by Alaric Bond
Their breeze was if anything strengthening, and it seemed like no time before Hunt was able to order the cutter on to the opposite tack, and they were heading in once more. Franklin, well over to starboard, had indeed followed and was also going in for the kill. His boat was slightly behind, but the two should still divide the enemy's fire when it mattered most.
“I think I can reach her now, sir,” Cranston shouted from the bows. He was manning the carronade, and had already proved himself more than capable. Hunt could see no reason to delay; there would be time enough to reload, before they came into close range, so he gave a nod, and the small boat immediately shook to the recoil of her cannon.
A small fountain slightly to starboard of the enemy showed how the shot had gone wild, but Cranston, and the youngster who assisted him, threw themselves into reloading the piece without a pause. Franklin's boat fired just as Cranston's hand was raised once more. This time there was no sign of the shot, and Hunt was about to put it down as a miss, when a voice came from forward.
“Another hit!” It was Briars; the youngster was standing and peering forward with one hand on the foremast. Hunt ordered him down, but was pleased enough at the news. And all the time the pirate's stern, an especially vulnerable area where even a six pound ball would do damage, was drawing closer.
“If we keep to this distance we can continue to fire on her.” Briars again, and Hunt felt instantly guilty that the thought had not occurred to him. With the rudder taken and the ship already holed, they might certainly hold back; taking the occasional pot shot whilst staying out of range of the enemy's muskets and broadside guns. With Prometheus creeping steadily nearer: there was really no need to draw in close. Even if he and Franklin caused the xebec no further damage, the pirate would be under the battleship's guns within the hour – possibly less.
Cranston's hand was up once more, but only for a second; the gun discharged almost immediately and its shot, though out of Hunt's line of sight, must have been on target as a rumble of approval rose up from the others in the boat.
He decided that was good, and they had probably done enough. It might not have been the devastation he so wanted to bring down upon the pirates, but the cutter's actions had undoubtedly brought her to book. There was no time to think further, however; the men about him were shouting again, although this time their tone was far less positive. He glanced up, and saw with a feeling of cold dread that matters were not quite as settled as he had thought.
The xebec was manoeuvring on her oars: soon her mighty broadside would be aiming directly at one of the annoying little boats that had caused her downfall. Both could run, indeed they would have to, but in doing so either he, or Franklin, must expect to suffer a broadside from the pirate's heavy guns. But as he watched he also realised the enemy was actually turning to starboard, so at least his cutter was not to be the target.
* * *
“Enemy's turning,” Caulfield reported, dispassionately.
Prometheus, still bearing down on the chase, was making considerable progress since the cutters had holed and disabled her. Indeed, she was probably in range: Banks had wanted to open fire some minutes ago, and was quietly cursing both small boats and the enthusiasm of their commanders for effectively blocking his broadside. But they had undoubtedly caused additional damage: the xebec was slowing further and her capture now seemed academic. Even an impious heathen must accept that further resistance would be of no benefit.
But Banks had not counted on what he could only define as vengeful tactics. One single, solid broadside from the xebec could not fail to sink a twenty-five foot cutter, as well as accounting for a good number of her crew. They may even have time to take both, which would be a wanton waste of life, as well as making a sizeable dent in Prometheus' complement.
“With luck we may reach her,” Banks replied. “If only those damned cutters would stand off. Ready larboard battery!”
His ship was on the starboard tack, and the enemy was indeed almost certain to be in range. Between the two, Franklin's boat was sailing for all she was worth, both to clear the area, and gain refuge from the battleship's presence. In three, maybe four minutes, they would be beyond even the wildest shot from the British ship although, while Prometheus was at the ultimate reach of her long guns, their safety could not be guaranteed.
He looked down to Lieutenant Corbett, who had command of the upper deck, and noted he and his midshipmen were checking to see every gun was at maximum elevation. But they might take all the precautions they wished, that morning had already demonstrated the inconsistencies of naval cannon.
