The Torrid Zone (The Fighting Sail Series)

by Alaric Bond

  “Will they not have protection?” Banks asked.

  “Oh, yes,” Booker replied. “The Company has an extensive fleet of armed ships that can sail with their fleet when the Royal Navy is unable to assist. They have been successful on numerous occasions, usually against pirates and small privateers, but none are larger than what you would term a sixth rate, and even those merchants that carry guns would be no match for a professional warship of such a size. You must understand, Sir Richard; our primary concern has to be the destruction of that frigate.”

  That was the trouble; he did understand; he understood all too clearly. But he could also see his own ship was likely to be destroyed in the attempt – indeed he would shortly be witnessing exactly that.

  * * *

  Caulfield also understood. From his position on the sloping quarterdeck of Scylla, he had the most to lose, and already guessed why the batteries that lay not three hundred yards off were still shielded in darkness, their guns cold and silent. Beside him the midshipman, Middleton, was shifting his weight from one foot to another as if eager for action of any sort, or desperate to answer some urgent call of nature. But he was merely a boy, whereas Caulfield remained the product of an older Navy: he had been taught about controlling emotions and was far more composed. The Frenchman was less than three cables off and sailing sweetly in the offshore breeze. She need only continue for a short while longer; extend the sweeping turn that he grudgingly admitted was a graceful curve, to bring her broadside to bear on them at a truly deadly range. Scylla would reply, of course: on the deck below men were ready now, and should not miss a target that large. But whatever damage the British were able to dole out would be repaid several times over by the enemy when they drew alongside.

  Caulfield wondered at the result. Scylla might be knocked off her precarious perch, and, with the gaping wound to larboard, was certain to sink, right there at the anchorage. But even if such a thing were avoided, with the rear half of her hull almost clear of the water she was as open and vulnerable as any ship could be. Most of the shot would be taken effectively below her waterline, calling for truly extensive repairs or, more likely, Scylla would just have to be towed out to sea and scuttled.

  But the enemy still had to reach them and, as he watched, an extra manoeuvre was being carried out aboard her. The anchorage was reasonably constant at ten to fifteen fathoms, but he remembered a slight area of shoal just about where the frigate now lay. It shelved, but not extensively, probably down to eight fathoms. Nowhere near enough to ground her, but possibly sufficient to cause a measure of alarm should the French be taking soundings, or if their charts were not completely accurate.

  Caulfield's attitude of calm started to waver, and he found himself begin to twitch slightly. Even as he watched the enemy turned more sharply to starboard. Deep water would be found almost immediately, but now the Frenchman was positioned slightly further out into the bay, and at a less advantageous angle. She would not be able to close on Scylla without further manoeuvres and must continue towards them, almost head on, and then make a last minute turn, in order to lay herself alongside.

  His foot began to tap as an idea formed in his mind, and soon he was every bit as restless as the midshipman next to him. Cahill was in charge of the guns below; he was a capable enough fellow, and one who held the respect of all the hands, but Caulfield wondered if he would also have the sense to direct their fire to where it would do the most damage. He decided there was only one way to be certain.

  “Stay here,” he snapped at the boy. “If the French make it alongside secure the men. I shall endeavour to return should they try to board.”

  The child looked doubtful, but Caulfield was already heading for the officers' companionway. To desert the quarterdeck in the face of an oncoming enemy might be considered bad form, but there was a chance, just a slight one, that what he had in mind might cause damage enough to mitigate the danger.

  On the lower deck men were gathered about the three guns that were run out to starboard. The ship was cleared for action, so no bulkheads or partitions of any sort lay between them, and the crews were openly discussing the oncoming enemy, while Cahill paced back and forth behind them.

  “How are you loaded?” Caulfield demanded as he approached.

  “Single round, sir,” Cahill replied quickly. “But I was about to order a dose of grape into the bargain.” He seemed surprised, but not sorry that the senior officer had joined them.

  “Belay that, but retain the round,” Caulfield snapped. “And hold your fire.”

  “They are almost in range,” the master's mate protested. “Hind's pretty much got sight of her prow, an' the others aren't that far behind,” he continued, as the men stared back at Caulfield in disbelief. “We was thinking to get two, maybe three shots in before they reached us.”

  “Hold your fire!” the first lieutenant repeated, as he bounded up the sloping deck towards them. “I have an idea.”

  * * *

  The seamen had arrived on the wharf several minutes before, and now spilled out so that each could get a clear view of the action. They consisted of the starboard watch, who were due shore leave that evening, together with any idlers and those of the larboard who had expressed an interest in seeing the battle, and all were under the supervision of Lieutenant Cherry. The marine officer was in overall charge of Scylla's crew billeted ashore and had seen little wrong in allowing most of the men out of their barracks at once, even though he accepted that some might not return by the prescribed time. There was nothing they could physically do to save their ship, but Cherry reasoned that to continue relying on second hand news from HEIC soldiers and other such sources would create more tension, and possibly lead to greater trouble, than trusting the men to behave themselves. Still, his entire force of marines was accompanying them, and he had spoken with Lewis before selecting those of the larboard watch who would effectively be given extra leave. Strangely, Timmons was included in the latter. His behaviour, which was not normally of the finest, had improved considerably of late and the master's mate considered him worthy of the risk.

