'Aye aye, sir,' Jackson said. 'We'll be like ghosts.'
Ramage sat alone with his thoughts. He was still not sure that he was doing the right thing. For the task of destroying the Achille he had two choices: he could bring the Dido in and, as he had done when he attacked her in the first place, sail back and forth across her stern, raking her. That would take hours - destroying a ship by gunfire alone could be very difficult. Silencing her was one thing; destroying her was something quite different. Which left him with boarding her and setting her on fire. That was certain but was far riskier. As far as the Achille was concerned, it was riskier because he had no idea how many Frenchmen had been landed, and therefore how many were left on board. When the Dido had arrived and anchored, the Achille was landing men on the beach. Were they abandoning the ship? Were they the first fifty or were they the last? There was no way of knowing. So they were boarding her not knowing whether there were five hundred men on board or twenty.
That was why he had emphasized to his officers that all they were concerned with was getting on board the ship, setting a few fires, and then getting off as quickly as possible: they were not trying to capture the Frenchman; this was not a regular boarding - as when they had taken the Alerte. They were, he thought wryly, concerned only with arson.
He could make out the black shape of the Achille - she seemed enormous in the darkness. To anyone who loved ships for themselves, it was a sad thought that this handsome ship - for she had a pleasing sheer - was not only wedged on the rocks, but if all went well within half an hour would be only so much charred wreckage floating on the sea. Two thousand large trees, each piece carefully shaped by skilled men, had been used to build her ... his imagination roamed, helped by the darkness.
The men were rowing easily and silently: Aitken had done a good job of making sure that each oar was bound with keckling to stop it squeaking against the thole pins. The men were being careful to dip their oars deeply so they did not 'catch a crab' and make a splash.
He looked astern and could just make out the other boats following in the launch's wake. In a few minutes three of the boats would turn to starboard to make their way to the Achille's stern, still keeping out of the field of fire. What sort of lookout were they keeping in the French ship? For the moment they would not be able to see very far because of the darkness, but would they spot the boats in the starlight during those last few yards?
Ramage decided they would not be keeping a special lookout because they would not expect the Dido to board them: they knew that the English realized they were stuck on the rocks, and helpless. They might expect a further attack in daylight, with the Dido raking her and doing more damage by gunfire. Indeed, that might have been the reason for them landing men - to save casualties.
Casualties! The word made him shiver. If the French had not landed many men, then he was likely to suffer a lot of casualties tonight. He did not doubt that his own men would be able to start a few fires, but at what cost?
Some captains, he knew, could send their men off on operations where the number of casualties would be enormous, and the fact did not make them lose any sleep. But he was not one of these captains. He did not know whether to call them lucky or not - in war men did get killed or maimed. But the fact was that he shied away from operations where the casualties would be heavy. He had shied away from this one until he persuaded himself that if he did not destroy the Achille now, the admiral would send him back to do it.
So now he was setting off with more than 150 seamen and Marines not knowing whether there were five hundred or fifty Frenchmen on board the Achille. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed the most absurdly risky operation he had ever undertaken: it was, literally and figuratively, a leap into the dark.
He stared ahead and could just make out the black shape of the Achille outlined against the stars. Judging from the height of the masts they were closer than he had realized. He glanced astern and saw that the last three boats had already left to make for the French ship's stern. There was just the faint hiss as the launch's bow cut through the water and the muffled gasping as the men strained at the oars. The launch, carrying thirty men plus the oarsmen, was a heavy boat to row.
Yes, it was a hot and humid night: already he could feel the perspiration soaking through his clothes. But he was thankful there was little wind. Wind meant waves and waves meant a slop at the bow which could be spotted by the French lookouts. Thank goodness there was almost no phosphorescence tonight. It was extraordinary how one night it would be bright and another night there would be almost none at all. One thing was certain - had there been much of it then it would give away the positions of all six boats, warning the French long before they could actually see the outline of the raiders.
Forty yards, perhaps less. Jackson had brought the launch round - with the two pinnaces following - in a half-circle, so that he stayed out of the arcs of fire of the Achille's guns and approached from dead ahead, the direction it would be hard for the French lookouts to see, because of the network of rigging supporting the jibboom and bowsprit.
Ramage loosened the two pistols stuck in his belt: they were digging into his ribs, and they would jab him when he climbed. He hitched at his sword, making sure it was free in the sheath, ready to be drawn instantly. He was, he realized ruefully, behaving just like a nervous man, but damnation, he was nervous: not at the thought of boarding the Frenchman, but at what they might find. Fifty or five hundred - they were not the sort of odds to attract a gambler . . .
Thirty yards - no more. Jackson was hissing an order at the nearest oarsmen and they were passing it forward, from man to man. The rate of rowing slowed. The Achille was huge now, looming over them - and there was no challenge. No shooting from aft, either, so that the other boarding party had not arrived yet. He had thought of trying to synchronize the two attacks, but finally decided against it: the trouble involved increased the risk that they would be discovered if one or other party had to wait in the darkness.
Twenty yards - and Jackson was beginning to put the tiller over and hissing another order to the oarsmen nearest him. The Achille was now like the side of a huge cliff; her rigging was outlined against the star-filled sky like a fishnet, and the masts stood up like enormous trees, reaching up into the blackness.
