Ramage's Prize (22 page)

Here she comes … bearing away half a point to get out of our wake and ready to range up alongside. Those men perched along the bowsprit like vultures on a branch must be soaking wet from the spray. God, what a crowd—cutlasses, boarding pikes, tomahawks, not one of them has shaved for a month. One of them is bending over being seasick—or vomiting up an overdose of brandy.

Sudden puffs of smoke from her weather bow: the wind whipping the smoke away. Faint popping. They'll be lucky if a musket ball hits the
Arabella
's mainsail! Plenty of heads showing along the weather bulwark now and some enthusiastic fellows climbing up the ratlines ready to drop on board as soon as that black hull crashes alongside.

“Mailbags have all gone.”

“Thanks. Duplicates and triplicates of all Sir Pilcher's despatches—just think of it!”

She's going to come on to a parallel course—now! Forty yards to leeward. Just the range for four-pounders. Her bowsprit will begin to overlap us in a couple of minutes. Just time to let Stafford and Rossi have a crack at her with their four-pounders before we tack.

“Jackson! I'm going to bear away for a few seconds so you can use the starboard side guns. Stafford, Rossi—stand by! Get those guns trained as far aft as possible. Aim for the masts and don't fire until your guns bear!”

A three-point turn should do it. Bear away, fire, up with the helm and then tack. That should surprise the beggars!

“Stand by for a three-point turn to starboard, Mr Southwick. No sail trimming: bear away, and then bear up the moment the second gun's fired.”

There are Wilson and Bowen tucking themselves in by the main shrouds. Those musketoons won't hurt the French but they'll keep the lads' spirits up: nothing like the banging of one's own powder to induce bravery …

Thirty men perched on that bowsprit and one of them still being sick. Aye, wave those cutlasses and cuss and swear, but you're going to get a shock in a moment … Tip of the bowsprit has another twenty yards to go. Neat patches in that mainsail. The gaff jaws are chafing the mast badly. Bottom clean—just some weed on the copper sheathing. One sheet ripped off near the stem—probably hit a floating log.

Ten yards … plenty of new rope up there: she must have had some successful cruises. Fifty or more heads along the bulwark. Is that the Captain standing up on the bulwark right aft? No wonder that fellow is sick—the bowsprit's rising and falling twenty feet. Five yards. That might be your last retch,
mon ami.
What's Gianna doing now? My right shoulder aches—the muscles probably jarred by the bosun's cutlass.

“Bear away, Mr Southwick; three points to starboard! Steady, Stafford—give ‘em one for the Lord Mayor of London! Rossi, I'd like to tell the Marchesa you brought the foremast down!”

And the Tritons shouting their heads off! Bow beginning to swing—round she comes—don't overdo it, Southwick old chap. Damn, we're going to shave that bowsprit off! Wilson's musketoon—and a man's fallen off! Southwick's steadying her up …

The aftermost gun gave a bronchitic cough, followed a moment later by the forward one. The carriages rumbled back in recoil as smoke swirled away in a thick oily cloud.

“Helm up, Mr Southwick!”

But the Master had anticipated the order while Stafford and Rossi bellowed at their men to hurry with the reloading. And now the
Arabella
is turning fast, away from the privateer. In a few moments her stern will be pointing at the row of four-pounders.

Ramage found himself staring at the muzzles: for many moments, until the
Arabella
's bow swung across the eye of the wind, and the yards were hauled and the sheets trimmed on the other tack, he had nothing to do but wait.

Suddenly the muzzle of the privateer's aftermost gun winked red and smoke streamed along the afterdeck and curled over her taffrail. A sharp twang showed that one of the grapeshot had hit something metallic on board the
Arabella
; solid thuds told of hits on wood. But there were no shouts and screams of wounded men; no whiplashing of parted rigging.

Then the privateer had passed, still thrashing her way northwards while Southwick and Much took the
Arabella
away to the south-west.

