"English, dammit!" Alan cried, forced to step aside from the glittering bayonet point, and the musket shoved between his arm and his side as he ended up close enough to count the marine's remaining teeth. "Stop that!"
"Oh, 'scuse me, Mister Lewrie, sir!" the marine said, once more in possession of his faculties, spinning about on his heel and plunging aft into the fight once more without a backward glance, leaving Alan shaking with the closeness and stupidity of his near-death.
"Alan," Avery called, coming out of the night with his uniform facings flashing. "Are you hurt?"
"Scared so bad I wouldn't trust mine own arse with a fart," Alan said. "That damned bullock almost knackered me."
"Well, this is turning into a bloody shambles!" Avery spat, wiping his cutlass blade on the swinging hammock that had lately contained a man.
There was a deep boom off in the night, a cannon fired as an alarm to wake the other ships to the raiders in their midst. Lights began to appear on the distant decks as crews came up on deck to peer into the night to see where the danger was.
For the moment, anyway, the fighting was over, for the small French civilian merchant crew had surrendered, and those few who had been below were being chivvied on deck at sword point. Very few people really had been killed or hurt. They were not paid to take the risks of naval seamen and had caved in almost before they had rubbed the sleep out of their eyes, the only resistance being the anchor watch around the wheel and binnacle and those mates that had gotten on deck from the officers' cabins aft.
"She's empty," Railsford told them as he came up on the gangways. "They've already unloaded her. Looks like she was carrying troops. Nothing of value. Who was that idiot who said pont of the guard?"
"Somebody aft, sir," Avery said.
"Forrester, I'll be bound," Railsford said. "Only a perfect little Latin student could cling to pontis instead of bateau."
"Ship or boat was classis, sir," Avery advised. "Pontis was bridge."
"And fuck you too, Avery," Railsford growled, going aft to the men by the wheel.
"If the truth be known, Avery," Alan drawled, wiping and sheathing his own cutlass, "classis was fleet; navis was ship, and boat would be a linter, cymba, scapha or, in rare usages, navicula."
"Do tell," Avery snapped.
"And to compound the error, pons was the singular, pontis the plural…" Alan went on, as though nothing had happened of any consequence to their chances for prize-money, and escape.
"Yes, Mr. Dorne," Avery cried, with great exasperation. He walked away.
"Cables're free!" The shout came from the fo'c's'le.
"Avery, Lewrie," Railsford called. "Attend to getting the ship under way!"
The foredeck party had already gotten a jib hoisted and had let fly the spritsail under the jib-boom to get a forward way on their prize so the rudder could get a bite and allow them steerage-way. Alan led three men aloft onto the foremast to cut loose the harbor gaskets from the foretops'l for more speed. Before they could even gain the foretop, however, the hull drummed to several cannon balls fired from the ships to their lee.
"Warship off the starboard bow, sir!" the foredeck party called.
There was something out there, something not too big—another of those damned cutters, perhaps, or a sloop of war.
"We're in the quag now, sir," one of the hands told Lewrie as they gathered in the foretop ready to scuttle out the tops'l footropes.
Small as the enemy might be, they would have artillery which could punch through the frail scantlings of a merchantman, and a crew of trained men ready to board and retake the ship from them.
By God, I'm beginning to wonder if we can do anything right any more, Alan cursed to himself.
"Burn her!" Railsford announced. "Lash the wheel and set her alight. By God, they'll not have her!"
"Back to the deck," Alan ordered. "Daniels, secure our jolly boat!"
"Aye, sir!" the man replied. "We're gonna be needin' it."
They scrambled back down to the deck and began to gather up anything they could find that was flammable, which on a ship was considerable. Within minutes they had a fine little fire going below decks in the waist, made from the straw bedding the soldiers had used before being disembarked.
"Lash the wheel!" Railsford yelled. "Make sure we leave no one behind, now. Into the boats and abandon ship!"
"Anyone hurt from our party?" Lewrie asked his most senior hand by the larboard foremast chains.
