'Looks as if she's going to run ashore on the opposite bank!' Southwick called.

If she did she'd be only a hundred yards to seaward of the Jorum; but she wouldn't. Southwick could be very stupid at times.

One broadside from the Triton wouldn't do the job; Ramage was certain of that.

'Mr Southwick—we'll be turning nine points to starboard in the next few moments!'

'Aye aye, sir!'

Picking up the speaking trumpet, Ramage shouted: 'Larboard-side gun captains, fire without further orders as soon as you bear!'

To the quartermaster he snapped: 'Stand by now!'

And the privateer was now darting diagonally across the Triton's bow, picking up speed every moment.

Ramage, rubbing his brow, tried to judge the precise moment to order the helm hard over to turn the Triton on to an almost parallel course and precisely placed so her broadside guns would bear. Almost parallel—converging just enough to squeeze the privateer so she had to choose between running ashore or crashing alongside the Triton. Turning a moment too soon would let her suddenly bear up and slip by under the Triton's stern: a moment too late would let her slip out ahead. If she managed to get a fifty-yard start there'd be no catching her...

Quickly he changed his plan: there'll be no sudden turn: he'd do it slowly, slowly...

'Quartermaster, starboard a point. Mr Southwick, smartly now with the sheets and braces!'

The Triton turned almost a dozen degrees, bringing the privateer dead ahead again for a few moments and a hundred yards away. Then, as the brig steadied on the new course, the privateer continued passing diagonally across her bow.

Southwick was beside him now, speaking trumpet clenched in his hand. Ramage saw Jackson watching him rubbing the scar and took his hand away.

'Quartermaster, a point to starboard!'

Southwick bellowed more orders to the men trimming the sails.

Once again me Triton was, for a few seconds, heading directly for the privateer, until she straightened up when the turn was completed. Seventy-five yards away—less in fact.

Ramage knew Southwick must be puzzled why he didn't wait and then make one quick nine-point turn to bring the Triton alongside the privateer immediately. But this way Ramage knew he was forcing the privateer farther and farther over to the south shore; cutting down the only chance the enemy had of suddenly bearing up under the Triton's stern.

'Quartermaster—another point to starboard!'

Once again the sails were trimmed as the wheel was put over; once again the Triton's bow pointed at the privateer for a few moments.

Fifty yards, and the old Master was giving Ramage an anxious look.

One man from each of the larboard side carronades was peering out of the port, keeping his gun captain informed. The pinkness had gone out of the sky; it was getting light fast. The privateer had splendid lines; a beautiful ship with raking masts.

Then Ramage saw a wind shadow coming fast down the bay—it'd catch the privateer first in a few moments and give her another knot or so: just enough to let her slip through.

All right!

'Hard a' starboard!' Ramage bellowed. 'Smartly now!'

The quartermaster leapt to the wheel as the men spun it; Southwick shouted encouragement to the sail-trimmers. Slowly the Triton began turning. Too slowly—Ramage swore softly as he watched the end of the jib-boom swinging against the land: it was moving so slowly that—ah, faster now: the Jorum dead ahead for a second, then the privateer. And, as the Triton continued turning, she was suddenly almost abeam.

'Larboard guns, stand by!'

His heart was pounding in a hollow chest; it had been sheer luck.

'Quartermaster—steady as you go! Come on to the same course as that devil!"

Both the Triton and the privateer were now sailing almost side by side, steering a course which converged on the beach and, inside a couple of hundred yards, would put them both ashore.

A crash from forward made both Ramage and Southwick swear; then a spurt of smoke, the rumbling recoil of the forwardmost carronade, the reek of powder drifting aft to catch in their throats, warned them the first of the Triton's guns had been brought to bear.

A flurry among the men grouped round the privateer's tiller showed it had been well-aimed. Then there were flashes along her side, followed by the dull thumps of the guns firing.

The double crash of the Triton's next two carronades firing was followed by fifteen feet of the privateer's bulwark abreast the quarterdeck disappearing in a shower of splinters and dust, with screams echoing over the water. Those splinters had been flung across her deck like wooden scythes, cutting men down with dreadful wounds.

More flashes from the privateer's guns, and this time splintering wood and the clanging of metal against metal in the Triton's bow. Ramage saw the forwardmost carronade had been slewed round by the impact of the shot and every man in its crew flung across the deck like stuffed scarecrows.

The Triton's fourth and fifth carronades crashed out; both tore into the privateer's hull almost on the waterline, splintering the planking, and leaving rusty-coloured stains in the wood.

The smoke was making him cough and his eyes were watering, but he could see the privateer would run aground any second now unless she put her helm down in the next twenty yards. And if she put her helm down she'd crash alongside the Triton. Then he saw there was no one standing at the privateer's tiller, and a startled glance showed why: the Triton's second and third rounds had also smashed away the tiller: the privateer was steering herself and was bound to go aground!

'Mr Southwick! I'm going to wear round, shoot up into wind, let go the larboard bower anchor and drift back. We may need a spring on the cable to get our broadside to bear.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

The old man's white hair, fluffed out like the head of a mop, made him look like a benevolent parson taking an early morning stroll towards the church rather than a man itching to board an enemy ship and deal out death and destruction with the enormous sword whose scabbard was banging against his leg at every step.

In a few moments the Master had given the necessary orders: half a dozen men ran forward to prepare the anchor; the men at the sheets and braces acknowledged his warning to 'Step out smartly when the Captain gives the word!'

And the moment Ramage saw the privateer's bow lift as she hit the sandy beach, he shouted:

'Quartermaster, hard a' starboard! Hands stand by to wear ship!'

And swiftly the brig began turning, her jib-boom pointing along the cliffs on the south side, right across the entrance, then along the cliffs on the north side. Finally, as she <'?«"? round to the closest she could sail to the wind, Ramage glanced over at the privateer and continued his stream of orders for trimming yards and sails with:

'Quartermaster! Shoot her right up into the wind. Forward there—are you ready with the anchor?'

An answering hail told him the cable was free to run.

'Starboard-side guns—as we drift back, fire as you bear without further orders!'

The Triton was now past the grounded privateer and shooting up towards the sandspits into the wind's eye. Already the sails were pressing against the masts as the wind blew from ahead, although Ramage kept the yards braced hard up.

Quickly the brig lost way and Southwick, peering through a gun pott, called:

'No way on, sir."

'Let go, forward!'

The anchor splashed into the sea.

'Mr Southwick, brace up the foretopsailyard!'

With yard and sail square to the wind the brig would drift back faster and Ramage prayed the wind direction wouldn't change: he wanted to continue veering more cable, letting the brig drop back until she was abreast the privateer.