by Alaric Bond
“Hot work, sir!”
Captain Westwood was beaming at him from the starboard bulwark: the man’s face glowed almost as red as his tunic. He mopped at his brow while a private fed fresh shot into the loading chamber of his rifle and Adshead began to regroup the men on the opposite side.
“You have been busy, Captain?” Banks asked as the marine followed his men across the deck.
“Aye, sir,” he said, regarding the rifle with obvious affection. “The piece is truly a marvel. I reckon to have bagged three Frenchman already, and those from quite a distance.”
It must have been seeing young Parfrey wounded, that or lowering his defences enough to allow Sarah to get close, but Banks felt a sudden surge of revulsion well up inside and was quite unable to reply. He wondered for a moment; they were both fighting officers after all, and the fact that Westwood was taking pleasure in his work should not count against him: such dedication might even be applauded. And Banks had both ridden to hounds and shot for game; was there anything so different in the satisfaction the marine was currently exhibiting to that felt at the end of a successful day in the field? Banks supposed not, but even as he gave a curt acknowledgement he could not ignore the chill that stayed long after he had moved on. Then it came to him: Westwood was taking all this far too personally; he should be attending to the direction of his entire force, not allowing himself to become entrapped with the detail of one single weapon. He watched as Westwood eagerly collected the rifle and stood waiting for further sport. He was an officer yet seemed content to behave like a private, and it was that, Banks finally decided, as much as any enthusiasm for the task, which particularly grated. The revelation came as something of a relief and he tried to empty his mind of all further distracting thoughts.
The next French frigate was a large one, probably bigger than Scylla, and liable to be carrying more guns. They would meet almost head on; he had to plan some way of gaining the upper hand, and random musings on the function of officers and men would not help.
“We’re missing a prime target there, sir.”
And now it was Caulfield’s turn to interrupt him. Exasperated, Banks swung round to see his first lieutenant pointing at the bow of the nearest Frenchman. But he could not deny, it was a tempting mark, and any gunner could hardly be blamed for sending his shot into that frail and beckoning prow. A solid broadside from Scylla would settle her for good whether she chose to strike or not. It would be a satisfying blow and Bank’s fame was certain to rise one notch higher in consequence.
But then he must not fall into the same trap as Westwood. The men beneath him were there to fight, it was his responsibility to organise their efforts without regard to personal satisfaction. Besides, there would be little gained if he took out the nearest frigate, only to be beaten to a wreck by the fresh ship that was steadily growing closer.
He forced himself to speak lightly, knowing that any other reaction might be misinterpreted “Aye, Michael, she is a tempting prize, but first we must account for her sister.” He indicated the third frigate.
“Of course, sir.” Caulfield agreed readily enough, even if there remained a taint of longing in his eye as his attention strayed back to the nearer target.
But Banks could not afford such a luxury; he must set his mind to the job in hand. The next ship was indeed large, and she would also be prepared for them. Scylla had already sustained a fair amount of damage from the first two, and it was likely that this one would deliver a good deal more, and may even account for her completely. But he had been ordered to stop the line, and his task was not yet done.
Beyond the approaching frigate there were more Frenchmen, although they appeared to be turning. And beyond them he could see the enemy flag, surrounded by several British ships, while Foudroyant and Canada were creeping steadily closer to leeward. He told himself he had this one further ship to disable. Wound it sufficiently, and he could make for the safety of other friendly vessels, or steer away from the fight completely and nurse his wounds; Scylla would have done more than her share that day. He might not be credited with taking a prize himself, but could feel content that they had played a pivotal part in the action. And if he failed to become a hero in the eyes of the mob, there were naval officers a plenty who would recognise the part that he had played.
They were about to pass the disabled Frenchman now, but Banks was concentrating solely on the oncoming frigate. He ordered Scylla two points to starboard. Ideally he should clear her by a cable to give his gunners a reasonable chance while not letting the enemy send her boarders across. He was considering this when he noticed the oncoming ship had also altered course a fraction. It was possible they intended to allow their wounded comrade a wide berth; maybe the smoke had spooked them, and they were fearing fire or even an explosion. But that faint change in direction was all that Banks needed to envisage a further opportunity.
He looked at the stricken ship again as his thoughts, now free of all distractions, ran on unbidden. King had been firm; no shots had landed on the vulnerable prow, although Westwood’s marines were regrouped on the larboard side and sniping at the men on her forecastle. But the very fact that Scylla had ignored the chance to fire her larboard broadside had indicated his intentions plainly enough. And now, now that he had seen another way, he would benefit from his caution in quite an unexpected manner. He turned to the sailing master, who had been standing by as a mute witness throughout the action.
“Mr Fraiser, would you say it were possible to lay us alongside the approaching enemy to windward?” His voice was soft and purposefully restrained.
