A flash, deep red against the blue light of the false-fire, and simultaneously a heavy explosion which merged into the sound of splintering wood and the yells and screams of men, and echoed round the hills.

'I got the swivel ready, sir!'

Ramage, startled as he pictured the grenade's effect, jerked back to see Gorton standing a yard away, gesticulating at the small swivel gun fitted into the top of the bulwark and which he now had trained on the jetty.

'Wait a moment—may not be necessary!'

Beginning to feel a little more optimistic, Ramage peered along the jetty and saw there was still a black mass of men there. Not so many though, and none moving. Dupont had quit, leaving his dead and wounded behind. Quit to re-group, re-plan, give new orders.

'Just stand by that swivel, Gorton, and get the others loaded! Now you men, put your backs into it and get us dear!'

And once again the Jorum, pushed bodily away from the jetty, drifted a few yards and then bumped again as the wind pressed against her hull, masts and rigging.

In the last of the light from the dying false-fire Ramage saw the end of the jetty was now abreast her foremast.

'Come on lads, one good heave and we're dear!'

The wind backed a few degrees in a sudden gust, fust enough to blow the schooner dear, then it dropped and veered again. Ramage watched the Jorum's stern clear the end of the jetty and almost sighed in relief.

Well, adrift in the bay they were safe from Dupont's crowd for the moment. But now what? No point in trying to sail the schooner out—even if he could see where the devil the entrance was—because the privateers could sneak out and vanish if the Triton didn't arrive in time to blockade them in. So he had to stay and try to destroy them. A forlorn hope.

Now what? Time and again the question repeated itself, and the schooner slowly drifted towards the palm trees, which he realized were growing on a narrow sandspit. He was rubbing his brow as if some magic would make his brain work, and perhaps it did. Since he couldn't sail the schooner out, there was no choice: he had to stay in the bay, and if he stayed he had to fight...

He turned away from the bulwark. The first thing was to get the Jorum into some sort of fighting trim again—the two privateers were still there and Dupont had plenty of men on shore who'd be swarming on board the moment she ran aground on that sandspit.

'Gorton! Are your swivels loaded yet? Jackson! Every musketoon re-load, and pistols too. Aft there! Leave your pistols with Jackson and man the jib and foresail halyards!'

Again he looked round. The schooner was barely moving —but he suddenly realized she was drifting into the arcs of fire of the privateers' broadside guns and any minute would be in effective range of their swivels.

He knew panic wasn't far away and was surprised enough to try to guess why. He was even more surprised when he realized the answer. The high hills—mountains, in fact, covered with a thin layer of soil on which scrub bushes had a hard fight to survive—formed a complete amphitheatre with the water as the arena. The effect was heightened because he couldn't see the entrance. He felt trapped, much as a Christian must have felt trapped in a Roman stadium when thrown to the lions...

He shook his head to get rid of the thought and bellowed for the jib and foresail to be hoisted, moving aft to take the tiller himself. As the halyards creaked and the sails crept up the mast, showing themselves only as they hid the stars, the gentle gurgling of water under the stem increased and he leaned against the tiller, steering for the middle of the row of palms along the sandspit.

The Jorum slowly swung to starboard: too slowly—she needed the mainsail, and he shouted for it to be hoisted. It was barely halfway up the mast when he felt the wind's effect, pushing round the schooner's stern and helping the rudder which, because of the ship's slow speed, could hardly get a bite on the water.

Flashes over the larboard quarter as the privateers opened fire with their swivels; the thumping of metal on wood—on the hull and spars of the Jorum. Five swivels a side in each privateer; twenty musket balls in each gun. Two hundred balls had been fired at the schooner; none had hit a man— there hadn't been a shout—nor were the masts or sails damaged, since everything was still up and drawing.

A minute to re-load. He leaned harder against the tiller. All very interesting. Plenty of steerage way, but where to steer?

The palms stretched in a wide barrier ahead, a thick clump to starboard and another clump to leeward, and dead ahead they were evenly spaced. And—yes! Beyond them he could just see the twinkling of stars reflecting on the water, so that was probably the narrowest part of the sandspit blocking the way out.

Yet he still couldn't see how the devil the privateers got into the lagoon in the first place ...

Run her bow straight up on the sand? Or luff up and furl all the canvas, letting the Jorum drift broadside on to the sandspit? That way the swivels on one side could cover the sandspit and those on the other the privateers. But that way also meant Dupont and his cut-throats could board along the whole length of her side!

That decided him—he'd run her stem up on to the sand so Dupont's men could board only over the bow, where they would be crowded together and a good target for the swivels and musketoons.

Tritons!' he yelled. 'Hear this: I'm going to beach the ship bows on. Stand by for the shock and come aft—both masts might go by the board. As soon as we hit—not a moment before—let the halyards run. If we still have any masts standing!'

Now he had made up his mind and there was plenty to do he felt the panic slipping away as quietly as it came. Jackson was helping him with the tiller—Ramage hadn't noticed him moving in the darkness—and the American said:

'How the hell did they get us in here, sir?'

'I wish I knew! No sign of a channel. The chart shows a sandspit either side with a channel between.'

'Gorton's certain it's Marigot Bay.'

'So am I; but it doesn't square up with the chart.'

'Charts could be wrong, sir.'

'I know that, blast you!' Ramage snapped. 'But not that wrong. Anyway, we've looked into the place with a telescope twice from seaward.'

'Sorry sir.'

Clearly he wasn't; nor did Ramage's short temper at times like this upset him.

They were approaching the palms fast now.

'It's a narrow spit, by God!' Jackson exclaimed. "Why, it isn't four yards wide!'

Through the palms Ramage could now see the star-speckled water of the outer bay extending for several hundred yards, with mountains on both sides. And then he saw the mountains almost meeting to form the slot in the cliffs that was the entrance from seaward. It was dead ahead, and Jackson saw it a moment later, just as Gorton ran back to report it.

But there was no way to it: the palm trees cut it off!

With a growing sense of desperation, knowing the spit was barely forty yards away, Ramage forced himself to look slowly from side to side, eyes straining in the darkness for a glimpse of a channel. But there was nothing; just mountains to starboard sloping down to the spit which stretched across to join the mountains on the other side. He shrugged his shoulders. Twenty yards, fifteen, ten...

'Stand by!' he shouted. 'Brace yourselves!'

The initial shock shouldn't be too great: the Jorum's forefoot would ride up the sloping sand until it could force its way no farther.

Five yards... any second now: her bowsprit was almost between two palm trees. And—but it was between two palm trees and still going on: the bow wasn't lifting as she rode up on the sand, nor was she slowing.

Both Jackson and Gorton swore in disbelief.