antigua?”

The American shrugged his shoulders. “If she isn't damaged too much … otherwise Jamaica, I should think. Better off in Jamaica—big dockyard at Kingston.”

“Better price in the prize court there, too,” Stafford commented.

“Hmm, I hadn't thought of that. Still, we won't get much.”

“Why?” Rossi demanded angrily. “We did all the fighting! But for us they lose the
Topaz.
The
Greyhound
—she is very late.”

“All ships of war in sight at the time get a share,” Jackson said.

“Dio mio,
is not fair!” Rossi exclaimed, his accent thickening the more angry he became. “The
Lion
and the frigates—the lugger, too—why, is so dark they see nozzing! The
Grey'ound
—'e only come after the flashes. Next time we write ‘im a letter of the invitation!”

“Easy now,” Stafford said mildly. “Listen, Jacko, I know that's the law, but why?”

“If another warship's in sight, it might affect what the prize did.”

“Cor, wot a lot o' nonsense!”

“No it isn't. Could be you one day. Say the
Lark
lugger found a big merchantman and chased her. Not a hope of catching up, and precious little of capturing her if she did. Then we come over the horizon ahead of the merchantman and capture her. The
Lark
has a right to a share—after all, she found and chased the prize: but for her she might have gone in a different direction. And we'd deserve a share, because without us she couldn't have been captured. And if there was a third warship they'd probably deserve a share because that's another direction the merchantman couldn't have escaped.”

“Yus, well that makes sense, Jacko; but this was in the
dark.”

“Dark or not,” Jackson explained patiently, “the
Peacock
knew the rest of them were there. She wouldn't have tried to bolt across the bows of the convoy—she knew the
Lion
and
Antelope
were there. Nor astern, because of the
Greyhound
and
Lark.”

A few yards aft of the three men, Ramage and Southwick were also discussing the night's events, the Master saying vehemently: “I don't care what you say, I'm damned certain that the
Greyhound
was there only because she was trying to keep station on us; she wasn't bothering to watch the convoy. We could have gone ten miles ahead of the convoy towing a seine net and the Lord Mayor's carriage, and come dawn we'd have found the
Greyhound
six cables astern of us.”

Ramage laughed and shrugged his shoulders. “Doesn't matter, really; the main thing is she was there when needed.”

“If you'll excuse me, sir, you're generous to a fault. She was there all right, but by accident.”

Ramage grinned. “I'll be more interested to hear how the
Peacock
talked her way into the convoy in the first place …”

“Haa!” Southwick snorted and waved towards the
Lion.
“Belike they'll have a good tale ready. And it wouldn't surprise me if we don't get involved in it; in return for saving his reputation, his High and Mightyship will somehow put the blame on us.”

“Mr Southwick!” Ramage said reprovingly.

“Apologies, sir,” the Master said hurriedly, realizing that Ramage wanted him to apologize because seamen nearby could have overheard his criticism of Admiral Goddard. “I'm sorry, that was a stupid remark.”

An hour later, though, Southwick was more than ever convinced that the Admiral and his flag captain would make sure that none of the blame rested on their shoulders. He clattered down the companion-way, acknowledged the Marine sentry's salute, and obeyed Ramage's invitation to come into the cabin.

“Flagship's just signalled, sir. You're wanted on board. The Captain of the
Greyhound
has just left the
Lion.”

Ramage patted the packet on the table. “I'm glad I stayed up late writing this. Have some coffee—there's some in that pot.”

When Southwick shook his head, he added: “You ought to make the best of it while we are in the Caribbean: not often we get the real stuff!”

“Afraid I prefer my tea, sir; seems Frenchified, coffee.”

Ramage looked up at him with pretended disapproval. “That sort of attitude won't make these planters rich—” he waved towards the chain of islands. “They depend on coffee, sugar and rum.”