“The pirate may fire on Franklin's boat at any moment,” the first lieutenant hinted softly. And Caulfield was right, Banks decided; a stray shot from Prometheus may well hit the British craft, but the xebec would be actively targeting her entire broadside on her, and was far nearer to Franklin and his men.
“Very well: open fire,” the captain ordered.
There was a number of shouts, followed by the shrill scream of a whistle, then the liner began to judder to the first of a series of individual explosions that cut through the soft morning air. Thick smoke rolled forward on the wind, obscuring both pirate and cutter to all on the quarterdeck. Caulfield ran to the leeward rail and looked out, his hand waving in front of his face in a ludicrous attempt to clear the ever rising cloud, but for several seconds all aboard the British ship remained in ignorance. Then there came a cheer from the main masthead where the lookout was free of fog.
“Straddled the bastard!” he said with gloating satisfaction. “Taken down 'er main, an' caught the mizzen a proper nasty.”
Those at the upper gun deck cannon began to shriek and slap each other in celebration, while the carronade crews on the quarterdeck remained cold-eyed and aloof; the shorter barrels on their pieces could not match long guns for range, and had not been used in the barrage. Caulfield looked back at Banks and grinned, but there was more to add.
“Wait, the enemy's still firing,” the lookout reported to a ship that had suddenly grown silent. “Yep, a whole bloody broadside, an' aimed at our cutter – you got to hand it to the buggers: they're a game bunch...”
* * *
But there was no room for praise on Flint's mind. They had already endured being beneath one of Prometheus' broadsides, feeling the wind of the barrage as it passed overhead, and even mildly dampened by a stray round that fell dangerously close to their starboard beam. It was the second time Flint had been under fire from his own ship, and he would be content for it to be the last. The fact that most of her fire had gone on to strike the pirate's xebec was consolation, he supposed, but that morning's exertions were definitely catching up on him. He was incredibly tired, and the constant blubbing of Peterson, the Swede who had been wounded earlier, was beginning to annoy in a way he would never have predicted.
The cutter was on a wind and sailing fast however and, if they kept their speed, all should be back aboard Prometheus for midday grog. The barky was cleared for action, and it would take a while to restore the bulkheads and put all to rights, but his condition was coming to be accepted, and he could probably avoid much of the heavy work. With luck he might even swing a rest in a quiet spot, and the captain had been known to order extra spirits to celebrate success.
His mind was pondering on such inconsequential thoughts when the shout came from young Mr Carley. All hands in the cutter instinctively turned towards the enemy, and most saw the last of a ragged broadside that had apparently been pitched in their direction.
“Now we's for it.”
Rogers' comment was the only sound heard during the time it took for the shots to reach them, and seemed to sum up their position perfectly. With a mighty splash, the first landed about fifteen feet from the cutter's prow and in no time several more had fallen in the general area. For upwards of five seconds the boat appeared blessed, with fountains erupting to every side as it dipped and bobbed in apparent safety. Then one hit them: squarely and amidships, and all thou
ghts of noontime grog were forgotten as the next nightmare began.
Chapter Sixteen
The shot struck Carley a glancing blow, wounding him severely, before going on to settle Peterson's moaning for good, and finally crashing through the larboard side of the hull. The small but heavily laden craft instantly began to crumble; water rushed in and the entire boat was soon swamped. Then, almost as quickly, the cutter had disappeared, heading bow first for the bottom of the Mediterranean.
And there was barely any wreckage; little to hold on to at all apart from oars, a half filled water cask and far too many struggling bodies. Some grabbed at each other for support, only to find that two non swimmers were no more buoyant than one. Others made for the oars, the lengths of pine might have kept one man afloat adequately enough, but with up to four claiming each, and all fighting for their place while trying to knock the rest away, they proved less than adequate. Men began to shout, then scream; a few who were able to swim instinctively headed away from their companions while the rest battled against the foaming water. Some were kept afloat through a mixture of energy and desperation: others gave up the fight and slipped beneath the waves in a brief flurry of froth and fear.
