The Torrid Zone (The Fighting Sail Series)

by Alaric Bond

  The call from the masthead came a few minutes later and was enough to break the spell and stir them into action, despite the fact that few caught exactly what was said. All about the deck, men began to stand to, taking up positions without being ordered, and Flint clapped his hands and rubbed them together as he squinted down the barrel of the favoured gun that they had christened Maggie Jane.

  “Target to larboard.” King's voice rang out above the storm while Middleton, the duty midshipman, scampered along the deck, repeating the lieutenant’s words. Jameson, peering out of the port, remained silent. The men looked to each other; it was frustrating in the extreme, knowing an enemy was out there, but having no idea exactly what, or where. Another call came from the maintop, and this time they were all ready to listen.

  “Looks like one of the corvettes, hard on the larboard bow, an' less than two cables off!”

  The men braced themselves as King shouted once more.

  “We'll be altering course to cross her hawse as fine as we can. It will be individual fire, so make sure of your mark!”

  The tension mounted further as, still without speaking, Flint helped himself to a burning length of slow match from the nearby tub and fitted it to a linstock. With conditions as they were, a misfire from the gunlock was far more likely, and there would not be the time for a second chance.

  “Captain's a rum cove,” Timmons muttered with grudging respect, as Flint blew on the glowing end of the burning twine and warmed his hand next to it. “He could not have set us fairer.”

  Timmons was another new arrival on board; he only joined during their brief stay at Spithead but as an experienced hand he was already integrated into both Flint's mess and gun crew.

  “The Frogs might be in the right place, but them's still got the wind,” Dixon countered.

  “Aye, but we've position,” Timmons stated loftily before taking a kick at one of the ship's mousers that was straying too close. “He's a canny bugger and no mistaking.”

  Flint said nothing; he was wise enough to know that, in the current conditions, luck would figure far more prominently than skill. Still it was good that the enemy was off their bow, and not across it, and the fact that Scylla was turning to meet them indicated space enough for a considered rake.

  * * *

  On the quarterdeck Banks' thoughts were travelling along a similar path. There had been no great surprise in finding the French; as soon as the idea had come to him he had somehow known they would be there. But the fact that Scylla had met them as she had, when it would have taken no great error of judgement to see them across her own prow, bolstered him. It was their first piece of good luck for some while; pretty much the whole voyage, in fact. The storm was still raging about them, and there was little possibility of seeing anything from the deck at that moment, but Chapman, who had relieved Jackson at the main top, was keeping them informed, and it appeared they had yet to be spotted. Caulfield was standing near by, as he had done for many years and countless actions, while Fraiser, another stalwart from the past, was by the binnacle, his folded notes clamped securely under one arm. Lieutenant King, who had joined him several years ago as a mere midshipman, was forward with the guns that he had made his own. Banks supposed there were finer officers in the service, but these were men he knew well and could trust; there were none he would rather see action alongside.

  “Enemy's turning to starboard, I think we're smoked!” Chapman's voice rose above the storm again and all stiffened. Then the ghostly image of a jib boom emerged from the darkness to larboard, and a murmur that quickly grew into a cheer erupted from all about.

  “Stand by your guns!” King's order came up from below, but no one needed any further encouragement. They were perfectly placed: in less than a minute Scylla would be crossing the corvette's bows. For the first time in what seemed like an age, Banks drew breath, and even as his ship prepared to deliver a devastating broadside, a faint smile spread across his face.

  Chapter Four

  The night was lit by fire from the first gun, and the brightness grew as each successive piece added their own tongue of flame to the blaze. Standing by the larboard bulwark, Banks was momentarily blinded by smoke from the nearby carronades, although the air cleared long enough for him to see the damage they were inflicting. The enemy's beakhead was being peppered with shot that also carried away the dolphin striker, and dislodged her starboard anchor. Robbed of downward tension, her jib fell slack, and the corvette turned slightly with the wind. Darkness closed in almost immediately, although a faint glow still marked the Frenchman's position as Scylla slinked away into a heavier patch of squall and apparent obscurity.

  “Masthead!” The captain's voice rose up through the last of the shots. “What do you see there?” It would take several minutes for Scylla's guns to be reloaded, and one of the other enemy vessels may be close by. There was a pause; no one replied, and he was about to shout again when an older man's voice finally responded.

  “No sign of fresh shipping, sir.”

  Banks guessed that Chapman had been foolish enough to look directly at the broadside, and had lost his night vision. It was a mistake most only made the once, and at least the regular lookout had been a little more experienced. He crossed the deck to join the first lieutenant at the binnacle.

  “Keep her as she is, Mr Caulfield.” With the damage they had inflicted, the corvette was unlikely to follow, and Scylla was sailing sweetly enough as she was: it would be a mistake to turn if there were no further enemy in the immediate area.

  “A sound broadside, sir.” The first lieutenant's teeth shone white in the gloom. “And no returns!”

  Banks supposed he was right, but any success they had achieved was down to luck rather than skill; they could just as easily have come across the enemy with the positions reversed. Then it would have been his ship to suffer damage, and at any time now they could expect to be descended upon in force.

