by Alaric Bond
“Yes, do,” he replied quickly, before dismissing the problem – there was a powerful enemy to windward: this was not the time to think about a possible court martial.
“Mr Brehaut, take us three points to starboard, if you please.”
His intentions were simple: gather speed, then wear Kestrel about, before bearing down on the larboard tack. When the enemy was within range of the sloop's carronades, turn and fire a broadside at her masts, then continue to starboard and head away with the wind on their quarter. It was hardly a complex manoeuvre, and one the French captain must surely be expecting, although there would be little chance of subterfuge on such a clear day. And much could go wrong – the enemy might yaw, and present her main battery, denying Kestrel the distance to aim high while, if the British ship were struck, she could well lose one or all of her masts, and be left dead in the water for the French to bag at their leisure.
He glanced at Rochester, still ploughing on regardless, with no sign of signal or change of course. So be it; he would be fighting this action alone. Not that he expected the battle to last forever; with luck, a single pass would be enough to slow the Frenchman. Once the convoy were in sight of shelter he would have no compunction in running himself; he just needed to buy them the time to escape.
Kestrel had gained speed after her move and for a moment he allowed himself to simply enjoy the ship – his ship. He had no premonition of disaster and sincerely hoped to see the action through, then continue to command her for many years to come. But they had not been together long, and King wished to remember this as one of the happy times. Then the Frenchman released two more shots from her chasers: both fell short, showing there was now distance to wear in relative safety, and King reluctantly ordered the ship about to face her.
* * *
On the main deck, Adams and Summers were benefiting from the presence of a full lieutenant. And Timothy was an experienced man, well versed in the direction of guns and their crews, even if the current batteries of carronades under his overall charge were perhaps a little smaller than he was used to. But large or small, all gun decks remain the same in principle: order must be maintained, men controlled, and tight discipline enforced at all times.
Some of this had come as a surprise to Kestrel's gunners. In the main they were experienced men and proud of their craft. Like Timothy, the majority were used to larger cannon and bigger batteries, while some of the older amongst them could still not take the foreshortened carronade, with its smaller crew and miserly requirement for powder, seriously. And while under the command, initially of an acting lieutenant, then two midshipmen – one of whom was still a volunteer – the servers had been inclined to grow slack. But with James Timothy in charge, such an attitude was not allowed. He might never make commander, like King, and accepted being placed second to the far younger Hunt, but Timothy remained determined to manage what responsibility he did hold to the utmost of his ability. Consequently, there had already been one lengthy gun drill the previous afternoon, as well as two gunnery inspections that had shown up a good deal of lax behaviour. And now, as what he was coming to regard as his men stood ready at their pieces, Kestrel's second lieutenant sensed an improvement in both their spirit and deportment.
There were problems on the quarterdeck; Timothy had already noticed a chilly atmosphere between King and Hunt which had escalated noticeably in the last day or so. But the men were friends, both to him and to each other, and he was confident any minor disagreement could be sorted. Besides, such things were not of his concern; he had been given a job to do, and would do it to the exclusion of all else. Currently it was knocking Kestrel's gunnery into shape, later it might involve metaphorically bashing the captain and first lieutenant's heads together, but first they had to see the convoy safely home, and that was what he was concentrating on.
And Timothy had special reasons to do so. The back marker was a brig named Swanmore. She was slower than most, and recently damaged when a poleacre ran aboard her. For those reasons alone he would have had cause to keep an eye on the craft, although Timothy knew a little more of her history.
On board was Coleridge, the strange and somewhat pitiful man who had befriended him. He was travelling in company with a Major Adye, a man Timothy had disliked from their first meeting. Both were heading for Sicily and intending to travel, as rich men were inclined to: Coleridge had expressed an interest in climbing Mount Etna, and there were bound to be other jaunts that were beyond the ken of mere sea officers such as himself.
Timothy bore no special affection for the man – if honest, he found him far too effete and, at best, his company was tiresome. But having spent the last few months struggling with, and then appreciating, his verse, Timothy could fully realise the genius that lay within. And for such a light to be extinguished so close to a safe harbour would be a crime indeed.
But the Swanmore contained another passenger that he was equally concerned about – possibly more so in fact. It was the master's daughter, a sweet young thing named Sara. He had met her a number of times and, just as he was about to take his leave, they had spent almost an entire evening together with the unspoken promise of many more to come. Her father's brig was only travelling as far as Syracuse, and would probably need some form of repair when she arrived, but he hoped they might meet again, if not there, then back in Malta. In a solitary life that had been mainly spent at sea, Timothy had almost ruled out the chance of meeting with a suitable mate, and Sara seemed to embody everything a sailor wished in a woman. The opportunity might not come along again, and he had no intention of wasting it.
* * *
“Rochester is finally wearing, sir.” The news came from Hunt, who stood next to him, although King paid it scant attention. Kestrel had also turned and was now close hauled on the very edge of a luff as she bore down upon the Frenchman. Two sharp reports sounded from the sloop's own bows, a feeble reply to those the enemy had been peppering them with for some time, but there was a murmur of approval as one of the British shots landed close alongside, and the other went unsighted.
