The Torrid Zone (The Fighting Sail Series) (6 page)

The governor nodded.

“I intend to take us further to the east and believe they will not be expecting such a move.
Scylla
can then make better use of stay sails and jibs. With luck, such a heading should see us clear of their attentions for good.”

“Then you must do so, sir.”

“There is, however, the chance that we will be brought to battle. Should the French not be placed as we anticipate, such a course will see us sailing directly for them. It is extremely possible we will find ourselves in action, and against a vastly superior enemy.”

“I see,” the governor commented briefly.

“
Scylla
is charged with both despatches, and your own protection, sir. As captain I may act as I wish, but felt it correct to at least consult with you before making such a move.”

For all his vague and indulgent attitude it was clear that the governor was blessed with a sharp mind when it was needed. “I quite understand, Sir Richard, and appreciate your concern.”

Banks waited, conscious of his fingers that were almost twitching with anticipation.

“As I see it there is no decision to be made. We must make St Helena, and the presence of a hostile squadron will not improve our chances of doing so. But as you said yourself, to head directly south will not in any way avoid action, so surely it is far better to do as you intend; that way at least if we do meet them it will be upon our own terms.”

“Thank you, sir,” Banks said, with absolute sincerity. “Then if you will excuse me...”

“Of course, Sir Richard.”

Banks turned to go, but remembered the presence of Lady Hatcher and stopped. “Forgive me, Sir Terrance – m'lady –  but you cannot remain here.”

The governor's wife raised an eyebrow, and something of her customary menace returned. “Indeed, Captain? It is our room after all, pray why should we choose to leave?”

“If battle is joined it will not be safe,” Banks said, the urgency almost making him dance with anxiety. “This cabin itself will not exist shortly as we are clearing for action. You must take yourself below – to the orlop at the very least, though I would rather you were in a position of even greater safety; perhaps one of the holds?”

“One of the holds?” the woman positively cried out.

“It will not be for longer than a few hours, m'lady,” the captain replied. “You will find my wife, and Mrs Manning on the orlop, pray speak to them and they shall make you safe.” Banks turned and almost bumped into the smug face of the governor's valet. “See that she does!” he ordered curtly, before pushing past the man, and out of the cabin.

* * *

F
ifteen minutes later the ship had cleared for action and was sailing to the south-east. On the gundeck, Flint and his team, most of whom were also members of his mess, had both cannon under their charge cleared away, and were gathered about the larboard piece. The gun was run out and a fair amount of spray and spume came in through the port, but the gangway that ran above provided a modicum of shelter and, as they had been stood down, most were huddled together under it. Ostensibly they had done so for warmth, although there was also an unspoken element of mutual

support. The wind was now almost abeam; with all feasible staysails and jibs set,
Scylla
was back to sailing close to her potential and, despite the weather and the fact that over half of them should be asleep, her crew were in reasonable spirits. After the inevitable exhilaration of clearing for action they were now at rest, but every man seemed ready for what was to come, and there was a tension in the air that all were aware of, even though none spoke, or even moved, unless it was absolutely necessary.

The call from the masthead came a few minutes later and was enough to break the spell and stir them into action, despite the fact that few caught exactly what was said. All about the deck, men began to stand to, taking up positions without being ordered, and Flint clapped his hands and rubbed them together as he squinted down the barrel of the favoured gun that they had christened
Maggie Jane
.

“Target to larboard.” King's voice rang out above the storm while Middleton, the duty midshipman, scampered along the deck, repeating the lieutenant’s words. Jameson, peering out of the port, remained silent. The men looked to each other; it was frustrating in the extreme, knowing an enemy was out there, but having no idea exactly what, or where. Another call came from the maintop, and this time they were all ready to listen.

“Looks like one of the corvettes, hard on the larboard bow, an' less than two cables off!”

The men braced themselves as King shouted once more.

“We'll be altering course to cross her hawse as fine as we can. It will be individual fire, so make sure of your mark!”

