Farther aft, in the cramped gloom of the cockpit, preparations of a different kind were underway. Richard Corbett, his coat laid to one side and his shirt sleeves rolled up, was having his leather apron tied around his waist. The front of the garment was black and stiff from previous patients, and brown flakes showered down as the material flexed around him. Another of his assistants was lashing a canvas cover over an operating table fashioned from sea chests, while off to one side, a third man laid out a long line of saws, knives and probes.
Two levels above their heads, the first sound of gun trucks could be heard, rumbling across the planking of the main deck as the crews tested that their weapons were running freely. After the cathedral quiet of the hold, the noise here was deafening. Orders were barked over the sound of busy hammering from the carpenter and his mates. They were dismantling the last of Clay’s quarters, the bulkheads and furniture quickly vanishing towards the hold, to leave the entire sweep of the main deck free and unencumbered. Each of the big eighteen-pounders that lined the sides was surrounded by its crew. Some were rigging gun tackles, others were testing their equipment or stripping off their shirts and rolling their neckcloths into bandanas to protect their ears. O’Malley, who was captain of one of the cannons, pressed a leather bucket against the chest of the nearest member of his crew.
‘Larcum, go an’ fill that fecker, will yous,’ he ordered.
‘Right you be,’ said Mudge, heading off to join the queue that had formed by the pump.
‘She be rigged,’ announced Trevan, standing up from beside the carriage. The Irishman looked over the gun, checking all was as it should be. The flint in the lock was sparking brightly, Evans had the flexible rammer cradled against his chest and the rest of the crew were lined up along the tackles. He next tested the deck, scuffing the soles of his feet on it to see if enough sand had been scattered to give the men grip, then he looked around him for the ship’s boy allocated to the gun. The lad was standing off to one side, his leather charge case draped over one shoulder, giggling nervously with the boy from the gun next in line.
‘Mind what you’re about, Charlie, and leave your fecking mate be,’ he growled.
The other lad went back to his post, while Charlie adopted a more sober attitude.
Mudge returned with a brimming bucket of water, and paused in front of the boy. ‘Someone be a knocking at your door, nipper,’ he said, his face solemn.
Charlie grinned in response, recognising the start of the formula. ‘Who be that a knocking at my door?’ he asked.
‘It be John,’ replied the sailor.
‘John who?’
Quick as a flash, Mudge dipped his hand into the bucket and splashed water in the boy’s face. ‘Why, John the Baptist, of course!’
The powder monkey squealed with delight, while the listening crew all chuckled appreciatively.
‘John the bleeding Baptist!’ repeated Evans. ‘Ha ha, I like that.’
‘Ain’t you got your piece sorted yet, O’Malley?’ demanded the petty officer in charge of the gun section.
‘Aye, Shango be ready, Mr Fletcher,’ said the Irishman, ignoring the gun’s official number in favour of the name painted across the barrel by her proud crew.
‘The Brimstone Belcher be ready an’ all, Mr Fetcher,’ added the crew of the eighteen-pounder next in line.
Slowly calm spread across the frigate, as each preparation was completed and each man reached his station. Clay, now in his glittering full dress uniform, leant on the rail and looked down on the crowded main deck. He was quietly satisfied with what he saw. Months of drill and the action against the Peregrine had served to blend the new recruits with the old hands, until he struggled to notice the difference. Just below him a hefty young man with wild, straw-coloured hair swayed easily with the motion of the ship. Only his lack of a pigtail or any tattoos marked him as one of the volunteers brought in by one of the posters. Then Clay looked beyond the Griffin’s long bowsprit at the French ship ahead, growing all the time as they steadily overhauled her. He felt his mouth grow dry. I shall need all of the crew’s spirit and training to get through today, he decided.
‘The ship is cleared for action, sir,’ reported Taylor from beside him. Clay turned from the rail, as if noticing the transformation for the first time. Above his head there were splashes of scarlet among the bulging slabs of white, where marine sharpshooters were positioned aloft. The quarterdeck around him had suddenly filled. All the carronades had been manned, extra quartermasters stood by the wheel, and additional midshipmen waited by the binnacle, ready to carry any messages. Preston stood close by, a telescope grasped under his right arm, and had been joined by Armstrong, while a little farther back Macpherson stood beside his reserve of marines.
