Cut and Run: The Fourth Book in the Fighting Sail Series (45 page)

      
“I'd say we shall be within range in half an hour.” Nichols was studying the brig through the deck glass.

      
“Your wound does not bother you?” King asked, taking the brass telescope from him.

      
“Truth is, I had almost forgotten it,” Nichols lied.

      
“Well, I have not.” Elizabeth had been waiting in silence for some while. “And if you really must stay on this wobbly deck, can you not avoid standing?”

      
“Maybe a seat?” King asked diplomatically. Nichols was duly placed on a hammock chair by the nearest gun, and Elizabeth started to arrange his greatcoat about him.

      
“You might be more comfortable below, dear,” he said when she was finished.
 

      
“Below?” Elizabeth asked, surprised.

      
“Aye, we'll be in action in no time,” King confirmed.

      
“But that does not mean I cannot stay and look after George.”

      
For a moment King nearly laughed out loud. There seemed little a young woman could do to stop French round shot. “Remain if you wish, but there will be nothing called for from you, and it will only be placing yourself in greater danger.”

      
“Go, my dear.” Nichols reached up and touched her hand briefly. “Tom is right, you cannot do much, and I am well protected.”

      
The girl considered him doubtfully. “I'd say I were in as much peril here as anywhere, but I shall, if you think it right.”

      
“I believe the Mannings were bursting with something when they came on deck earlier,” Nichols continued, his own eyes slightly alight. “She seemed as if they had won the lottery, yet neither would speak any more. What say you try and discover their secret?”

      
“I noticed that, though chance I might already have guessed the cause.” She studied his face for a moment, then leant to embrace him. King turned diplomatically away and returned to studying his adversary.
 

      
The brig was well set up and being handled competently enough. And Nichols was right, they should be within range before the next bell, although if both held their current course, there would be minimal gunfire. The Frenchman was close hauled on the larboard tack, sailing as near to the wind as she could lie, while
Espérance
had the wind just past her beam. The two vessels were converging almost bow to bow and at a considerable pace. If the Frenchman had any guns facing forward, the British would know of it soon enough, but it should be a spell longer before their broadside armament came into use. He glanced up to the sails, now considerably softer than when the wind was blowing at its peak. The fore and main courses were set, although their roaches were uncomfortably low for a warship. Whoever had fitted
Espérance
out paid scant attention to the needs of a privateer—her lower canvas was certainly of a merchant cut. Were he to use the guns he really should consider brailing them up for safety, as they could so easily ignite. But if this were to be the hit and run manoeuvre he intended, extra power was needed to turn and move on. There was really so much to think about, and yet so little time. Crowley came towards him and knuckled his forehead.

      
“Can I be issuing a bite of food to the men?” he asked.

      
Of course! King felt the first signs of depression returning. He had postponed their noon time meal: most had eaten nothing for several hours. If he couldn't even manage to keep his people fed, what chance did he have of conducting an action?

      
“Yes, speak to the cook and see what can be done,” he said, feeling his face flush slightly. “Let no man leave his station, but arrange that all have enough for now, and promise them a hot meal and double grog when it is over.”

      
Crowley moved off, and King's thoughts went back to the problem of manpower. The guns were ready, but all his topmen, and the injured trained as servers, would be needed to man a single broadside, and yet he must also keep control of the sails. He felt that he could solve every difficulty adequately enough were he only given one at a time, and with sufficient space between.
 

      
“She's signalling!” Barrow spoke this time. The young man was studying the French frigate through his own glass. Sure enough a line of bunting had broken out, and the second brig, still thundering towards them to starboard, was making some form of reply. So the enemy were now aware of each other and their own strength, although that hardly altered his current problem. He turned to pace again, and was actually raising one foot to move, when the solution finally came to him.

* * *

      
“Hold her, steady, steady…” King was leaning over the larboard side, his right hand clutching at the mizzen chains as he watched the enemy draw closer. They were now less than three hundred yards apart, with the French brig only marginally off their larboard bow. Neither vessel had opened fire, both lacking any forward-facing guns, but it would take no more than a simple helm order from either to present their full broadside. Such an action was risky, however. Anyone acting so must stake the chance of an important hit against that of losing both position and wind. The battle of wills continued, with each vessel creeping nearer in the fickle breeze.
Espérance
had her fore and main courses furled tightly to the yards, whereas the forecourse was still set on the Frenchman. But then the enemy's sail bore a deep-cut roach that placed it well out of the way of any burning embers, should she use her guns, whereas King's ship was hampered with low-cut canvas that would be more appropriate on a collier.
 

      
“Steady,” King repeated. He glanced over to Harris, the helmsman, and felt there was no need to worry. The man knew his job well enough and was absent-mindedly chewing on a quid of tobacco while he guided them in. Never was the difference between helming and steering so clearly exhibited. Most hands with the usual share of sight and reason could be taught to steer, but it took a true seaman, one with years of experience and a fair amount of intuition, to feel the way of a ship, predict the numerous variances in a failing wind and keep her on a steady course, when all about her were trying to do otherwise.

      
The time for subterfuge had past, and the British ensign flapped laconically in the breeze. They were growing closer now. He must not leave it too late. King opened his mouth to give the order, then hesitated. It was no good allowing the enemy room to manoeuvre and possibly recover, but then he also wanted to avoid closing too much. He glanced up at the sails, no longer stiff and starting to grow indistinct in the lowering light. A lot depended on how the addition of courses increased their speed; there would be little time to add studding sails for what he had in mind.

