The Torrid Zone (The Fighting Sail Series) (36 page)

“They got the drop on us!” Dixon grunted, looking at the crowd that seemed to fill the upper deck to overflowing. “Can't get there to join them, lest we use the ladders, an' they'll cut us down if we do, sure as a gun.”

Indeed the situation appeared desperate, but movement from behind caught their attention, and they looked back to see Lieutenant Cherry, sword raised and bellowing like a bull, charging along the starboard gangway at the head of a mob of seamen and marines.

The British seemed to throw themselves at the enemy in one solid mass, and enough space was cleared at the mouth of the starboard forecastle steps for Flint and the others to join them. Their arrival was in the nick of time; despite initial success, the marine lieutenant’s party was soon showing signs of being overwhelmed. Cherry himself had fallen, having succumbed to the cutlass of a desperate enemy and, seeing their leader wounded, the rest were hesitating, allowing the French both time and space to press them back.

“At them!” Stiles roared, taking the initiative and bursting through the retreating British pack before laying into the fray with wild strikes of his axe. Having a physical enemy to fight was almost a relief, and being at the fore also the ideal position; there being no need to worry about discerning friend from foe. Any man who faced him was an enemy, and all seemed only too willing to be cut or smashed to the deck with his weapon. Jameson and Flint, following behind, found themselves all but redundant until a lucky lunge from a Frenchman's pike brought Stiles' brief rampage to a deadly halt, and his body slumped down upon the deck, its purpose served.

Styles' efforts had won back the valuable deck space, and even added to it; but for such a gain to be maintained, someone must take his place. Jameson leapt wildly over his body and with a single slash of his cutlass, calmly took down the man who had caused his shipmate to fall. Flint was next to him, pressing his own blade into the face of another who had made the fatal error of pausing for a second. Dixon followed, swearing and spitting as he laid into the enemy with a lunatic's strength. His pistol had been fired some seconds before, but now he used the warm weapon to great effect as an improvised club. Almost immediately the French began to falter and before long were indisputably being pressed back. The cautious retreat soon turned into a rout and, even though the two ships had begun to drift apart, the British swept the deck clear and reclaimed their forecastle.

* * *

B
ut things were not so rosy to the Frenchman's stern. The companionway that led to what must be the great cabin was both narrow and steep, with two side rails that would restrict the use of his sword. Caulfield had taken a step down before slipping his hanger back into its scabbard and reaching forward for the deck beam at the mouth of the hatchway. There were, he decided, some advantages in being slightly below average height: the wood felt round and polished under his fingers as, jumping clear of the treads, he launched himself forward. His body started to swing like the pendulum of a clock, but the grip was soon released and he dropped down and into the dark mysteries beneath.

Before they could reach the deck, his boots connected with something far softer that let out a muffled cry before being knocked to one side. Caulfield stumbled, but mercifully regained his balance as he glanced at the young officer he had unintentionally kicked in the face, and was now apparently unconscious. He drew his sword again; all was sparsely lit by the battle lanterns hanging between the heavy cannon that lined each side. Their dim light revealed many living shapes lurking in the shadows but, whether it be from surprise or the violence of his entry, none seemed eager to meet him. Caulfield was momentarily at a loss; his own men were tumbling down the companionway after him, and would soon present a reasonable fighting force although, with the French holding back, there was effectively an impasse. Then the flare of a pistol erupted from out of the darkness and one of the British marines crumpled to his knees. The simple act was taken as a rallying cry, and the enemy rose up from the depths in one solid mass.

Then there was fighting on all sides, with the British working almost back to back as they fended off continued and fierce attacks. Caulfield, standing furthest from the companionway, knew that it could not last for long; however well they fought, the boarding party would inevitably be worn down, until the last few remaining were finally forced to surrender. He had no way of knowing the position in other parts of the ship; when last seen the French were also boarding and, for all he knew,
Scylla
might even have been taken. His right arm ached, the wound in his chest was throbbing, and breath came in hurried snatches; it may be better to stand down now, while most of his men were still alive. But those were the thoughts of fools, children, and old men, he told himself; he must continue as if his were the only battle being fought, and it had to be won without considering any other.