"All here, sir," the petty officer informed him. "Even the marines is here!"
"Into the boat, then, hurry," Alan said, looking over his shoulder at how the fire had spread already and was beginning to leap above the gangways to gnaw at the rigging and the base of the masts. He was last to leave the deck after looking around for anyone he recognized still standing or left wounded and discarded in a dark corner. Before he spun away, the French warship had already opened fire with her bow-chasers, and one iron ball slammed hard into the merchantman's hull and flung broken wood everywhere, making him duck and scramble over the side. With a slashed forebrace for a manrope, he lowered himself close to the waiting jolly boat and jumped the last few feet, landing roughly on some of his men who were struggling to ship their oars, making them all curse and grumble.
"Shove off," he ordered, stumbling over their legs and feet to his place at the tiller. "Out oars, there! Give way all!"
As long as they were in the lee of the burning prize, they were safe from the warship's attentions, but that situation could not last long.
The ship was now being pounded to matchwood by the French sloop of war, and was well alight but still under way heading west on the making tide and the slight wind for the rest of the anchorage, while their hope of rescue lay east. Within a moment they would lie exposed on the open waters to the guns of the sloop of war, and would be hopelessly vulnerable targets. Taking Railsford's course as a fine example, Alan steered for the darkness to the south and the black shore beyond the other ships.
"Gawd, they got guts, sir," Daniels said in awe, pointing aft. When Alan looked over his shoulder he could see that the sloop of war, a fine brig-rigged ship of at least fourteen guns, had come about to run down on the burning merchantman, either to nudge her out of the way or put a crew aboard to put her helm over to steer her away from the rest of the threatened transports.
"May they roast in hell for their pains," Alan said, but it did give them a chance to escape, which Railsford took at once, waving an arm and pointing them back east toward where Desperate was anchored, away from the transports and the possible guard boats that would be gathering to intercept them.
"Row like Satan was after you!" Alan encouraged. "Put your backs into it like you never did before."
They tried, he gave them credit for that, but it was a hard row. The tide was against them and splash and dip as they might, sending the boat surging forward with each stroke, they seemed to make no progress at all. He was almost despairing of them keeping up such a furious pace when a gun discharged somewhere and sent at least a six-pound ball humming over them, close enough to wind them with its passage and splash a cable off.
"Who goes there?" an English voice called into the night.
"Desperate!" Railsford shouted back. "Ahoy, the ship!"
"Come alongside!"
"Thank Christ," Alan breathed. "Easy all."
Desperate had raised her anchors at the first sign of alarm to come to their rescue, since nearly a full third of her crew was off on the raid. She loomed out of the dark, a hard shadow still showing no lights and let her boats nuzzle up to her by her chainwales and entry ports even as she continued to gather way.
"Quickly, now!" Treghues's voice could be heard urging them from the quarterdeck. "Lead the boats astern after the people are on deck. Mister Monk, lay her nor'-nor'-west. Mister Toliver, hands to the braces to wear ship. Mister Gwynn, we can use some of your gunners on the sheets and the braces."
Life on the Desperate could be drab and dull,
the food could approach swill at times and Treghues could be an unpredictable martinet, but every man jack was exceedingly delighted to get back on board.
"I shall expect your report in the morning, Mister Railsford," the captain said as the ship turned onto her new course and the confusion of overworked hands and frightened arrivals began to sort themselves out to their duty stations. "What a muddle!"
Lewrie went to the larboard gangway for a moment before joining his gunners in the waist. The French prize that had almost been theirs was now turned crabwise and though still burning fiercely was no longer any danger to her consorts, some of which had cut their cables in their eagerness to avoid being set on fire. However, the sloop of war was heading their way.
There were other warships to seaward of them, but of no immediate concern, and by the light of the fire they could espy no ship of any strength that could beat up to windward on the light breeze against that tide to reach them before dawn.
"Mister Gwynn, draw grape from the larboard battery and reload with solid shot," Railsford called from aft. "We shall be having company soon and must give him a proper greeting."
