The Torrid Zone (The Fighting Sail Series) (5 page)

* * *

“E
nemies about!” King announced cheerfully as he entered the sickbay. Manning looked up from his ledger.

“So I hears – a veritable battle fleet, or is Kate mistaken?”

His wife emerged from the dispensary carrying a teapot. “I said nothing about a battle fleet,” she told them both sternly. “Three ships, no more, and far enough away not to bother us, or so the word has it.”

King settled himself on one of the stools. The sickbay was empty of long-term patients, as it had been for the past week or more, and morning surgery had finished over half an hour ago. He had sailed with both the surgeon and his wife for several years and was accustomed to looking in on them whenever the opportunity presented.

“You will take tea, Thomas?” Kate asked.

“That will be welcome; I am on watch in half a glass so it will set me up well.”

“Should be a memorable duty,” Manning mused. “With a fleet on our tail I suppose we can expect some fancy sailing?”

King sipped quickly at his drink before shaking his head. “I fear not. The leading two might have the edge on us and it is more than three years since
Scylla
was in dry, while the French are like as not fresh from the yard. But whatever the state of their copper, we shall still give them a run and can expect to keep all at arm's length, at least until night.”

“And then?” Kate asked.

“Then there may be action,” King agreed. “If that is really what you both crave. I'd chance the captain will give it an hour or so, before changing course. Quite what heading he chooses is more his guess than mine, but with nearly twelve hours of darkness ahead, and the possibility of further storm, I'd wager this time tomorrow will see us sailing an empty ocean.”

“Then there is nothing to be excited about?” Manning's voice was tinged with feigned disappointment.

“Nothing whatsoever,” King agreed. “The French may delay us and that is, of course, regrettable, but they won't stop
Scylla
reaching St Helena. Nor, I trust, getting safely back to England afterwards.”

* * *

I
n fact the storm returned to rescue them long before nightfall. It was four bells in the afternoon watch and the topsails of the third French ship, which all agreed must be another corvette, were finally visible on deck when cloud blanked out the sun. Soon the wind rose up once more and Banks, who had not gone below since dawn, was forced to order a reduction in sail. In no time the chasing enemy was totally consumed by a darkening horizon, while
Scylla
continued under topsails alone.

“We'll keep her as she is, Mr King,” he said, after a brief internal debate about having the remaining sails reefed.
Scylla
's masts and spars were not as sound as he would have liked, but her topmen had been heavily used over the past three days, and every bit of speed was vital if he wanted to keep the French at bay. “I shall return within the hour, and then we may expect to alter course and perhaps reduce sail further.”

King touched his hat automatically just as the first spots of rain fell and, as the captain reached the companionway, a deluge descended.

“Goodness, is it raining once more?” Sarah said, greeting him on the half deck at the foot of the steps. Together they walked past the marine sentry and into the great cabin. Banks was about to throw off his watch coat when he remembered they were sharing their quarters and he was only wearing trousers and a nightshirt beneath.

“What of the enemy, Sir Richard?” A loud, female voice called from the depths of the great cabin.

“M'lady and Sir Terrance are taking sherry,” Sarah whispered conspiratorially.

Banks rolled his eyes; he supposed he must speak with them before changing his clothes. The governor did not worry him greatly, in fact he bore the man a modicum of respect, but at that moment another barbed conversation with Lady Hatcher did not appeal. In addition to a fresh shirt he also wanted food and it was ridiculous that, as captain of the ship, he should have little control over such basic needs.

“Shall I order some eggs and ham to be set for you, my dear?” Sarah asked. “You may take them in our cabin and tell me of the watch.” He smiled his thanks as they passed through the double doors from the coach. “And I dare say a pot of coffee would be welcomed,” she added softly while her husband braced himself to beard the dragon.

Lady Hatcher was half-seated, half-lying on a stern locker, allowing the governor's sycophantic servant to attend to her nails while Sir Terrance sat more upright on one of Banks' own dining chairs. “So, have you run the French many miles under the horizon?” the woman asked, with more than a hint of condescension.

