The Torrid Zone (The Fighting Sail Series) (34 page)

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 far 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.

“Foretopmast is hit above the top,” a voice shouted, almost into the captain's ear, and brought him back to the more immediate problem of his ship's safety.

“Will it hold?” Banks asked, tearing his attention away from the fallen sailing master and addressing the man, who he then realised was the boatswain.

“I've a party sent to investigate,” the warrant officer replied, “'though it might be better if the rig ain't placed under no strain until we can tell.”

The enemy shot had been divided between spars and hull, and all appeared well placed. Banks crossed the deck, purposefully ignoring the party attending to Fraiser. He looked forward; most of the larboard guns were in the process of being reloaded, although a few had reduced crews, and an eighteen pounder was tipped to one side and lay useless, its carriage smashed and barrel resting on two men who had been serving it.

“What of the enemy?” he demanded, as the first lieutenant joined him.

“Our shots told well, sir, though there is no visible damage,” Caulfield replied. “Oh, and I gather Fraiser is hit.”

Banks nodded, but consciously blanked his mind from following the thought further.
Scylla
was not badly hurt, but the injury to the foremast would have to be taken into consideration, even if it was pronounced solid, while Caulfield's view of the Frenchman annoyingly confirmed his own assessment and only went to enforce his previous illusion of his adversary's strength and invulnerability.

The enemy frigate was far closer now; he could see her quite clearly. She was maintaining her course, and seemed to have even gained; perhaps the damage to
Scylla
's rig had slowed them more than he had guessed? Whatever, there was now a very real chance of the Frenchman closing on their bows, and that was something he simply could not allow.

“Johnston says the mast is damaged but will hold!” a voice called from the larboard gangway. Banks acknowledged the information with an unconscious wave of his hand, while his mind continued to calculate what might be achieved. The wind was slightly forward of their beam. To take the ship further to starboard would only increase the pressure on the mast, which, even if it was considered sound, must surely have been weakened; besides the manoeuvre would slow them further. No, he really only had one option: with the starboard battery loaded and complete, he would turn to larboard. Such action meant abandoning the windward gauge, but it was really the only sensible thing to do in such a situation.

“Starboard the helm, lay her four points to larboard!” he bellowed to the quartermaster, Fraiser not being present to assist. “Mr King, prepare the starboard battery!”

The ship turned wonderfully fast, with only a few seconds of tension while her bows were exposed to the enemy. Fortunately the move was quick enough; only two shots were released on their vulnerable prow, and neither hit.
Scylla
's speed increased with the change of course, and she was soon heading for a point just beyond the other ship's counter. But both vessels were drawing away from the burning corvette and, with the night remaining as dark as ever, vision would become increasingly difficult. It was not a problem shared however; with
Scylla
between the flames and the Frenchman, Banks knew they must be silhouetted against the light, while his target was inconveniently shadowed, and fast disappearing into the gloom.