He hitched round the cutlass belt so Southwick's sword was out of the way, hanging behind him like a grotesque tail, and as he rammed his hat hard on his head there was the crack and snap of splintering wood and a jolt shook the cutter: God! She'd managed to get closer than he'd expected before her topmast stay hit the San Nicolas's bowsprit. A crash aloft - he didn't bother to glance up: the stay had torn down the topmast.
A momentary spasm of fear in case the rest of the mainmast should go, tearing down the ratlines on which the boarders were perched. The shrouds vibrated, twanging with the strain; a seaman losing his grip fell, arms and legs flailing, hitting the deck a few feet away with a grunt which could have indicated unconsciousness or annoyance.
Then chaos: a great black bulging shape suddenly towering above him in the smoke - the San Nicolas's bow. A moment's silence then her stem smashed into the Kathleen's side just forward of the mast, biting deep into the planking with a shock which nearly knocked him down. A nightmare of noise - wood cracking and crunching; ropes whiplashing as they snapped under enormous strain; water splashing, surging, gurgling; men shouting with almost maniacal voices, insane cries of 'Kathleen! Kathleen! Kathleen!' - cries coming, suddenly, and almost unbelievably, from above him, from the San Nicolas.
And slowly the Kathleen heeled: the San Nicolas's bow was rolling her over as it rode into her hull, pressing her down under the massive curving forefoot.
A rope swung past. Without realizing what he was doing he leapt up and out and grabbed it, managing to hold on with desperate energy, to find himself swinging over the water and the wreck of the cutter like a pendulum.
On an upward swing he had a momentary glimpse of Jackson and other boarders scrambling through the lower rail. As he swung down again he saw below him the Kathleen's gashed hull impaled by the San Nicolas's stem.
By flexing and stretching his legs he tried to get sufficient momentum to swing high enough to reach the anchor cable, but even as he began soaring up on the final swing the whole anchor came adrift and fell into the water with a splash and tearing of timber. He just managed to twist round in time to get a leg astride the lower rail with a thump which drove all the air out of his lungs. For a few moments, gasping for breath and trembling with excitement, he sat helpless, watching Jackson and Stafford just above him dodging through the main rail.
Then he began climbing up after them and saw below the San Nicolas's jibboom hanging down, smashed into three pieces. With a curious detachment he registered the fact he'd succeeded in doing what he'd set out to do. He glanced down at the Kathleen - she was lying on her side like a stranded whale, the underwater section of her hull dark green with slime and weed and speckled with barnacles. And one of the flukes of the San Nicolas's fallen anchor had pierced her hull and the strain on the cable was helping to hold her so she did not roll over completely.
His brain was racing and even as he climbed he realized the Kathleen would fill in a very few minutes and, if her shrouds could take the strain, her dead weight pulling down on the San Nicholas's bowsprit might break it off short and bring the mast with it. Then ... but there was no more time to think: Jackson and Stafford were screaming at him and gesticulating upwards.
Already the San Nicolas's splintered foreroyal and topgallant masts were hanging down and now the foretopmast was bending forward like a bow. Even as he watched it suddenly split like a bamboo cane and slowly toppled down, bringing the yard and topsail with it. For a moment he thought it would crash on him, but the weight of the yard slewed it round so it plunged over the larboard side.
Yet the wreck of the Kathleen was still being thrust through the water by the sheer bulk of the San Nicolas. Some Kathleens were standing on the side of the hull - which was almost horizontal - and quite unhurriedly (or so it seemed to Ramage) grasping various pieces of the Spanish ship's severed rigging and beginning to climb up hand over hand to get on board.
Ramage scrambled up on to the platform and in a moment was with Jackson, Stafford and several others crouching close against the beakhead bulkhead waiting for a hail of musket fire from the Spanish soldiers who before the collision had been firing into the Kathleen from the rail just above. But there was not so much as a face at the rail. Smoke which bit into the lungs and seared nostrils was still drifting from the Kathleen and when Ramage leaned cautiously over the head-rails and looked aft he saw a few Spaniards on the fo'c'sle at the bulwarks looking down to see what was happening under their bow.
At once he realized the beakhead bulkhead was hiding the group of Kathleens: no one realized they were on board. For the next few minutes the Spaniards' efforts would be concentrated on clearing away the wreckage of the mast and yards - and any moment the Kathleen would sink. If her last plunge snapped off the bowsprit, his task would be complete. So for the moment, he realized thankfully, there was nothing more the Kathleens need do: it'd be better to wait hidden on the beakhead platform. The Spaniards were already in complete confusion. If they showed any signs of sorting themselves out the Kathleens could discomfort them again with all the advantages of surprise.
He gave orders to Jackson and to Stafford. The Cockney beckoned three men and climbed down to the lower rail and, out of sight of the Spaniards, began hauling other Kathleens on board as they swarmed up the hanging ropes and wreckage. Each man, soaking wet and shivering, then joined the group huddled against the bulkhead.
Anxiously Ramage watched. Of his 'Cartagena Sextet' Rossi was missing. And there was no sign of Southwick. Finally he could wait no longer.
'Jackson - go down and help Stafford. See if there's any sign of Mr. Southwick.'
How long before some Spaniards came along the gangplank to the bowsprit - the 'Marine's Walk', as it was called - and discovered them? Ramage told two of the men with half pikes to stand guard and, as soon as anyone set foot on it, dispose of them quickly and silently with a sharp upward jab.
Spaniards shouting like men demented, stern voices of authority swamped by yells of confusion and panic, the slopping of water under the bow, the steady thumping against the hull as waves caught the wreckage of the masts and yards hanging over the side - and even as Ramage absorbed the impressions, he sensed the ship slowly beginning to swing to larboard, up into the wind. He felt dizzy with relief - the San Nicolas, leading the Spanish van, was out of control!
With the Kathleen athwart her bow, her great topmast and yards over the side dragging like an anchor, and the wind still filling the sails set on the other masts with nothing forward to balance them but the single sail left on the remains of the foremast, her stern was being forced round, throwing her bow up into the wind. And unless the Spaniards quickly braced the yards hard up to stop the wind getting forward of the beam, every sail would soon be a'back. Then, given the normal ration of confusion, the San Nicolas would quickly gather sternway and begin to drive astern through the rest of Cordoba's ships which were following close in her wake. Ramage could scarcely believe that the little Kathleen had achieved so much.
Gunfire - close astern, too! Peering round between the headrails he saw the Captain approaching - she was perhaps six hundred yards away, smoke from her guns streaming to leeward. Almost at once another broadside (which from its noise could come only from the Santisima Trinidad) echoed across the sea.