The Torrid Zone (The Fighting Sail Series)

by Alaric Bond

  The seaman brushed the glass aside in contempt. “Never could use them things, and surely can't now. But I could see a ship clear enough, and she'll be gone in no time lest we do somethin' about it.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Banks arrived almost simultaneously with Robert Manning, who King had decided would also be needed. The latter was still dressed in his nightshirt and seemed somewhat bemused, but answered readily enough when the captain interrogated him.

  “Stiles, yes I examined the man this morning. A prominent mydriatic dilation of the pupils, combined with an inability to compensate for strong light: the two are closely linked, sir,” he said. “No sign of tumour or infection; the first can be an indicant of cranial haemorrhage, but there are no supporting symptoms.”

  “And your prognosis?” Banks demanded.

  “I'm no physician, sir.” Manning shrugged; as a surgeon he could pop cataracts or remove a splinter but there any expertise regarding eyes pretty much ended. In fact the information he had given was actually the product of private study. “It may pass off, or could be an early signal of something more sinister. I would not care to speculate.”

  The captain turned away, and stared out into the darkness once more. “There was nothing from the masthead?” he snapped.

  “Nothing, sir,” King confirmed.

  “You are certain?” Banks was centring on Stiles, who lowered himself slightly under the great man's inspection.

  “I'm as certain as I can be, sir,” he mumbled. “It sure looked like a ship to me.”

  “But you cannot see it now?”

  “No, sir,” Stiles confessed miserably. “That I cannot.”

  Banks was starting to fume; the ghost of a sighting was far worse than none at all. They might move to investigate, but that meant abandoning their valuable position to windward. And, even if the French were out there, on such a night no one could guarantee they would be found. He glared about, hoping for something that might give him inspiration, and naturally his gaze fell on the officer of the watch.

  “What do you know of this man?” he demanded of King. “Has he proven reliable in the past?”

  The lieutenant hesitated. “He was in error before, sir. During the crossing ceremony.”

  Banks swung around and directed his full attention back at Stiles, who was now looking particularly wretched.

  “Yes, it was you; I remember,” the captain said. “Let them close unreported as I recall.”

  “It might have been a mistake, sir,” the seamen muttered. He was certain as ever of the sighting but had been addressed by his captain in such a manner once before and felt no need for a reminder.

  “You there, Middleton,” Banks barked at the nearest midshipman. “Take a glass to the masthead and tell me what you see. If there is a ship, do not call out; use a backstay.”

  The lad was off, eager to be free of the confrontation as anything, and they waited while he skimmed up the shrouds. For more than a minute he was out of sight then, with the sound like that of rushing water, a body was finally seen flowing down the taught line, and the midshipman bounced nimbly back onto the deck.

  “Well?” Banks demanded. They all held their breaths, but the lad shook his head.

  “Nothing I can see, sir. And Piper is at the masthead; he is certain no ship passed him by.”

  “Piper couldn't spot the nose in front of his face,” Stiles murmured, then stopped suddenly as he remembered where he was, and who could hear.

  “And you can do better?” Banks demanded. “You who was too distracted to see an enemy squadron in broad daylight, and only today reported problems with your own eyesight?”

  Stiles lowered his head further but said nothing while Banks all but stamped his foot on the deck in frustration.

  “Is it possible, medically, I mean?” he asked Manning.

  “The pupils are constantly dilated,” the surgeon replied. “So in theory his night vision is unaffected and may even be improved. Yet such a condition would undoubtedly present problems during the day, or in bright lights. As to the cause, sir, I could not hazard a guess.”

  Banks cared little for the reason, but what Manning said made a modicum of sense. And as Stiles was trained for such duty, his eyesight should normally be of the highest order.

  “Call all hands and bring her to the wind – topsails and forecourse,” Banks snapped, suddenly coming to a decision. “Make no signal to the packet, if she follows, so much the better. But I will not have unnecessary lights, with luck we will find her once more at dawn.”