  “What news, Sir Richard?”

  Banks swung round at the unexpected call, and saw the governor picking his way across the deck.

  “You should be below, sir: it is not safe!” The storm, and his annoyance, turned Banks' shout to a roar, but he noticed the old man met it with hardly a blink.

  “There are men a plenty on deck, Captain,” he replied calmly, holding a hand to the brow of his sou’wester to deflect the rain. “And boys too, if it comes to it. My presence here will make little difference.”

  “As you will, sir.” Banks had no time to waste. There were still enemy ships in the area and if the governor was determined to place himself in danger he was old enough to be allowed.

  “Did you hear the gunfire, Sir Terrance?” Caulfield asked.

  “Hear it, sir?” The old man's face lit up. “Why I suspect they did so in England! Did we do the enemy harm?”

  “Indeed so,” Caulfield replied, slightly smugly. “It were one of the smaller vessels, though they are still of a considerable size. We have damage aloft and the storm to weather, but that particular Frenchman will have work to do before he troubles us again.”

  “And the others?” the governor asked. “They are still a threat?”

  Caulfield looked at his captain, and Banks cleared his throat. “Potentially, yes. They may well have seen the fire from our broadside. But it is a dark night, and in the current conditions we should remain safe.”

  “Excellent, sir; truly excellent: I must go and tell her Ladyship.” Sir Terrance beamed again, then, holding his sou’wester down firmly on to his head, started back for the companionway once more. Banks drew a sigh of relief; he supposed he should ensure that the couple were suitably accommodated below, but found he cared little either way. Then Chapman's voice could be heard, shrill and urgent from the main top, and all thoughts of his passengers' safety were forgotten.

  “Sail ho! Fine on our larboard bow, and set to rake us!”

  The boy's screech alerted everyone on deck.

  “Port the helm – take her to starboard!�
�� Banks roared, although the quartermaster was starting to turn the wheel even as the order was given. Scylla baulked at the rough handling, while the afterguard slipped and stumbled on the wet deck as they tried to keep the square sails in the wind. Chapman's sighting could equally be the frigate or the second corvette, but whichever it was, all knew they were in imminent danger.

  The enemy was in almost as good a position as Scylla had been only minutes before. Banks felt his knuckles whiten as he stared forward while the ship paid off. Were it the second corvette her broadside was bound to be lighter than that of the frigate, but even she would cause considerable damage, and with the larboard battery not fully loaded, Banks would be unable to reply.

  “There she is!” Caulfield shouted, pointing forward suddenly. Scylla had just moved into clearer air, and all gasped as the enemy frigate was revealed. Well set up and with the wind in her favour, she was speeding into the perfect position and appeared almost beautiful in the foul night. But less attractive was the line of heavy cannon that were run out, and about to fire on Scylla's own, vulnerable, bows.

  Caulfield was muttering something unintelligible, and Fraiser had thoughtfully positioned himself behind the trunk of the main mast, but Banks found he could do nothing other than stare fascinated at the sight of a powerful enemy ship: so close by and so very deadly.

  When it came, the broadside hit them on their larboard bow, and was not a total rake. The shots were also delivered at a measured ripple, rather than the spasmodic but considered fire that Scylla had dealt out upon her sister. But, despite the inferior angle, the enemy's ball did their business well enough, and shrieks of wounded men soon began to compete with the wind's monotonous scream.

  “Damage report, Mr Middleton!” Banks shouted down at the midshipman on the deck below, but a ship's boy was already scampering back along the gangway.

  “Mr King s-sent me, sir,” the youngster – a third class volunteer whose normal duty was to carry powder to the guns – touched his forehead in a hurried salute. During the last five minutes he had heard Scylla's guns fired in anger for the first time, been the target of an enemy broadside, and was now delivering an important message to his captain.

  “The larboard forechains is weakened, and won't take no pressure. Wants us to reduce sail, so he does – and says to be quick about it, if you plan on seeing your mother again.”

  The boy started as he realised what King had actually meant, but Banks' brain was already at work.

  “Port the helm – prepare to wear ship. Larboard battery fire as you are served!”

  The ship heaved further to starboard, and Scylla was thrown round, rough and clumsy until the wind passed over her taffrail. With the foremast effectively out of use on the larboard tack to take the wind to starboard was his only option. It would mean they should have the chance of paying back their tormentor, but such a sudden move was potentially dangerous to his ship, especially as her tophamper had already proved vulnerable.

  Scylla groaned at the apparent mishandling, but her larboard guns fired as she bore round, and soon she had settled on the starboard tack, heading away from the frigate that had shown herself to be so deadly and into the darkness of the storm. King himself approached, just as a fresh deluge of heavy rain began to fall.

  “We've taken two direct hits to the fore channel and its mounting, sir.” he said, almost inches away from his captain's ear. “Long as we stay on the starboard tack all should be well, but if we have to take the wind to larboard I doubt the mast will hold for very long.”

  “Can anything be done?”

  “Carpenter's looking at it now, sir, but I would say it will not be a quick repair. We shall need daylight, and fine weather.”