His current assailant was a burly, bald-headed man armed with a wooden rammer that was being used both as a club and a quarterstaff. Caulfield could keep him at bay with his outstretched hanger, but it was all but stalemate until the brute struck an overhead beam when trying for a downward blow, and the weapon spun from his grasp. Seizing the opportunity, Caulfield advanced, and slashed down on the man before realising that he had also stepped free of the deadly rin
g.
He turned to his left and engaged the nearest Frenchman who was more than occupied sparring with a cutlass-wielding waister. Caulfield took the man down with the minimum of effort; it was the breakthrough they needed. After having made such an inroad, the boarding party was able to beat a measured retreat, moving past the companionway, and making for the relative space of the nearby half deck. All knew they would undoubtedly meet with further opposition, but at least the confines of the great cabin were being left behind.

They had made it as far as the outer room of the captain's quarters when more French did appear. This time the number seemed far greater and the British looked likely to be swamped. Caulfield's heart was now pounding and his head swam with exhaustion. It was clear the opposition was much too fierce; his party was certain to be overwhelmed and he was actually in the act of calling his men to stand down when there came a blinding shock. The world was suddenly made light and all combat temporarily ceased as eyes too used to peering through mist and gloom were dazzled by a deep and sudden brightness. Every man paused to wonder while the deep-throated roar of a massive explosion began to rumble across the water towards them in a gathering crescendo. For a terrible second Caulfield thought
Scylla
had blown, before remembering the burning corvette. The deadly flames must have found her magazine, but their effect was also being felt elsewhere.

By the unexpected light Caulfield was able to make out the red coats of more British marines beyond what he now saw was actually a relatively small group of French seaman. And that surely was a hatless King, standing at the entrance to the half deck, a bloodied cutlass in his hand. For an instant their eyes met, then both simultaneously realised that many of the Frenchman were already beaten and their position was not as bad as they had feared.

“Forward, Scyllas!” Despite exhaustion, Caulfield's voice rang out strong, and his shout was copied by King, whose more croaking bellow quickly became overpowered by the many others who also picked up the call. Soon all the boarders were positively screaming their ship's name in exaltation and relief, the racket almost covering that of the fighting. Light from the burning corvette was now fading significantly, and many had blurred or bleary vision, but the British had seen the true situation and knew that victory was perilously close. Simply being aware that others lay beyond had heartened them, and the battle was taken up with even greater effort.

Then the two parties began to meet:
Scylla
's seamen and marines confronted their own; friends and familiar faces were dimly recognised, and there was a clamour of greetings, randomly hurled insults and more than one case of hysterical laughter. The confusion slowly dissolved as the French began to accept defeat and, before long, some degree of normality and even order returned to the frigate's deck.

“Well met, Michael,” King panted, as he finally sheathed his sword and rested his hand on the older man's shoulder. “Though it were a worrying time for a spell.”

Some of the French were attempting to make for the stern, and sharp calls and the sound of fists on bone could be heard, but in general peace had been established and those of the enemy that remained were swiftly disarmed. Any not wounded soon found themselves gathered in small groups to the larboard side where Corporal Jarvis and eight of
Scylla
's marines watched over them, while the injured lay heaped without distinction to await eventual medical attention.

“Those that have run cannot get far,” King continued, as he supervised the arrangements.

Caulfield nodded but was too exhausted to reply. He knew that his words would be indistinct and could still feel his heart beating wildly, but the wound was not giving him quite so much pain. “We can deal with them,” he gasped at last, examining the spot, and being mildly surprised to find it little more than a deep scratch. “But first we must check the fo'c'sle.”

