by Alaric Bond
“I should rather not,” he replied, indicating the two boats that were now drawing close to each other. “But they appeared to be speaking,” The first lieutenant nodded, although neither officer could think of anything they might attempt which would not be obvious to the enemy.
Then, as they watched, the cutters turned away on opposite tacks, with Franklin's boat shooting forward as the more favourable angle to the wind gave him extra power. Within seconds both were edging dangerously near the pirate's arc of broadside fire, but positioning so would ultimately allow them to bear down on the xebec's stern from opposing directions.
“They would appear to be attempting a simultaneous attack,” Caulfield said. “A bold move, and one that may well bring results.”
Banks made no immediate response. It was almost exactly what he would have done, although there were few other options. But to close so was surely inviting trouble; the boats could be seriously damaged even by small calibre fire and, if either were successful, the xebec would undoubtedly turn upon her tormentors.
“A bold move indeed,” he said at last and almost to himself. “God help them.”
Chapter Fifteen
Franklin, who had the helm, thrust the tiller away to take them onto the larboard tack, while bellowing for the canvas to be drawn tight. They had passed the stage when rowing was of any benefit and were gaining visibly on the angular vessel before them under sail alone. Spray flew up to either side, and he could hear whispers and curses from the men as they fingered their weapons and prepared themselves for the coming fight. A line of heads were peering over the pirate's taffrail and, at a word from Carley in the bows, several loud snaps rang out as the boat's crew began to take pot shots with their pistols. Soon they were passing little more than forty yards off the enemy ship's stern, and this was the point when Franklin's mind should have been fixed on the current task. But somehow he could not set his thoughts – he was not afraid as such, just unable to concentrate, and the hand that held the tiller was undeniably shaking.
He drew a deep breath and tried to will his racing heart down to a more orderly rate. At any moment the xebec might turn, and they would be facing a line of heavy cannon. But Franklin knew as well as any man that, should the enemy do so, they would ultimately be taken. Prometheus was still stoically following; any delay would see the xebec come into the range of her guns, and he refused to believe any fighting captain could be so fanatical as to risk his command in such a way.
So the plan that Hunt had bellowed across the water made perfect sense. Both boats would close at the same time, but on opposing tacks; tactics that should at least divide the small arms fire from the xebec, while causing enough confusion for them both to draw swiftly away, whether or not their task was complete. And his boat would turn after Hunt's – that had been vital to establish, when a collision immediately under the enemy's stern would be disastrous for both.
But as Franklin gripped the all important tiller he knew himself unworthy of such responsibility. Hunt had sounded so confident; carefree almost, as he rattled out the idea with an enthusiasm Franklin would never equal. There could be no doubt in anyone's mind that the younger man would carry out his duties to perfection but, of himself, he was not so certain.
“Ready to turn, sir?” It was Carley's voice from forward, and Franklin jumped slightly, before regret and shame hit him like a punch to the stomach. It was indeed time to turn – almost too late, in fact. Franklin had been so engrossed in his own feelings that the matter had completely slipped his mind until they were perilously close to the point when they might be hit by fire from the xebec's broadside guns. Savagely, he pulled the tiller back, trusting in the men about him to adjust the sails as the nimble craft jibed. The xebec's rudder could now be properly targeted: within a minute, maybe less, it would be in point blank range. Franklin had been sailing cutters since a youngster; he knew what he must do – keep his head and the boat on course: it really was that simple. But his hand continued to shake, and he could not ignore the worrying thought that at any moment he might begin to scream, and not be able to stop.