“I fear not, m'lady,” Banks told her gruffly. “But they are no longer a danger to us, nor should they be for the foreseeable future.” Despite the watch coat, his nightshirt was burning with damp, and he longed for a hot towel to chafe himself dry.

“Really?” She pulled a sour face. “I would have thought you had time enough to dispose of them. Malcolm here was telling us that British ships are so much faster than anything the French can offer.”

Banks bit back the instinctive retort; little would be achieved if he argued with the governor's lady, and nothing at all by contradicting a servant.

“We shall be truly rid of them by nightfall, ma'am,” he told her curtly, and made for his sleeping quarters.

“Very well, Sir Richard; just see that we are.”

Banks retreated, closed the thin deal door on their frail sanctuary, and breathed out. Sarah was nowhere to be seen and he was almost glad – he had neither the strength nor the wit for conversation. It was impossible to tell if the nightshirt was damp through rain or sweat, but once he was rubbed dry, a little of his normal self began to return. Thompson slipped into the small room with a fresh shirt, britches and stockings, and set about removing his boots. They had been put on over bare feet and the leather seemed to have stuck to his skin so that it became necessary for Banks to sit on the bed, and have his man physically wrench them off. Once free the captain wriggled his toes like a child while Thompson fetched a fresh towel, and it was then that he heard the first of the commotion.

A clatter as both coach doors were thrust open was followed by Lady Hatcher's voice being raised in anger. Then the door to his own sleeping quarters was roughly drawn back, and the slight body of Middleton, who had only just been promoted to midshipman, burst into the tiny room. The boy, seeing his captain sitting on a bed and dressed in just trousers, was taken aback and stumbled, narrowly avoiding falling headlong next to him. Banks looked round in surprise and mild annoyance although any humour in the situation was instantly dissipated.

“Mr King's duty, an' you are needed, sir!” the youngster squeaked breathlessly, his cheeks vividly red against an otherwise white face. “Foretops'l yard 'as sprung, an' he's 'ad to reduce sail. The French are closing on us!”

––––––––

I
t was what Draude had been fearing, but there was no time for recriminations or self reproach. When he had checked the yard, not twelve hours back, it was basically sound. There were no cracks, no dark shakes along the grain or splinters at either arm; in fact, even though the wood was flexing like a long bow, none of the usual indications of how soon the spar would fail were evident. Fortunately he was near the foretop, and thus on hand when it finally went, and now he clambered up the topmast shrouds with his arms straight and neck bent back, so that he could assess the situation. The yard was actually still in one piece, but had sprung on the windward side of the mast, making the sail distort; it would be the devil's own job getting that canvas in safely. He glanced down. There were topmen following him and the boatswain himself had just reached the foretop, but they would need a lad or one of the younger, lighter, hands for the mess to be sorted. Someone who might mount the broken yard and ride it long enough to clue up and unbend the sail. Then the spar could be sent down easily enough using the burtons. But then there were the studding sail booms, he remembered. They would have to be triced up, and it was hardly the weather, or the time, for such an operation.

“What's the damage, Draude?”

He glanced down to see Jameson and Stiles, both reliable topmen, below. The older man, who had shared the last of his duff only a few hours before, drew level as they surveyed the problem.

“Well that looks a proper mess,” Stiles said at last. “Thought you checked it during the first watch?”

“I did, 'an it were holding fine,” Draude hissed.

“Can't say the same now,” Stiles said, before adding, “but then a lot can happen in a few hours,” with heavy diplomacy.

“Aye,” Draude agreed. “A few hours ago there weren't no Frenchmen about – least none that you could see.”

Stiles snorted. “Well let's just hope they don't hear about this.” He glanced down and beckoned the younger Jameson to join them. “Else we really will be in the mire.”

* * *

B
anks dragged the watch coat over his shoulders and began buttoning it up as he ran out of his sleeping quarters, ignoring the screams of mock alarm from the governor's lady in the great cabin as he did. The steps of the companionway were wet, and his bare feet slipped, but he was up on deck, and making for the binnacle in time to hear King, who had the watch, ordering the fore staysail set and mizzen canvas taken in to balance.
Scylla
had slowed and was wallowing slightly as the quartermaster tried to hold her to the fickle wind while, ahead and above, the fore topsail billowed out like an ungainly cloud.