The tension mounted further as, still without speaking, Flint helped himself to a burning length of slow match from the nearby tub and fitted it to a linstock. With conditions as they were, a misfire from the gunlock was far more likely, and there would not be the time for a second chance.

“Captain's a rum cove,” Timmons muttered with grudging respect, as Flint blew on the glowing end of the burning twine and warmed his hand next to it. “He could not have set us fairer.”

Timmons was another new arrival on board; he only joined during their brief stay at Spithead but as an experienced hand he was already integrated into both Flint's mess and gun crew.

“The Frogs might be in the right place, but them's still got the wind,” Dixon countered.

“Aye, but we've position,” Timmons stated loftily before taking a kick at one of the ship's mousers that was straying too close. “He's a canny bugger and no mistaking.”

Flint said nothing; he was wise enough to know that, in the current conditions, luck would figure far more prominently than skill. Still it was good that the enemy was off their bow, and not across it, and the fact that
Scylla
was turning to meet them indicated space enough for a considered rake.

* * *

O
n the quarterdeck Banks' thoughts were travelling along a similar path. There had been no great surprise in finding the French; as soon as the idea had come to him he had somehow known they would be there. But the fact that
Scylla
had met them as she had, when it would have taken no great error of judgement to see them across her own prow, bolstered him. It was their first piece of good luck for some while; pretty much the whole voyage, in fact. The storm was still raging about them, and there was little possibility of seeing anything from the deck at that moment, but Chapman, who had relieved Jackson at the main top, was keeping them informed, and it appeared they had yet to be spotted. Caulfield was standing near by, as he had done for many years and countless actions, while Fraiser, another stalwart from the past, was by the binnacle, his folded notes clamped securely under one arm. Lieutenant King, who had joined him several years ago as a mere midshipman, was forward with the guns that he had made his own. Banks supposed there were finer officers in the service, but these were men he knew well and could trust; there were none he would rather see action alongside.

“Enemy's turning to starboard, I think we're smoked!” Chapman's voice rose above the storm again and all stiffened. Then the ghostly image of a jib boom emerged from the darkness to larboard, and a murmur that quickly grew into a cheer erupted from all about.

“Stand by your guns!” King's order came up from below, but no one needed any further encouragement. They were perfectly placed: in less than a minute
Scylla
would be crossing the corvette's bows. For the first time in what seemed like an age, Banks drew breath, and even as his ship prepared to deliver a devastating broadside, a faint smile spread across his face.

––––––––

T
he night was lit by fire from the first gun, and the brightness grew as each successive piece added their own tongue of flame to the blaze. Standing by the larboard bulwark, Banks was momentarily blinded by smoke from the nearby carronades, although the air cleared long enough for him to see the damage they were inflicting. The enemy's beakhead was being peppered with shot that also carried away the dolphin striker, and dislodged her starboard anchor. Robbed of downward tension, her jib fell slack, and the corvette turned slightly with the wind. Darkness closed in almost immediately, although a faint glow still marked the Frenchman's position as
Scylla
slinked away into a heavier patch of squall and apparent obscurity.

“Masthead!” The captain's voice rose up through the last of the shots. “What do you see there?” It would take several minutes for
Scylla
's guns to be reloaded, and one of the other enemy vessels may be close by. There was a pause; no one replied, and he was about to shout again when an older man's voice finally responded.

“No sign of fresh shipping, sir.”

Banks guessed that Chapman had been foolish enough to look directly at the broadside, and had lost his night vision. It was a mistake most only made the once, and at least the regular lookout had been a little more experienced. He crossed the deck to join the first lieutenant at the binnacle.

“Keep her as she is, Mr Caulfield.” With the damage they had inflicted, the corvette was unlikely to follow, and
Scylla
was sailing sweetly enough as she was: it would be a mistake to turn if there were no further enemy in the immediate area.

“A sound broadside, sir.” The first lieutenant's teeth shone white in the gloom. “And no returns!”

