by Alaric Bond
“Take us to larboard,” King ordered, and the wheel was put across. If the French were determined to be so cautious, he had to respond accordingly and give chase, although there remained a sneaking feeling at the back of his mind that they might be being led into a trap. But as the minutes drew on, and the brig continued to sail away, he began to wonder if the enemy captain had less ambitious plans.
“I'd say they were running,” Hunt's words so exactly matched his own thoughts that King suspected his friend of having supernatural powers. But at least his own suspicions had been confirmed: the brig was undoubtedly making a run for it and, now that she was showing topgallants, would be more difficult to catch. Kestrel was sailing like a dream though and, despite the enemy's extra sail, continued to gain.
“It is odd,” Brehaut commented, “to offer battle, loose off a broadside, and then run.”
“Odd indeed,” Hunt agreed. “Though the Frenchie did not know our identity at first, nor our strength.”
And that was the important point, King decided. He remembered how slow the brig had been to set topgallants, while her other manoeuvres had been painfully tardy. There was an obvious conclusion, but it was one that suited him so well, he hesitated to come to it. And then Hunt did so for him.
“Belike they're short of hands,” he said cautiously, before looking to both Brehaut and King as if for conformation.
The sailing master said nothing for a moment, but instead regarded the first lieutenant with frank amazement. “How can you say so,” he asked finally, “with such little evidence?”
But no one was to discover Hunt's reason; the Frenchman had yawed suddenly to starboard, and a further broadside was hurriedly released, before she returned, more slowly, to her previous course.
And this time the shots were better aimed. Two hit Kestrel soundly on her prow, with the starboard anchor being knocked clear of its catting, and the stem itself receiving a hefty whack that raised splinters. A third sliced her starboard bulwark, knocking several planks inwards before ricocheting off into the distance, while yet another landed more firmly on the starboard mizzen channel. King waited while the damage reports came in; apart from the mizzen chains, which were still being examined, no serious harm had been caused, and only one man was mildly injured by a shard of oak.
“A relief to see they are still aiming low,” Hunt said, chancing a remark to his captain, and King could only agree. The well laid broadside had not altered his suspicions though; once more the French had taken a considerable time to come back to their original course, and their lead had subsequently dwindled. But, given that he was correct, and his enemy lacked a full crew, King wondered how to best make use of the situation.
“The next time we hears from them might not be so gentle,” Hunt murmured. And that was another consideration. Kestrel was definitely gaining in the chase; should the Frenchman attempt to yaw again, they would find themselves raked at close range.
A lad had run up from the forecastle and now stood in front of him, waiting for permission to speak.
“Message from Mr Pocock, sir,” he said, when this was given. “He says we can reach the enemy with the bow chasers comfortably any time you likes, an' it will only be a spell before the starboard broadside guns will be in range.”
“Very good, Roberts,” King told him and the lad, who was panting more from excitement than exhaustion, scampered away. It would be clear to everyone that the chasers had been in range for some while, although Pocock had been a gunner's mate in a seventy-four, and was probably straining to fire even the small calibre long guns under his charge. Nevertheless, the news that they would soon be able to use their heavy cannon was far more important. He looked again at the enemy brig, which was still ploughing steadily on and undoubtedly coming into his carronades' arc of fire. King reckoned that in no more than a couple of minutes they could chance their first broadside. Then, even as he watched, the enemy finally reacted.
* * *
“I've told the captain to watch out,” Pocock announced smugly after the boy had been despatched. “Said we 'ad the range and may as well open fire, else there wouldn't be no point us turning up in the firs' place.”
Summers, the only officer who apparently heard, nodded awkwardly in reply and regarded the enemy brig that was steadily growing closer. With the wind as it was, it seemed likely that Kestrel would take her to starboard, and those servers who manned two pieces had already been formed up on that side, while a few of the captains were already peering across the carronades' crude sights.
“When the order comes, aim high, lads,” this was Adams speaking from further aft. “We'll take her spars down first – the hull can come later.”
There was a murmur of approval from the gunners, and Summers found himself envying the acting lieutenant's easy way of command. Then a shout from forward, brought all eyes back to the brig.
“Hold there, she's turning!”
Sure enough the Frenchman was steering to starboard once more. The change had come so suddenly that it seemed to surprise those at her own braces, as the sails began to flap and flutter, while the masts themselves showed how the brig was heaving in the gentle swell.
“Now there's a thing,” Adams said, as he joined them. “Looks to me like she's tired of running, and intends to stand and fight.
* * *
King had come to the same conclusion and it only confirmed his earlier suspicion that the enemy was short handed. In which case, and with Kestrel apparently destined to catch them, using all hands at the guns was probably a wise option. However, he would have to play things more carefully from now on, as the change would naturally mean a faster reload time from the enemy. And then he saw a way in which they could benefit from the situation.
“Take her to starboard,” he ordered, as if on impulse, before stepping forward to the break of the quarterdeck. “Mr Adams, I should like you to be ready at the larboard battery.”