  The watch on deck seemed to shatter into fragments of silent activity as they attended the sails, while those who had been below for little more than two hours came tumbling up, rosy and steaming, from their hammocks. Stiles gratefully retreated from the quarterdeck and went to find his gun, where Flint and his mates were bound to be waiting for him. When rated as lookout he was used to starting a deal of action, but never before had there been such a situation, and never before was he so unsure of himself. But then what did he have to lose? If his eyesight really was failing he had no future as a seaman, and may as well go down causing a stir as not. He was still stubbornly convinced of what he had seen; the enemy were definitely out there, although finding them was going to be an entirely different matter.

  “Blimey, Stiles – you really are in the suds this time,” Dixon told him, with more than a hint of respect. “You certain you saw that Frenchie, are you?”

  Stiles rubbed at his eyes, which had now caused him far more trouble than they were worth.

  “Reckon I am,” he said.

  * * *

  The ship herself awoke with the minimum of fuss, and began to creep forward, only the groaning of timbers and an occasional squeal from her tackle betraying the fact that she was once more a living creature. The gunners, now divided between both batteries, squatted patiently next to their allotted pieces, while most of the midshipmen were assembled on the forecastle, the foretop and the main crosstrees, each eager to be the first to spot a hidden enemy. The rain was now falling heavily, and all were thoroughly soaked, although it was doubtful if any noticed, so tense had the atmosphere become. Everyone was silent, as they had been ordered to be but Banks, standing by the binnacle, was especially so and felt as if he had been cast from stone. His body was rigid and his eyes set forward, apparently unblinking, despite the atrocious weather. Sense and reason told him that this was a waste of time; the man, Stiles, had already proven himself to be unreliable; they were simply giving up their hard won advantage on the whim of a fool. Yet there was another inner feeling that said otherwise, something in the seaman's hauteur and the fact that he bothered to alert his betters and then stick to his story until only universal doubt and intimidation finally wore him down. Such a stance might carry the blame for a thousand other similar ventures: armies being raised by what came down to the intuition of one sentry, a ship changing course because the officer of the watch sensed an uncharted rock, or a lad that thought he saw the flash of breakers. There was every reason to believe the enemy did lie ahead of course, but in a crew of nearly three hundred the fact that only one had eyes sharp enough to see them was a wild enough conjecture to begin with, without including the man's medical condition and past history of unreliability. Still, Banks felt in his bones that Stiles was right, and was already steeling himself to act when news of the enemy's position came through.

  But at the end of quarter of an hour, in which time they had sighted nothing other than a further bank of heavy rain, even he began to grow restless. The hands at the quarterdeck guns were whispering softly to one another, and there was the start of what might become laughter from further forward. Banks felt himself unbend; the pain in his joints was telling him just how much he needed sleep, and his annoyance at having been robbed of the much-needed rest had grown to the extent that he was finally raising his arms to stretch, when there came a ripple of interest from the forecastle.

  Caulfield and Fraiser exchanged glances
; the lads grouped forward were certainly excited about something, and there was what might have been a small cry. Then one of the young gentlemen, a volunteer who had only joined them at Spithead, broke away from the others and began to scamper along the sodden starboard gangway.

  “It's them, the French,” he spluttered as he tripped at the break of the quarterdeck, and almost slipped on the soaked planks.

  “Make your report, if you please, Mr Steven,” Caulfield said firmly, and the lad seemed to take stock, before addressing the captain in a far more formal manner.

  “Frenchman sighted off the starboard bow, sir,” he said, his voice quavering slightly. “We're comin' up on her stern; there's a small light on deck, so them's certain.”

  “Which ship is she?” Banks asked.

  The lad shook his head. “No way of knowing, to be sure, sir,” he said, before adding in a more confidential tone. “There's quite an argument goin' on amongst the oldsters.”

  All could appreciate the difficulties – the vaguest outline of a hull, probably barely glimpsed and then only for a few seconds, would be almost impossible to identify.