Banks glanced around. The wind had backed further, and King's decision to set the stay sail was exactly right; the alternative, a fore topgallant made fast to the lower foreyard, would have made the ship even more unwieldy. Even so,
Scylla
was going to be a pig to handle, and they were certainly losing speed.

“Take her two points to larboard and call all hands, Mr King,” Banks said, while Thompson, who had followed him, attempted to ease one of his captain's feet into a boot. “And clear for action, if you please.”

King touched the damp rim of his sou'wester as the boatswain's pipes rose up to compete against the scream of the wind. Banks cursed himself for not taking care and ordering a reef in the topsails earlier. Now, as a consequence of his failure, he had been forced to cause far more disruption. A filthy night, and in the midst of a storm; these were not the best of conditions for breaking down bulkheads and all the associated inconveniences of turning
Scylla
into a proper fighting machine. But the likelihood of engaging the enemy had just risen considerably, and he had no intention of being caught napping twice.

Ahead the boatswain and his team were still trying to contain the billowing mass of canvas that had been the fore topsail, while the broken spar hung above those on deck like some wooden sword of Damocles.

“Maintop, what do you see there?” Banks shouted just as Caulfield arrived, freeing King to go forward and attend to his cherished guns.

“No sign of the enemy, sir. Though it be precious close and we can't see much into the wind.”

Banks had supposed that to be the case, even if it was damned annoying. For all he knew the French had already given up the chase and were lying peacefully hove to some way off. He might safely continue at reduced speed, or even alter course further and wait for dawn, or more clement weather, to make repairs. But then it was just as likely that
Scylla
was about to be forereached by a squadron of enemy warships. They might emerge at any moment and begin pounding her with deadly broadsides before disappearing back into the gloom. It was an impossible situation, and he had only himself, and his inattention, to blame for it. Fraiser appeared, briefly saluting, before consulting the compass and weathervane.

“She won't hold the prescribed course, sir,” he shouted, even though his captain stood less than three feet from him.

Banks nodded; that was obvious; they would have to turn further south, but exactly how far? Just dropping a few more points might do the trick, but the French could expect him to do that, even without having sustained any damage. Then, despite the cold of a wet dark night, he felt the well-remembered feeling of a plan, and began to shuffle, awkwardly.

There was an idea in the back of his mind, one that he instinctively knew would work, and even turn their ill luck into advantage. Caulfield was approaching and touching his hat, but suddenly Banks had no time to speak with him. If what he intended was to succeed he needed to act quickly, although first there was the small matter of his passengers in the cabin below.

Briefly acknowledging the bemused first lieutenant, Banks made for the companionway once more, and all but tripped down the steep stairs. Below, they were still clearing for action and the great cabin was in the process of being stripped back to make an extension to the gundeck. He paused, uncertain as to where the governor and his lady might be found, then noticed that the temporary sleeping quarters built for them in the coach had not yet been dismantled. He headed there, and tapped urgently on the flimsy door.

The governor's servant opened it, apparently annoyed at the disturbance, but Banks pushed the man aside, and entered. Lady Hatcher was sitting at a tiny dressing table, while the governor lay stretched out upon their bed. Both looked at him with a mixture of surprise and, in the case of Lady Hatcher, irritation.

“Forgive the intrusion, Sir Terrance, but a matter has arisen and I must wait upon you without delay.”

“Of course, Sir Richard.” The governor rose and indicated the only free chair in the tiny room. “Won't you take a seat?”

Banks brushed the suggestion aside like an annoying fly. “Sir, we have sustained damage aloft and need to alter course.”

“I was aware of that Captain, but fail to see...”

“On our previous heading we were likely to remain safe from the French,” Banks continued, interrupting the governor. “Turning south, which we must, will take us into danger, and might mean they overtake us: with the damage encountered, we cannot make good speed.”