Franklin was one of the swimmers. He had learned during the long, hot summers of his childhood when the local mill pond was a focal point for all the village children. That time had ended more than twenty years ago, but still he was able to keep his head above the thrashing waves while doing his best to rally those he commanded.
He called for order, berated the greedy who were unwilling to share their supports and encouraged those who could keep afloat to assist. But he had little joy with the non swimmers; what had been practical and level headed beings seconds before, now seemed far too intent on flailing about like lunatics. Those more comfortable in the water found reasoned speech and sensible instructions were ignored in their companions' apparently pathological desire to drown, and anyone foolish enough to offer physical assistance did so at the risk of sharing their fate. Franklin seized one man, Rogers, the ox who had been with Flint at the carronade, only to be rewarded by the swipe of a ham-like arm across his face, and he could hear the curses and cries from others who were returning to save their fellows, and being dealt with in a similar manner.
But in time order became established; those determined to drown having met their fate while the less excitable had either found a swimmer to cling to or discovered that, if filled with air and treated sensibly, a human body will float and life could continue. Franklin had shed his tunic and was beginning to make his way round the small number of living bodies that represented the remains of his cutter's crew, when he came across Carley, whose head was being held clear by Flint.
“Prometheus will reach us shortly,” he told the lad confidently, although they were low in the water and nothing could be seen of any vessel. “That or Mr Hunt's cutter.” But Carley's eyes were vacant while the sea around him appeared worryingly dark and Franklin did not know if his words even registered.
“The boy's wounded,” Flint told him briefly. “The shot that took us caught 'is arm.”
Franklin considered the two. Carley's skin was certainly a deathly pale, although Flint was not looking exactly healthy either. But the lad seemed safe enough in the seaman's grip and he felt he might move on.
The sun was warm, despite the time of year, while the sea itself felt to be roughly the temperature of fresh milk. But Franklin knew both might be an illusion; one of many that came with shock. He was also aware that, if they were to keep the remaining non swimmers afloat, it would be better to bring the survivors together.
“Close on me!” he shouted, then repeated the order in a slightly louder voice. At first no one moved, then he noticed Flint, still clutching at his young charge, begin to paddle backwards in his direction. Soon there were five, all desperately holding on to each other and the three oars Franklin had assembled. Flint began shouting for more to follow until all the survivors were grouped about six of the cutter's oars.
“I sees the barky!” someone shouted, although Franklin was not sure who, or where the supposed help might be. But their low vantage point meant Prometheus could creep up on them and shortly the battleship did come into general view, her masts towering high above and a line of cheering bodies gathered about her forecastle. And it was only a few minutes later that those wonderfully familiar faces were close by. Men who were strong, dry and gloriously real; who greeted them coarsely, but extended boat hooks and hands from the liner's fore chains, and brought a welcome feeling of solidity to a world that had become all too ephemeral.
* * *
“Steady Mr Franklin,” the quartermaster warned as he scrambled over Prometheus' top rail. “We got plenty more to fish out yet, and them heathens ain't going nowhere.”
Franklin supposed Maxwell was right. His trousers and shirt were sodden and a shoe was missing but, now that he stood on the forecastle, he felt a different man from the one who had been foundering in the water barely seconds before. The xebec was in sight off the larboard bow, although her rig was dramatically altered, and apparently useless. She had oars set, but was doing little to manoeuvre, while Hunt, in the black cutter, was keeping his distance off her stern. From the amount of smoke that was being carried away by the wind, the boat must have just despatched a shot in her direction, and there were small pin-pricks of light that showed where the pirates were replying with spasmodic musket fire.
“Did you lose many men?” Caulfield's voice brought him back to reality; Franklin turned to see the first lieutenant standing beside him.