‘Thank you, Mr Taylor,’ he said. ‘Would you ask Mr Blake and Mr Preston to join us, if you please.’
‘Aye aye, sir,’ said the older man, touching his hat.
Blake was the last to arrive, running up the companion ladder from his precious guns on the main deck.
Clay looked at his three lieutenants, noticing the sparkle of excitement in the two younger men’s eyes and the look of concern on the face of the more cautious Taylor. ‘Here is a pretty situation, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘A deuced powerful Frenchman loose in the Caribbean, and the Jamaica convoy due in a week or so. Once the Stirling and Daring join us, I daresay we may have the beating of her, but the enemy don’t seem inclined to allow that to happen. So how should we proceed?’
‘We need to damage her aloft, to allow the admiral to join us, sir,’ said Preston. ‘That at least is clear.’
‘That will not be so easy to achieve,’ said the veteran first lieutenant. ‘She can serve out some fearsome punishment with those broadsides of hers.’
‘Weight of fire is her advantage, I grant you,’ agreed Clay. ‘What do we have in our favour?’
‘Superior speed for certain, sir,’ said Blake. ‘And better manoeuvrability to boot.’
‘And I will wager my commission we have the best drilled crew,’ added Preston.
‘Exactly so,’ agreed Clay. ‘We shall need to be like a terrier, annoying a bull. So long as we stay astern of her, snapping at her tail, we will do very well. I daresay she has a pair of twelve-pounders set close to the water, either side of her rudder, but nothing more than that can bear on us.’
‘So, what are your orders, sir?’ asked Taylor.
‘Mr Preston, I want you to place yourself on the forecastle, with a good sight of the Centaure, but where you can be seen by both myself here, and Mr Blake down on the main deck. Use our long nines to pepper her as we close the range. If she continues to run, we shall luff up periodically and give her a broadside, and then resume our place astern of her once more.’
‘Firing high, I take it, sir,’ said Blake. ‘To damage her rigging?’
‘If you please,’ confirmed his captain.
‘And what if the bull turns around to gore at us, sir?’ asked the first lieutenant.
‘That is why Mr Preston needs to place himself with such care,’ said Clay. ‘Watch her rudder as if your life depends upon it, as it may indeed. The moment you see it move, signal to us with your hat the direction in which she is turning. We will immediately swing the opposite way, to keep astern of her, and you will have the opportunity to rake her once more, Mr Blake.’
‘Aye, that I shall, sir,’ chuckled the lieutenant.
‘Until Mr Preston gives us his signal, you will have no notion as to which broadside will be required to fire,’ cautioned his captain. ‘Shall you be able to manage with so little notice?’
‘With your leave, I will have both sides loaded and run out, and allocate the men as required, sir,’ said Blake. ‘I daresay we shall manage well enough.’
‘I daresay that you will,’ smiled Clay, turning next to his first lieutenant. ‘Your part will be sail handling, Mr Taylor,’ said Clay. ‘Have the best topmen stationed aloft, and the sheets and braces manned. I shall req
uire you to make the old girl dance to a reel, if the situation requires it.’
‘Will it answer, I wonder, sir,’ mused Taylor.
‘Did you note how awkwardly the Centaure tacked about earlier?’ asked Clay. ‘So long as Mr Preston can warn us the moment she starts to turn, all will be fine.’
‘Aye aye, sir,’ said Taylor.
‘Are we all clear?’ asked Clay. ‘Mr Preston? Mr Blake? Good, then the best of luck to you all, and kindly take your places, if you please. We will be in range presently.’
*****
Clay had commanded men in action since his teens, and warships since his late twenties. All those years of experience had taught him the value of showing only supreme confidence in the face of danger, until he could play that part as well as any actor on a stage. When his officers left him, his face settled into a mask without him realising. Behind that outward calm, his true emotions churned and raced. The risks he was taking were appalling, he reflected, as his ship ploughed along in the wake of the Centaure. It was only a year since his last command, another frigate, had been beaten into a broken wreck by a much smaller ship of the line than this one. The slightest slip, or error of judgement, and the Griffin might suffer the same fate.
