The Torrid Zone (The Fighting Sail Series) (32 page)

Since missing two sightings in the past few weeks, Stiles had become increasingly cautious of his own reliability. There had also been other, less important, incidents when items in clear view to everyone else were inexplicably overlooked. He could see detail well enough, and still had eyes better than most, or so he told himself, but sometimes quite large objects could be effectively invisible to him. Until, that was, they were pointed out. This did not happen all the time, and the sighting need not necessarily be far off: just in the wrong area. And sometimes if he looked at it directly the thing would almost disappear; the trick he had found was to catch it to one side. Should the condition continue it would have to be reported of course, but Stiles enjoyed masthead duty far too much and, being as how the problem came and went, he was content to see if it would simply cure itself.

The sun came up almost directly behind them, chasing a shadow that, when viewed from their height, seemed to race across the ocean's misty surface, almost faster than could be followed. Stiles glanced back, purposefully not looking at the brilliant orb that was quickly establishing itself, then round to where the steaming dark waters were rapidly being revealed. Within seconds the light had spread as far as the western horizon, and he drew a sigh of relief as he noticed all was clear. He turned and went to speak to Jameson, but the young man's attention was fixed on something far closer to the ship. Stiles followed his gaze, but saw nothing. Then, by altering his focus slightly, an object did appear.

It was a small square rigged vessel – the one they had anchored alongside in Chapel Valley Bay, and had later been taken by the French. She was almost directly ahead and, as he looked at her, Stiles became uncomfortably aware that the enemy corvette was also emerging from out of the rapidly clearing mist a mile or so beyond.

“Sail ho!” he yelled, his voice only trembling slightly as he went on to make a full report. Both would be in clear sight of the deck and the packet lay comfortably within range of
Scylla
's guns, but it was Stiles' duty to report any sighting, and he was painfully aware that he had been prompted to do so only because Jameson had been there.

Below there was a mass of activity, someone was bellowing orders; guns, already cleared away, were being run out, while a midshipman with a glass slung over his shoulder was starting the long climb up the main to join them. And it was all because of Stiles; him and his sighting. In the past such power would have thrilled, and was one of the reasons he especially enjoyed lookout duty, but something inside told him that his time at the maintop was about to come to an end.

* * *

“O
pen fire, Mr King!” Banks ordered, and the first of the bow chasers erupted less than a second later. The packet must have spotted
Scylla
first, as she was already turning to take the wind full on her quarter as well as hoisting an additional jib. But the range was so close that escape would be impossible; all the British frigate had to do was bear away and she could blow the smaller vessel out of the water with a single broadside. It was a tactic Banks would prefer to avoid, even without the possibility that Lady Hatcher was still aboard. Taking the packet intact would give him an additional craft; she may be of little use in action, but as an extra eye, or even a means of communication, her presence could be highly beneficial.

The shot landed less than twenty feet from the packet's prow, causing the helmsman to momentarily allow h
er
to fall off.

“And again, Mr King,” Banks roared, adding: “This time you may aim for a hit.”

The second nine pounder was duly fired, but the shot went undetected. Banks waited at the bre
ak
of the quarterdeck. The first chase gun would be ready in under a minute; time enough for another try, even though the packet was now moving rapidly. If the third attempt had no effect he would have little option other than to put the helm over and use his broadside guns.

“Ready, sir!” King called out from the forecastle, but before the order could be given a cheer rose up from the British seamen. Banks glanced up to the enemy; she was turning into the wind and her sails were shivering in the breeze; the French had stru
ck.

“We shall shortly be heaving to, Mr Fraiser,” Banks said steadily. “Mr Caulfield, the red cutter, if you please. Prepare an armed boarding party, and have a detachment of marines accompany them.”

Chances were high that the packet was not over manned, but Banks was taking no risks at this late stage. Supplying a prize crew would take at least fifteen of his prime seamen, as well as two junior officers, but recapturing the Company's vessel would go down especially well with those on St Helena. In addition, he might shortly be releasing Lady Hatcher from the clutches of the French. Banks snorted silently to himself as he took a turn across the deck. On the last point he was uncertain. Of course he must make every effort to set a captured English lady free, but this particular one would be a lot less trouble if she were still held prisoner.

He stopped pacing and his eyes fell on a master's mate, standing conveniently nearby. “Mr Lewis, you shall take command,” he said. It would have been preferable to send a lieutenant, especially as the governor's widow might be present, but he could not spare either Caulfield or King. “Take a junior mid. with you,” he continued. “Your choice, but make sure he is familiar with signals.”

Lewis beamed as he touched his hat, and Banks knew instinctively he had made the right decision. The man was young and agile enough for the work, and had both the experience and confidence to command. He was also a first rate navigator, which might be a useful asset in the coming days.

But what of the corvette? Banks switched his mind from the problems of supplying a prize crew to that of the other enemy, still some distance off their larboard bow. She was holding steady three miles away, a mute witness to her consort's capture. In the past both the smaller French warships had the heels of the more lubberly
Scylla
; some improvement might have been made with her recent repairs, but Banks decided that she was still likely to be the slower craft.

The packet was coming into their lee now; Fraiser called for the mizzen topsail to be backed and soon one of
Scylla
's cutters was crossing the short distance between them.

“Lewis' first experience of command,” Caulfield said in little more than a whisper, adding: “And he started out a regular hand, as I collect.”

“I consider him ready,” Banks commented, equally softly. “And we shall not be far off, if there be trouble.”

“He has men enough to quell any chance of re-capture,” Caulfield said, surprised that the captain should even consider such a possibility.

Banks turned to begin pacing again. “I was thinking more of Lady Hatcher,” he replied.

