by Alaric Bond
“In good time, sir,” she continued, undeterred. “First I wish to complain in the strongest...”
“Mr Jackson, you will escort Her Ladyship below; pass her to the care of the medical department.”
The boy looked aghast at the woman, then back to his captain.
“Or do I have to order a marine guard?” Banks continued.
“Sir, you shall hear more of this!” Lady Hatcher’s look was filled with pure malice, and she all but spat the words, before hoisting her skirts, and walking with elaborate dignity towards the companionway.
Banks brought his mind to bear on the current problems. Men were draining a sail that had been spread over one side of the spar deck, and it was only then that he remembered the ceremony scheduled for that afternoon. Water slopped down, drenching those on the gun deck below, but also lowering Scylla's point of balance a little. He rocked back and forth slightly, feeling the ship through the soles of his boots, then glanced up at the wind vane.
“A point to starboard.”
Once more Banks waited while the change took effect. They were showing roughly the same canvas as the French, who had already proven themselves to be faster. He might add more sail, although that would only press her lower, and even decrease their speed, and Scylla's hull was skimming the ocean agreeably enough as it was. The extra strain would also be noticeable on her spars, and having already sprung one yard Banks knew he must be especially cautious.
“What do you see there, Michael?” he asked. The first lieutenant had been examining the oncoming ships through the come-up glass.
“They're gaining on us, sir.” Caulfield replied, looking down at the instrument and re-setting its knurled central wheel. “Not markedly, but I'd say we will be close to range within a couple of hours.”
Two hours; that would be five in the afternoon. The sun set around six and there would be minimal dusk: Banks doubted he would be able to avoid the French for quite so long.
“Why was I not summoned?” he asked finally, almost whispering although the intensity in his voice carried the words perfectly. Caulfield flushed, and looked away.
“It was remiss, sir, and had nothing to do with Lady Banks,” he replied. “The hands were involved with their celebrations, and I'd chance the lookouts became distracted.” It was no excuse, as both knew well.
“So the French were allowed to take the jump on us?”
The first lieutenant nodded.
“Who was officer of the watch?”
“Cahill, sir,” Caulfield told him, miserably. “And King was supervising the ceremony.”
The captain said nothing, although he did feel a measure of relief. He had been concerned about having remained uninformed, and at least that was not due to Sarah's presence. Cahill had sat and passed his board and was only awaiting an appointment as lieutenant, while he had served with King on several commissions. Both were experienced enough; he was even fond of them and either should have been able to maintain a keen lookout. It could well be that the masthead hands were not up to their duty, in which case they could be disrated or punished in another way, but it would be far worse for those in overall charge.
He himself might have been sound asleep below, but there was no actual fault in that: he was not on duty. King and Cahill had the deck and, whatever was going on about them, should have noticed the French, or at least ensured that the lookouts were paying proper attention. Ostensibly there was no excuse and Banks was reasonably certain that, should the matter be brought to court martial, they could only be broken.
The bell sounded six times, and brought him back to matters in hand. It was an hour before 'Up Spirits' and supper; that was too long to delay clearing for action, and there was every chance that topmen and trimmers would be wanted before then.
“Mr Caulfield, the people may take their grog and be fed as soon as is practical.”
The first lieutenant touched his hat, and nodded at Jackson, who had returned from his trip to the orlop. The afternoon meal would be light, probably nothing more than biscuit and cheese, so should be over relatively quickly. If they were to see action it would be better for the men to have full bellies, and a measure of grog inside them would do little harm either.
Banks turned and, deliberately ignoring the three faint images off the taffrail, began to pace the deck while below men, oddly shamed by the enemy's sudden encroachment, formed up for their food in unusual silence. This voyage was going from bad to worse, he decided. The diplomat he had been entrusted with had been allowed to die, while his widow seemed set on ruining him professionally. And even if she did not, the chances were high that his ship was about to be taken. There was no doubt that an impoverished French Government would greet the quarter million pound of gold stored below as manna from heaven, and now one of his favourite officers and most loyal followers, was likely to be dismissed the service. Then, to cap it all, Sarah, his wife had started to behave strangely.
She had been sick for almost a week, and was complaining of pains, giddiness and cramp. Banks prided himself on not being a fool; he knew well just what such symptoms might mean, and really did not think things could get any worse.
* * *
“You may stay where you are, or go to the cable tier,” Kate told her firmly. “Otherwise I shall have to send word to the captain, and he will doubtless have you confined.”
The surgeon, who was a reluctant witness to his wife's resolve, busied himself with the instruments and tried to stay anonymous. His medical team was moving down from the sickbay in advance of clearing for action, and he had already ordered the bulkheads struck from the midshipmen’s berths.
“This is not what I am accustomed to!” Lady Hatcher informed the cockpit in general. “Why, there is no light, no air; how can you think of treating people in such conditions?”
Kate softened slightly. “It is not always easy,” she confessed. “Though must be done. And when we clear for action it will be a good deal worse.”
“The more I see of the Royal Navy, the more I am disgusted.”