They were growing closer all the time. On the forecastle he could see Preston urging the crews of the two bow chasers to ready their guns, his one-armed gesticulations strange and jerky. Beyond him was the stern of the French ship, a slab of glittering glass windows framed by gilded figures. Carved mermen with coiling tails brandished tridents towards him from either quarter galley, while across the broad taffrail was a curved relief showing an array of muscular centaurs locked in battle. Above the stern her masts soared upwards, lofty as the spires of a cathedral.
Clay opened his telescope to examine her in more detail. Her name was easy to read, painted in block letters across her counter. Beneath that her rudder dipped into the foaming wake, with a square gun port to each side. They hadn’t been opened yet, but he could see the hull around them was wet with spray. Best of luck firing from so close to the surface, thought Clay. The gun crews would be doubled over beneath a low deck, with water splashing freely into their faces. The Griffin’s two long nines would have a distinct advantage over them, placed as they were out in the open, high up on the frigate’s bow.
Something moved in his peripheral vision, causing him to search upwards towards the stern rail. A cluster of French officers had gathered to look back at their pursuer. One was gesticulating busily, the braid on his uniform flashing in the sunlight as he pointed towards the frigate. Behind the group, more figures appeared, making their way aloft up the mizzen shrouds. They had muskets slung on their shoulders, and moved with a slowness that no sailor would display, while from both flanks of the Centaure a double line of cannon gradually appeared, pointing out to the sides.
‘They too are preparing for battle, I collect, sir,’ said a voice beside him.
‘They are indeed, Mr Armstrong,’ said Clay. ‘They also seem to have a deal more soldiers than we have to hand.’
‘Sure, but how many are marines, used to the sea, and how many are puking landsmen they have swept up in Guadeloupe, sir?’
Clay lowered his telescope to reply, but then became aware that a small figure was rushing along the portside gangway towards him. ‘Yes, Mr Todd?’
‘Mr Preston’s compliments, and he believes the enemy will presently be in range, sir,’ said the breathless youngster.
‘My thanks to him, if you please. Kindly tell him that he has my permission to open fire.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’
While the midshipman scampered back to the forecastle, the ship’s master handed over the brass speaking trumpet he had brought across from its place by the wheel. ‘You will have need of this, once matters become warm, sir,’ he said.
‘My thanks, Mr Armstrong,’ said his captain. ‘What do you think of our situation?’
‘Hazardous, in truth, sir,’ said the American, ‘but then I reckon such is the fate of a king’s officer in time of war. An’ I do approve of the fix in which we shall place the enemy. Does he continue to run, while we slowly batter him to pieces? Or will he twist and turn to come at us, which will serve to slow his progress and bring the admiral ever closer?’
‘You understand matters well,’ said Clay. He looked behind Armstrong, towards the horizon where the other two ships followed. They had grown more distant now, with only their uppermost sails visible. Then a double bang came from the bow, and two fountains of water rose up behind the French ship.
‘A little short,’ commented Armstrong, ‘but well enough directed. We shall find the range presently. Shall I have the time the engagement started noted in the log, sir?’
‘If you please, Mr Armstrong.’ Clay watched the crews on the bow as they raced through the process of reloading. Beneath him on the main deck, some of the men were pushing their heads through the open ports, eager to see what was going on.
‘Back to your places there!’ roared an indignant Blake. ‘Gawking like damned nuns in a bawdy house! You shall have sight of the enemy soon enough.’
Another double bang from the forecastle sent a dirty ball of brown smoke rolling away to windward. Clay forced himself to ignore the fall of shot, and instead watch Preston. He stood bare-headed in a pool of sunlight, his black bicorn held down by his side.
‘A miss off to larboard sir, but I didn’t mark the second ball,’ said Armstrong, who had his telescope to his eye. ‘Ah, I have it. A hit! We have stove in a window. That will teach the blackguards.’
Clay looked at the beautiful stern, and saw the shattered window, third from left in the lower run of glass. Then he noticed that the two stern ports had swung open.
‘We shall presently be under fire ourselves, Mr Armstrong,’ he said, pointing forwards.
