by Alaric Bond
* * *
The following morning proved more fruitful for Caulfield. Prometheus had less than two hundred miles to cover before raising Gibraltar, and the time when they might chance upon a juicy merchantman was almost over. But as the first lieutenant gained the quarterdeck and nodded to Hunt, who once more had the morning watch, he felt a very real impression that more could be expected of dawn than just the usual heavy chill.
And so it proved: as the weak, wintry light began to gain on the nearby sea, both masthead lookouts called in unison, and did so in voices rich with triumph and anticipation.
“Looks to be a xebec,” Jameson, at the main, added. “And almost in range, I'd say.”
The last part was hardly any responsibility of a common seaman, but Caulfield was too busy to comment.
“Forward there! Clear away the chasers. Mr Clement; pipe all hands.” It might simply be a merchant craft, and possibly even a neutral, but the first lieutenant felt his instincts were on top form that morning, and was inwardly certain a pirate lay within their grasp. “My compliments to the captain,” he said, turning to Carley, the duty midshipman. “Advise him that there is a potential enemy in sight, and I should like to clear for action.”
“She's a pirate all right,” Hunt confirmed. The young man still officially had the watch and was staring through the deck glass.
“Why so sure?” Caulfield asked.
“I've met her before, sir,” Hunt said, without taking his eye off the sighting. “She was the one that all but sank my prize.” Then he finally lowered the glass and turned to the first lieutenant. “She's a patched main, and I'd know those lines anywhere – I've seen 'em enough times in my sleep.”
“Very well, gentlemen,” Banks' voice came from behind, and both officers realised the captain must have been standing outside his quarters for some time.
“Xebec frigate, sir,” Caulfield said, pointing to the vessel that was off their larboard bow and in plain sight of the deck. “Mr Hunt believes her to be a pirate.”
“And I think he may be right,” the captain agreed. “Colours, if you please, Mr Caulfield and clear for action by all means.”
Chapter Fourteen
But however positive Hunt's identification may have been, it soon became clear the xebec would not be an easy capture. Once the sun was properly up, the wind died for the British, leaving Prometheus becalmed and in tranquil waters while the chase, which appeared strangely blessed, continued to draw away. It was only after several heart wrenching minutes that her sails began to flap also, then sag, and finally the enemy's hull turned slightly as she lost way altogether.
That was not the end of matters, however. As the British ship lay wallowing in the mild swell, with every hand that was able staring out towards their apparently equally stricken enemy, the xebec sprang back to life.
A line of wooden oars were seen to extend from either side; soon they were ordered and a regular pattern of strokes began to cut into the placid sea, and the slender craft was driven slowly, but inexorably, away from them.
Banks cursed quietly to himself as he watched. The pirate was more than a mile off – long range for any of his cannon. A lucky shot might reach her, but would be all but spent when it did, and with only two serviceable sea boats, they would be unable to tow the bulk of a British third rate at anything like the pace necessary.
“Launch cutters, sir?” Caulfield asked hopefully.
“Very well,” he agreed. They might at least bring Prometheus' head round and allow a single broadside. It would sound a note of defiance, even if no practical good were done.
The hands were of a different mind, however. Most had been indulging in a spot of surreptitious whistling to summon up a suitable wind, but this was a far more constructive alternative. To them, launching the boats was a necessary part of the procedure that would bring their much loved barky's broadside to bear, and never had the routine been carried out with more speed or efficiency. Within minutes, both cutters were in the water and secured by lines to the bowsprit cap, while their crews were already straining at the oars. And both decks of long guns had been run out, their wooden quoins discarded to allow each deadly iron barrel to find its maximum range, and the captains standing by to fire on the escaping heathen craft the instant it came into their arc.
As soon as it did, a nod from Banks started the process that ended with a shot firing from each of the cannon in turn. It was a measured ripple that ran along both decks, leaving all aboard the liner temporarily deafened, while few barrages were awaited with more expectation. In the seconds that followed there was a ringing silence in which no one dared breathe, while the iron balls sped out on their deadly mission above the open waters. But when they were finally rewarded, it was with a series of splashes falling short of the target, and there came a long, collective, sigh as well as mutterings that even the curses of petty officers and ship's corporals were unable to contain.
Their disappointment was short lived, however; it was soon obvious that damage had been done, even if exactly what could not be told from such a distance. The pirate ship started to turn slightly and, though still underway, her larboard side began to present towards the British. It was possible she was simply yawing, and intended to send an answering broadside, but such craft were built for speed and to deliver punishment, not take it. Only a fool would attempt to match the firepower of a two decker from the lightweight platform of a xebec frigate.
“Arm the cutters' crew,” the captain snapped, while most were still wondering what had happened.
“I suppose it possible we struck her larboard oars,” Caulfield remarked, almost conversationally, although he was rewarded with a less genial response.
“Arm the cutters, I say!” Banks repeated even more forcibly. “Pistols and cutlasses, and embark a replacement crew in each along with all the seamen they will take.”