* * *
On the upper deck Corbett, the third lieutenant, was feeling far braver, and would have changed places with Franklin in an instant. Sir Richard Banks was blessed with a reputation for courage and guile; something that had encouraged him to join the ship in the first place, and his brief time aboard Prometheus could never have been called boring. But, even though he enjoyed a relatively senior position, Corbett had yet to be personally involved in any action. Admittedly he commanded the upper gun deck, with twenty-eight of the ship's secondary armament directly under his charge. They had already rained merry hell on both shore emplacements and enemy shipping, even if his part had amounted to nothing more than shouting out orders. Meanwhile all independent responsibility seemed to be falling on Hunt and Franklin, who were only acting lieutenants – glorified midshipmen really, with both having earned less sea time aboard Prometheus than himself.
Not that he begrudged them the chance, and neither did he consider he was being purposely left out. Corbett knew he had proved himself reliable, his guns having performed well on every occasion, and there were no major problems within the division he headed. But it would have been good to become properly involved in an action; to feel the responsibility and be able to think for himself, rather than simply obey orders.
This was not a specific fault of the ship, or her captain, but a regular one in the Royal Navy. Corbett had seen far too many middling lieutenants drift away to obscurity, merely because opportunities were given to the junior, and presumably more expendable, officers. It was unfortunate that his time at the lower posts was first spent aboard a receiving ship and then in the regulating service, whereas the recent peace had been endured with him kicking his heels on land and half pay. Corbett's current seniority meant he was almost guaranteed a position of third officer or above aboard any suitably sized ship, yet he lacked sufficient experience to be a premier, and everyone knew it was only the first lieutenants who were promoted at the conclusion of a successful action.
And Corbett thought he could be brave; indeed he was certain of it. There was nothing he would have liked more than to be a hero, to stand tall amid his fellow officers with a string of successes to his name, while the wealth, women and other benefits of fame that followed would be handled, he was sure, with commensurate ease. It was why he had joined the Navy after all, and rotten bad luck that, after over fifteen year's service, the chance was yet to come.
And that was all he was lacking – an opportunity to prove himself: show the world his true mettle: let them see what a dashing fellow Simon Corbett might be. Just one independent command, he did not ask for more: the rest would be up to him.
* * *
But at the bow-mounted carronade, Flint held no illusions of bravery. He had been through enough scrapes in the past to know himself, and his limitations, only too well. For other and more personal reasons, he was still looking forward to this particular brush with the enemy though and, of all who were sailing aboard the blue cutter that day, was probably the best prepared.
At first it had been hard to grant the tiny weapon under his charge any credibility; the whole thing could not have weighed more than the carriage for a thirty-two pounder and, when it was passed to him, the six pound hollow shot seemed far too light to carry any distance. But he had seen devastating results from such weapons in the past; when loaded with grape or cannister, they could cut a swathe through groups of men that totally belied the size of the stunted barrel. And for close range work, he reckoned he could cause a fair amount of mischief; certainly to the frail timbers of the craft that was starting to tower above him.
Beside him Rogers, an oaf of a man that Flint cared little for, had several more round shot ready and was currently making childish piles from the cartridges of powder. There was limited space in the cutter's bows, and Flint had already made it clear he would need no help in reloading the gun; far bette
r to do such a thing himself, than trust an idiot who was very likely to blow his own hand off.
He glared back at Rogers, and noticed the chubby body of Mr Carley sitting next to him. The lad was hardly more than a child and, although he doubtlessly meant well, could be of little use in what was about to occur. It would have been far better if Flint had one of his own mess or gun crew to assist; men he could trust: men who might take over if he failed in any way and, for not the first time that morning, considered it a shame that Cranston was not there.
Cranston, a messmate and second captain of the two guns Flint had charge of aboard Prometheus, also volunteered for the cutters, but was allocated to the other boat. He had a good eye and was steady under fire, although there were other reasons why Flint missed his company. However much he may try to deny it, the times when he did not feel so strong were becoming more common, and Flint would rather have someone reliable at hand to back him up.