Ten yards, and the men on the starboard side tossed their oars. Ramage poised himself, ready to leap upwards at whatever projection would give him a foothold. Still no challenge and, mercifully, still no shooting from astern. In the few seconds before the launch came alongside the French ship he thought how extraordinary it was that she was keeping such a poor lookout.
Then he smelled the stench of rotting seaweed and realized that it had been growing beneath the waterline but had been exposed when the bow had lifted as the ship had run on to the reef. He noticed that the French had not let go an anchor - an indication of how firmly she was wedged. Probably firmly enough to make this boarding quite unnecessary, but one could not be sure.
Then, in a frantic rush, the launch was alongside and he was leaping up, grasping at a loop of rigging and kicking out with his feet to find a foothold. The wood was slippery from the weed but his feet found the edge of a plank that was standing proud. He levered himself upwards, kicking and grasping, until he found he had reached the headrails. He ducked through them and worked his way up to the beakhead bulkhead, conscious just as he reached it that a French voice was shouting a challenge.
Several more men from the launch had managed to scramble up, and were almost alongside him. In fact as he looked below, the whole bow of the ship seemed to be a wriggling mass of men. He stretched up again and got a grip on the Marine's walk, the short strip of gangway leading from the fo'c'sle to the bowsprit. Then he swung himself up, kicking and struggling, until he was sprawled on the walk, and a few moments later found himself on the fo'c'sle, only a few feet from the foremast.
By now the French voice was shouting hysterically: it had stopped challenging and was calling out an alarm. Obviously there had been a single lookout forward, and he must have been dozing. Ramage heard a voice answer in the distance and knew it would be only a matter of moments before the men boarding aft would be spotted. The shooting would start any second now, and as he stood upright on the fo'c'sle he wrenched out the pistols from his belt.
He suddenly realized that Jackson, Stafford and Rossi, all puffing from their exertions, were standing beside him at the forebitts, beside the foremast. More men were climbing up the beakhead bulkhead while others were scrambling up on to the Marine's walk.
Suddenly there was the rattle of musket fire from aft and shot ricocheted off the mast. 'Start those fires!' shouted Ramage, knowing that any moment a barrage of musketry fire could sweep the deck.
Lanterns suddenly appeared and he saw several slowmatches sparkling in the darkness. There was a glow as someone took a candle from a lantern and used it to light a piece of cloth.
Now the musketry fire from aft was closer: the French were advancing along the deck towards them. What had happened to the boarders aft? Just as he wondered, Ramage noticed that some of the muskets and pistols were now aimed aft: at last the rest of the Didos had appeared. They had a far more difficult task than the men boarding over the bow: there was much less to hold on to.
'Come on,' Ramage called, 'let's get some fires started amidships.' He noticed that one of his men was crumpled up on the deck, obviously hit by a musket ball, and then Jackson shouted: 'Here they come!'
Ramage just had time to see a group of Frenchmen running along the gangway each side, heading towards them, cutlass blades reflecting in the flash of muskets and pistols. By now many more men, including Gilbert, Louis, Auguste and Albert, had joined him and Ramage led them along the starboard gangway, to meet the French halfway.
The fire from the muskets and pistols had stopped: obviously the French were not going to stop and reload, so now it would be a fight with cutlasses and boarding pikes - except that the Didos had not yet fired their pistols. How many Frenchmen were there? It was difficult to distinguish in the darkness. How many were trying to drive off the Didos attacking from aft? Impossible to say. Perhaps fifty, maybe more. The Didos had the slight temporary advantage that the French would be sleepy, just roused out of their hammocks, but they would soon be wide awake: there was nothing like a few gunshots to get rid of sleepiness.
Ramage cocked the pistols as he ran, cursing as he bumped into various projections which all seemed to have been fitted shin-high. He found himself ahead of the others but heard Jackson shouting at them to hurry.
Then the first of the French were only a few feet away, running towards him shouting at the tops of their voices. Ramage stopped and raised his pistols, aiming into the midst of the mass. He squeezed the triggers and the twin flash of them firing blinded him momentarily.
And then the French were on him. He threw away the pistols and wrenched his sword from its sheath and at the same time Jackson was alongside him, shouting defiance and slashing with his cutlass. Ramage sliced at a boarding spike jabbing at him and then ducked backwards to avoid a swinging cutlass. There was only the starlight now, apart from the occasional flash of a pistol or musket, and he found himself fighting shadows.
He felt rather than saw a cutlass blade rip his right sleeve and immediately stabbed into the darkness with his sword. He felt the blade entering flesh and heard a shriek of pain. Then behind him he heard a roar as Southwick joined the fight, and Ramage could imagine him twirling his sword two-handed, his white hair flying.
By now more Didos were running along the gangway to join him and the French were halted. He cut at a shadowy Frenchman and heard a grunt as the man collapsed. He recognized a stream of French curses as coming from Auguste and Gilbert. Then he glanced forward for a moment and saw that a small fire had been started by the forebitts and the wind was fanning it.
It was also throwing a flickering light on the Frenchmen, and Ramage jabbed again at a bearded and wild-eyed man who was slashing away with his cutlass with all the abandon of a frenzied axeman chopping at a tree trunk. The man collapsed like a pricked bladder, and Ramage guessed he had been drunk.
