Looking back along the edge of the cliff he could see the seamen were thinning out: a good half of them were on the masts or already on board. Why were there no French uniforms on the cliff? The break-out from the Tower must have taken them completely by surprise.
Ramage shut the telescope with a snap: the Kathleen was so close he could see enough with the naked eye.
The cutter's quartermaster was watching the leeches of the jib and mainsail like a hawk, reacting with the tiller to every gust of wind. The ship was so close under the cliffs that the wind was fluky, much of it blowing down at an angle, and changing direction slightly.
'Mr Southwick - I want those men in position with the grapnels and heaving lines. Tell the foredeck men to be ready to back the jib.'
The frigate's stern was looming up large: now he could see right along her side: the guns were run out and again trained as far aft as possible. He could see that her chainplates, thick boards sticking out edgeways from the hull and originally supporting the shrouds that held up the masts, would be a problem. No, maybe not - they might be just a bit too high to tear at the Kathleen's shrouds.
He saw seamen, each with a grapnel in his hand, stationing themselves along the side of the cutter, and John Smith, lately the Third and now the Second, was already out on the end of the bowsprit, partly hidden by the luff of the jib.
Six men with grapnels, another half dozen to handle the jib sheets and halyard, ten more to get the mainsail down - well, there were very few left to handle the guns.
The most dangerous time will be after the Belettes are on board the Kathleen and she's getting under way again: if the French manage to get the guns and fire even a couple of rounds...
Ramage rubbed his forehead as another idea came to him.
Since his own carronades would not do much good - firing them into the ship risked killing Britons as well - he decided to gamble on the Belette's guns having been left while the French tried to fight off the boarders.
'Jackson! Pick a dozen men and as soon as we get alongside, board her and cut through as many of the breechings and side tackles as you can. Then do what you can to help the Belettes.'
If the French fired a gun without the thick rope breeching -which stopped it after being flung back a few feet by the recoil - the gun would career right across the deck, killing anyone standing in the way.
Jackson grinned with pleasure, drew the sword presented to Ramage by Sir Gilbert, and ran along the guns picking his men.
Two hundred yards to go ... How much way did this damned ship carry? Blast, a wave punched her bow round to larboard, but the quartermaster quickly put the tiller over for a second and the cutter came back on course.
Yet Ramage was in a better position than he thought: he could now see the full length of the frigate's side and the Kathleen's course was parallel to and fifteen or twenty yards to seaward of the frigate's centre-line.
A hundred and fifty yards ...
'Mr Southwick - ease the mainsheet.'
That began to slow her up handsomely.
'Overhaul the mainsheet and the weather jib sheet.'
That ensured the ropes would be clear for the moment he ordered the jib to be backed, when the wind against the canvas would try to thrust the bow to leeward, away from the frigate. But hardening on the mainsheet at the last moment and putting the tiller over would push the bow up into the wind towards the frigate. The two opposing forces should balance and cancel each other out, leaving the cutter hove-to right alongside the frigate, close enough for the men to throw the grapnels and hook them over the bulwarks.
A hundred yards, maybe less, and the blasted cutter was going along like a runaway coach: damnation, he had to risk it. If she stopped short of the frigate they were all in trouble, whereas if she was travelling too fast as she came alongside there was at least a chance of stopping her with the grapnels, or banging her hard against the frigate's hull with a sudden luff. 'Mr Southwick - we'll heave-to alongside. As soon as the grapnels are over, pull us in. I'll pass the word when to let fly the main and back the jib.'
Seventy-five yards at a guess, and it was a rough guess at that.
No one looked worried: Southwick's face was placid, the quartermaster was concentrating on steering, and Jackson was making some swipes with Sir Gilbert's sword, testing its balance.
'Mr Southwick, back the jib!' Ramage snapped.
Blast, he was going to overshoot. What's that popping noise? Muskets! Andhe could hear yelling on board the frigate.
'Starboard a point! Aft the main sheet!1
He'd overshoot by thirty yards at least, probably more.
No, maybe only twenty yards - less if the grapnels held.
The backed jib trying to shove the bow to leeward was fighting its own battle with the mainsail trying to thrust the bow to windward; but, more important, the resulting stalemate was slowing down the cutter better than he'd expected and closing the gap.
A few yards to go now and they'd pass ten feet off; already the Kathleen's bowsprit end was passing the frigate's stern.
'Quartermaster, hard down with the helm.'
Once the rudder was over more than about thirty degrees it acted as a brake. Now—
‘Let fly jib and main sheets, Mr Southwick!'
Southwick bawled out orders. The jib flapped and the great main boom swung off to larboard, the sail slatting with the wind blowing down both sides and exerting no pressure.
Ramage realized Southwick was shouting, 'Neat, oh very neat, by Christ!'
Snatching up the speaking trumpet, Ramage yelled, 'Get those grapnels over!’'
He watched John Smith the Second poised on the bowsprit, the grapnel swinging from his right hand, body slack, apparently nonchalant; but then he stiffened, swung his body round and his right arm back. Suddenly the arm and shoulder shot forward and the grapnel soared up, the line momentarily forming a bow in the air. The grapnel disappeared over the frigate's bulwarks and Smith let go of the line, leaving men in the bow to haul in the slack. The Kathleen had stopped so close it had been an easy throw; but Smith was in credit to the extent of two tots.
One after another the remaining grapnels soared up and disappeared over the Belette's bulwarks. Hurriedly the seamen hauled and a moment later the Kathleen thudded alongside the frigate.
'Away boarders!' Ramage bellowed into the speaking trumpet and saw Jackson leap from the cutter's bulwarks in through one of the Belette's gun ports with more men following him.
On a sudden impulse Ramage flung down the speaking trumpet, dragged the pistols from the waistband of his breeches, and jumped on to the aftermost carronade, intending to follow Jackson, but at that moment several men appeared along the bulwarks of the frigate's poop, high overhead.
Ramage, off balance, knew he could not raise his pistols in time and waited for a volley of musket shots. Instead he heard cheers - British cheers.
He scrambled down from the carronade, feeling sheepish. He put down the pistols, retrieved the speaking trumpet, and shouted:
'Come on, you Belettes, get on board, fast!'
Someone was shouting down at him with an authoritative voice and he saw a hatless officer with an epaulet on each shoulder standing at a gun port: a captain of more than three years' seniority.
Amid the din of flapping sails, musketry and shouting, it was difficult to hear, so Ramage jumped back on the carronade. The captain shouted: 'Give us five minutes - we want to finish off these Frogs.'
'Aye aye, sir,'
Thank Christ for that, thought Ramage, the Belettes have the upper hand. But—