His Majesty's Ship (30 page)

      
“Can't hold her, sir!” The helmsman spun the wheel helplessly as the ship fell away.

      
“God, they've taken the rudder,” Pite yelled, his voice slightly higher than normal. King accepted the information without visible emotion, although inside his mind began to race. That was an end to it, an end to his bold plans of destroying a frigate. An end to the worry of how close he could go, and almost an end to the responsibility he held for endangering men's lives. He felt a mixture of relief and exasperation roll over him as he tried to clear his mind to think. “Stand by, but keep your cover until I tell you.” They were losing speed fast and beginning to wallow on the choppy seas. There could be no point in closing further when the ship was unmanageable; indeed, they should think about leaving without delay.

      
Flint looked about and saw the other frigate coming up on their starboard counter. They would be bound to notice the cutters, and may well smell a rat. He looked across to the ship on the larboard side. She was heaving to, and lay about three cables off. It was good enough range for a considered broadside, although there was some other activity taking place. Then Flint noticed a boat being swung out. He lowered his head, leaning against the gun carriage beside him as he suppressed the desire to urinate. Fletcher was to his left, crouching by the breach of his gun, he had the quoin ready to lay his gun when the order was given.

      
“You keep that match alight, Flint!” he whispered under his breath. “Don't want no misfires now!”

      
Flint blew on the match which had indeed died to no more than a glimmer. He was losing his grip, for the first time since the action with the revenue cutter his imagination was running free, and he knew his hands were shaking. He closed his eyes, willing the time to pass. In an effort to calm himself, he bobbed above the bulwark once more to see what was about. The boat, a cutter slightly smaller than their own, was in the water and setting off for them under oars alone.

      
“Depress your guns,” King ordered. Whatever the need to run, there was no point in leaving just yet; especially as the French boat would be bound to give chase. Better string it out a little longer in the hope that they could at least disable the enemy cutter. “Hold fire until I tell you.”

      
Fletcher pressed the wedge shaped wooden quoin under the breach of the gun, and easily lowered the muzzle to the maximum extent.

      
“Try doing that with a twenty-four,” Flint said, determined to keep up an illusion of bravery in front of the other men, as he pressed his own quoin home. A couple laughed, but the rest were too nervous to notice. Again this would normally have bolstered him, but now he only felt a strange camaraderie. The cutter was making good progress. It was crewed with twelve seamen, with four uniformed soldiers and what looked like an officer in the stern. More than enough to overwhelm the crew of a merchant, but nothing like what it would take to tackle them. The
Hampshire Lass
was wallowing in the swell, her sails flapping impudently in the strengthening wind, an open invitation.

      
“Marines form up.” King spoke softly, as if frightened of being overheard. The line of red uniforms took position, kneeling along the side.

      
“Two groups,” whispered Jackson. “One to six take aim and fire on my one, seven to twelve wait for my two.” It was the best way of making sure that the same target was not chosen by too many. The second volley would be aimed at those left standing after the first.

      
The cutter was close now, less than forty yards, it was time.

      
“Fire as you will!” King's voice cracked as the order was given.

      
Flint jumped up and sighted along the gun's crude barrel. He held his hand out to the right, while clutching at his match. Two men eased the gun over until Flint's hand went down, then stepping to one side, he plunged the match into the powder at the touchhole.

      
The gun discharged almost simultaneously with Fletcher's, and one scored a direct hit, although it was impossible to say which. On the cutter three men fell from their oars and one screamed out in pain or surprise. For a moment the boat's crew stopped and stupidly looked about them, as if wondering where the shots had come from. Then the cutter began to settle as it took in water.

      
The marines stood up in a rigid line and levelled their muskets.

      
“One!” bellowed Jackson. The first six shots rang out in a single note, and threw the boat into total disarray. Two more slumped at their oars, and a soldier in the process of aiming his carbine rolled into the sea. The Frenchmen had begun turning the boat clumsily and were clearly attempting to pull out of danger when Jackson spoke again and the second volley hit them.

      
Flint swallowed dryly. He had hoped to feel better as soon as there was some action, although as he reached for his pistol his hand was still shaking. He fired once in the general direction of the boat. The gun cracked loudly and dropped from his hand and he had an almost uncontrollable desire to run or hide.