“Joe Cherry should be there,” King said peering forward into the darkness. “He was moving to address that very matter when I boarded and from the lack of activity, I would say he has been successful.”

A shout, followed by what sounded like a cheer seemed to confirm this. Then a herd of French seamen could be seen being driven into the relative light of the spar deck. Midshipman Jackson, white faced and with a smudge of blood upon one cheek, accompanied them, stumbling forward and apparently moving as if in a daze.

“We have them,” he said, reaching the two lieutenants. “What ain't surrendered is dead or wounded.” His childlike voice quavered slightly and it was clear that either tears or laughter were not so very far away.

“Where is Mr Cherry?” King asked.

The lad shrugged.

“He never came across; I followed Cahill an' Thompson; they fought like tigers, though Thompson was hurt in the chest and we think him dead,” he added, his voice sounding particularly naïve, considering the message it carried. “Some of Flint's men were there as well; Stiles is gone, an' Dixon 'as been cut about something dire.”

“Very good,” King said, oblivious to the irony. “Return to
Scylla
and report. Advise the captain that the upper deck is secure, and we are about to clear below. Any hands he can spare would be welcomed.”

“Mr Jarvis, form a party to round up those on the berth and orlop,” Caulfield was more in control of himself now and addressed the marine corporal who appeared almost casual in ripped tunic and lacking a hat. “Any that don't drop their weapons at your call, assume to be hostile; there are to be no second chances – do I make myself clear?” In a vessel with only one full gun deck, most of the combatants should already be captured, but there may be more lurking below, and the only time a seized ship can be truly considered taken is when she has been emptied of her crew.

“And you had better be on the lookout for any female prisoners,” King said, stopping the marine as he remembered the likelihood of Lady Hatcher being aboard.

“Aye, Lady Hatcher and her maid; expect them to be in a place of safety; the cable tier or perhaps the cockpit,” Caulfield added. “But do not waste any effort; securing the ship is your first priority.”

“Very good,” Jarvis replied, rolling his eyes and grimacing slightly at the mention of the woman's name. “And no second chances it is, sir.”

* * *

“M
r Fraiser!” Kate said when the body was dumped, not harshly, but certainly without ceremony on the canvas-covered deck of
Scylla
's cockpit. She hastily lowered the lad she was attending to: a third class volunteer struck on the head by a falling block. The boy had drunk a healthy measure of her lemonade, and seemed easier now, and even ready for sleep. She placed the pewter jug down and moved carefully across to where the wounded sailing master lay.

There was a small amount of blood oozing from the area about his lower legs and for a moment she was hopeful. But a brief inspection told her that a tourniquet had been applied to the old man's left thigh; the limb below was severely injured and would most likely have to be removed. “You will take some drink?” she asked briskly, repeating the phrase that had greeted every fresh patient since action commenced.

“I think not, my dear,” Fraiser said weakly. “If I am to meet with your husband I would rather do so with a clear head.”

“Why, I would not offer you spirit!” Kate responded, apparently appalled. “Robert may prescribe laudanum, but that is for him to decide; until then you may take a sip of lemonade, or water if that is preferred, but you will get nothing stronger – not while in my care!”

Fraiser's face relaxed at her tirade and a slight smile played upon his face. “Then a sip of water would be most agreeable,” he said. “If it will not inconvenience you greatly.”

––––––––

I
t took an inordinately long time for the British to make the short distance to St Helena, although one full day was spent securing the two ships and dividing their prisoners. The captured French were sullenly philosophical in defeat; all senior officers had been killed or seriously wounded and those that remained allowed themselves to be contained without undue protest. Some were needed at the pumps; both frigates leaked badly and there were simply not enough able British hands for the work. It was not a popular duty, and required the supervision of a marine guard, with loaded muskets and bayonets fixed, but the prisoners proved more willing to assist Grimley in providing food for so many. The French medics also worked every bit as hard as Manning's team in repairing the carnage that both sides had managed to wreak.