  Banks stared back into the storm that currently hid both French ships. As long as they remained so, there was nothing he need fear; the storm was concealing Scylla well enough and he had several hours in which to truly lose them. “Daylight, and fine weather.” The lieutenant’s words seemed to reverberate about his brain: were there Frenchman about when King got his wish, Scylla would be easy pickings.

  “Very well. There is no other damage?”

  “Nothing substantial, sir; I'd say we got off remarkably lightly, though it is a dark night for target practice. Several men have been wounded, including the governor, or so I believe.”

  “Sir Terrance?” A sudden gust of wind made Banks snatch at his hat and it was with effort that he avoided swearing out loud. With a superior enemy to windward, and a ship that could not sail east, he now had to worry about an old man who was unable to keep himself out of danger. “How badly?”

  “I couldn't rightly say, sir. He had been watching the larboard battery reload – they were attending to him as I was heading here.”

  A shout came from forward; the boatswain was rigging a preventer stay from the main chains to the foremast, and Evans, the carpenter, seemed to be tearing away part of the larboard top rail. There was still no sign of the French, but even without their attention, Banks decided he had enough to do to keep himself occupied for a good few hours. The governor could look after himself.

  * * *

  The next morning brought the British mixed fortune. The storm eased as dawn broke, and as the sun drew strength it was clear they had the ocean effectively to themselves. Evans and his team had made an assessment of the repairs needed to the forechains and started work as soon as the weather permitted. By mid-morning they had secured them to the extent that shrouds and stays could start to be fixed and the Welshman was confident that all would be totally set to rights by evening. Aloft, the fore topyard had been fished and correctly set, then, when the wind had backed slightly Scylla had been allowed to take it square on her stern, and began to run south once more, and at a truly credible speed.

  Other damage, sustained both from the broadside and during the storm, was also in the process of being repaired. Three men were dead, but the six who had been severely wounded were considered stable enough and expected to make a full recovery. The only blight on what would otherwise have been a perfect morning was the governor, who had been pronounced dead some hours before.

  To Banks it appeared that, simply to maintain its presence, their current run of bad luck had decided Sir Terrance should be struck by a splinter no larger than a ship's biscuit. Such wounds were common, and often accounted for a large number of casualties. But in the governor's case, one that would normally have hardly caused a minor flesh wound had severed the iliac artery, and the man had bled to death within minutes.

  It was a disaster of course: they had yet to raise St. Helena but, with the main reason why Scylla was not now safely in a Portsmouth dockyard dead, the mission had already failed. Banks might not be personally responsible for the death, but he had still allowed it to happen, and the mere fact that Hatcher died aboard his ship would not look good in the report. Robert Brooke, the previous governor of St Helena, had retired some time ago: as it was Sir Terrance would have found a good deal of catching up to do on his arrival and goodness knew how long it would take before a fresh man was appointed. There was a strong argument for Scylla turning back now, make for England without further delay, bringing the news, and Hatcher's body, with her. But the ship was also charged with despatches and these were obviously valuable enough not to be chanced to the Company's own packet service. Some were for onward transfer to India, and Banks could not begin to estimate their worth. Additionally there was the consignment of specie that he had privately undertaken to deliver. But the final point in favour of continuing was the enemy squadron that lay between him and Portsmouth. With every mile that Scylla made southwards the chances of meeting them again decreased, but to turn back would be an entirely different proposition. Three ships, properly handled, were far harder to evade than one, and a meeting with any would be liable to bring the entire French force down about their ears. For all his outward confidence Banks knew his ship was not in a fit state for such an action and, with no other Royal Navy vessel for many m
iles, rescue was unlikely.

  No, Banks decided, he would not turn back – however large or small the other considerations as such a move was contrary to all his instincts. He would arrive in St Helena, explain the situation, and deliver the gold and despatches. With luck he may be able to off-load Lady Hatcher as well, although he supposed that might be too much to hope for. But with nothing else to keep him there, and Scylla's need of the dockyard now even greater, he could be confident of setting sail for England again without undue delay. The shipping season was not due to start for a month or more, so there would be no convoy to escort; he could take on wood and water, and be homeward bound within a week. The thought cheered him, as much as anything could that morning. Then another came to replace it; one he had been carefully setting to the back of his mind since first hearing the news of Sir Terrance's death.

  For reasons that he was in no way proud of, Banks had stayed on deck all night, keeping distant and, claiming the responsibilities of a captain, immersing himself in his work. But he could not go on ignoring the problem forever, and he guessed that such cowardly tactics were only making it harder for Sarah, who had no such sanctuary. The bell rang for the change of watch, and he decided that now would be as good a time as any to leave the deck, and discover for himself just how Lady Hatcher was reacting to the news of her husband's death.

  * * *

  In fact she was taking it remarkably well. Perched on a stern locker in the great cabin with Sarah next to her and a rummer full of gin in one hand, she was alternately sobbing and laughing, whilst expertly blocking any attempts at consolation with a soliloquy that seemed destined to last the rest of the voyage.