“To windward, sir?” The older man eyed him cautiously. “Why, that should be relatively easy.”
Banks hesitated for a moment; the sailing master’s pacifist views were well known, yet what he was to ask must place them in an invidious position. “Indeed, but I wish them to think otherwise; they are to believe we intend to engage to their lee, with our larboard battery.”
So, Scylla was not heading for a long range duel but would be taken into the very teeth of the action once more. Massive damage might be expected from the Frenchman’s guns, and equally terrible destruction doled out in return. Banks hoped that Fraiser would be dispassionate enough to disregard this, and simply answer his question.
“You are thinking to make a hasty turn and engage their windward side?” Fraiser confirmed, but even as he spoke he seemed to understand the possibilities. “We may well have the speed, that is, if the ship were capable of such a manoeuvre…”
Banks waited while the older man considered the breeze and what was left of their sails.
“Yes, sir,” Fraiser said finally, his voice soft and level. “I think I can do that, but it will be a close thing, and we shall need to act swiftly.”
There was no arguing with that; in fact they should really be altering course now. But for the plan to succeed he must also leave it until the very last moment. It would have to be fast enough to take the enemy off guard, when most of their gun crews were manning their larboard battery. Snipers and boarders would not be so easy to catch unaware, but if he timed it right Scylla could deliver a crushing blow that would probably knock at least half the fight from the Frenchman. Even if no major spars were affected, she would be badly shaken and must, at the very least, be slowed sufficiently to fall victim to one of the approaching British ships.
But if he failed, if he left the moment just a little too late, if some fluke of wind meant they were unable to pass to windward, and must choose between falling to leeward under the guns that would be primed and ready, or ploughing head first into the enemy ship itself, then it would be a disaster. His men would be taken aback, there would be confusion and probably panic. And when the French released their own, heavier, broadside at a far closer range than he had anticipated, all the terror and devastation planned for them would be delivered straight onto his own dear ship.
Banks’s eyes remained on Fraiser; there was much wisdom stored in that grey haired head, an
d although he knew the man could not approve of his actions he had to ask. “Do you think it will work, Adam?”
The sailing master gauged the wind once more, and looked back at his captain. “I’d say it has a fair chance, sir,” he said evenly, understanding far more than Banks would ever know. “And I certainly think you would be right to try.”
Chapter Fifteen
“What the hell do you think you are doing, girl?”
Sarah glanced up to see the greatcoated figure of her father standing over her. He looked angry, extremely angry, although that faint trace of fear that she had come to recognise so well of late was also present.
“I am taking care of this gentleman,” she said, brushing the hair from the face of the young topman who had broken his right arm and was waiting patiently for it to be set.
“Well, you can leave him be and tend to your mother. She is worried sick, and will not take kindly knowing you are mixing with such rabble.”
He moved off, clearly expecting her to rise and follow, but the seaman was in pain, and Sarah had no intention of going anywhere.
“Are you to come, or must I have you taken?” he asked, when her intentions became clear.
“I am staying, papa,” she replied softly. “There are those here who need help, and I will not leave them.”
“So be it, Missy; then you allow me no choice.” The man was clearly exasperated, and began looking about for a likely servant.
“I would let her be,” Betsy Clarkson spoke from across the deck. “Your daughter is doing good work, and should not be interrupted.”
“And there are some who would stop it, should you try and take her.” Mrs Porter’s voice rang out with natural authority. She had already formed an opinion of Sarah’s father and been keeping an eye on matters from her place next to the drugs cabinet. Monroe looked from one to the other, and was not oblivious to the gaze of the wounded men who lay about him. They might be his social inferiors, but there was no doubting the intent in their stares, nor the sullen silence that had suddenly descended upon the cockpit.
“You shall hear further of this,” he said, mustering all his well practised self-regard.
A whistle came from somewhere far off, and was quickly joined by a series of jeers and hoots. Standing alone, puffed up and pompous, amid the clamour of wounded, belligerent men, he cut quite a comical figure. Her father might be a magistrate and accustomed to having his way, but there was little he could do in the face of such opposition, and Sarah almost felt sorry for him as he gave one final menacing glower before stomping angrily out of the cockpit.
* * *
Crowley had drifted away for no more than a few seconds, but his mates shouted at his lack of attention and he quickly hurried back to work with the rammer. He had seen enough, though. The three frigates ahead of Hoche were wearing out of line and would be coming to their aid. Positioned as they were, they should meet the British head on and were bound to cause damage and confusion. If the French captain grabbed the opportunity and set what sail they could manage, there might still be an end to this mess. The fresh ships could deal with both the liner and the frigate: Hoche had done enough. He pressed the rammer into the warm barrel and felt the round shot bed in against the charge. The procedure had become so automatic that he could do it blind; just as well: acrid smoke had found its way into his mouth, nose and eyes, yet he barely squinted as he worked. But the memory of the frigates stayed with him. He glanced across at Tone as the man tapped yet another charge into the touch hole. If there was only a chance to pause, a moment or two to gather breath, he might be able to speak with him. He, of all present, would see the need to move on. Hoche had already taken severe punishment; her canvas was all but shredded and Crowley did not like to think of the damage the British had inflicted upon her hull. Unless she extricated herself soon, she would become totally unmanageable and must inevitably be surrendered. He noted by a second crafty glance that the French frigates were almost in position now; it was time for Hoche to benefit from the reprieve. That or wait and be taken.