“Larboard battery, sir? Yes, sir!” Adams repeated in surprise as the crew began to break into apparent confusion. King's words were already sending hands to the braces, and now the gun crews were running from one side of the deck to the other. Kestrel was quick to turn, however, and was soon making progress on her new heading. King looked across; they were almost level with the enemy now, and not much more than a quarter of a mile off.
“Aim low, Mr Adams,” he bellowed. There was little point in damaging spars if the French had decided not to run. The acting lieutenant raised a hand in acknowledgement, and King could see the gun captains turning the screws that adjusted their weapons' elevation. Then, when each had raised a hand to signal their readiness: “Open fire!”
The carronades gave out an especially sharp report that was more painful on the ears than any long eighteen-pounder King had encountered. Even in the open air he could still hear the ring several seconds later, while the breeze soon swept the smoke aside, and all on the quarterdeck were given a clear view of the enemy.
The shots rained down in an agreeable group, with none being further from the brig's hull than thirty feet. And a good many must have hit; King could see that two gun ports had been knocked into one, and there was obvious damage to the quarter gallery.
That was good shooting, Mr Adams,” King called down, before stepping back to join Hunt and Brehaut at the binnacle. “Keep her as she is,” he said, addressing the latter. “We'll get one more broadside in, then steer to larboard.”
No one looked forward to turning a ship while under fire, although the sailing master seemed to be taking the prospect in good heart.
But before that could happen, there were other matters to consider. Kestrel was very definitely in range once more, and the French were due to release another broadside at any moment.
And when they did, the damage was more personal than material. A nine-pound shot took away a stern lantern, and a frame end on the quarterdeck was smashed. But another ball ploughed through an entire side of servers at number seven gun, and a marine stand
ing tall but ineffectual on the larboard gangway, was neatly cut in two.
“Larboard battery ready!”
Despite the carnage, Adams' men had been solid, and all but one of the guns were now reloaded. King gave an off hand wave and the broadside rattled out. There was no time to look, though: if King was to use his weapons to their best advantage, they must close. That meant turning and, while they did, the French would be reloading their broadside guns. In effect he would be wagering his men against the enemy's: should the French finish first, and catch Kestrel bow on, it could be the end of everything.
* * *
“Turning, so we are,” Adams grunted to Summers. “Could have waited till we were out of the Frog's arc of fire.”
Summers made no reply. They had released the larboard guns twice, and both broadsides had felt ten times as loud as any released during exercise, while the gore, which was all that remained of three men by number seven was still very much in evidence and, however hard he tried to look away, it seemed to draw his attention. But the ship was indeed turning, with all about him acting as if no devilment had occurred, and he supposed he must take his lead from them.
* * *
King breathed out in relief: Kestrel had slipped through the manoeuvre in one smooth and continuous process: in no time it seemed she was set on her new course. And there was the enemy, resetting her own canvas after apparently abandoning any plan to stand and fight. He had returned to the break of the quarterdeck, and assured himself that Adams' men were ready. From the forecastle came a double crack as Pocock discharged the two chasers, although it would be a while before their carronades were able to train on the Frenchman again.
In fact the race had changed from which crew was the fastest, to which vessel, and King knew where his money was placed. The brig was picking up speed on her new course, but was less than three cables off their starboard bow, beyond the reach of any gun other than the two bow chasers, although King reckoned they would be upon her in no time. But none of the French cannon were mounted at her stern, so the British could close in relative safety while Pocock, in his element, fired off his six-pounders as fast as his men could load them.
“We'll take her to starboard,” King said, when the lead had halved. “Have the guns doubled with grape over the round.” The order was passed down to Adams while King set his eyes on the brig once more.
That final attempt to flee had been enough to convince him the Frenchman was not fully crewed. In which case it would be foolish to engage in a gunnery battle: far better to storm the enemy's decks and finish it quickly. His gaze dropped to his own main deck and he could see the servers pressing the tightly packed canvas bags of metal balls into the carronades' hungry mouths. Finish it quickly – the phrase seemed to reverberate about his mind as he considered the options.
“And I shall require boarders, Mr Hunt,” he added, as his attention returned to the quarterdeck.
“Very good, sir,” the first lieutenant replied instantly. “Am I to lead them?”
There was little choice: Hunt and Brehaut were essential officers, and he could barely afford to lose either. But Brehaut was no fighter, while a successful boarding action also depended on control and order and that was something only a senior officer could provide. It was a task Hunt was admirably suited for, and the man had volunteered – an important point, and one that King would do well to remember.
“If you would, Tony, I should be obliged.”
Hunt gave an eager grin in reply, touched his hat more formally, then left the quarterdeck. King watched him go in silence and with an element of regret, before setting his mind to more immediate matters.
Now there were groups gathering on the forecastle and main deck. The small arms chests were being opened and those detailed to board would soon be arming themselves with cutlasses, pistols and tomahawks, while the boarding pikes stored about the main and foremast were already laid out for those defending the ship. Meanwhile, and less than a cable off, the brig still held her course.