Alan dropped down into the waist and supervised his gunners as the bags of langridge and grape were wormed from the barrels and tossed aside.
Gun captains rolled nine-pounder balls around the deck to find the most perfectly cast that would fly true when fired, then had them rammed down the muzzles and tamped down. Arms raised in the air to indicate each gun's readiness.
"Run out yer guns," Gwynn ordered, and the crews hauled on the side tackles to trundle their charges across the slightly canted deck to the port sills where the carriages thumped against the hull. Side tackle was laid out for smooth recoil with no snags; train tackles were overhauled as well.
"Prime yer guns." Gun captains reached down with prickers to poke holes through the serge cartridge bags. They inserted powder-filled goose quills into the touchholes and stood by with their slow matches.
"Wots 'e got, Mister Lewrie?" the nearest gun captain asked.
"Six or seven guns per broadside, six-pounders most like; that's what they felt like when they were shooting at the prize," he answered.
"Wuz she worth much, sir?" another man asked.
"Empty. Usual Frog trash—filth and no cargo."
To get close enough to make his lighter guns do damage, the French commander had to beat up to them close-hauled on the starboard tack. Since Desperate was still making for the mouth of the York River, that meant that the French sloop would spend long minutes almost bows on to them, hoping for a convergence. But this would leave her open for raking fire on her own bow. And when the range was about two cables, and the target barely recognizable in the darkness now that the burning prize had burned out or sunk, this was what Desperate proceeded to give her.
"As you bear… fire!"
One at a time, starting with the larboard carronade on the fo'c's'le, the guns barked harshly, flinging themselves backwards to the center line and stabbing long amber flames into the night. The hands threw themselves on their artillery, sponging out the barrels, inserting new cartridges, ramming down fresh shot, and running out, as well drilled as clever lit-tie German clockwork toys freshly wound up.
The French sloop of war replied, aiming high as was their practice, but the angle of convergence was getting more and more acute and her guns could not bear, so most of the storm passed overhead and to sternward on the first broadside.
He'll not cut us off, Alan decided, seeing the way his own ship was headreaching on the Frenchman; he'll have to haul his wind or pass astern of us, and we'll get clean away.
The shadow of the enemy vessel did lengthen as she turned, seeing that she was not fast enough to intercept Desperate. But as she did so, she got off another broadside, and this one brought all her guns to bear. There was a loud crash from aloft, and things began to rain down.
"Jesus Christ!" A gun captain yelped in alarm as he was almost beheaded by a heavy halyard block that crashed to the deck beside him. Rope snaked down to droop over the guns as braces, stays and sail-tending lines were torn loose.
"Look out below amidships!"
The main tops'l yard came swinging down like a scythe to smash into the larboard gangway, scattering the brace tenders and sheetmen, who had to dive for their lives.
"As you bear… fire!" Gwynn yelled. "Lewrie, take three men and cut that raffle away. Save the yard if ya can. We'll not see its like in the Chesapeake."
"Aye, sir." Leaving a party from the gangway to anchor the free end, he went aloft to see what was holding it and found it resting on the edge of the maintop, snagged by its starboard rigging into the shrouds. The topmast and topgallant mast above it were leaning drunkenly over the starboard side, ready to let go themselves.
"Yeoman," he called down, "work the butt end forrard by the shrouds and begin lashing down." He turned to the bosun's mate, Weems, who had come aloft with him. "We'll have to get a gantline on this end and just lash her to the shrouds. She'll lean there alright for now, do you not think?"
"Aye, sir," Weems replied, sending a man further aloft to haul in a surviving parrel and preventer backstay to secure the upper end of the yard. "But, that up there…"
"Topmast is shattered halfway up, looks like," Alan agreed.
"Might save it an' fish it. Topgallant mast, though. Don't know what's keepin' it aloft as it is. 'Bout ready ta let go."
There was another broadside from Desperate, and a ragged cheer which made them turn to look. They had the French sloop of war at roughly musket shot now, half a cable away, and had just punched some holes into her, making her stagger in the water as though she had run aground on an uncharted reef. Her foremast leaned over drunkenly and she began to slow down, now unable to keep up with Desperate even on a parallel course.