      
“Take her two points to larboard,” King said finally, his voice breaking the tense silence that enveloped the entire ship. It was the order they were expecting, and the men responded instantly. The yards were heaved round, and the ship began to turn almost imperceptibly. It was not enough to bring the enemy into their arc of fire, but the intention was clear and made doubly so when the hands who had been manning the braces rushed to the waiting starboard battery.

      
“Run them out, lads,” Barrow shouted, his hands waving in excitement. The guns rumbled forward on their carriages and were swiftly secured. Again, it appeared a slick enough operation, even though there were precious few men to actually serve the pieces if King had ordered them to be used.

      
He continued to watch. There was no sign of movement from the Frenchman, and they were each about to enter the other's arc of fire. Then a murmur ran through the crew as the enemy showed its teeth, in this case an irregular line of black muzzles that nosed out from their starboard ports to snarl at them. King forced himself to count; there were nine—the brig was well armed. He peered up at the mizzen topsail, now decidedly slack. It was going to be a close thing. Much would be down to luck and how that luck was used.

      
“Now's the time,” he said finally, pulling himself inboard as he did. “Bring her round and heave on those sheets!”

      
The enemy could be expected to open fire at any moment—he had judged it to the very last second. Johnston was there with his pipe to his lips, but there was no need for any instruction—the men knew their tasks well enough. With a sound of successive snaps, the main and foresail sheets were heaved, tearing the spun yard loops that were securing the canvas to the yards. The heavy sails had been soaked in water to prevent them catching fire whilst also retaining every last breath of wind. They flopped down and began to billow in the gentle breeze while the yards were braced round and Harris centred the wheel. Then the men were rushing to the guns, this time to run out the larboard battery. King looked to the brig again as the small vessel began to move across their prow and finally settle off their larboard bow again.
Espérance
was moving faster now, but would she be fast enough to avoid the enemy's reaction?

      
“Take sight and hold your fire.” Barrow was running down the deck as the guns were secured. Each had an experienced captain attending to it, even though two of them were lacking an arm and another a leg, while a fourth was muttering nonsense to himself while he signalled the servers to move the gun to point as far forward as it could. “Take your time,” Barrow cautioned. “We don't want no fancy broadsides, fire when you're good and ready, but not until I gives the word.”

      
The men knew their business well enough, as they did their aiming point, which was to be at the brig's tophamper, but all were far too intent on what they were doing to make any form of reply. Barrow watched as the enemy crept closer, then finally looked back at King, who gave him a nod.

      
“Fire as you will, lads,” he said. For a moment nothing happened. The pause continued until King wondered if any had truly heard. Then the first gun spoke, and soon there was a long staccato clatter that cut through the cold, quiet evening air, and turned all on deck ever so slightly deaf.

      
It took hardly any time for the seven six-pound lumps of iron to cover the short distance, but King willed them on every inch of the way. It was a Frenchman's trick to fire at another ship's masts, especially with the wind as it was, but he was not intending to take the brig, or even harm her significantly. If
Espérance
was carrying any chain or bar shot he might have used that, but a well-placed six-pound ball would do almost as much damage to a fragile rig as something far heavier. One shot striking a vulnerable spar should do the job, disable the vessel enough for them to pass and seek shelter in the dying light. One shot, and they were firing seven. It needed an expert gun layer, a man used to his weapon and the motion of the ship, to hit such a small target from a moving platform, but then that was where the luck came in.

      
“Buckets there!” Stationed further forward, Barrow was clearly keeping his head, and had the sense to check the courses. The fore was glowing slightly at the clew and would be ablaze within seconds if not attended to. Two seamen quickly doused it with seawater, and the danger was abated.
 

      
King looked back to the enemy brig. The smoke was rolling down towards her, as he found himself joined by Crowley and Khan at the larboard rail. Then the wind gusted, the evening air cleared, and the group let out a mutual sigh, followed by something far more robust from further forward as seamen on the forecastle registered their success.

      
“That seems to fit the bill,” Crowley commented dryly.

      
“I could not ask for more,” King agreed.
 

      
Indeed, the damage was beyond his wildest hopes. The brig lay amidst a confusion of spars, canvas and rope, her main topmast leaning forward and clearly about to tumble.

      
“We must make for safety,” he continued, turning away from the sight and looking up at the sails once more. With a larger crew and no other ships in the vicinity, he might even have taken the Frenchman, but as it was he could only depend on flight and the coming darkness to shelter them.

      
“She's opened fire!” Barrow again. His shrill call came a split second before the sharp crack of five or six guns fired almost in unison.

      
“We've little to fear from that,” Crowley muttered. “It were fast work for them who ain't ready; half failed to fire and those what did could only have been roughly laid.”
 

      
King stared back into the gloom. Crowley was right, and even if the French had been prepared at the larboard battery, the confusion caused by a falling topmast could hardly have helped their aim. Sure enough, a line of splashes, some way short of
Espérance,
rose up briefly to disappear almost as fast, and only one, laid slightly higher, skipped across the dark ocean in a series of splashes that finished well before their hull. “Belike we caught them unawares,” the Irishman continued, gracing a rare smile on anyone who would have it.