* * *

B
y mid-afternoon they were underway once more, and heading east. Any hopes of rescuing the governor's widow had proved fruitless; the woman was not there, having apparently been transferred to the French frigate upon capture. Several hands from the original crew of the packet were present however, and their release had allowed Lewis to return five of
Scylla
's own, along with her marines. Once the transfer was completed Banks sent the packet off to windward, where she was now keeping station with them on the very edge of the horizon. Before long she should raise St Helena, and be able to exchange signals again shortly afterwards. The island may have had sight of the frigate but, even if not, Robson and his fellows would at least be aware that their packet was back in British hands. The French corvette was shadowing them on their larboard quarter, although Banks cared little for that. Perhaps, if the enemy frigate were encountered to windward,
Scylla
would not be in the best of places, but at present he could think of no alternative. When they came upon the Frenchman he trusted his fighting brain to begin considering the options more carefully. To do so now, with no knowledge of the enemy's position, was entirely futile; such thinking required the spur of action.

The bell rang seven times; it was half an hour before the end of the watch and the second spirit issue of the day. Most of the hands would still be mildly befuddled from their noontime allocation, even though they had since eaten their main meal, and taken part in a two-hour gun drill. But the daily rum ration was sacred to the lower deck, and Banks knew he could only postpone or cancel it at his peril. Then a call from the masthead wiped all such thoughts from his mind, and the ship itself seemed to take on a far more urgent air.

“Packet's altering course!” The shout cut through the normal shipboard sounds, quelling any chatter in an instant. “She's turning to leeward, and coming down on us with the wind.”

Banks looked towards Middleton, the signal midshipman, but the lad was already making for the deck glass, and would soon be heading aloft. Lewis must have spotted something, simply turning back to relay a signal from St Helena would not have caused him to manoeuvre in such a dramatic fashion.

It was strange how quickly Banks' earlier prediction was confirmed: already his brain had started working out the relative distances and speed in order to place
Scylla
in the optimum position. For the packet to have made contact with the French frigate meant the enemy was to the east, and probably not more than a few miles over their own horizon. He turned to the sailing master, who had come on deck early for the setting of the new watch and was currently studying the traverse board.

“Take her as far to starboard as she will manage, if you please, Mr Fraiser. And set t'gallants and stays'ls, if you think fit.”

The increase in speed and extreme change of heading could only frustrate Lewis, who must now alter course again if he wanted to close with them. The enemy corvette would also be alerted, but Banks was determined to gain as much sea room as possible and even try to claim that all important windward gauge, if it were in his power.

The sailing master manoeuvred them with his customary competence and soon
Scylla
was close hauled with the wind on the very edge of the luff. Lewis had not changed course and was now signalling, although his windward position meant the flags were currently unreadable.

Caulfield cursed, but Banks remain unmoved; there was little the master's mate could tell him he had not already guessed. In his mind he could see the enemy, eastwards and probably slightly to the south. They would undoubtedly have sighted the packet, and guessed she was no longer in their employ. More than that, her sudden turn would give a fair indication of
Scylla
's position. Still such concessions were worth making if it meant they could finally meet the enemy with the wind in their favour, and as his ship cut through the dark Atlantic, Banks felt his confidence grow.

Scylla
was performing wonderfully; he had not seen her create such spray since their time in the Med. and the last gunnery practice had also been impressive. The men seemed to have benefited far more from their spell on the island than he had anticipated, either that or they were as eager as he was to see England again. It was a shame the drill had not been finished with a few rounds of live fire; nothing compensated for ninety minutes of backbreaking dumb play better than finally allowing the guns to speak, but even that might be remedied within the next hour or so.

“Enemy sighted sou-sou east, steering west!” Middleton's squeal came from the main top, and Banks' heart skipped a beat before he realised the lad was simply relaying the signal Lewis was making. The master's mate had shown sense in keeping to his original heading and continuing at maximum speed;
Scylla
was now making definite progress south, and they could finally read the tattered bunting that had been flying from the packet's main for some while. Such an action would have sailed the enemy frigate under their horizon, however, and it was vital they regained contact as soon as possible.

“Acknowledge, and order them to return and shadow,” Banks said. If Lewes continued for much longer he was in very real danger of running in with the enemy corvette. The packet swung round, almost within her own length, and was soon bearing away from
Scylla
once more with a veritable bone in her teeth.

“How far are we away from the island?” Banks called out to Fraiser.

“Nigh on seventy miles to the nearest point,” the older man replied without hesitation. Banks nodded; then there was little chance of involving any of the shore batteries, but at least sanctuary was not so very far off, should the need arise and some consolation lay in knowing that future movements would probably be visible from the island's main lookout point. The ship's bell rang eight times; was it really all of half an hour ago that he had been anticipating the end of the watch?

“You may pipe 'Up Spirits' then send the hands to supper, Mr Caulfield,” Banks said. “But retain the watch below; I want every man back and ready to beat to quarters within fifteen minutes – do I make myself clear?”

Caulfield touched his hat and turned away to bellow down at the waist. It was fortunate that the men would be going into action with full bellies. Supper was normally nothing more than a scratch meal, and consisted of little other than cheese and hard tack, although the tot of rum would give them far more than mere sustenance. But that was assuming
Scylla
came up with the frigate while there was adequate light. The evening chill was already descending, and Banks rubbed his hands together as he thought. It was now less than two hours until night, and with the moon still too new to make much difference they would be chasing about in the dark for a good twelve hours. He knew that such conditions would affect the enemy as much as them: it was simply a question of who could make the best of such a situation. Who could make the best, he reminded himself, and who would come off worst.

* * *