  And so he was proving. Most had filed obediently through the streets of Jamestown with only a few attempting to deviate into one of the punch houses, and finally allowed themselves to be herded over the drawbridge to where they now watched, spellbound. They were standing in a ragged line as the Frenchman, only dimly visible from that level, headed relentlessly for their own stricken ship. Some were making ribald comments with differing levels of humour that ranged from expert opinion to wild speculation, but all followed the developments with professional interest and Timmons, it seemed, was no exception.

  They stood in groups that were roughly defined by their allocated messes: he had engineered a place next to Mitchell, the heavily built holder, and seemed to be getting along with him surprisingly well. No mention had ever been made of the bigger man's behaviour during the line crossing ceremony; such trivial matters would have been wiped from Mitchell's mind long ago, and most of Flint's mess were unaware that one of their number still held a grudge. Something far more interesting was taking place in the anchorage before them, and Timmons seemed as fixed on the fate of their ship as any.

  But Timmons had not forgotten; neither would he. And, however much he may play the part of a genial messmate, nod wisely at the big oaf's inane comments, and make the odd supportive suggestion, his mind was actually on another tack and prospect completely.

  He could not care less about Scylla. One ship was very much the same as another to him, and those who attached personalities and even plied affection on what was really no more than a floating prison were entitled to sympathy or derision as far as he was concerned. But he was still apparently watching, and from his attitude and general countenance, no one would have guessed that the fate of his former home was not at the forefront of his mind.

  “And what damned good would that be?” Mitchell demanded loudly, in response to Flint's assertion that a spring was needed on the
anchor cable. “They ain't hardly any guns mounted, so there's no point in moving the barky about.”

  “They still got a few at the stern,” Flint replied evenly.

  “And could have kept more on the forecastle rigged, if only they'd 'ad the sense.” Dixon added for good measure.

  “A few ain't gonna stop a Frog that size,” Timmons replied. He wasn't usually one for shouting out in public but had his own reasons for wanting to support the holder: Hind was his other intended target but, being a painter, he was aboard Scylla. Consequently Timmons was planning to make it Mitchell's lucky night.

  “Even if they'd got the guns, they're not going to do much firing,” another added, further up the line. “Way she's rigged it wouldn't take more than a few rounds from an eighteen to see the barky off the barge; then she'll go straight to the bottom without any help from the French.”

  “Ask me the best thing they could do is abandon her now,” Timmons again; to him the idea of being stranded on a Company island appealed to him greatly. They might be there for months while the Navy decided what to do with them, and he could get up to quite a bit of mischief in that time.

  “Still, if they got the guns, they should be usin' them,” Flint persisted. “One or two shots might not cause much 'arm, yet it would only take a lucky hit to make all the difference.

  * * *

  Several hundred yards to the east and fifty feet up, Banks was also starting to wonder why Scylla's meagre armament was not in use. The Frenchman must be within her arc by now; surely they could start taking pot shots at her bows, and yet even the few guns the British frigate still mounted stayed silent. The sound of a door closing to his right made him turn, and he could just make out the forms of Morris and the other gunnery officer as they strode down the rampart behind the backs of the HEIC gunners.

  “She's firing again, sir,” King prompted, and Banks looked back to see the last glimmer of light from the Frenchman's twin bow chasers. Despite the deviation, the frigate had regained a good position, confirming his assessment of the enemy captain's ability. The French could continue now, and then turn once more just as they were closing with Scylla. Set, as she was, the British ship was clearly poorly armed, so there would be little risk to the Frenchman's vulnerable prow; even if all of Scylla's remaining guns fired on her hull, they would do little damage. But, once she had completed her turn, the enemy could come alongside and pound his ship into a total wreck. And being so close meant that, when Morris did decide to use his guns, it would be all but impossible for them to miss Scylla. In fact, placed as she was, she was probably more liable to be hit than the Frenchman. For the hundredth time he told himself the strategy made sense, but to watch his command be systematically blown to pieces, and by both enemy and friendly fire alike, felt like more than he could possibly stand.

  * * *

  Hind's cannon was to be first. He was used to serving although had never actually captained a piece before but, as he squinted down the barrel with all the aplomb of a seasoned gunner, no one would have guessed. His right hand was raised, and the servers proceeded to heave the massive lump to one side. Hind knew that both of Flint's cannon had the habit of firing to the left. This particular gun was unknown to him, but it would probably be similar in performance, and he made a small allowance for the tendency. It would have been much easier to simply aim at the oncoming ship's bows; a large and inviting target that Hind felt he could have hit nine times out of ten, but the first lieutenant had called for a far harder mark. The enemy would soon turn and was already slowing slightly, so he took a second or two to be certain. Then, standing to one side and glancing quickly at Caulfield, he pulled the firing line.