“Starboard a point,” King ordered, and the helm was put across. Ideally he wanted to fire off their broadside with the two ships almost touching, then order the boarders across before the enemy had a chance to reply. They would be preparing to fire as well of course, but that would be where the true value of his carronades came into use. With twice the weight, and double shotted grape on round, he would not give much for the brig's chances. And if his assessment was correct, the boarding party would face little opposition. At least that was what he hoped.
Chapter Seventeen
“I shall lead amidships,” Hunt announced as he reached the main deck, adding, “you take the fo'c's'le,” to Adams.
The brig was now within musket range, and there was the regular thud of lead balls striking their prow, while Sergeant Cork had set his marines to return the fire, which they were doing with practised care.
“And me, sir?” Summers prompted, as the first lieutenant watched them.
Hunt turned back to the boy. “I don't think you should be going across,” he answered vaguely, his attention still plainly fixed elsewhere. All three officers were carrying boarding cutlasses drawn from the master at arms and Summers had been weighing his in his hand experimentally.
“You don't?” he asked, surprised.
“We'll need someone to rally the men if the Frenchies try to counter attack,” Hunt told him more firmly. “Now stand to, we'll be firing again at any moment.”
Summers trotted to his position forward, the sword still in his hand. Most of the servers had apparently deserted their charges, only the gun captains and two tackle men remained at each to see the broadside despatched. The others, augmented by waisters and forecastlemen, were gathered near the foremast fife rail. But Miller and Jones were amongst those retained at their cannon, and the former gave the lad a grin that lacked both teeth and humour.
“Not goin' along, Mr Summers?” he asked, in apparent concern. “Now there's a pity!”
He could have mentioned the first lieutenant had directed otherwise, and that he would be in charge of the ship's defence, but Summers had learned a little, and was no longer quite so foolish as to offer unnecessary explanations.
“Won't be the same without Mr Summers to lead,” Miller continued to his mate. Once more, there was nothing ostensibly wrong in what the seaman said; even Adams, who was barely fifteen feet away and knew the situation, could not have objected, while Summers merely suppressed his feelings – another skill he was fast acquiring.
A marine took a shot in the head from a French sniper, and fell from his perch on the starboard gangway. The body spiralled down to the main deck, before landing, disjointed and lifeless next to where he stood. Summers jumped back in shock and disgust, and was careful not to meet Miller's eyes as he recovered himself. Then there was the high pitched scream of a whistle, Kestrel's bowsprit had reached the stern of the brig, and the true fighting was about to begin.
“Hold your fire!” Adams bellowed, as the first gun came level with the enemy. All knew the importance of delivering their broadside simultaneously, and immediately before boarding, even if the temptation was to shoot as soon as the enemy ship came into their sights. But the British held back, although the French were not quite so restrained, and their sternmost nine-pounder barked defiantly at their prow. The gun had not be laid with care however, and the a single round shot passed harmlessly overhead. But Kestrel's helm was then put across, and the sky apparently darkened as she came under the brig's shadow.
“On my word!” Hunt roared, his boarding cutlass raised dramatically. The French fired again and a small channel was cut into the mass of waiting boarders. The men gave no sign of discouragement however, and simply closed ranks to cover their wounded. Then, just before the two ships clashed, Hunt called out the order all had been waiting for, and each of the sloop's carronades erupted in an explosion of light, sound and destruction.
The broadside was followed by a far less impressive series of cras
hes as the two ships collided, then the first wave of British boarders began swarming over the enemy's top rail.
Summers watched them go with a mixture of horror and envy, while about him the small group made up of those who had been attending the guns collected their pikes and waited for any the French might send in reply. One man did make an attempt, but Pocock, who was still by his beloved chasers, despatched him neatly over the side using nothing more deadly than one of the six-pounder's crows of iron.
“That's the way to deal with 'em,” Miller, who had seen this, announced. “Tain't the weapon, nor the rank, that matters,” he mused. “It's the man what's behind it.”
* * *
Meanwhile Hunt and Adams had crossed almost simultaneously, and stood for a moment on the enemy's deck. There were men everywhere, but most appeared to be their own. Several of the French had put up a brief opposition next to the cannon, but these were soon swamped by the veritable wave of British; only towards the stern, where musket-men were now sniping at them, was there real resistance and any concentration of fire.
“To the quarterdeck!” Hunt ordered, noticing this, and he pushed past Adams. The younger man followed, and the two were joined by several hands as they approached the larboard quarterdeck ladder.
Hunt was first up, but seemed to pause at the top, and Adams wondered at the delay. Then the lieutenant fell backwards; Adams grabbed at him in vain, but there was no stopping such a dead weight, and the body slipped past, landing on the main deck with a solid thump.
For a dreadful second the young man looked down at his fallen comrade, whose white shirt was already starting to crimson. Then sense, aided by the whine of another passing ball, returned him to reality. He spun round and, raising his cutlass with a defiant shout, began to charge towards the knot of defending Frenchmen gathered at the far end of their territory.