“If you wished to assist,” Kate said, hoping for a fellow spirit, “it would be more than welcome. The captain's wife shall be joining us presently. She helps if there is need, and I dare say you will not find caring for the wounded so very onerous. British seamen are usually most appreciative,” she continued. “And especially welcome the company of a female at such times.”
Lady Hatcher fixed her with a stare that even the dim light could not diminish. “I should no sooner lower myself to such work as I would beg on the streets,” she told her crisply.
“Then you had better send for your servant,” Kate replied. “I shall not be looking after you, and the rats in the hold can be rather tiresome I believe.”
* * *
At two bells in the first dog watch – exactly five o'clock – the first shot was fired, but fell short. Scylla was still heading to the south east with the westerly wind conveniently on her quarter and making just over eight knots, or so the log had informed them an hour earlier; Banks had no desire to cast the thing again. The French frigate was immediately behind and closing steadily, while both corvettes were travelling considerably faster, and creeping up to starboard on a more southerly heading. He stared at them now; they were out of range of his long guns and so were of no immediate threat, but could be expected to close at any moment. Having both of the smaller vessels attack from the same side meant that Scylla's firepower would be halved, and then reduced further when the French frigate seized the windward gauge, and joined them.
He had been pacing on and off for the past two hours, and now rested, conscious of the weariness in his legs and a faint tingle of sweat that ran down his back. There had been bad times in the past, plenty of them, but none seemed quite so desperate as the fix that now presented. And with his wife below, in what might well be a delicate condition, Banks knew he had more to lose than ever.
A second ball skipped once, before disappearing off their stern. It was ano
ther ranging shot, and from the frigate's bow chaser; presumably a nine pounder or something similar. Allowing for the continental method of gauging shot, the enemy's broadside guns would throw a ball more than double that weight, and there were twenty a side, not counting the carronades on her forecastle and quarterdeck. Both corvettes would only be carrying twelve pounders, but such a ball could still penetrate Scylla's hull and do her serious harm. If he fought he might sink one, and cause the other severe damage, but that was about as much as could be hoped for. There was no likely victory, no drawn-out battle that could foreseeably end in triumph. Men would die; he might be among them, and even if not there was only imprisonment and possibly injury to look forward to. And, he realised with a chill, such an outcome also awaited Sarah. She might be safe below on the orlop and, if captured, could probably expect to be exchanged eventually, but Scylla could easily take fire or explode, and there was no guarantee the French would treat a women prisoner especially well. And if he did fight it out to the end, where would be the advantage? His ship must still be taken or sunk. Really the only sensible thing he could do now would be to surrender.
He turned aside, vaguely conscious that his present train of thought was not constructive, and was pleased to see Caulfield standing at the break of the quarterdeck, talking with King, who must have come up from the deck below. He walked to meet them, aware that the eyes of the crew were on him as he nodded a greeting.
“Still out of range, sir,” the first lieutenant commented.
“Indeed, Mr Caulfield,” Banks agreed. “Though it is a situation that cannot last for much longer. Your guns are ready, Mr King?”
“Yes, sir,” the lieutenant replied. “Loaded with single ball, but they may be drawn and the load changed if you require.”
The young man's attitude, both keen yet strangely anticipatory, rather shocked the captain. It was the first time they had spoken since King allowed the French to close on them, and he might be anticipating punishment for his lack of care, although Banks sensed there was something else. His attention switched to Caulfield, who also appeared eager, and it suddenly occurred to him that both were expecting not only action, but eventual victory.
It came as quite a revelation, considering his recent thoughts; Banks had assumed the two men would be sharing his feelings, and glanced at both once more to assure himself that they did not. King had nothing to fight for; a future court martial would see him clear of the Navy, while Caulfield was getting too old to expect promotion to commander, and must long ago have ruled out any ambition of being made post. Yet there was a definite avidness about his officers that frankly shamed him. They had none of his misgivings, and seemed as ready to fight as if they had all to look forward to and were facing an enemy half their size.
“Very well,” he said awkwardly, before glancing up at the sails, and instinctively measuring the wind for both strength and direction. “Then you had better return to your gun crews, Mr King; I think it’s time that we began.”
Chapter Seven
At Flint's piece the men were certainly ready, and they also had no thoughts of surrender. Both guns were run out but they were grouped about Spitfire, the starboard gun, as that seemed the one most likely to be in use. All had taken their grog and now had relatively full stomachs, but the effect of the rum remained with them. Mitchell, who was in charge of the small team that manhandled the gun, was humming a lewd ditty to himself, while Hind, once more clad in seamen's rig, had been relating tales of previous engagements. The only one who seemed not to be thinking of the oncoming action was Dixon, who had settled on his haunches with arms wrapped about both knees dozing quietly, as was his habit.
“Starboard battery, stand to!” King gave the command as he slid down the quarterdeck ladder. He had no idea which side would be firing first, but knew it was important to get the men up and alert. Dixon yawned deeply, and rubbed his eyes, while Hind, who had almost frightened himself with the stories he had been concocting, licked his lips in nervous anticipation. Flint glanced about the men, who appeared ready, but apprehensive. They were all aware of the odds, while some also knew this was likely to end in defeat, and that in a battle lost the chances of death or disfigurement were that much higher. Consequently there was less of the tense excitement usual at the commencement of an action, instead the men seemed almost resigned to what was to come. In fact of them all, only Timmons showed any sign of delight at the coming fight.