“A good few, sir,” he replied. “I could not be certain.”
“No, of course not,” came the unexpected reply, and Franklin thought he could detect a trace of sympathy in a man he had always considered incapable of such emotion.
“Young Carley's wounded,” he added.
“He has already been sent down to the surgeon,” Caulfield confirmed. “As you should also, along with every man from the cutter.”
Franklin found himself agreeing, although felt no wish to go below until all were brought up from the water. Flint was also standing by, and giving the occasional hand or word of encouragement to those still being dragged aboard. And then all that had survived were safe, the backed mizzen top could be reset, and Prometheus took to the wind once more.
“The sick berth, if you please, Mr Franklin,” Caulfield reminded him in a voice more attuned to that of an executive officer. “You are clearly cold and may require medical attention.”
Franklin followed Caulfield's gaze and was surprised to notice both his hands were indeed shaking. He flexed his fingers which moved only stiffly and were quite without feeling or colour, before obediently making for the companionway.
* * *
By the time Prometheus closed, Hunt had despatched a number of six-pound shots into the xebec, and much of the fight should surely have been knocked from her. But even though the liner now loomed above, her guns run out and promising an instant paradise to any believer who opposed, there were still those aboard who wanted to continue the action. Several musket balls were sent whipping through the British ship's rigging, while a group of robed men could be seen attempting to train one of their broadside cannon on the infidel's beast. At a curt instruction from Marine Captain Reynolds, Sergeant Jarvis ordered six of his men to account for them with more considered shooting from the quarterdeck. Then Prometheus was lying off the corsair's stern, and even the most fanatical mind must accept that further resistance would be foolish.
“It is curious,” Corbett commented briefly, watching from his position on the upper deck. “The pirates still have oars, yet make no move to escape, neither do they try to avoid being raked.”
“If the captain fires now, she'll be sunk for sure,” Adams, who was second in command of the gun deck, agreed.
“And for an enemy who tried so hard not to be caught...” the lieutenant began, although felt no inclination to finish his sente
nce.
“Mr Hunt is going in,” the midshipman pointed down to the black cutter. The boat was indeed closing and all aboard the British ship watched as she rubbed briefly against the enemy's hull, then emptied her crew into the pirate vessel.
The boarding party swarmed up and over the side, landing on the enemy's deck patently eager for combat. But they met little resistance – two shots rang out, and a bearded figure, clad in gown and turban, swung a silver blade menacingly at them, and there were cries of delight from the battleship when he was taken down by Kennet, a regular Jack, armed with a far more mundane cutlass. Then there was Hunt himself at the enemy's ornate, but battered, taffrail. Corbett swallowed dryly as his appearance was greeted with further applause from the liner, and the sound grew further when the young officer gave a casual wave of his hand, signalling the vessel's capture.
“Well that appears to be that,” Corbett muttered softly as he watched the junior man acknowledge the cheers and approval. His guns had undoubtedly been used in anger, but this had not been the close action Corbett craved. Franklin and Hunt might have benefitted from it, but few others, while lives had been lost from amongst the crew, which would make everyone's work that little bit harder. He supposed some good had been done by ridding the Mediterranean of a pirate, but to his mind it had not been a satisfactory morning's work, and he hoped for better in the future.
* * *
“Drink this,” Mrs Manning ordered, passing him a pewter mug, and Franklin was so taken aback by the woman's curt command that he obeyed without question. The fluid was hot, and doubly welcome, as it contained some unknown spirit that seemed to awaken his inner being, just as much as it warmed the body. The improvised sick bay on the orlop deck was almost empty, a reassuring sight to any used to seeing it heaving with wounded in the midst of an action. The rest of the cutter's crew were being cared for further aft, where Prior and a couple of loblolly boys were handing out measures of grog and dressing minor wounds. Only Franklin was allowed forward, the area where Manning rigged his operating tables, one of which now held the body of young Carley.