by Alaric Bond
King glanced up at the weather vane, then their canvas. What wind there was came just abaft the beam and from the south, while Kestrel was showing royals, topgallants, topsails and the forecourse, as well as jibs and stays. But it would not remain that way for long: his sailor's senses were already warning him of heavy weather in the offing. All King needed to do was decide when it would strike, and for how long.
“What do you see there?” he bellowed to the top, and noticed it was Wiessner who replied. He was a man King was prepared to reconsider; having received several reports of his improved behaviour of late.
“Three masts, sir, and of a fair size – though it's hard to judge proper when she is alone, and such a way off.”
That was certainly true: at a distance and without another ship to compare against, a sighting with three masts could be anything from a sloop to a first rate. And if it had only come into view half an hour back it must still be almost on the horizon.
“But she is canvassed to the royals, and I'd chance her to be a warship.”
“Ah, but whose navy?” King muttered, more to himself. They were off the Barbary Coast so could expect American frigates, while a number of British warships might also be in the area. But there was something in Wiessner's tone that said otherwise. King knew the sighting would be little more than a smudge, and the man must be relying on instinct as much as eyesight to give his report. But there had been a faint inclination in his voice that said this would not be just another British vessel, or even a neutral. He could send a younger man aloft or even go himself – King had climbed Kestrel's rigging twice so far; although it had been a lengthy and dangerous process. But he doubted much would be learned from the exercise, while seeing their one-armed captain take such a risk might not encourage the crew. A younger pair of eyes equipped with a telescope could confirm the strange ship's nationality, even if King felt he already knew he was dealing with a hostile vessel. And – as Kestrel was one of the smallest three masters afloat – one that was likely to be larger than his own.
He glanced about the quarterdeck and noticed Summers who, although not on duty, appeared ready. “Mr Summers, I'd be obliged if you would go aloft with a glass and tell me what you see.”
The lad was gone in an instant, and King waited while he made the long ascent up the starboard main shrouds.
“I understand we have company, sir.” It was Hunt; he must have followed him from his quarters and now stood next to Brehaut. King was pleased to note he was once more remembering the courtesies of the quarterdeck, although there was still a slight flush of excitement on his face from their earlier conversation.
“Indeed,” King agreed and was about to add his thoughts regarding the ship's nationality when he stopped himself in time. Little good would be served by conjecture when they would know for sure before long. Instead he mentioned something that should have been obvious to all on the quarterdeck. “And I fancy there is a storm in the offing.”
“And a July storm in the Med.” Hunt's face was quickly losing his ruddy glow as he thought. “That might be more than just a passing squall, sir.”
“Sighting's tacked, and she's bearing down on us.” That was Summers at the masthead; King would have liked to have known more of the manoeuvre but disliked discussing such matters within earshot of the entire crew. “She's coming clearer by the minute.” There was a pause as the lad seemed to be listening to Wiessner, then he continued. “And heavy weather is in sight and coming in from the south.”
At the last cast of the log, and with the wind on her beam, Kestrel had been making four knots. The sighting was on a roughly reciprocal course, so could be expected to show a similar speed, which meant they were closing at nearly ten land miles an hour. At that rate both ships should be in clear sight of each other long before any truly bad weather arrived. And there were five hours of daylight left: something which may become an important consideration if his hunch proved correct.
“If you'll forgive me, sir?” Hunt again, and now looking anything like the lovesick fool of a few minutes ago. Their eyes met and King sensed he wished to speak in private so led him over to the windward bulwark. “It's nothing I can place a finger on,” the younger man began awkwardly. “And I have little to back my feelings. But the sighting bothers me.”
“You don't think it might be British?” King asked in a low voice. “Heaven knows we are desperately short of frigates, but a few remain in the Med.”
“Of course, sir,” Hunt agreed, although his eyes remained troubled. “But most are on convoy duty, and would never abandon their charges simply on the sighting of a strange sail.”
That was a very important point, and gave credibility to King's personal theory.
“She may be a Jonathan for sure, but somehow that doesn't ring true either,” Hunt continued. “Most are nearer the coast, and I would hardly suspect a ship of this size to be a corsair.”
Once more King found himself agreeing with his first officer.
“As I say, there is nothing to back my thoughts,” Hunt paused, and was clearly troubled. “But in my bones I feel her to be a Frenchman.”
* * *
Wiessner was of the same opinion. He had the advantage of being in sight of the strange vessel, although little of value could be told from the faint blur that rose and fell with each dip of Kestrel's mast. And he knew little of the British ships that might be found in the area, or American if it came to it, while the sighting was also far too distant to make an educated guess based on intricacies of rig or sail pattern. But Wiessner had been aboard one ship or another for all his adult life, and at war for most of it. As with most practised seamen, he relied a good deal on instinct and intuition; knowing how long a particular line would hold, or if the wind were about to change or die. And, as the same nation had been his primary enemy for so long, other senses had also been primed until Wiessner felt he could spot a Frenchman in his sleep.