Caulfield turned and gave the appropriate order, his cheeks flushed slightly from the implied rebuke. There had been no intention to criticise, however. The faintest patch of cats paws could be seen from the north and the fore topsail was barely flapping, but it was enough to tell Banks that a wind might be expected at any moment and would favour them first. But before that could be exploited, they must take advantage of the current situation, and time was vitally important.
In a rowing competition, his stately two-decker would never compete with a xebec. The enemy vessel was far lighter and made for such use, with dedicated positions being built into her design. Even when towed by all her heavy boats, the British liner would be lucky to make half her speed, and considerably less than that with only two cutters. But something had slowed the enemy; it might have been luck, one of the heavy balls could have skimmed over the waves like a pebble thrown from the beach, and struck her in some vulnerable place. Or perhaps a commonplace shipboard accident had occurred; such things were not unknown. But even without any permanent damage, the cutters would have the edge and must catch her. They might not carry manpower enough for a successful boarding, but should certainly stay in touch. And if Prometheus were only able to close...
“Have carronades mounted in both bows,” the captain added as his thoughts developed. The light, short range guns were intended to clear an enemy's beach or perhaps sink other small craft, and would take several minutes to stow and rig. But even a six pound ball must make an impact on the frail timbers of a xebec, and Banks sensed the effort would be well spent.
By the time both boats were finally despatched, each holding over thirty men – a combined total of less than a third of the enemy's expected complement, the breeze had risen further, and Prometheus was able to regain steerage way. The xebec had also recovered to some extent. The wind was yet to reach her but she was moving steadily and steering a straighter course. However it seemed the damage, be it caused to either her sweeps or their mountings, had not been addressed as she was far slower and under roughly half her previous number of oars.
“We'll have the stuns'ls on her
, if you please,” Banks murmured. The wind had backed only marginally, and still came pretty full on their stern. Prometheus was showing all her square sails, bar the maincourse and stunsails, additional canvas that could be run out on spars to either side of the major yards, may not add more than half a knot. But all available speed was needed, and if the sun grew any hotter, he would turn the hands to soaking the sails, so desperate was he to bring the ship into action. After almost losing his command in Toulon harbour, Banks had resolved to attend to his duty more closely, and was determined this particular enemy should not escape.
“I think we may be keeping apace,” Caulfield chanced, and Banks was glad to note his earlier brusqueness had not been taken badly.
“While Franklin and Hunt will reach her in no time,” he agreed, glancing forward to where the two small boats were emerging from the cover of Prometheus' bows. Each was powered by oars in addition to twin lateen sails and were already setting a solid pace as they sliced through the water.
“Indeed, sir,” Caulfield agreed more cautiously. “And they may well slow the enemy further.” Then he considered for a moment, before adding, “though I would not care to be them if either receive a broadside in return.”
* * *
Franklin was of the same opinion. He had been detailed to the blue cutter and given a crack crew; first of dedicated boat men, then reinforcements who could not only row but were openly spoiling for a fight. In fact, of all the bodies currently crammed into the tiny hull, only his did not belong to a volunteer.
Not that he would have chosen to be anywhere else, he told himself firmly. He may be a committed Christian, but that did not mean fighting was totally repugnant to him; had that been the case there were opportunities a plenty for men of his experience in the merchant service or maybe Trinity House. And for all he had learned about turning the other cheek, Franklin's concept of a just fight remained strictly Old Testament, while his understanding of right and wrong was probably enhanced. Still, having to bear down on an enemy in clear daylight, especially one as dangerous as the xebec which now faced him, was not exactly an attractive prospect, and he would have preferred any number of other tasks.
Admittedly there was the bulk and power of Prometheus reassuringly close behind. The battleship was of no use while her guns lay out of range though and, should the wind change; either grow, die or shift significantly, it could only benefit the pirate's sleek and nimble hull. So Franklin was resigned to the fact that it was down to him, and Hunt in the second cutter, to alter the situation.
They would catch the pirate in no time; even now it would take no more than a yaw from the xebec to see them facing a broadside of heavy guns, although Franklin was not anticipating such a move. The enemy had already received one lucky hit, and was subsequently disabled to some extent; surely they would not wish to linger and encourage another? Besides, the threat he and Hunt posed was not obvious; what possible harm could two small boats do to such a magnificent and warlike creature? But when the cutters grew nearer it would be to demonstrate that even a small boat's cannon can be effective. And once that happened, they might certainly expect some response.
Not even a full broadside would be needed from the lines of cannon, weapons that were growing more distinct with every minute: a single shot should sink either boat quite efficiently.
“Quiet in the bows there!” he ordered absent mindedly. The men were chattering like a pack of monkeys, but Franklin knew there was little he could do or say to stop them for long. To be aboard a cutter in the middle of the Med. would have been stimulating enough; giving chase to a superior enemy was just too much of a change from their usual routine to be taken with any serenity.