“Reckon we landed one on her there,” Erickson, an older seaman and one of Steven's signals party, grunted with satisfaction.
“Wearing, you say?” King asked absent mindedly as he glanced north. Sure enough, there was the British ship; she must have turned unusually sharply and was now heading to reach them at speed, and through the very midst of the convoy.
“Better late...” Brehaut began, but did not finish. The frigate's presence would certainly be of use, although Kestrel was now committed to action, and much would be decided before Rochester could intervene.
“Larboard battery, be ready!”
This was Hunt making the final checks before they turned yet again and presented their broadside. The enemy was holding their course: it might even be possible to land a long range barrage on their actual prow, although King thought not. He had fought this particular opponent in the past, and knew the French captain to be no fool. In his position King would now be preparing his own starboard battery, in preparation for turning sharply to larboard just when Kestrel was coming in for the kill.
But supposing King did not tread the expected route? Supposing Kestrel failed to turn, but rather tried something different? The idea began to form in his mind with the usual prickling under his collar and a pounding deep within his chest. Brehaut was also waiting for the order to turn, while those at the larboard battery were equally ready. But again the question: what if he did not?
“Stand down the larboard battery – ready starboard!”
His order rang out clearly enough, although there were several seconds of silence while it was digested. Then pandemonium broke out as the hands stationed at the braces muttered in confusion while, on the main deck, those servers who tended two guns were directed to the opposite pieces by their disorientated officers.
“Enemy has altered course, she's making to the west!” Hunt called out, and all immediately looked. It was true, Kestrel was at
the spot where she could have been expected to turn herself, and the French captain had attempted to show how clever he was by anticipating the move. But now he must be fuming at the very public exposure of his folly; the frigate had taken the wind on her quarter and was gathering speed; she could drop back, and regain her previous course, but the annoying little sloop was already racing dangerously close to her exposed stern.
“Ready, Mr Timothy?” King called, and received a confirmatory wave from the main deck. Kestrel was simply racing through the waves with her bowlines tight, the Frenchman was pulling away and showing the first signs of turning back, but there would be both time and distance enough to deliver a sound raking.
A solitary cannon fired from the stern of the Frenchman's quarterdeck, although they were well beyond its arc, and the shot must have been a result of either accident or frustration. Then Timothy had his hand held high and, as Kestrel continued to rip through the water, a near perfect broadside rattled towards the enemy.
King would have preferred that they had aimed high. Damage to the frigate's mizzen should have settled matters for sure, and it would take far more to cause a similar effect when targeting the hull. But the shots rained down with commendable accuracy and all bar one, which flew wide, appeared to strike home. And then the British ship was claiming the windward gauge. It would be of little use unless King intended to return and hit the frigate yet again, and he had apparently abandoned the convoy, leaving the merchants open to the French collecting them one by one. But Rochester was still bearing down. It would be a good quarter of an hour before she was properly within striking distance, nevertheless her presence must still act as a deterrent. And there was another factor, one almost impossible to quantify, but important nevertheless. King felt in his bones that the French captain had already been embarrassed too often by Kestrel's manoeuvres, and could not simply ignore her.
So it proved. The Frenchman abandoned any plan to turn northward, and settled instead on the larboard tack for long enough to gather speed. Then, while Kestrel herself had steered further to the west, she turned south, tacked, and began to bear down on the annoying little sloop once more.
The enemy lay off Kestrel's starboard bow: if both held their courses, they would collide, although King had no intention of doing any such thing. The starboard guns were reloaded and a savage tack to the south saw them released at long range at the oncoming frigate.
Most, if not all, fell short, but the Frenchman's feeble reply with her bow chasers now seemed derisory, and King could sense the spirit rising amongst his crew. All were positively spoiling for a fight, and gave little thought to the unequal odds they faced. So far Kestrel had despatched two full broadsides and caused definite damage while nothing of merit had been received from the larger ship. And while a British frigate of equal power was racing in from the north, it could only be a matter of time before the Frenchman made off, his tail agreeably tight between his legs.
But if the course of history can be changed in an instant, a single ship action was no less vulnerable. The frigate retained her course, while Kestrel returned to the starboard tack. King had hoped to be ahead of his opponent, and even nurtured dreams of raking her bows, as they had done so very recently. But it was not to be: even as they were turning north once more, the enemy was coming across their larboard bow, and keeping the helm across was of little benefit. Kestrel might have taken liberties with this particular enemy in the past but there would be no more, and she was about to be punished for her past behaviour.
Pocock, the gunner, fired off his bow chasers just before the Frenchman's broadside was released, and both six-pound balls apparently hit. But they were nothing to the combined weight of the enemy's full barrage as it landed about the sloop's prow.