The range had closed further the next time the bow chasers fired. One missed again, while the other sent splinters flying from low on the stern, leaving a white gash on the counter, like a big full stop between the ‘A’ and ‘U’ of the ship’s name. A dull roar followed; smoke gushed up from around the Centaure’s rudder, and a line of splashes appeared off to one side of the frigate’s bow. Then Preston spun around on the forecastle and waved his hat urgently, to his right.
Chapter 10 The Bull and the Terrier
‘Man the braces, Mr Taylor!’ roared Clay. ‘Headsails!’ Then he turned to the men at the wheel. ‘Two points to larboard, helmsman. Make haste, now!’
‘Two points, aye, sir,’ repeated the quartermaster, rolling the polished spokes through his hands.
‘Mr Blake, have the starboard guns made ready!’ Clay ordered, striding forward to the quarterdeck rail.
‘Aye aye, sir!’ came the reply.
Ahead of the frigate, the Centaure was beginning to turn up into the wind. He could see water boiling around her rudder as it came across, gripping the sea. High in her masts, her heavy black yards were creaking around against the blue sky. One long side of her hull, studded with big guns, began to appear from behind her elaborate stern.
‘Come on, turn,’ urged Clay, banging the rail beneath his fists. He could hear Taylor barking instructions from the windward gangway. Then beneath his feet he felt the angle of the deck change, and his ship began to swing the opposite way, moving back across the French ship’s stern.
‘Ready Starboards!’ yelled Blake beneath him. A line of clenched fists rose into the air as each gun captain showed his piece was ready.
The frigate was gathering pace on her new course, cutting across behind their enemy. Too fast, Clay suddenly realised. Their huge opponent was almost stationary, still ponderously turning, with canvas beating in the wind, while the Griffin sailed on. The frigate would soon shoot through the blind spot behind their opponent, and out into the killing zone of the guns on the Centaure’s far side.
‘Come up a point, helmsman!’ yelled Clay. ‘Mr Taylor, back the foretopsail! Now! Mr Blake, fire as she bears
!’
‘Aye aye, sir.’
This was the moment when all the crew’s long hours of sail training began to tell. Under the urgings of their petty officers, the lines of men heaved the big foretop yard around, the canvas sail cracking thunderously in protest as the wind spilt from it, until it was pressed back against the mast, and the frigate’s progress stuttered to a halt. Clay glanced across at the French ship. The Griffin was rocking in the gentle swell, lying across her opponent’s stern where all her guns could bear.
‘On the up roll, Starboards!’ ordered Blake. ‘Open fire!’
The broadside roared out, tipping the frigate away from her enemy with the force of the recoil, and engulfing them in a wall of smoke. Beneath Clay the line of big eighteen-pounders shot back inboard, almost perfectly together, and their crews flew through the process of reloading the guns. From the forehatch a pack of ship’s boys came running up the ladderway and fanned out across the deck, each one bearing a fresh charge for his gun.
‘The enemy is on the move again, sir,’ reported the ship’s master as the smoke began to thin. ‘Coming back on her original course, I reckon.’
‘Follow her around, if you please, Mr Armstrong,’ said Clay, before raising his speaking trumpet to his lips. ‘I’ll have that foretopsail drawing again, Mr Taylor.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’
As the Centaure gathered way, the Griffin slid back into her wake. Almost immediately the two nine-pounders in the bow fired again, and a French shot cracked into the frigate’s foretopsail, leaving a ragged hole.
‘Will you darn well look at that, sir!’ enthused the sailing master, his American accent suddenly stronger. ‘That broadside has wounded her plenty aloft. And I reckon her progress may have slowed a touch.’
Clay opened his telescope and looked over the enemy. One of her three big stern lanterns hung at a drunken angle, where an eighteen-pounder ball, aimed too low, had broken a stanchion. The rest of the broadside had struck her much higher up. Clay could see plenty of fresh holes in her sails, and teams of men at work high in her rigging, repairing some of the severed lines that hung down. The group of officers at her stern rail had shrunk to just two, both of whom had telescopes focused on him. Clay thought one of them touched the brim of his hat towards him, but his view was masked for a moment by smoke as the bow chasers fired again. Then the two Frenchmen turned as something fell onto the deck behind them.
Larcum Mudge (Alexander Clay Series Book 8) Page 16