The Torrid Zone (The Fighting Sail Series) (35 page)

“A point to starboard!” he shouted, and the braces were adjusted again as his ship turned in towards the enemy frigate. They would close in two, maybe three minutes; Banks tensed, knowing the Frenchman could not tack successfully in such a time, but must surely be in line for a severe raking. Then there was a cry from forward and, still straining to see through the total blackness, he realised his opponent had yet another trick to play.

The enemy frigate's canvas seemed to alter with the wave of a hand: one moment she was close hauled on the starboard tack, the next she fell off to leeward and appeared to throw herself into the very teeth of the pursuing British ship. Banks' initial reaction was to take
Scylla
to windward once more, but there was simply not the time or room, even ignoring the fact that it was their starboard battery that was currently manned. Instead he ordered the helm further round, then ran forward to ensure King held his fire, just as the first shots of the Frenchman's broadside began to rain down upon the British ship's bows.

Scylla
took the punishment well, several shots dug deep into her tender prow, but she rode out even those, as well as the majority that met the relative strength of her whales. What carnage had been caused below was yet to be told, of course, but they continued forward, now aiming at the Frenchman's own bows.

“Two points to larboard!”

The enemy frigate had flung everything into that last move and was still not under proper control, but her hull was being blown to leeward, forcing Banks to correct once more. He wanted to just skim her jib boom, pass as close as he could to let his gunners do their work, before turning still further with the wind before, hopefully, avoiding the enemy's potent starboard battery.

“As you will, Mr King!” he bellowed, when the frigate's prow emerged from the gloom and began to take shape. It was almost perfect timing; they might suffer damage from the Frenchman's outstretched spar as it thrust towards
Scylla
's rigging, but that was nothing to what the British would return in the form of a full and thorough broadside.

The first gun spat flame as soon as it was level with enemy's stem, and each continued as their turn came, with the Frenchman's bowsprit missing
Scylla
's standing rigging by mere inches. The British could not know what harm they were doing, but no ship survives such treatment without severe internal damage. Her fabric would have suffered, to say nothing to the loss of life and morale. But there was no time to reflect on their success;
Scylla
must be turned, and turned sharp, if she was to avoid the same fate falling upon her stern. Banks bellowed out the order, his voice cracking with effort as he attempted to raise it above the dull ringing deafness they were all experiencing.
Scylla
responded, but either she was not fast enough or, despite their recent wounding, the French had found the impetus to surge forward sufficiently, and were steadily moving into a prime position to catch the British ship's rump.

Scylla
was actually caught midway through the turn, with their larboard quarter angled towards the enemy's guns and at a range that was considerably closer than the textbook definition of point blank. Through the soles of his boots Banks could feel the shots enter his ship; indeed none seemed to rise any higher than the level beneath him, and all about on the quarterdeck and forecastle remained undamaged. But there would be slaughter below, of that he was in no doubt. Such a drubbing may well have taken out a third of his men, to say nothing of the wounds to
Scylla
’s hull. Then a cry from the quartermaster brought his attention to the wheel and he saw the spokes run impossibly freely through the hands of the bemused helmsmen. They had lost steerage, and with the enemy so close there would be no time or space to improvise any other method of controlling the ship. He felt his fingernails dig deep into the palms of his hands, and he started to accept that
Scylla
was likely to be taken.

––––––––

S
he had either lost her rudder, or the means of controlling it, but the essential point was
Scylla
continued turning to larboard and, with the Frenchman slowing but still moving forward, the two ships were destined to collide. The British larboard battery was primed and, though it lacked men and serviceable pieces in several places, could still create a fair amount of mischief were the chance given. Taking the initiative, King ordered the spent starboard cannon to be abandoned and every fit man who was able took up position on the opposite battery, where the guns needed just to be fired.