Flint considered him as the rest of the team checked over the gun and its equipment. The man certainly was something of an enigma; he had come aboard from the pressing tender and yet, of all those taken on in that manner at Spithead, he was the only one to show little resentment at his seizing. Quite the reverse, in fact; he appeared to welcome the chance to get away from England, and had settled into the routine of life aboard Scylla faster than any. He was also an experienced seaman, yet had never travelled south of the equator before – not that there was anything terribly strange in that, but to kick up such a fuss over what was really nothing more than a little foolish horseplay went directly against what was expected of a regular hand.
Flint continued to watch the man surreptitiously as Timmons ran his fingers through the lamb’s wool 'sponge' that would soon be used to extinguish any burning debris in the gun barrel. He was not exactly a firebrand, and had never actually lost his temper in the mess, but there was an intensity about him that Flint did not like. And he was reasonably sure he was not alone; even after several weeks on board Timmons had yet to find a particular friend, and was one of the few who needed to ask for help when it came to tying his queue of a Sunday morning.
And then it came to Flint in a flash of intuition; the way Timmons was holding himself now, laughing, joking and clearly looking forward to the action when all about were far more pragmatic. The latent anger he held for Mitchell and Hind, even the fact that none of the ship's cats would have anything to do with him: these and many other subtleties in his manner that made up a surprisingly complex individual. Flint had known more than a few seamen who enjoyed a fight, some to such an extent that it was almost an addiction, and he wondered now if Timmons had taken such a trait one stage further. There was a type who actively enjoyed killing; he had met a few in his years at sea, and none had endeared themselves to him, or any other member of the crew come to that. Nasty, calculating, spiteful men, who took their pleasure from other people's pain; it was just his luck to have one in the mess and also under his command on the guns. He supposed something good might come of it; Timmons could turn out to be a solid man in a scrap, even if he were more likely to be looking after himself, and care nothing for those fighting alongside. But at least he felt he now knew the man for what he was, and could make sure Jameson was equally aware. Then, with sudden clarity, he remembered; of all the men of that type he had known, every single one had come to a bad end. And most had taken others with them.
* * *
Scylla turned hard to starboard and was soon close hauled and heading for the stern of the nearest corvette. The men had responded well, and with her bowlines taut, the ship made swift progress although there was little time to consider this: all had work to do. Banks moved to the starboard side and peered out, but the pursuing frigate, which had been taken by surprise by the move, was already out of the British ship's arc of fire, and only now starting to follow. No matter, their guns would be used soon enough.
“Will we be taking them to larboard, Sir?” Caulfield asked when the captain returned.
Banks shook his head. “No, I shall be altering course once more,” then, looking down to where the second lieutenant was waiting on the deck below, he shouted. “Divide your men, Mr King. Both batteries will be required, but wait upon my word.”
King touched his hat in response as the men began to separate so that each team was manning both pieces under their charge. Banks looked forward. At their speed and on the current course he hoped the two smaller ships would expect Scylla to attempt to rake their sterns,
just as Caulfield had. The move might have some merit, but it would be asking too much for the French to allow such an act and, even if they did, once more his firepower would be divided. Banks supposed that, like any good man of business, he had to get the best return from his assets, and that meant using them all, and to the greatest effect. Spray streamed back from the frigate's bows, drenching the men at the forward chasers and forecastle carronades, but none noticed or appeared to care. The corvettes had registered his move, and were turning to meet him, as he had expected. One was two cables forward, and slightly to the north of the other, and both had the wind almost directly behind them. It was all well and good; he was to be denied their vulnerable sterns, but would still be in line for what should prove a greater prize.
Banks caught the eye of the sailing master. “I shall be taking her to larboard, before correcting to our current heading, Mr Fraiser. Be ready if you please.” Fraiser nodded grimly and Banks knew that, however much he might morally disapprove, the Scot had an instinctive grasp of fighting tactics.
The two forces grew closer, until the nearest enemy was fine on Scylla's larboard bow. If Banks maintained the present course they would pass and exchange broadsides. Being the larger ship, it was likely that Scylla would do the greater damage, but she must then face the second corvette with her guns empty. He could attempt to turn later and bring his starboard battery into play, but it would be a tight manoeuvre and if Scylla took any damage aloft, or to her steering, one that was likely to fail. Should that happen the two smaller vessels might easily overwhelm her, even before the frigate joined the fray.
“Ready!” Banks called, holding his hand high. Then he brought it down with a flourish, and shouted: “Turn!”
Fraiser, at the binnacle, began to call out the orders while the helmsmen, primed and eager, wrenched down on the wheel until the spokes were almost a blur. The afterguard and waisters heaved back on the braces, and Scylla dipped her bows deep into the Atlantic, allowing more water to slop over the forward bulkwarks.