His Majesty's Ship (39 page)

      
Half the crew of the starboard bow chaser were all but wiped out in front of Tait. The young man watched in dreadful fascination as their gun took a lucky hit to side of the muzzle. The barrel reared up and was sent spinning round, sweeping them aside as if they were nothing more than pot house skittles. The dolphin striker was neatly separated from the bowsprit, and the improvised jib fell slack, robbed of the lower tension. Both round houses crumbled as the heavy shots passed through them, and the figurehead exploded in a mass of plaster, paint and wood.

      
But apart from the crew of the bow chaser and the boatswain, who took a splinter in his side, there were no other serious casualties. The work to rectify the damage could begin, with men heartened by the prospect of at least five more minutes to live. Five more minutes before the next salvo would land amongst them.

      
As the work was being done, Dyson summoned King.

      
“The men have three minutes to clear what wreckage they can, and splice the important shrouds. After that I intend to steer three points to larboard, and reply with our starboard broadside. The turn will be signalled by the striking of the ships bell. As soon as the guns are fired I will turn back to my original course, do you understand?”

      
King gave a quick nod and was gone; there was no time for comment. Dyson watched as he summoned a group of midshipmen and began speaking earnestly to them. Thirty seconds for that, then the news could spread about the ship. Most would get the message in time; some may not, but he could delay no longer.

      
After the loss of power from the jib,
Vigilant
had slowed slightly, and the quartermaster had been forced to let her drop off a point. Still, she was making good way and if the next broadside could be weathered, his plan may yet be put into action.

      
The bell rang before anyone bar Dyson and the quartermaster were completely ready, and the hull levelled slightly as she came round. Seconds ticked by slowly. All waited, eager for the gun captains to be certain of their target, whilst dreading the answering salvo from the French, which could also be expected at any moment. It was a race the British won. Their guns firing erratically as each captain made sure of his mark. The broadside may have lacked the disciplined ripple of the French, but the job was done, and almost every shot told.

      
From the quarterdeck Dyson surveyed the damage, while the ship creaked back to her original course. He glanced at his watch. Six and a half minutes since the last broadside; his own shots must have bought the extra time, although the range was closing rapidly now, and it was just conceivable that the French captain was holding his fire, intending to deal a devastating blow later.

      
The second French ship was still a good distance off, and unlikely to be a problem to them for at least five minutes. He found no difficulty in ignoring her. In that time
Vigilant
should have closed with the flagship, or be a total wreck.

      
Seven minutes, surely their broadside had not caused so much confusion? Already most of their own upper battery gun captains were signalling readiness; the enemy must be holding their fire. Then, again when the men in
Vigilant
least expected it, the French guns replied.

      
The shots came in a slow ripple, and were better aimed, and hit harder than any the British had endured so far. A splintering crash told the end of the mizzen topmast, which fell back over the taffrail, and slowed the ship considerably. On the lower deck a shot knocked two gunports into one, and accounted for six men from the crew of number five gun, barely feet from where Matthew was returning with two fresh charges. A twelve pounder was hit on the upper gundeck, the barrel torn free of its carriage, and left to lie across two unfortunate members of its crew, and the starboard main channel was struck in two places, causing the main shrouds and backstays to slacken. Blocks and other debris clattered from the top hamper and shouted orders and obscenities mixed seamlessly with the screams and pleadings of the wounded.

      
King dropped to the deck, the wind of a round shot taking most of the breath from his body. He lay on the warm burnished planking, stunned and disorientated, and it was only when the air began to trickle back into his lungs that he realised he had forgotten to breathe.

      
“Axes there!” Dyson bellowed, pointing at the tangle of rigging and sail that was now draped over the stern of the ship. The wreckage acted like a sea anchor; the ship was slowing and would soon be a sitting duck for the French gunners.

      
A master's mate led a team of men who began hacking at the lines. King, who was still shaken, staggered forward to help, but was stopped by a hand from Dyson.

      
“They have their job, and you yours,” he said, roughly. “Boatswain's wounded; find a team and rig the mizzen staysail.”

      
King slumped off towards the waist, his hand to his head as he tried to think. The mizzen staysail would be a blasted nuisance hanging as it did over the quarterdeck, but it was clear they needed to equalise the pressure lost by the topsail. He saw George, the negro, a topman who also worked one of the quarterdeck carronades. There would be precious little use for guns until the ship could sail again. He summoned him and three more hands and directed them to the sail loft. They knuckled their foreheads and moved quickly through the chaos, ignoring the cries of wounded shipmates as if they were nothing more than birdsong.
 

*****

      
Timothy guessed that they had lost part of a mast from the way the ship settled. His guns were ready to fire once more, but their position prevented him from bearing on the flagship. The other French liner was coming up fast, and he hesitated about selecting that as a fresh target. He peered through an open port. Yes, she was heading to pass behind her companion, and would be in range in five minutes, possibly less. He glanced about and saw Rogers, standing in the gloom and looking vaguely lost. For a moment he considered consulting him before tossing the idea aside like so much rubbish. As far as responsibility went, he was on his own, and had been for a while.

      
Young Davis was near by. Timothy caught his attention, and pointed to the companionway.

      
“Go up on deck!” He shouted, roughly. “Tell Mr Dyson I can't reach the flag at this angle!”

      
The lad looked at him blankly. His face was white and his eyes were round and staring. Clearly the events of the past few hours had taken their toll, and he was fast approaching a state of extreme shock. Timothy looked for another messenger.