Ramage turned to Yorke, who was staring over the starboard quarter at the privateer's stern and saying, “You did it! It worked!”

“We were lucky,” Ramage said, “but—”

He broke off as he saw Stevens gesticulating. Suddenly half a dozen or more packetsmen left the guns, cutlasses in their hands, and ran to the sheets and braces.

Much grabbed Stevens by the throat and both men toppled over, struggling violently. Southwick shouted something at the helmsmen and, as the one bolted away from the wheel, pointed his pistol at the other.

“Stop them,” Ramage bellowed at the top of his voice and, drawing his sword, ran at the man chopping into the main brace. Within seconds individual fights between packetsmen and Tritons were going on all over the
Arabella
's deck, but before Ramage reached his man the main brace parted with a bang and the huge yard began to swing. Forward Ramage could see the forecourse flapping and the foreyard swinging with no brace to control it.

As the
Arabella
lost way and her bow paid off, the whole ship out of control, Ramage saw the privateer had tacked and was steering straight for them, dropping her mainsail at the same time. And that is that, he thought bitterly; Stevens has won: he must have whispered his orders to the bosun while they were aft here with Farrell, and the bosun passed them on to the rest of the packetsmen.

It would take half an hour or more to get the slashed rigging repaired, and—

He jumped sideways, sword raised, startled by something overhead; something large which fluttered down out of the sky. Then he saw Farrell standing by the ensign halyard, cutlass in hand, watching the flag settling on the deck in an untidy heap in the classic signal of surrender.

There was a stream of hoarse Italian and a moment later Rossi had flung Farrell to the deck, jumping on his stomach before pouncing on him with his hands round the Surgeon's throat.

“Tritons. Tritons, lay aft all you Tritons,” Ramage shouted, but Yorke was shaking his arm.

“Wait a minute or two,” Yorke hissed, “let our chaps settle their accounts.”

“I don't want unnecessary bloodshed,” Ramage snapped, “we've enough trouble as it is.” Southwick came aft, driving a stumbling Stevens before him, followed by Jackson and Much. The Captain was holding his throat and breathing in hoarse, convulsive gasps; the mate was dusting the wet sand from his clothes. Ramage noticed that as the Tritons came aft, the packetsmen were grouping round the boatswain on the foredeck. A blood-curdling yell from just behind him made Ramage spin round. Rossi, sitting astride the Surgeon, had the blade of a knife pressed down on the Surgeon's throat, and from the jumble of Italian Ramage realized the Surgeon was being given a few seconds to say his prayers before the blade cut down.

“Rossi! Don't kill him!” Ramage seized the seaman's shoulder. “Leave him—he'll swing from a gibbet before long.”

As he stood up Ramage knew it was improbable. The privateer was now lying hove-to a hundred yards to windward of the crippled packet.

“Any casualties?” he asked Southwick.

“A packetsman lying dead by one of the guns, and one or two cut. Stevens here has a sore throat, sir, and—”

“He's lucky to be alive to enjoy it,” Much said angrily. “That man”—he pointed at Jackson—”stopped me finishing my job.”

“There are a lot of unfinished jobs,” Ramage said, looking at Stevens and down at Farrell, “but we'll all be prisoners in a few minutes.” He turned to the group of Tritons and gestured to include Much, Yorke and Wilson. “Thanks—but for our friends we'd have beaten our enemies!”

T
HE privateer was the
Rossignol
schooner of St Malo, armed with ten double-reinforced four-pounder guns, manned by 93 Bretons, and at sea for seventeen days. As wild-eyed and raggedly dressed men swarmed over the
Lady Arabella
's bulwarks from three boats. Ramage was reminded of a horde of starving rats running into a granary.

Few were seamen and most were drunk—that much was obvious the moment they jumped on deck—but they were highly skilled looters. They stripped the passengers' and officers' cabins of valuables in a matter of minutes. To begin with, Ramage did not understand the men's haste in the cabins until he realized they were all from the leading boat.