Banks supposed he was right, but any success they had achieved was down to luck rather than skill; they could just as easily have come across the enemy with the positions reversed. Then it would have been his ship to suffer damage, and at any time now they could expect to be descended upon in force.

“What news, Sir Richard?”

Banks swung round at the unexpected call, and saw the governor picking his way across the deck.

“You should be below, sir: it is not safe!” The storm, and his annoyance, turned Banks' shout to a roar, but he noticed the old man met it with hardly a blink.

“There are men a plenty on deck, Captain,” he replied calmly, holding a hand to the brow of his sou’wester to deflect the rain. “And boys too, if it comes to it. My presence here will make little difference.”

“As you will, sir.” Banks had no time to waste. There were still enemy ships in the area and if the governor was determined to place himself in danger he was old enough to be allowed.

“Did you hear the gunfire, Sir Terrance?” Caulfield asked.

“Hear it, sir?” The old man's face lit up. “Why I suspect they did so in England! Did we do the enemy harm?”

“Indeed so,” Caulfield replied, slightly smugly. “It were one of the smaller vessels, though they are still of a considerable size. We have damage aloft and the storm to weather, but that particular Frenchman will have work to do before he troubles us again.”

“And the others?” the governor asked. “They are still a threat?”

Caulfield looked at his captain, and Banks cleared his throat. “Potentially, yes. They may well have seen the fire from our broadside. But it is a dark night, and in the current conditions we should remain safe.”

“Excellent, sir; truly excellent: I must go and tell her Ladyship.” Sir Terrance beamed again, then, holding his sou’wester down firmly on to his head, started back for the companionway once more. Banks drew a sigh of relief; he supposed he should ensure that the couple were suitably accommodated below, but found he cared little either way. Then Chapman's voice could be heard, shrill and urgent from the main top, and all thoughts of his passengers' safety were forgotten.

“Sail ho! Fine on our larboard bow, and set to rake us!”

The boy's screech alerted everyone on deck.

“Port the helm – take her to starboard!” Banks roared, although the quartermaster was starting to turn the wheel even as the order was given.
Scylla
baulked at the rough handling, while the afterguard slipped and stumbled on the wet deck as they tried to keep the square sails in the wind. Chapman's sighting could equally be the frigate or the second corvette, but whichever it was, all knew they were in imminent danger.

The enemy was in almost as good a position as
Scylla
had been only minutes before. Banks felt his knuckles whiten as he stared forward while the ship paid off. Were it the second corvette her broadside was bound to be lighter than that of the frigate, but even she would cause considerable damage, and with the larboard battery not fully loaded, Banks would be unable to reply.

“There she is!” Caulfield shouted, pointing forward suddenly.
Scylla
had just moved into clearer air, and all gasped as the enemy frigate was revealed. Well set up and with the wind in her favour, she was speeding into the perfect position and appeared almost beautiful in the foul night. But less attractive was the line of heavy cannon that were run out, and about to fire on
Scylla
's own, vulnerable, bows.

Caulfield was muttering something unintelligible, and Fraiser had thoughtfully positioned himself behind the trunk of the main mast, but Banks found he could do nothing other than stare fascinated at the sight of a powerful enemy ship: so close by and so very deadly.

When it came, the broadside hit them on their larboard bow, and was not a total rake. The shots were also delivered at a measured ripple, rather than the spasmodic but considered fire that
Scylla
had dealt out upon her sister. But, despite the inferior angle, the enemy's ball did their business well enough, and shrieks of wounded men soon began to compete with the wind's monotonous scream.

“Damage report, Mr Middleton!” Banks shouted down at the midshipman on the deck below, but a ship's boy was already scampering back along the gangway.

“Mr King s-sent me, sir,” the youngster – a third class volunteer whose normal duty was to carry powder to the guns – touched his forehead in a hurried salute. During the last five minutes he had heard
Scylla
's guns fired in anger for the first time, been the target of an enemy broadside, and was now delivering an important message to his captain.