As soon as the yard was hauled round, Ramage told Southwick to keep on veering cable until they were in position.

Suddenly the brig's stern began to sheer over to the south shore, yet the wind hadn't shifted. Then, glancing at the men at the wheel, Ramage roared:

'Quartermaster! Helm amidships, you blockhead!'

The quartermaster had kept the wheel over from the sudden turn with the result that as soon as the brig started to go astern the rudder began to get a bite on the water and push her stern round.

An explosion, the splintering of wood, the whine of grape-shot, and splinters right behind him showed the privateer had managed to train a gun round. The full charge of grapeshot had smashed into the larboard side of the Triton's taffrail, ripping away a good deal of wood. But not a man was wounded.

And yard by yard, like a bull being driven backwards, the Triton was easing astern, Southwick watching and gesticulating to the men.

Ramage walked over to the aftermost carronade and, with a grin at its crew looked through the gun port. The carronade was already trained as far aft as possible. Another twenty yards would do it.

The gun captain moved over as Ramage knelt behind the gun and peered along the sight.

In a moment or two the gun would be aiming directly at the foot of the mainmast, round which was grouped at least a, dozen privateersmen.

'No need to worry about rolling!'

The gun captain, a white strip of cloth round his head showing he had been one of the party in the Jorum, grinned. 'There'll be a hit with every one sir: won't waste even one of them grapes!'

As Ramage stepped aside the man looked along the barrel, took up the strain on the trigger line in his right hand, glanced round the gun to make sure every man was dear, looked along the barrel again and jerked the line.

The carronade leapt back in recoil, smoke spurting from the muzzle; but without waiting to see where the shot had gone the men hurriedly began sponging out the barrel and reloading.

Ramage looked out through the port, keeping clear of the rammer. Not a man had been left standing by the privateer's mainmast—which was now pocked with what looked like rust marks, showing where the grapeshot had hit it. Then he saw two red eyes winking from the privateer's forward gun ports.

There was no time to jump back behind the bulwark. Splintering wood all round the port, clanging metal, the whining of ricochets, and he felt blood soaking his face and uniform. No pain; no report for Admiral Robinson that his orders had at last been carried out; a vacancy for the Admiral to promote a favourite; not to see Gianna again; Southwick sailing the Triton back to Barbados. Thoughts ran helter-skelter through his mind as he reeled back from the port.

A man was holding him, preventing him falling; a man with a cockney voice, anxiously repeating the question: 'You all right, sir?'

Stafford—he recognized the voice. Eyes stinging, head hurting—not much, numbed perhaps. No pain elsewhere. And, as he glanced down, no blood either.

He realized he'd been soaked with sea water thrown up by the shot. He rubbed his head, but the pain was at the back. He must have banged it against the top of the port as he'd jumped back.

He reassured Stafford, feeling foolish until he realized no one else knew the wounds he'd imagined. The Triton's next carronade fired, then the third, fourth and fifth in quick succession.

Now Southwick was standing beside him, his first words drowned by the thump of the aftermost carronade firing again.

Then a thud as more shot hit somewhere forward.

'Damn and blast 'em,' Southwick roared. There goes the jib-boom!'

Again a carronade fired—the men were keeping up a high rate of fire: must remember to mention it later.

Just as Ramage went to the nearest gun port someone hailed:

'Captain, sir! The Frenchies are shouting and waving a white flag!'

'Check fire,' Ramage yelled. 'Southwick—speaking trumpet!'

Through the port he could see a group of men right up in the bows of the privateer gesticulating. One was waving a white cloth. His shirt?

Reversing the trumpet and putting the mouthpiece to his ear, Ramage listened.

An English voice shouting. An agitated, frightened voice cracking in the effort to be heard. And shouting that the privateer surrendered.

'Mr Southwick, send away the boarders. Guns' crews stand fast.'

Was the old Master disappointed?

'And Mr Southwick—after you've taken the surrender of this one you'd better go over and secure the other one. And bring Gorton back with you...'

'Aye aye, sir!' Southwick exclaimed gleefully. Taking the surrender of two prizes in five minutes—not many can claim that, sir!'

'No,' Ramage said and, remembering the chances he'd been taking among the rocks and reefs in the last half an hour, added mildly, 'and it's an honour I'm willing to forgo in the future!'

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

As the Triton, with the Jorum in tow, followed the two privateers for the last two miles down the coast to St George, Ramage listened to Southwick speculating why La Merlette should be anchored in the Roads.

'Anyway, shows the Admiral did buy her in,' the Master concluded more cheerfully. 'That means we'll all see a bit o' prize money—if those thieving agents don't get up to their usual tricks.'

With a new mainmast, La Merlette looked a fine ship, he added. 'And a nice command for one of the Admiral's favourites.'

Ramage nodded. A nice command, and a fast ship. Ideal, in fact, for carrying orders between the islands. And he had little doubt that her new commanding officer had, locked up in his desk, a letter for him from the Admiral.

'Must say they look nice,' Southwick said, gesturing to the Triton's two prizes ahead. 'Still plenty of work for the shipwrights 'afore they're really ready for sea!'

Again Ramage nodded. It'd taken two days to re-float the two privateers and the Jorum, and he was thankful none was leaking. Two days' work had repaired them enough to be ready lor sea but the Jorum's foremast had been too badly damaged to repair, so it had been hoisted on board and the Triton had taken her in tow.

Southwick chuckled. 'I'll take a small bet that Gorton never reckoned he'd ever be doing this!'

Ramage glanced up. 'Doing what?'

Well, acting as prizemaster to two prizes. Not bad, considering.'

Had the old Master guessed?

'Considering what?'

'Come come, sir,' Southwick chided. 'He's got "Run" writ ten all over him!'

'Maybe, but I've left my spectacles in England. He's been more useful to us than twenty extra petty officers.'

'Oh I wasn't criticizing, sir,' Southwick said hastily. 'In fact it was a good idea on your part making him prizemaster. I can just imagine their faces in St George when Gorton sails 'em in and goes alongside the careenage!'

'It's about the only reward he'll get,' Ramage said.

'It'll be more than enough. He as good as told me so.'

'Good—and I'm glad Appleby understood. Anyway, I had to put him in the Jorum—she could whip our masts out if she started yawing around!'

Half an hour later, for the wind was light in the lee of the land, the two former privateers tacked in through the harbour entrance and, at a signal from Southwick, the Jorum cast off the tow and anchored. As soon as the hawser was hauled on board the brig she anchored to windward.

As Southwick made sure the yards were square and ordered the boats to be hoisted out, the Marine sentry at the gangway reported a boat leaving La Merlette. A few minutes later Ramage was greeting her commanding officer as he stepped on board. He'd guessed correctly—it was Fanshaw, the Lieutenant who'd been bustling around in the Admiral's cabin on board the Prince of Wales. Fanshaw was proud of his new command but obviously embarrassed that Ramage would guess why he'd been given it. Ramage led the way down to the cabin.