“We have support from for’ard!” he chanced as MacArthur and Doyle brought the cannon back to the firing position. Tone looked up, but did not appear to understand Crowley’s words.
“Loire, Immortalité and Bellone,” he screamed in desperation. “They’re coming back for us, and will be raking the British afore long.”
Tone considered this for a moment, then took a step forward through the smoke, while Doyle collected a charge and waited for Crowley to finish sponging out the barrel. He was having a good look, and failed to return to the piece even when the ball was in place. Doyle swore, and snatched the priming horn from Tone’s hands, but still he remained watching the course of the battle. Crowley felt a wave of hope break over him. For all of his fanatical ideals the man was no fool; he must understand the situation they were in, and he was bound to speak with the commodore. Doyle discharged the cannon and almost simultaneously a British shot hit the Hoche. A server from the next gun screamed out and fell to the deck, his hands clutching at his torn face. This business was far too warm to last very much longer; they must be moving and without delay. As it was, that single frigate that had thrown herself at the French van would have to be passed, and already the two bigger ships, approaching on their larboard bow, were growing dangerously close.
“Michael, will you look to your work, there?”
He jumped at MacArthur’s rebuke, but still Tone was absent, and Crowley was becoming more and more convinced that sense would prevail. Yes, he was returning now, and even made eye contact as he approached the cannon.
“Aye, it’s a mess and there’s no mistaking.” Crowley waited as he collected the priming horn back from Doyle, but there was no more.
“We can move on,” Crowley insisted, when he realised Tone had no intention of doing anything other than continue to fire the cannon. “The three frigates are fresh and will silence these two,” he waved his hand dismissively at the British ships that were competing to stay alongside Hoche. “We can be away from here, maybe even get as far as landing some troops.” It was an indication of Crowley’s state of mind that he actually tried to appeal. Tone sensed this, and stopped in the act of filling the touch hole.
“Now why would you be wanting to do that, Michael?” he asked. “You who have never shown any inclination to free your country, yet now speak like the hardest of all revolutionaries.” Doyle and MacArthur were also watching him, and Crowley felt himself wither slightly under their combined gaze. “Is it possible you would rather be out of here? That you were never really so committed in the first place? Or would you prefer be across the water,” he looked in the direction of the British seventy-four. “Fighting your friend’s battles once more, even if it goes against your own kind and the country of your birth?”
A shot landed against the frame timber almost next to them, creating a ball of dust and splinters that showered down about the carronade’s crew.
“There isn’t the time for this,” MacArthur said sullenly as he brushed the debris from his shirt.
“Aye, and there’s a true word,” Tone agreed, his eyes still fixed firmly on Crowley. “There isn’t the time, and the chance is now there never will be.”
* * *
Further to the west, the two frigates were closing on opposing tacks. Scylla had sustained a fair amount of damage; all of fifteen minutes back the carpenter had reported three feet in the well. Numerous shrouds and stays hung loose, and the larboard mainchains were weakened. But she was still sailing tight enough for now, Banks reassured himself; and as the enemy grew closer, and the enormity of what he proposed became clear, his confidence actually increased. He had already taken Scylla further to starboard to signal his apparent intention and gain a little more sea room. Now he guessed there was a minute and a half, maybe two, before he need act again; scant time, but just about enough for what he had in mind.
He stepped forward to the break of the quarterdeck and called for attention
. Below him, in the waist, he could see King and young Rose waiting on his word. Something of what he had planned had probably been communicated to the two, and Banks felt King might guess the rest. Likewise with Chilton over on the forecastle. But it was still a good idea for him to speak; that way no one could be in any doubt both of his intentions, and the whole ridiculous caper was completely his responsibility.
“We shall be passing the yonder enemy frigate,” he said, his voice firm and rising powerfully over the distant sound of battle. “They will expect us to do so to leeward, but I intend to claim the windward gauge.” There was a brief muttering from the nearest gun crew, and the marines began to lower their muskets in preparation for moving to the opposite side of the deck. “Should we be successful it will be close, almost touching distance in fact. I do not intend to come alongside, however, as they are liable to be better manned than us.” That was an important consideration, and he looked to the tops where there were men ready with grappling hooks, and received a wave of acknowledgement from one of the midshipmen.