He glanced at Summers who had just joined him, and wondered for a moment about sharing his thoughts. There was no doubt a genuine affection for the lad was forming; something that would have horrified the seaman in the past, though now hardly bothered Wiessner at all, and he knew he might confide in him. But Summers was still an officer, and would be bound to ask for evidence: how could one as seasoned as Wiessner explain such things as intuition to a child barely out of the schoolroom? Still, he remained strangely certain the smudge on the horizon was indeed an enemy, and equally that it would turn out far larger than his current ship. Should the Frenchman choose to, it would be relatively simple to bring Kestrel to battle. And, were that the case, Wiessner was equally convinced there could only be one winner.
* * *
Two hours later, when the sky had darkened and the first drops of rain were starting to fall, all their suspicions were proved correct. By then the sighting had already been identified as a frigate, with sails that appeared slightly pink in the lowering sun. And, even though the breeze had dropped further and both ships were barely making steerage way, she was still closing on them.
“Deck there!” Cranston was at the masthead now. He bellowed out in a voice that broke through the silence that had descended upon Kestrel, although it brought no good news. “I can see colours at her gaff; she's Frenchie, sure as a gun. An' meaning to steer southerly if I'm any judge.”
King took the news without comment. Even if she had not been larger than Kestrel, the frigate's change of course, and the fact colours had been hoisted without preamble or pretence, told him her captain was sure of taking such an insignificant opponent without difficulty. And soon the lookout was not alone: all on deck could see the splash of colour which was revealed as the ship steered further into the wind, and knew they would be in for a stiff fight.
“I make fourteen ports on her main deck, though I may be wrong and they might not all be filled.” Hunt muttered softly to King, while squinting through the deck glass. “But they'll be eighteen-pounders, that's if they're not twenty-fours.”
“Take us three points to larboard,” he said softly, and Brehaut immediately repeated the order. The enemy was taking up the weather gauge, which was almost their right, considering the circumstances. King might contest it if he wished, but it would only mean a quicker ending to what was already beginning to feel inevitable. “And clear for action,” King added.
* * *
The second order had come just as the bell was about to be struck for the last hour of the second dog watch. Which meant there were two hours of light left, although the storm would be upon them well before then. And, King decided, that was probably his only hope. His adversary must be more than six hundred tons; if he could run before the wind he should have the legs of her, and be able to stretch matters out long enough to find shelter in the later hours. But Mediterranean summers were not known for their dark nights; besides, there would be a full moon rising not an hour after sunset. Unless he wanted to head a chase that lasted until dawn, he really was depending on that storm.
Kestrel had settled on her new course and was beginning to pick up speed when Hunt announced her cleared for action, and it was then that King allowed himself to look back at the enemy frigate once more. Her captain must have guessed the British ship's intention and was preparing to tack, but King felt they should start with a comfortable two mile advantage. The breeze was still blowing faint but hot, although most aboard Kestrel knew it was merely the calm before the storm. And it was a storm they would have to ride: keep the enemy to their stern, while sailing for all they were worth with as much canvas showing as the little sloop could bear, and perhaps a little more. With cunning and not a small amount of luck, they would keep the heavier ship at bay, and may even increase their lead, but were a spar to carry away or, perish the thought, a mast, it would be the end of everything.
Kestrel's guns had been cleared away and her servers were standing by, ready to open fire at a moment's notice, although King wondered if they would even be needed. If he could not keep his ship in the wind and the enemy out of range, all was likely to end extremely quickly.
Chapter Twenty
Two hours later the chase was in full swing. Both ships were scudding before a growing wind, with Kestrel's lead holding at just over two miles. The sky had also started to darken, and rain fell in sheets, although it would be a good hour before the British could even hope to find a hiding place on the empty sea. And with the breeze steadily rising, King knew he was coming to the stage when he really should be shortening sail. They had already taken in the forecourse and were running under topsails alone, while a constant cloud of spray rose from their stem. But the tophamper was coming under strain and could not continue indefinitely: even in the space of a few minutes the whine of the wind in Kestrel's lines had risen noticeably. Brehaut was with him at the conn and, like any good sailing master, stood ready to advise if asked, although King felt any decision should be his and his alone.
Besides, it was the same wind for the enemy; he stared back at her now as she dipped and rose above the level of the taffrail. The frigate was far heavier than Kestrel and, even without the aid of a come-up glass, King was certain they were steadily leaving her behind. But to do so meant testing his tophamper to the limit and, though the sloop might be faster, the Frenchman had heavier spars and would probably prove to be the better sea boat in such conditions.
Next he glanced up to the main mast, shading his eyes against stray drops as he peered into the gloom. All was tight, with no sign of danger, even if experience told him a sail could split, or a spar spring at any moment. And then his mind was taken away from the ship by a sound that had grown almost routine, as another pair of shots were released from the enemy's bow chasers.