One of the first on board from the second boat was a man who hastily introduced himself as the
Rossignol
's mate and, after formally taking possession of the
Lady Arabella,
he dashed below with four men following him, pistols in their hands.

A minute or two later a shot was fired. Yorke and Ramage looked at each other in alarm. Was it Bowen? Southwick and Wilson were on deck. Then there was a second shot, and suddenly two dozen frightened privateersmen ran up on deck and went forward, where they stood like a group of naughty schoolboys.

They were followed by the French mate, who immediately began shouting at them in a fury, his cutlass sending splinters flying as he slashed at the forebitts to emphasize each word.

“What the deuce is he saying?” Yorke exclaimed. “His accent is too much for me!”

“Breton,” said Ramage, and began translating. “He's cursing the men for looting … Says they were forbidden to go below—no need for it since the prize surrendered … The dead man—he knows the dead man was the ringleader. They can regard that as punishment for them all … Next time the Captain will make examples and hang every fifth man.”

“Hm, so the men are only just under control,” Yorke commented as the Frenchman finally stopped talking. “Thank goodness we have Jackson!”

As soon as the privateer hove-to and hoisted out boats, Ramage had run below to Stevens' cabin to find the private signals and destroy them, and the American seaman had joined him. “You're all going to lose your watches and rings and everything for sure when they board, sir,” he said. “If you'd all like to give me your valuables, there might be a sporting chance of seeing them again, unless they transfer us.”

Yorke and Southwick had already handed over their watches and rings without, as far as they could see, anyone noticing: all eyes were on the privateer. Jackson had slipped away as unobtrusively as he came, and now, looking at his left hand, Ramage wondered if the privateersmen would think of checking. His whole hand was suntanned, except for a thin band of white skin on the little finger where his signet ring had been.

With the looters under control and remaining on the foredeck, the French officer went back to Stevens again. Ramage watched the Falmouth man tensely. What would he say? There was a dead packetsman lying on the foredeck, but as far as the French were concerned he could have been killed in the brief action with the privateer. The one or two packetsmen wounded by Tritons had their cuts bandaged by now. If Stevens had any sense he would keep his mouth shut and let the Frenchman assume it was a normal surrender.

Ramage suddenly wondered if—as far as the Frenchman was concerned—it
was
a normal surrender. Stevens (and Farrell: he was sure of that now) had wanted to surrender without even trying to evade the privateer, which had ignored the
Arabella
's stern-chasers. Would Stevens now explain to the French that the single broadside from the
Arabella
was due to an interfering naval officer? Did Stevens or Farrell know—or had they guessed—that Ramage was under Admiralty orders to investigate the losses?

He would soon have the answer: if they knew, then Ramage was a threat to them, and a word to the privateer Captain would ensure that he had already seen his last sunset.

The Frenchman gave Stevens a slight bow and smiled. “Forgive me,” he said in good English, “my men were overzealous. Now, Captain, your papers: certificate of registry, manifests—everything.”

“We were carrying mails.”

“That is all?”

“Was all,” Stevens said significantly.

The mate shook his head. “My Captain isn't going to like that. I thought I saw you pushing bags through the ports. All that chasing after an empty ship! Have you a surgeon on board?” he asked suddenly.

“Two,” Stevens said. “The ship's Surgeon and a passenger.”

“Good, one of our officers is ill. I'll take the ship's Surgeon back to the
Rossignol.
Now, get your papers and come as well. But first, tell your mate to start getting these sheets and braces repaired.” He waved at the yards swinging noisily overhead. “Tell them to make a good job of it—we have a long way to go.”

Ten minutes later Stevens, still clutching his battered hat, and Farrell, his clothing torn from Rossi's assault, were on their way to the
Rossignol,
which had remained hove-to up to windward. Ramage noticed the privateersmen on board the
Lady Arabella
stayed on the foredeck. Their officer's threats had been effective. In the meantime Much set the men to work furling the sails before beginning the long and tedious job of splicing the sheets and braces.