Jameson, Stiles, Dixon and Flint were the only members of their gun's crew who had survived, although they were being supplemented by two from number four whose own piece had been wrecked earlier. The six men stood by as
Scylla
edged closer to the Frenchman, driven on only by what sails remained, and a whim of fate that might equally be for good or bad.
Maggie Jane
was loaded, primed and ready to speak; there would be no time wasted in aiming, the enemy being so close that damage must be caused wherever she were pointed. The servers also knew there was little for them to do once the gun had been secured; all fighting from that point would be on a far more personal basis. With this in mind, most had collected weapons from the nearest arms chest and were now waiting for the next and probably final stage of the action to begin.

“You know how to use that?” Dixon asked doubtfully, as Stiles fingered a wicked looking tomahawk broodingly.

“I done so before,” the man snapped back. “It don't take a deal of eyesight to knock down a Frenchman.”

“You have to make sure he truly
is
a Frenchman,” Dixon replied. Usually boarders were ordered to adopt some simple form of identification – a turn of line or cloth about the shoulder; even a blackened or pipe-clayed face, which was a popular ruse that had the added benefit of instilling fear into the enemy. But this was a desperate action; much would depend on every man selecting an opponent and Dixon was right, someone with doubtful eyesight might be more of a liability than an asset.

“An' there's nout wrong with my peepers,” Stiles maintained. “It's down to me that we found the first ship at all, remember?”

“Aye, I remember, well enough,” Dixon conceded, as the enemy drew closer. “An' suppose we all should be a thankin' you for it.”

“Stand by, larboard battery!” King's voice, now almost hoarse from shouting, cut through and brought a measure of order to what was in danger of becoming an argument. The British frigate was still set on a collision course but, with the French broadside spent, there was no immediate rush: the two ships could meet at any time in the next few minutes without a major response from the enemy. But
Scylla,
it seemed, was in no mood to wait and within seconds the yardarms were touching, then beginning to tangle. The two hulls crunched together shortly afterwards with a series of grinding thumps that ended in a stunned silence as both sides took in what had occurred.

“Wait for the broadside!” Caulfield's bellow echoed from the quarterdeck.

The line of marines and nominated boarders reached from the taffrail to the forecastle head, and would be augmented by any other seaman who was reckless enough to join them.

“Fire!” King's voice rang out and
Scylla
's guns erupted in a series of separated explosions with each seemingly being felt individually by the enemy ship. Then, as the last carronade delivered its deadly measure of canister, they boarded.

It was done with a shared cheer that bolstered the British as much as it disorientated their foe. Caulfield was amongst the first, leaping from the mizzen chains as if the four feet of black, empty space between was nothing more than a footstep, and landing almost astride the Frenchman's side netting. Three came with him: one, a marine, still carrying his musket that, even after firing, made an excellent fighting tool. The nearby corvette was now totally ablaze and the towering flames gave an unearthly cast to the scene. But the light was useful enough, and with its help Caulfield scrambled down, before glancing about the enemy quarterdeck. A group of officers stood just behind the mizzen mast and became his natural target. He made for them, passing, and hardly noticing, the crews from the quarterdeck cannon who rose up to meet the bulk of
Scylla
's boarders as they followed.

It was obvious that the French were not prepared for such a sudden physical action, and most were armed with ramrods, crows of iron or any other improvised weapon that lay to hand. The two groups met with a furore more akin to a pot house brawl than any organised attack, but the subsequent wave of boarders were mainly seamen, and spoiling for a fight. Years of blockade, frustration and unfulfilled promises now came to the fore in a way that none could ever have foreseen. They dug deep, hacking into their opponents in waves of anger and unrefined tactics that swept all before them, leaving an area of deck wiped clear of standing opponents, and allowing space for still more to pour over the side and join them.