  “She's hove to, an' there's not much to judge her by,” the lad continued. “If it's the frigate she's further off, or it could be the corvette, and not so far,” he added lamely.

  Or a different ship entirely, and they were on a goose chase, Banks finished for the lad. But he had not voiced his thoughts and, to be fair, the likelihood of another vessel of any size being in such a position was slight. Even if they had found one of the Eastern fleet she would hardly be hove to so close to her destination.

  “Very well, Mr Steven. Return to the forecastle, but keep me informed,” Banks ordered, then looked towards Caulfield and Fraiser. “We shall behave as if it is the frigate that has been located,” he told them, while the messenger skidded off. “Bring her a point to starboard for now, but prepare to take us further upon my word.”

  Fraiser touched his hat, and muttered to the quartermaster, “Mr Middleton, my compliments to Mr King, and can he man the larboard battery – larboard, you have that?” The boy nodded eagerly. “Tell him to wait until we turn, I shall attempt to rake. There will be no need for broadsides; he may order independent fire as soon as a suitable target presents.”

  Now the stakes really had risen, and it was all any of the officers could do to not break into conversation, while the nearby hands were whispering intently to each other as they took up their positions. Cherry had assembled his marines along the larboard bulwark. The uniformed men were in the process of fixing bayonets when there was further excitement from the forecastle.

  “She's seen us!” a voice rang out from the darkness. “Seen us and is taking the wind.”

  That, Banks supposed, was inevitable but however much she might try, Scylla was already in motion and must be making a good five knots.

  “What ship is she?” Caulfield's shout brought no immediate answer, then a cautious voice replied.”

  “We think it the frigate, sir; least, most of us do. She is still more'n a cable off, so it is impossible to be certain.”

  That was far closer than any of the officers had anticipated. If it did turn out to be the larger ship, and they were able to get in a decent rake for their opening gambit, much of the fight would be knocked out of her. The corvette, on the other hand, could even be sunk, but in her case a broadside would signal their presence, and probably bring the frigate down upon them.

  Caulfield had moved to the larboard bulwark and was leaning out precariously, his hat wedged tightly under one arm, and the rain streaming down his head, making him look almost entirely bald.

  “I have her!” he shouted back. “And she is less than a cable away – but it's the corvette and she is starting to move to larboard.

  So much the better, Banks thought. Such a manoeuvre would actually place the Frenchman in even greater danger when Scylla took her starboard turn, although he would still have wished it to be the larger ship.

  “We're close on her now, sir!” Caulfield called back anxiously, and Banks nodded to Fraiser.

  Scylla heeled slightly as the helm was pulled back. Braces were adjusted to keep pace with the wind, and all talking stopped as the gunners stood to. The turn was tight and savage, and Banks almost gasped as the lines of the French warship could finally be seen over the larboard bulwarks. From somewhere forward King's voice rang out as he spoke to his gunners, but no other order was necessary; all knew their duty well enough. A flash split the night, and was followed almost immediately by another, and soon the sound of heavy artillery echoed all about them. It was as if some terrible and unfairly captured beast had escaped and was set on wreaking revenge.

  “Splendid, sir, splendid!” Caulfield screamed above the din, and Banks felt drawn to join him by the ship's side. The enemy was certainly badly damaged; a fire had started inside the corvette's great cabin, and by its light her wrecked stern could be seen. Then, almost as they watched, the flames crept through to her upper deck, and she began to fall off the wind, her rudder apparently broken or destroyed. It was clear to all that the ship could be of little danger to them now but, on the downside, the fire must draw the other warship in, were she in sight. Banks looked up at his own command. Her canvas, stretched tight and drawing beautifully, stood out as clear as any signal in the light from the flames: they would have to move a considerable distance before darkness could save them.

  “Masthead, what do you see there?” he bellowed. A midshipman's voice came back to him faintly.

  “Nothing else in sight, sir.”

