A violent crash shook the Jorum, timber wrenching against timber, but she kept going: one palm tree toppled to starboard, another to port. Somewhere ropes were parting, slashing into the water on either side like great whips.

'Take the helm, Jackson!'

Ramage leapt to look over the side as the Jorum swept on in the darkness, more palms toppling—one hooked in the bowsprit was being carried along—until she was sailing through the middle of the spit, with the sound of timber scraping along her hull.

And in the water, swirling, turning, lit by patches of pale green phosphorescence, Ramage could see baulks of timber, lighter planks, and several palm trees floating.

The cunning devils! No wonder no one had ever seen in —or out—of the lagoon!

But now what? As he jumped back to the tiller he saw the seaward entrance clearly, dead ahead and about 750 yards away. To larboard a narrow sandy beach ran round the edge of the bay; to starboard more sand at the foot of the hills but the pale green of phosphorescence showing where the sea lapped round isolated rocks.

Do something, you damned fool, he told himself; otherwise you'll be out to sea again! Astern there was a dear gap in the spit where the Jorum had burst through.

'Hard over!' he hissed at Jackson. 'We'll beach her on the larboard side there, abreast those two rocks!'

'Aye aye, sir,' Jackson said cheerfully. That'll leave Dupont's crowd on the other shore!'

'Stand by!' Ramage shouted, 'we're going to beach. This time we'll do it properly!'

Several of the men cheered and others laughed; then as a few of them began chanting Tritons! Stand by the Tritons!" the rest took it up until every man in the Jorum, Ramage included, was shouting it at the top of his voice.

Even as he bellowed Ramage felt an insane urge to giggle: how many ships had ever been run aground deliberately with their crews yelling what was almost a battle cry?

Then she hit: her bow rose slightly, canting up the bowsprit as though she was meeting a sea, and she stopped Timber creaked, then there was a crunch as the foremast slowly leaned forward, ropes twanging as they parted under the strain, the foresail flapping as it went with the mast. For the last part of its fall the mast seemed to speed up; then it crashed down on the starboard bow, splintering the bulwarks.

The sudden silence was broken first by the squawking of birds disturbed by the schooner's unexpected arrival: then the frogs, frightened into a momentary silence, resumed their usual chattering.

Ramage called: 'Anyone hurt?' but there was no reply.

'Jackson—take half a dozen men and search through the wreckage of the foremast in case anyone's trapped.'

As the American ran forward Ramage turned to Gorton:

'Man the swivels: larboard side cover the beach, starboard side the rest of the bay.'

'But what happened, sir?' The man seemed dazed.

'What d'you mean?'

'The spit—we just.. .'

'Both spits are still there—look, there's the one on me north side with the clump of palms, and there's the southern one, with the other clump. The channel's between the two— where we came through.'

'But—so help me, sir,' Gorton burst out, 'mere were palm trees right across there. You saw them!'

Ramage laughed, realizing Gorton hadn't understood the privateersmen's trick.

'Yes, plenty of palm trees. Only they were growing in a great raft. Haul the raft to one side, two privateers and their prize go in through the gap; haul the raft back and close it again, and there's a complete row of palm trees hiding the inner bay. If you're looking through the entrance with a telescope from seaward you'd simply dunk your bearing made it appear the tips of the spits overlapped slightly; you'd never dream the "overlap" was a raft of palms hiding a jetty and a couple of privateers!'

Gorton swore softly.

With the Jorum hard aground and no chance of floating off on a rising tide—the rise and fall here was only a few inches—Ramage gave the order to furl the mainsail, and then posted lookouts.

Then he sat down on the tiller, thankful for a few minutes in which to collect his thoughts but realizing that being aground on the southern shore of the outer bay was not really much different from being secured alongside the jetty on the northern shore of the lagoon, except that Dupont and his men now had a couple of miles' walk to get at them, unless they had more boats.

In a few minutes, he thought to himself, he'd send some men on shore to climb up the hills at the entrance to see if the Triton was in sight. It was time to light a bonfire and fire another rocket to help Southwick before Dupont arrived or the privateers tried to make a bolt for it.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

With his lungs feeling they were about to burst and the muscles in his shins aching so much he was almost crying with pain, Jackson hauled himself up to the rock on top of the cliffs forming the southern entrance to Marigot and looked seaward. For many seconds the darkness was just a red haze, the air whistling in his throat as he struggled for breath and perspiration running into his eyes despite the white doth round his head.

Gradually, as he regained his breath and his head stopped throbbing, the horizon took on a definite outline. And to the south-west, a small dark shadow in the distance, he saw the brig.

He was too weary to be impatient with Mr Ramage: he knew Mr Southwick would be there. The swearing and grumbling behind him grew louder, then the crackling of twigs as men barged their way through the low bushes. A moment later Gorton, followed by several Tritons, joined him.

'Ah—just nicely placed to catch the offshore wind, Jacko!' he commented. 'He'll be up here in an hour. Wonder if he saw our rocket?'

'Doubt it,' Jackson said. 'Is Evans here?'

'Aye and m'rockets.'

'The rest of you men—start collecting stuff for bonfires,' Gorton said. 'One here, one there and a third just beyond.'

Gorton pointed down to the entrance to Marigot and said to Jackson. 'Not very wide...'

'No—I'm not surprised they towed us in.'

From up here Jackson could just make out the gap where the Jorum smashed through the raft, showing the channel between the sandspits leading into the lagoon. And almost directly below where he stood was the dark shape of the Jorum, like a stranded whale thrown up on a beach.

The two privateers, which had been anchored at the inner side of the lagoon, were indistinguishable against the background of mangrove swamps, showing they were very close in because the water of the bay was smooth and shining in the darkness.

'What d'you reckon Mr Ramage plans to do, Jacko?' Gorton asked.

'Don't reckon he has a plan. Can't have, if you think about it. We can't start anything; just wait to see what the privateers do and hope the Triton gets here in time. We've done our share—it's up to her now.'

'How so?'

'Well, we've found the privateers' base and they're still in it. Until the Triton gets here we've got to stop 'em getting out if they try to bolt, because if they get to sea we'd never catch them. But that's all, as far as I can see.'

Is that why he beached the Jorum just down there?'

'Yes, though if they really try to sail we probably can't stop them with your swivels. Knowing Mr Ramage, my guess is he reckons the privateers won't try to because they think we can stop 'em!'

'He's a cool one,' Gorton said. 1 was still trying to puzzle out why we went through the spit like that when he beached her.'

Gorton's admiration was genuine and frankly spoken, and Jackson said, 'He's a cool one all right. You get used to it, though! You ought to have been with us when we rammed a Spanish sail of the line in our last ship—a cutter not much bigger'n your schooner 1'