      
“Get out of my way!” Rogers voice was thick and his face unusually white. He brushed past the shaken lad carelessly without waiting for answer or comment.

      
“We need a target.” Timothy began, but Rogers was already making for the main companionway and the upper deck.

      
As soon as he appeared in the waist Rogers was horrified by the sight. With the loss of two major spars
Vigilant
was a confusion of trailing lines and fallen blocks. He picked his way through groups of men desperately trying to make order of the jumble. A party pushed past him carrying a heavy, unmanageable grey lump that was the mizzen staysail and began to bend it on to the mizzen stay. King was in charge, and the men worked with a focused determination that Rogers vaguely envied. He moved on without comment.

      
On the quarterdeck he found Dyson surrounded by trails of line that had been cut to free the mizzen topmast, now floating a few yards off their counter. Men moved about him with white shocked expressions; most were cut or bruised, few spoke. The stained decking and strong smell of effluence told its own story.

      
“Mr Rogers, what brings you here?” Dyson alone appeared normal, his manner crisp and businesslike even if his jacket was stained and had a torn facing.

      
Rogers drew breath and collected himself. It would not do to show fear in front of the first lieutenant.

      
“A target, sir. Shall we train for the flag, or yonder?” he pointed to the warship bearing down on them, and now horribly close.

      
“Round shot, and for the flag.” Dyson's voice was slightly louder than usual. “We will be underway directly. As soon as we gather speed. I will turn as before: the signal will be the same.”

      
Rogers nodded, and opened his mouth to say more. A sudden wave of fear gripped him, conjuring up a madness that threatened to take him over. For a moment he considered begging Dyson to surrender, or making a run for the side, anything that would stop the terror and see him safe. His mouth hung redundant while the panic held him. Tears welled up behind his eyes and he had to take a conscious grip lest he disgrace himself on the quarterdeck. Fortunately Dyson's attention was taken by the setting of the mizzen staysail, currently flapping like a distended sheet above their heads. Then the sensation passed, Rogers closed his mouth again, and retreated. Passing down to the upper gundeck, he continued, unnoticed, to the lower gundeck and then down further to the orlop. The surgeon and his mates were at work in the cockpit, and charges were coming up from the magazines, but now he was below the waterline, the safest place in the ship, and there were still some secret areas that beckoned, dark and forgiving, where he could hide.

*****

      
When the flagship came into their field of view Timothy had received no instructions from Rogers. Instead he made up his own mind, anticipating Dyson's moves as those he would have taken in the same situation. The enemy was closer this time, and for a moment appeared impregnable, her tiered sides towering up, with numerous spaces where large black faced muzzles were even now peering out to grin at him.

      
“Fire as you bear!” Timothy bellowed, and the first gun went off a few seconds later. Nash, one of the youngest midshipmen, approached him, waiting until the last had fired before attempting to speak, and even when he did it was in a yell that Timothy barely heard.

      
“Mr Dyson sent me, sir. Said we must be short of juniors if Mr Rogers 'ad to come up.”

      
Timothy nodded, he had seen no sign of Rogers, and had thought him still on the upper deck.

      
“What's the position?”

      
“Bad, sir. We've lost mizzen top and fore t'gallant masts.”

      
Timothy digested this. “Will he take us much closer?”

      
The lad shook his head with all the experience of his fourteen years. “Shouldn't think so, sir. We've done all we can.” The pause was dramatic, even in the circumstances. “Rekon he'll strike 'fore the next broadside.”
 

*****

      
But Dyson did not strike, and the broadside hit them, causing untold damage to the ship and her crew. And still she came on, closer to the flagship, and closer to the position that Dyson had seen in his mind's eye over thirty minutes before. The seventy-four was still heading for them, while
Vigilant
was now so close to the flagship that the marines were exchanging pot shots with the French marksmen. The next broadside from the three-decker was due in less than two minutes, and the other liner would be on them straight after, if he didn't wear away. But still Dyson held his course.

      
“Message to Mr Rogers!” he shouted to one of the midshipmen, standing by the binnacle. “Tell him to double shot his guns, and hold fire until we round her stern. Round her stern, that’s important, have you got it?” The lad nodded and ran off; Dyson walked to the break of the quarterdeck to bellow at Gregory in the waist.

      
“Round shot on canister, Mr Gregory. And await my word!”

      
Gregory waved a hand in acknowledgement, while Dyson returned to his place by the mizzenmast.

      
There, he had said it: there was no going back now. Everything depended on their surviving the next broadside, and being able to press on. To pass the line of waiting guns and steer round the stern of the flagship. It was a move so bold, so outrageous, that it hardly deserved to succeed, but he had given the orders, and now all knew what was in his mind.
 

      
It was a strategy he had used before in other situations; volunteering for an operation, starting an argument: things that once said could not be unsaid, and the very act took much of the worry from the task. Now all knew what he intended. Not to board her, not to fight it out gun for gun, not to surrender, but to move away from conventional fighting tactics and attempt to tack a damaged ship about the stern of an enemy nearly twice his size. The thought terrified him almost as much as it would the men, when the truth dawned on them.
 

      
He could still countermand the order; still opt for the more conventional course. He even had adequate grounds to surrender now, at that very moment, if it was in his nature. But no, he would see it through. Besides, he had given the order; started the train of action in motion and he was committed.