  Banks grunted to himself – that may well be the case, but he would hardly have trusted the most seasoned lookout to have kept his night sight while the corvette's funeral pyre was burning so close by. He was half considering sending Stiles back up to his old station; whatever the problem with the man's eyes, it was obvious it did not affect his vision in the dark, but before he could come to a decision the current lookout's voice rang out.

  “Deck there, sail to leeward!” All on the quarterdeck waited; even the sounds of guns being let off indiscriminately in the stricken corvette were ignored. “She's close hauled off our larboard beam, and steering to cut us off.”

  “Keep her as she is!” Banks positively roared, so anxious was he that they did not give up their valuable position. Scylla had picked up speed after her turn, and was now making good progress with the wind almost abeam.

  “How far off?” Caulfield prompted.

  “A mile, no more and probably less. She should be in plain sight of the deck in this light.”

  “I have her!” King's voice came from forward, and Banks realised that he must be the hatless officer whose body was picked out in the light as it hung from the main shrouds. The larboard battery was likely to be in use again at any moment; Banks looked down, and was pleased to see that most of the guns were already reloaded. Reassured, his attention returned to the bulwark where Caulfield was staring out.

  “Off our bow, sir,” the first lieutenant said, pointing into the dark.

  Banks looked, and sure enough the outline of a ship could be seen by the flickering light of the corvette's flames. He had known the distance but to see her so close, bowlines tight and making a good speed, still surprised him. This was the moment he had dreaded, when the sight of his nemesis, well-managed and seemingly heading for an advantage, would wipe any confidence he had in his own ship and men. But there were no such faithless thoughts, and Banks had time to curse himself forever worrying that there might have been. His enemy was a seaman, just as he was; there was nothing magical about him or his ship: both would be as vulnerable to fire or shot, as Banks was determined to prove.

  “Starboard two points,” he shouted back at Fraiser. The move would slow them, but he would far rather receive this particular adversary with a full broadside than meet her bowsprit to bowsprit.

  Banks and Caulfield continued to watch, the sight of a powerful and potent enemy charging down on them being f
ar too fascinating to ignore. Despite Scylla's change of course there was no possibility of the Frenchman taking the lead and crossing her bows: if Banks had been the other ship's captain he would even have allowed his vessel to fall off a point or two. He went to comment as much to Caulfield, then noticed that his opponent was doing exactly that, and his estimation of the other man's skill was once more confirmed. But the two ships were closing by the second; it was a question of who would blink first.

  The closer they were when they did finally release a broadside, the greater the chance of significant damage to the other vessel, but that must be outweighed by the potentially longer time taken to serve the guns when they themselves were hit. Banks continued to watch, his hands gripping the top rail hard enough to cause actual pain; then, as the first spark of the enemy's fire was seen, he bellowed for his own guns to reply.

  Scylla's broadside was as close to instantaneous as could have been planned, and both ships rolled back under the combined forces of recoil and barrage. An area of bulwark almost next to where Banks and Caulfield stood exploded under the impact of a heavy shot that struck just above the level of the deck and the resultant cloud of splinters cut a swath through men serving the nearby carronade. Screams and shouted orders merged into one horrendous din as blocks began to fall from Scylla's tophamper. One of the mizzen backstays was suddenly set free, and whipped about the deck, knocking a midshipman down in its travel. A helmsmen apparently disappeared as if he had never existed, but the wheel remained undamaged and the man's place was taken without the need for any order. Banks' gaze switched to the French frigate, and he was disappointed to notice no change in her appearance. Scylla's shots had certainly hit, and yet the enemy seemed untouched as she ploughed on through the dark waters. He turned back, disappointed, to notice something else amiss by their own binnacle. He had to look twice before realising that the sailing master, whose stolid form seemed to have become a permanent fixture, was now unaccountably missing. He glanced up and down the deck, but could not see the man, then noticed a body, clad in an old black watch coat, which lay crumpled on the deck.