But Caulfield was ahead of them and still very much in danger. As he advanced one of the officers separated from those grouped about the binnacle, and made for him. He was a young man, sporting a wide moustache that seemed to connect both ears. He held a long, thin blade at the guard, while his left arm was tucked neatly behind the back, as if he were about to give a fencing demonstration in some fashionable drawing room. Caulfield attacked without hesitation or finesse; his sword swept up, knocking away the blade, but the man was fast and the lighter weapon described a full half circle, before whipping back at the British lieutenant, and cutting deep into the material of his tunic.

Caulfield could feel the trickle of warm blood as it started down his chest, but he gave the wound scant thought as he saw an opportunity and brought his own sword down, striking deep into the Frenchman's unprotected shoulder. The body dropped to the deck, but Caulfield was already seeking another target. What had been a tight group of officers had dispersed; one of its number was currently engaged with a marine private who was patiently holding him at bay with his presumably unloaded Bess; another fought what looked to be a losing battle with a blond haired seaman, desperately fending off the regular strokes of the British boarding cutlass with his own rather less substantial weapon. Caulfield's breath was beginning to come in gasps; he was possibly too old and rather overweight for such exercise, but his mind could still work and he forced it to think. The quarterdeck was effectively taken, but there would be plenty more to be done elsewhere. Further down the ship he could make out what appeared to be an absolute melee; the British were on the enemy's deck but, from the apparent confusion aboard
Scylla
, it appeared that the French had also boarded.

“Below!” he shouted vaguely to any free men beside him. Certainly if there was no enemy to fight he should seek one out, and enough of
Scylla
's own were on hand to make a match for those in the waist. Stumbling forward, he approached the quarterdeck companionway, and stared down. The deck beneath was deadly dark causing him to hesitate; boarding an enemy ship was one thing: descending a staircase into enclosed and hostile territory seemed far more dangerous and surely not for the likes of him. Logic predicted more than an even chance that the first down would not come out smiling. The pause lasted a fraction longer than it should, but others had heard his call and were forming up behind. Realising he had no choice, Caulfield gave out one loud bellow that owed as much to fright as bravado, before throwing himself down the steep steps and into the depths beneath.

* * *

B
anks watched the first boarders go before nodding to Marine Lieutenant Cherry, who had already drawn his sword and was clearly eager to set off forward. As captain, Banks had done his job to the letter; the fact that his ship was now alongside the enemy was partially due to luck of course, but his skill as commander had also been a major contributing factor. There would now be a period of relative chaos; this was almost expected, and something that need not concern him. The Frenchman was being boarded efficiently enough, and though most in
Scylla
were trained fighters, only a few could command: a captain's duty lay in remaining alive long enough to take control once the bedlam had ended. There might be younger men with smaller, saucy little ships who would have thrown themselves into the fray, seeking to inspire others by example. In Banks' opinion they were playing two games: the commander and the commanded. He was in no way avoiding action and was more than prepared to draw the ornate five ball sword that hung from his waist to fight any enemy who chanced too close. But as to mixing it in hand-to-hand combat, that was something he no longer indulged in.

* * *

F
urther forward, Flint's men were apparently in a queue.
Maggie Jane
had done her job competently enough and been secured; now, with
Scylla
's boarders swarming over the enemy's decks, there was nothing left for them to do, other than follow. But the gangway above was already crowded and it appeared his team would be amongst the last to go. Then, just as they were about to clamber up the quarterdeck steps, a shout from the forecastle drew their attention. That area was furthest away from the corvette's flames and in the shadow of sail, rigging and tophamper from both ships, but even in the darkness they could make out a positive swarm of Frenchmen grouping about
Scylla
's foremast.

“The Frogs 'ave boarded!” Stiles shouted, before turning away from the steps and heading back along the line of empty cannon. Flint and the others followed, as did more from the larboard gangway, but the rest of
Scylla
's men were in the act of boarding themselves, and their attention was set solely on that task. Flint took stock as he and a few others gathered below the break of the forecastle; there were less than fifteen British to face the intruders: the enemy had the upper hand in more ways than one.