  The gun spoke before flying back and rearing up slightly, the forward carriage wheels actually leaving the deck as her motion was checked by the breach rope. Scylla's very fabric shook, and Caulfield could not be certain if her angle had altered, but there was no point in worrying over such a detail. Hind shouted to his servers who had rushed to the gun port to see the result. Whether he had hit or not made little difference; with luck they might still get one more shot in before the enemy blew them apart.

  Davis was next, and had already lined up his gun and was preparing to fire when the news of Hind's miss came from those at the third gun.

  “Couldn't see no sight, nor passage,” one of the loaders told them mournfully. Caulfield took a turn about the deck to disguise his disappointment. For an untrained gunner to hit a moving foremast with a strange cannon was a lot to ask, but still he had secretly hoped for more.

  The second gun was duly discharged, and the servers hurried to reload. Those at Hind's gun were still in the process of clearing their piece and the third, captained by Jehu, was waiting to fire. With all otherwise occupied, Caulfield himself went forward to an empty port and peered out at the Frenchman.

  She was completely undamaged, and had closed considerably. As he watched the wind caught her sails and she began to pick up speed. Caulfield knew only too well that, once she turned, it would take no more than three or four minutes for her main broadside guns to have Scylla in their sights. Hind might get another shot in, and possibly Davis, but Jehu seemed to be taking an unbelievably long time to fire his, and it was likely to be the only chance he would get.

  The gun finally erupted in a cacophony of sound just as Hind's men signalled their piece ready. Caulfield was still peering through the empty port, and noted a small hole appear by the leech of the enemy's topsail; that was poor shooting; despite his care, Jehu must have totally misjudged the gun's performance, and effectively wasted the shot. Hind was squaring his piece, but soon it would be too late and, even as he watched the enemy opened fire once more with her two forward-mounted chasers.

  “Left a little.” Hind was still lining up, but now the enemy frigate was starting to turn and would become harder to keep a bead on than ever. “A little more...”

  Caulfield drew back from the port; even if they hit her, it was unlikely to stop the Frenchman, and he really should be considering returning to the upper deck. It would be futile to offer further resistance; the best that could be done for his men was organise an evacuation. They had the long boat and a cutter moored off Scylla's larboard side; the two would be large enough to take all those still aboard. Then Hind's cannon spoke for a second time, and the result was greeted with a roar from all about.

  * * *

  The Frenchman had been hit just above the foretop; the entire topmast instantly began to crumble and topple in a confusion of canvas and line while the ship, thrown off balance by the loss of forward pressure, slowed and all but came to a stop, her tattered canvas fluttering in the wind.

  “You have your stationary target, Major!” Banks roared, caring little if the whole damn world heard. Being forced to witness his command so exposed and so soon to be destroyed was akin to watching a much-loved child about to be bullied. The sight of Scylla finally striking back, and doing so effectively, thrilled him in a way he could never have anticipated.

  A shrill whistle cut through the night, followed by Morris' cold words: “B battery, prepare to fire.” The gunners had been following the course of the Frenchman and little adjustment was necessary. “On my word: three, two, one – shoot!”

  When heard from behind a parapet made of brick and stone, the broadside sounded sharper than any either of the two naval officers had known aboard ship. But, painful or not, the noise was like the sweetest music to their dulled ears. From what Banks could see, the enemy frigate had been neatly straddled, but there was no time wasted on congratulation and, still working in almost complete darkness, the gunners served their pieces with commendable speed. But before they could be run out once more, another barrage came from the westward battery.

  This was more dangerously sited, as far as Scylla was concerned; the angle meant they must effectively fire past the British frigate to hit the Frenchman. The greater distance did mean that their light was not so blinding however, so the effect of the shots c
ould be viewed more easily. Banks drew a quick intake of breath; despite the fact that this was their opening barrage, the enemy ship was hit at least twice while no shot apparently went close to Scylla. And now the guns next to him were ready, and almost immediately fired off once more. King had moved forward and was staring down at the Frenchman with his hand held up against his eyes to retain some degree of night sight.

  “Main t'gallant's gone,” he reported with ill- concealed glee. “An' I'd say the rest of her top-hamper has taken a pounding.”

  “And another, lads! Let's show them we don't care!” The voice of Robson almost made Banks jump: he had forgotten all about the lieutenant governor’s presence on the parapet, and was surprised that the man stood so close.

  “The standard of gunnery does you credit, Colonel,” he said, despite himself. Seeing the enemy hit, and hit decisively, while his ship remained undamaged had done much to restore his humour.

  Robson bowed slightly. “Thank you, Sir Richard; we take such things rather seriously. You will forgive me but there are none of your Admiralty's beggarly doling out of powder in the HEIC; all practice weekly for just such an occasion, and when one occurs, are suitably ready.”

  Banks nodded, but said nothing; he was in no mood to defend his service, especially after such an eloquent demonstration of marksmanship: he had seldom seen better.

  “In situations such as this, damage to spars is far more valuable than any hit on her hull,” Booker added, his tone strangely conversational amid the furore of heavy guns being served. “The French do not have access to the supplies we carry, so subsequent repair is far more difficult. And the target may even be dismasted; in which case we can sink her at our leisure.”