He had wheedled himself aboard the cutter because the prospect of action remained irresistible, but that morning's efforts were already starting to tell. He was finding the same with other, more mundane tasks, from stoning decks to scrubbing hammocks. Somehow his old energy was lacking and he just did not have any stamina. Even the regular mustering for divisions, when his kit had to be laundered and laid out for inspection, were becoming a trial. But a further opportunity to vent his anger on the enemy, albeit with a gun that children might use to frighten rabbits, had been far too tempting to ignore.
“You straight, Flint?” the midshipman asked from behind. As he had a right to, Flint supposed; Mr Franklin had actually sent the boy to supervise his work. He knew nothing about guns of any size however and, by unspoken agreement, the organisation of the carronade was being left to his more experienced hands.
“Well enough thank you, Mr Carley,” Flint replied briskly, while privately wondering what had caused the child to ask such a question. But he would be all right, he told himself. The boat was growing ever closer to the pirate; soon they must start to take fire from the bunch of priggers lining her taffrail, and shortly he would be able to reply. Flint knew from experience just how good that feeling would be. And it was then that the realisation came to him that fighting was about the only pleasure he had left.
* * *
And all the while Franklin, at the stern of the cutter, was doing his best to control slightly different emotions. He had searched through the hundred or so Bible passages that usually lay ready in his mind and been surprised to find none could be remembered in their entirety. But that did not mean he felt deserted, for it seemed that even seeking help from the Almighty had brought a feeling of peace. Then he prayed, but not the usual “now I lay me down to sleep” rote which had been drummed into him when a lad; this was a deep, wordless prayer; one that had more to do with intense thought than actually speaking. And, when he was finished, Franklin sensed the entire situation, and possibly even his life, was totally altered.
The late autumnal sun was certainly nothing to speak of, yet it appeared incredibly bright, and the world itself far clearer. And mundane colours – the cutter's rubbing strake or the tanned face of the man seated at stroke, glowed with added brilliance. Flint had his back to him at the bows, his arm raised to signal the gun ready; even that image held an extra store of beauty that Franklin had previously been unaware of.
But he remained a sea officer and must not become lost in ethereal musings. They were still bearing down on a dangerous enemy, and would need to close further to be certain of a hit in the right place. To his right, Hunt's cutter was on the opposing tack, and steadily drew nearer to both the xebec and his own boat. And he could see flashes of small arms from the pirate's stern. They were under fire; he might die at any moment, yet somehow the prospect did not alarm him.
The tiller beneath his arm felt locked solid, and he wondered if it could be moved, should he have a mind to do so. But there was no need; the course was fine and an inner feeling told him he would be safe: the impression remained of complete peace, and Franklin knew himself totally protected.
He had also lost all track of time; there was a regular plopping sound that came and went, which he could hardly be bothered to identify. Then a series of shouts, and a puff of smoke blew forward from the bows, to be immediately followed by the sharp report of the cutter's gun.
Another noise, this one to starboard – Hunt's boat had also fired and Franklin was surprised to notice it close by, and on a sharply converging course. He continued to watch; Hunt should have begun to turn by now, but was making no move to do so, while the heavily laden craft appeared to be aiming straight for his own boat.
Still he watched with detached interest. It was a curious problem: he could take the initiative: turn first, then be heading away from danger, and it was odd how every sense in his body urged him to do so. But Franklin did not listen; it was as if he had suddenly acquired an older, wiser head and there was no longer any doubt in his mind. If Hunt turned also, as he had every right to, both cutters must collide for certain.
There was a pain in his right hand: he realised it came from gripping the tiller too tightly and eased his hold. Then he glanced almost nonchalantly towards the xebec which seemed no nearer, and noticed, again with mild curiosity, that a neat round hole had appeared low on her stern, just level with the waterline. It was a foot or so from the rudder which, now that he examined it more closely, seemed to be wrecked, as was the stern post that supported it. That must explain the cheering, he decided: the noise had erupted quite abruptly and the other men in his boat were probably responsible.