"We'll need more men," Alan said, removing his baldric and cutlass, unloading his pockets of the weight of the pistols, which were still at half cock. He eased the hammers forward for safety, laid everything in the top platform and gritted his teeth to make the ascent to the topmast to see how bad the damage was. It was expected of him, God help him.
There was a great groan of tortured pine, and the damaged masts leaned over to starboard even more, the topmast beginning to split down its length as the weight of the topgallant mast tore loose from whatever last shred had been holding it.
"'Ware below!" Weems boomed.
Alan had no choice but to slide back down the topmast he had been scaling until he fetched up at the lower mast cap and the trestletrees, clinging for dear life to avoid being pitched out of the rigging or torn asunder if the mast split off at the cap. With a final shriek, the entire topgallant mast and half the topmast split off and went over the side to raise a great splash of water alongside, and Alan exclaimed in terror's standing rigging and trailing rigging slashed about him like coach whips.
"I'm sorry, I quit!" he shouted, not caring who heard him. "I've done just about bloody enough tonight, thank you! if you want to kill me, you'll find me in my hammock below decks!"
"Damme, we've lost it!" Weems cried, in anguish at the hurt to his precious rigging and masts. He scrambled up to the cap with Lewrie and surveyed what little he could see in the night. "Not a shred left of it. Ripped every stay, every shroud right out. We'll be the next week makin' repairs, an' where'll we get spare spars enough, I'm wonderin'."
"I am well," Alan told him, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Thank you very much for asking, Mister Weems!"
"Goddamn French bastards, the poxy snail-eatin' sons-abitches!" Weems continued to lament the scarred perfection of his masts, shaking an angry fist at the French sloop of war that was, as Alan finally noted, being pounded to pieces by Desperate's heavier fire. Her own damaged foremast went by the board over the farther side, and must have still been attached, for she stewed about as though snagged by an anchor cable, which threw such a shock to her remaining rigging that Lewrie saw for the first time a ship slung about so violently t
hat she indeed had all "the sticks" ripped right out of her, her other mast crashing down in ruin to cover her decks in timber, rope, and canvas.
"Serves ya right, ya duck-fuckers!" Weems howled.
"May I go down to the deck now, Mister Weems?" Alan asked, picking a rather large splinter out of his palm from the shattered topmast.
"Aye, nothin' left doin' aloft, not on this mast. Hurt yeself. did ya? Best let the surgeon see ta that. Might get a tot of rum outen it if ya talks sweet to him," Weems said.
That's the best offer I've had all day, Alan decided.
CHAPTER 5
Until dawn Desperate made her way painfully to the anchorage at the mouth of the York River. There had been few men injured in the fight with the French sloop of war, even fewer in the abortive attempt to take the merchantman; even so, Mr. Dorne and his surgeon's mates had been busy until that time sewing up cuts and scrapes, taking off an arm here that had been shattered, amputating a leg above the knee on a young gunner who had had the bone smashed into permanent ruin by a musket ball. The low tide slacked and the sea breeze died just before first light, so that the frigate was for a time becalmed, drifting for a piece slowly sternward out to sea once more before she anchored. Once the land breeze sprang up, she could find enough steerage-way to work close-hauled up the York to join her sister ships already in the bay.
"Now, damme, will you look at that," Railsford muttered as he stood by the taffrail, peering into Lynnhaven Bay with a telescope.
Alan was swaying by the binnacle and compass, ready to pass out with fatigue. He had been up all night, like all the hands, tending to what hurts to the ship could be put right immediately, and at that moment could have cheerfully murdered someone for hot tea or coffee. Railsford's words brought him out of his stupor enough to join him at the rail.
"There's that Frog transport we burned out last night. And look you at what the others were," Railsford spat, almost beside himself.
Alan took the heavy tube in both hands and applied it to his right eye, the weight of the instrument making his weary limbs shudder.
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