The boat's freeboard was unusually low; with the extra weight of a bow mounted carronade, and so many additional hands, they were almost level with the slight swell. And the wind had both backed and was actually rising further; soon they might not even need to row as the tight canvas was already giving them a credible speed. Franklin glanced back to Prometheus, her sails were drooping in comparison, and the ship was now falling behind faster than they were gaining on the enemy.
“I think I can reach her now, Mr Franklin.”
The comment had come from Flint, at the cannon, but Franklin ignored it. Although an experienced gunner and seaman, Flint was gaining the reputation as a firebrand and might be expected to want to open fire prematurely. The last thing Franklin intended was to emphasise the fact they were closing and could indeed be dangerous, especially as their bow mounted pop-gun would be inaccurate at anything other than point blank range. But still the time for action was growing close: the xebec was less than a cable off; they would soon make that distance; then Flint could fire his cannon as often as he wished. And it would only take one shot in the right place to do the business; nothing more than light damage, preferably to her rudder or a significant stay, and the pirate would be slowed to the extent that Prometheus would have no difficulty in snapping her up.
The men at the oars were starting to tire, but there was still some advantage in their rowing. To be sure of delivering an effective shot would mean getting incredibly close, and the last hundred yards or so would be the hardest. It would be difficult enough if their foe were a Frenchman, but so many stories abounded about the Barbary Pirates for Franklin to know he was not dealing with a conventional enemy. They had a dedication to warfare that was quite fanatical, and what he and Hunt proposed to do was bound to stir up a reaction.
Even wounded, and with a far superior force closing on them, the heathens would fight to the very last; of that he was gloomily certain. Once the cutters achieved their purpose, both might run like salted chickens, but at least one was likely to face the wrath of the injured ship's broadside. And boarding was out of the question. In his view the captain had been foolish in weighing them down with more men; they still carried far less than a xebec's complement and, with no chance of surprise, any attempt to physically get to grips with her could never be successful.
No, Franklin decided soberly, he was a king's officer and, if given the choice, would have agreed to command the blue cutter anyway. But his heart was not in this current venture and, for probably the first time in his life, he wondered if his future truly lay with the Royal Navy.
* * *
But Hunt, in the black cutter, had no mind for doubt and cared little about statistics. He was as keen to lay in to the pirates as any man aboard his craft. More in fact: for this was somehow personal.
The vessel before him had dealt his own, precious, first command such a deadly blow that he had been forced to watch her stripped of all fittings, then taken apart for what could be salvaged of her timbers. And that was ignoring the death of Rutherford, the master's mate and his personal sea daddy of several years standing, as well as seven of the brig's crew: men he had come to know well and even regard as his own.
So with the self same xebec lying almost within his grasp, and a chance to repay what had been taken from him so tantalisingly close, he felt able to ignore odds or the likelihood of defeat. Instead, Hunt was looking forward to a total and therapeutic victory. And if a small amount of effort were required; maybe a risk or two, that was not out of the question. The men about him were certainly ready for action; the majority would be positively disappointed if they were not let loose on the enemy and, as far as Hunt was concerned, he could think of nothing better.
* * *
Flint was no less enthusiastic. He had been taken off boat duties some time back when the outward signs of illness became hard to disguise. But his determination remained as well known as his condition, and an indulgent warrant officer had allowed him in the blue cutter amongst the auxiliary crew. Once aboard, Flint quickly established himself as captain of the boat's six pound carronade. The gun was laughably small when compared to the monsters he was used to handling, but had the advantage of being a close range piece so any damage he caused would be obvious to all. And of late Flint had been keen to cause as much da
mage as possible.
* * *
Half an hour later the situation had changed considerably although to Banks, standing on his quarterdeck, it remained every bit as frustrating. The wind was gaining still and now came more from the east. Not so much as to lie conveniently on their quarter, but Prometheus was maintaining the chase well enough. However this was only through a series of uneven legs that favoured the starboard, and drew maximum benefit from such conditions. Banks realised how the frequent changes of course were wearing out both waisters and afterguard, but cared little; steering so did at least allow the ship to keep pace, even if the pirates remained beyond the reach of the luckiest of shots from his guns.
Meanwhile, Hunt and Franklin were definitely within range, and could open fire at any time. They were fortunate in one matter; the xebec appeared to lack any form of stern chasers although Banks knew that, were they to deal an effective blow, it would still mean closing to a distance that would draw musket shot.
“The boat parties must not waste a moment,” Caulfield muttered softly. “Give the barbarians the chance to see what they are about, and it will be the worse for all.”
“I do not expect either to delay,” Banks replied in a level tone.
“They might respond to a signal,” Caulfield chanced. Franklin was the ship's signals officer: he could not be expected to carry a code book, though would know the more usual hoists. But Banks shook his head. Caulfield was right, with both sides in plain sight, there was no point in putting off their inevitable attack: Nelson would certainly have closed at the earliest opportunity. Nelson would also have trusted his officers, though, and he must do the same. Hunt and Franklin were in a far better position to judge the situation than anyone aboard Prometheus, and risked confusing matters by offering advice that would doubtless be interpreted as an order.