His gaze switched to the black cutter. Time must be playing tricks; Hunt seemed hardly any nearer, but was now in the process of tacking; his helm lay across and the sails were all ahoo. Franklin was alert enough to recognise that as a good sign, although sensed no relief: no emotion at all, in fact – it was as if all facility for feeling had been removed from his body. He took a gasp of fresh, clean air and felt it cold in his lungs. The sensation brought him closer to normal life but the peace remained within him. Gradually he accepted his boat was still gaining on the xebec, but had cleared Hunt's cutter, and might turn also at any time.
He heaved the rudder back – it moved easily, and the craft responded, turning swiftly in her own length and apparently guided back onto the opposite tack as if it knew the way well. The sheets were pulled tight without any order from him, and then they were close hauled and heading towards blessed safety.
And it was only then that Franklin noticed the small fountains that were erupting in the water about him. The enemy must still be firing, and probably had been for some while. Looking forward, at least one of his men had been hit, and was currently being attended to by young Carley. He continued to take regular deep breaths: each one brought him nearer to reality until the memories of the last few seconds could have been a world away. Then the fountains stopped; the cutter must be out of musket range and that was another interesting fact, although somehow irrelevant.
Glancing back, he confirmed it to be the case, and that the absence of a rudder was already starting to affect the xebec. Without its pressure from aft, the hull was turning slightly; the enemy might attempt to take the wind more fully on their stern, but would inevitably be slowed; indeed they seemed to be drawing power almost entirely from their remaining oars. It would be hard to rig a replacement rudder whilst underway and, with Prometheus still squarely astern, the two boats were free to pull clear and leave the rest to the barky.
Franklin supposed this was the time to start feeling relieved; they were out of danger after all and, apart from a wounded seaman, had not suffered serious damage. But somehow the expected euphoria that so often followed an action was missing. He still felt incredibly at peace, and knew he had experienced something which would stay with him for ever, but equally sensed all was not yet over. It was as if there was more to be done, and he would be needed to do it
* * *
Hunt was in total agreement
, although for different reasons. The mad dash for the stern of the xebec had been stimulating enough; coming in with Franklin's boat to larboard effectively divided the fire from the enemy's stern, and he secretly hoped their cannon was responsible for the decisive damage to the pirate's rudder. If that shot had not told, he would probably have remained in position and under fire while the weapon was reloaded, and checking the work caused him to be late in pulling away. But Franklin had provided the perfect support. If he were honest, Hunt originally nurtured doubts about the older officer – any man who spent so long a midshipman was bound to attract uncertainty, but his concerns had been misplaced: Franklin was turning out as sound a colleague under fire as he could have wished for.
Which was partly why he decided to turn back and enter the fray yet again. The xebec was damaged for sure, and it was probably only a question of time before Prometheus came in to settle matters finally. But the memory of that devastating broadside raining down upon his first command still haunted him. The action had robbed Hunt of a good friend as well as taking several other valuable lives, before signalling the start of a nightmare journey back to Gibraltar that remained with him still. To have fired so was quite unnecessary; with an American frigate on the horizon, the pirates should have been putting all their energy into escape. Pausing, even for a moment, for such wanton destruction was a sign of a spiteful, evil mind, and Hunt was determined whoever had been responsible was taught a lesson.
“Take her about, we're going back,” he said firmly, and Briars, the midshipman at the helm, looked up in doubt. “I'll not be happy until the old girl is properly in range,” Hunt explained, glancing back at the battleship. “We will close again and see if a few more shots might not settle their hash before she is.”
His announcement was greeted in differing ways by the cutter's crew; a few seemed reluctant to return, but these were soon shouted down by the consensus, who wanted nothing more than another crack at the heathens. Hunt set his jaw and ignored them all as the cutter tacked round to starboard. With luck, Franklin would follow; if he turned also, the pair might make their second attack from either side of the enemy as before. Both would keep well away from the xebec's broadside guns, of course, but should cause further damage to the vulnerable stern.