Kestrel's twin forward facing cannon were swept aside, along with their crews, while her beakhead and bows were savagely mauled. And damage was not confined to the hull; her jib boom and dolphin striker dissolved into a cloud of splinters while the foremast took a hit low down, causing the entire spar to fall to one side and dragging the main topmast with it. And then the sloop had ceased to be a lithe and potent little warship and was turned instead into a vulnerable wreck.
* * *
The officers on the quarterdeck watched in silence. Below them Timothy, Adams and Summers appeared unhurt and were doing their duty, but there were casualties a plenty amongst the hands, not counting Pocock and his gunners on the forecastle. Most who were unhurt had taken to slashing away at the fallen wreckage in an effort to clear the debris that was acting as a sea anchor and turning the ship about, while all the time the Frenchman was closing further. After a brief inspection of the damage they had caused, the enemy seemed intent on tacking, and would then return to settle Kestrel's account for good.
“Ready starboard battery!” Timothy yelled above the din of their once ordered tophamper being hacked to shreds. Those from the gun crews nominated for such duty continued to clear the wreckage while the rest returned to any cannon that was not encumbered. One of the advantages of the carronades Kestrel carried was that less men were needed to attend each piece, although when injuries, damage clearance and other distractions were taken into consideration, there were still barely enough to carry out the work.
“Canister on round!” The additional order showed Timothy had already decided close action would be called for. The starboard guns were already charged with a single eighteen-pound ball, but an additional bag of tightly packed shot was added to the load. It would make the round shot less effective and reduce the range for all but, if the Frenchman dared to venture too close, each gun would deliver a devastating outpouring of death and destruction.
“Aim at her hull, men!” Timothy roared once more. “We'll deal out such a pain in her belly, she'll think twice about boarding.”
King heard the order and was glad to note his second lieutenant was keeping his head. The enemy might stand off and continue to fire at them from a distance, but with Rochester beating steadily south, they were far more likely to board, and attempt to carry Kestrel off before help could arrive.
If they did, it would continue to be a one-sided fight. The Frenchman must be carrying twice their complement and, after the drubbing Kestrel had subjected them to, could be expected to fight hard. He supposed Rochester might arrive in time, but that was unlikely: Dylan had shown himself reluctant to actually come to grips with the enemy in the past, and King thought he already knew the reason behind the elderly captain's change of heart.
To head to their rescue but arrive too late was actually quite an ingenious plan. Such an apparently heroic move would be applauded, even if it brought no actual benefit and the sloop were still lost. There might be an exchange of broadsides, but the Frenchman would have the wind, and be in an ideal position to scurry away with Kestrel's wreck in tow. Rochester would then have every reason to turn back and protect the convoy, rather than pursue her further. But the ending would be the same: King must lose his command – the precious little sloop that had already won his heart. And even if he were spared in action, along with the court martial that must surely follow, the chances of being given another were slight indeed.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Summers had been wounded, but not seriously. His left arm was bleeding freely from a cut, caused by a splinter, and there was a throbbing in his head which was probably the result of something hard falling from above. But he had not been killed, and neither was anyone trying to drag him down to the horrors of the medical department below, like so many of those under his charge. And even though the scent and din of battle was all about, he was not in the least bit frightened – for most, that time had passed when Kestrel turned back to face the enemy although, in the youngster's case it was much earlier, and when he first stood up to Miller and Jones.
The pair were actually next to him as they all hacked at the shrouds that still secured Kestrel's former foremast to her hull, and they worked together, watching for the next to draw tight
as yet another was cut through. It was finished in the end: the last line falling to Summers' own axe, and the ship righted herself slightly with the freedom they had won for her.
The three watched as the hefty chunk of iron bound pine was left to wallow in the swell. “That'll do,” Summers said with unconscious authority. “Now get back to your gun: we still have the enemy to contend with.”
* * *
“Can we manoeuvre, Master?” King asked. He had already answered the question in his own mind, but Brehaut was both older and more experienced. The sailing master could think of little constructive to say, however.
“We might rig a jib or maybe a stays'l and try to turn, if you wishes,” he replied. “Though with no working jib boom or foremast, I cannot offer more.”
It was what King had suspected, and there was no time to carry out even that small amount of work. The Frenchman was coming up from astern with those wretched bow chasers firing at them again, although soon Kestrel would be facing her entire larboard broadside, and from less than point blank range.
“Prepare to receive boarders!” His voice cracked slightly as he gave the order, although that in no way echoed his resolve, for neither was he yet considering surrender. The sloop was dearer to him than any ship he had known – if the French wanted her so badly, they would have to come and take her, though he would do all he could to see they did not. And then the bowsprit of his enemy was coming into view, and he could make out actual men aboard her, standing on the forecastle and about her guns on the main deck.
There were designated boarders as well; a dark body of men who had gathered in two distinct groups. Some were clearly military, with bright uniforms and shining weapons while others appeared far less smart. Brown skinned and bare-chested, they must be the ship's holders and afterguard. A heavy brigade of hulking louts who would look forward to such an action as keenly as any Jack Tar brawler, with only the predominance of facial hair to distinguish them from their British counterparts.