And near each gun the high bulwarks bristled with cutlasses, pistols and tomahawks tucked into any fitting that would hold them, ready to be snatched up the instant Ramage gave the order to board.

Gracefully—for she was a rakish-looking schooner with a sweeping sheer—the privateer followed the curve of the channel, keeping to the south side. She had perhaps two hundred yards to run before she reached the Jorum. So far so good, Ramage thought—unless the Triton hit a rock. And there wouldn't be time to avoid one, so Southwick was wasting his time. He called the Master back to the quarterdeck.

Southwick had just arrived aft when the dull boom of a gun echoed between the cliffs, followed by another, then several at once.

As Ramage looked over at the Jorum, cursing Gorton for opening fire too soon, he was startled to see there was no smoke from her swivels and Southwick exclaimed:

'It's that damned grounded privateer!'

So the survivors must have gone back on board! Smoke was drifting away from tier, towards the Triton. And because she had turned to starboard before she went aground, her larboard-side guns covered the entrance; covered the approach Triton, with the range decreasing every moment.

'Poor shooting, all fell short,' Southwick said disgustedly. 'Still, up fifty yards and the next broadside should get us.'

'Give 'em a hail and tell 'em.'

More gunfire—coughs rather than the heavier thumps of the grounded privateer's guns. And now smoke was drifting away from the Jorum. Then a curious popping, six distinct shots. Gorton had fired his swivels, then the musketoons, to harry them.

'I hope he re-loads in time for our friend,' Southwick commented.

'He will, but anything that distracts our friend is a help.'

She was half-way between the spit and the schooner: 175 yards.

'Second broadside's due now, sir.'

Out of the mass of cordage that made up the Triton's standing and running rigging—it weighed more than seven tons—only half a dozen pieces were really vulnerable; but if even one of the half dozen was cut by a stray shot the Triton ... quickly Ramage dismissed the thought.

By now the second broadside should have arrived, but it hadn't. Did that mean Gorton's swivels and musketoons, sweeping the deck almost as effectively as if raking her, had killed or wounded enough of the men working the guns?

Nor was there a second broadside from the Jorum. Gorton was saving that for the second privateer, which was close now and bearing away a few degrees to stay in the deepest part of the channel.

Along the Triton's larboard side the cliffs were receding and becoming less vertical, the bare rock hidden by bushes.

The privateer was obviously making a knot or so more than the Triton, and Ramage was thankful. He'd misjudged the point where he intended meeting the privateer: the whole bay was dosing in, and there was less room to manoeuvre than he thought. The fact the privateer would be well past the Jorum before he intercepted her was to the Triton's advantage. Nice of the enemy to cover up one's mistakes.

Unwittingly emphasizing it, Southwick said conversationally: 'Reckon you've timed it nicely, sir. He's still got that cable...'

And Ramage realized he'd forgotten that, too.

'I hope so, Mr Southwick,' Ramage said cautiously, wondering what else be had forgotten.

The Triton, was, if anything, losing the wind. Since it was blowing the length of the two bays, maybe the northern spit was blanketing it. Or perhaps the privateer was bringing the breeze down with her.

'Wind's puffy,' Southwick said. 'We'd look silly if we ran into a dull patch and she sneaked by us!'

Ramage, busy calculating distances and with the thought already nagging him, snapped: 'If we do, you can lead the boats towing us round.'

And the privateer was nearly up to the Jorum: thirty yards —twenty—hard to judge from this angle. Gorton's men would be carefully training round the swivels; the musketoons resting on the bulwark capping. Had the privateer spotted the cable?

A puff of smoke right aft in the Jorum as one swivel fired and a moment later he heard the report. Smoke at the privateer's bows—she had swivels too. Then Ramage heard the sharp double crack of two more of the Jorum's swivels.

Smoke was spurting from the privateer's larboard side now: she must be almost abreast the Jorum for her broadside guns to bear. One—two, three—four—five: the whole broadside. And steadily the schooner's swivels and musketoons puffed smoke, the noise of all the guns reaching the Triton as a roll of thunder.

Then suddenly the privateer turned hard a' starboard, apparently heading straight for her grounded consort, the smoke of her guns still streaming from her ports and the big foresail and mainsail crashing over. Southwick swore softly, excitement in both his voice and choice of words.

But Ramage was not sure. Was it the cable? Or had one of the Jorum's swivels killed everyone at the tiller, leaving the privateer out of control for a few moments? Would they wear round again?

The Triton was barely two hundred yards away from her now and, snatching up the telescope, Ramage could see the holes torn in her bulwarks by the Jorum's grapeshot. He swung the telescope over to the schooner for a moment and it confirmed his fears. The Jorum was a shambles; it was a miracle she'd been able to fire the remaining swivels after the privateer's single broadside.

Then, the telescope trained back on the privateer, he saw several men running to the tiller—although there were two men at it already—while other were frantically hauling at the foresail and mainsail sheets.

It'd been the cable. She'd hit it and her captain, feeling the bump, must have instinctively ordered the helm down. But the privateer had shot so far across the channel that— no! The cable was no longer there!

'She's parted the cable!' he said abruptly to Southwick. 'They're trying to wear round.'

'Shall we board or ram, sir?'

'Wait and see!'

With the privateer now only 150 yards ahead and no indication whether she would be able to wear round before running aground, Ramage was tempted to add 'I wish I knew.'

'She's turning, sir!'

Slowly at first. They'd been able to see her long profile, from the end of her bowsprit to her taffrail, as she'd swung across the channel—but now it was shortening as she turned towards the Triton. Ramage could see they'd managed to haul in the mainsail almost amidships: in a few moments, if they were lucky, it'd swing across and spin the privateer round on her heel, her bow heading for the entrance.

Ramage suddenly ran to a gun port and looked over the side. One glance snowed him there wasn't enough depth of water between the Triton and the north shore for the privateer to squeeze through; in fact, it was a miracle the brig hadn't gone aground herself. As he came bark to the binnacle he found he had made up his mind.

Up to that moment Ramage had felt strangely calm and detached—perhaps because the Triton could only continue sailing full and by—but now he was getting excited at the prospect of quick decisions; of sudden gambles, heavy stakes slammed down to profit from an opponent's mistake.

But, tugging at the pistols in his waistband to make sure he could draw them easily, Ramage fought the excitement.

The privateer's main boom crashed over, followed by the foresail, and almost at once she began to turn faster.

'She'll make it!' Southwick called, watching the shoals close to the beach.

'Now you'll get a run for your money!'

Me too, Ramage thought to himself: the privateer was turning as fast as a soldier doing an about-turn. Round she came, bowsprit sucking out like an accusing finger, pointing momentarily at the Triton with both masts in line, but as she continued swinging the masts opened up again. Hell, she was swinging fast now.