The regular bombardment caused little reaction on Kestrel's quarterdeck; they had been under fire for some time, and all knew the most recent would fall short, as had the others. And, not for the first time, some began to discuss why their opponent should choose to waste powder so. But not King: he knew exactly why the Frenchman was firing. The shot might be dropping well before their stern, but the monotonous bombardment was having an effect on King's mind, if not the fabric of his ship.
It was the constant reminder that, should his command topple from that narrow path that kept her ahead, she would be pounded into a wreck, and by a superior enemy only too keen to demonstrate its fire power. King longed for a chance to reply; even the defiant bark of a small calibre cannon would have redressed the balance to some extent. But Kestrel had no stern facing weapons; it would have been totally impractical to rig one of the carronades for such work, while the lighter bow chasers may be needed if it came to an all out fight later. And they were drawing away – he must not let the enemy distract him from that fact. The last two shots had been lost within the ever growing expanse of fervid water that lay between them, and soon the French captain must surely stop, if only to avoid looking a fool in front of his own crew. But while those cannon continued to fire, King could not simply ignore them. And neither, he suspected, could anyone else.
The bell rang out twice; the sun would officially be going down within minutes, although it had long since been hidden under a blanket of leaden cloud that seemed to cover the entire world. The coming of darkness would bring one major disadvantage for the British; for the last few hours, Kestrel's fore and main mastheads had been manned by a succession of eager lookouts, desperate to spot a sail that might prove friendly. But what had always been a doubtful horizon was closing in by the second: soon they would have to face several hours with little chance of rescue, and it was not a reassuring prospect.
King's glance returned to his enemy just as the Frenchman fired again; it could not have been more than three minutes since the last shots – good practice for gunners in such conditions. This time, one of the shots was detected; chance had dictated it hit a wave, and skimmed towards them, bouncing yet again before finally disappearing from the virulence of the storm, and doubtless finding peace beneath. Despite that lucky glance, the British had never been in any danger, and the sight of the falling shot had been enough to stir King into action.
“I think we may try a reef in the tops'ls, Mr Brehaut.”
The sailing master greeted his announcement with obvious relief, and the hands were sent swarming up the masts to the sound of pipes that barely competed with the shrill wind. King watched them work, each man intent only on the perilous task in front of them, and caring little for the enemy hard behind. Kestrel baulked slightly as the pressure was lessened and for a moment the rhythm that had been constant these last few hours was lost. But she soon regained her beat and continued to head into the darkness with as much determination, if not speed, as before. And it was then, just when the pressure must surely have been lessened, that disaster struck.
One of the topmen was the first to draw attention to the problem, which he did with an agonized cry that owed as much to frustration as fear. And really the irony was immense; Kestrel had been running before a rising wind for so long, yet it was when they took a reef in the topsails and the pressure diminished that calamity occurred. And calamity it was, there could be no doubt of that. A split sail, though annoying in the extreme and causing men to risk their lives in setting another, would have been bad enough, but their main topmast had sprung, and that was truly devastating.
The spar was still apparently in place, but only due to the quick thinking of those still aloft, who had released the sheets and allowed the topsail to billow out in a very public demonstration of their predicament.
Duncan, the boatswain, began to shout a stream of orders in an effort to control the situation, and a growl of discontent rose up from the men on deck, although King was pleased to note every officer nearby remained compo
sed. Once more he glanced back at the enemy; they surely could not have failed to notice, and even if not, Kestrel's speed had already dropped dramatically.
They would now start to gain on her, and soon those shots from the Frenchman's bow chasers would cease to be mere annoyances and begin to cause physical damage. King gave a sigh then turned to Hunt; for a moment their eyes met. Both were experienced enough to know the significance of what had just occurred, and no words were necessary. Then they broke off to attend to the various duties expected of men commanding a warship about to be captured by the enemy.
* * *
Wiessner had been one of those aloft when the topmast sprung, and was halfway down the topmast shrouds as they went slack. And it had taken no measure of bravery or concern for his fellow man for him to drop on to the mainyard, and rapidly make his way to the larboard yardarm. Once there he released the topsail sheets while Jones, one of Summer's tormentors, carried out a similar duty equally spontaneously at the starboard arm. Then both made their way down, using the stays to avoid the boatswain's team who were already flying up the shrouds.
On gaining the deck, Wiessner glanced up. The topsail was still billowing out untended while worried men peered and probed at the danger area halfway up the topmast.
“Is she done for?” a voice asked, and he looked round to see Summer's concerned face. It was not a question any warrant officer should ask of a hand, but there was more than an element of trust between the two.
“The ship or the mast?” Wiessner grunted, then continued before the lad could answer. “Mast is buggered, sure enough,” he said without feeling. “An' they can't blame the French for that; as I heard it, all the topmasts were replaced at Malta – reckon they must have used Russian timber or something equally crank, and look where it's got them. But as to the ship, that's a different question and I would not care to say.”