      
Shots were coming from the frigate again now, and a heavy ball crashed through the light scantlings of the merchant.

      
“Time to go, lads!” King yelled. “Flint and Fletcher, rig the cutters, Pite, stand to your boat, I'm going below, come on, Copley.”

      
The order came just in time and, abandoning his cutlass, Flint ran headlong for the side and vaulted over. He tumbled clumsily into his cutter and lay in the relative safety of the boat for several seconds, taking fast and shallow gasps of air while he wondered if he would ever find the ability to move again.

      
Meanwhile King and Copley had dropped down the main hatch, as more shots swept across the deck. In the murky depths they picked out the powder charges that were lying in readiness. The explosion would not be as devastating as he had intended, indeed King doubted if it would do any good whatsoever. But he had come to destroy the ship, destroy her in the age old way; the way of Drake when he sent his
brûlots
to singe the King of Spain's beard, and there was still a chance he could take a few Frenchmen with him. The yard of slow match would burn at just over an hour to the foot, but King had no intention of allowing anything like that amount of time. Copley struck his flint and blew on the tinder to encourage a flame.

      
“There!” shouted King, pointing to a spot about two inches from the charge. Copley pressed the flame to the match and paused to see it burn.

      
“That'll do, come on!”

      
In the brief time they had been below much had happened. The French cutter was now filled with dead and injured, and barely afloat in between them and the larboard frigate. Its presence had prevented the ship from firing a broadside, but the frigate on the starboard quarter was coming up fast, and would have no such inhibitions.

      
“All right, Jackson, fall back!”

      
The red and white line broke as the men made for the boats, Copley and King followed them, joining Pite who was by now the only other member of the deck party left.

      
The marines split into two groups and clambered into the boats. The masts were raised and ready with sails loose. King jumped, scrabbling amongst the confusion of the cutter. He looked up, Pite was safe in the other boat, and Copley was about to board his.

      
“Cast off!” King's voice was no more than a squeal as Copley loosened the painter and a seaman pressed the hull of the ship with his oar. The sails ran up the masts, and were just filling when it happened.

      
With a rumble like rocks tumbling down a hillside the first shots of the broadside hit the hull of the merchant ship just above them. Every man dropped instinctively to the bottom of his boat as carnage and destruction rained about. King felt a splinter rip into his chest, followed by a stream of warmth that soaked his shirt. Pite's cutter was hit and one of the masts fell across them, adding to the confusion. Copley, who had been caught mid-flight as he jumped into the boat, was screaming and holding his leg, where his foot hung as if from a string. King could see Pite as he gazed up from the water, floating on his back with an amazed expression on his dead face. From somewhere above a loud crash told the end of the merchant's main topmast, and blocks, tackle and lengths of line rained about them in a murderous tangle as the yards fell to the ship's deck. King held a hand to his wound and glanced over at
Vigilant
sailing safe and strong and so far away.
 

*****

      
From his position at
Vigilant’s
taffrail Shepherd could see it all quite clearly. The second French frigate had been several cable lengths off when she turned to present her broadside to King's party. Many of the shots went wild, as might be expected of a ship firing at long range, but enough had fallen amongst the cutters to do the business.

      
Dyson stood next to him, and both men surveyed the scene through their glasses. Pite's boat appeared to have sunk and the water all about foamed with the arms of struggling men.

      
“Looks bad, sir.” Dyson muttered. The scheme had been hazardous from the start, but that had in no way lessened the feasibility in his mind. If plans were rejected purely because they were dangerous, there would be little point in venturing out of harbour.

      
Then King appeared to have taken control and the small boat started to pull away.

      
“She's swimming low!” Shepherd commented. It was true, the cutter's gunwales were barely inches above the heavy waves, as the sails filled and the men began to row.

      
“They may have holed her or she could be carrying survivors.” Shepherd nodded, although there would have been precious little time in which to collect many of Pite's men. The French frigate was staying hove to, clearly intending to send another broadside shortly. Shepherd brought out his watch, a crack British ship would be at least ninety seconds reloading; he hoped the French would take longer.

      
Tait was also surveying the scene. Standing near to the other two officers, he was not officially on watch, and had no glass of his own. The night glass, which gave a clearer sight by removing one of the prisms, was free; and on an image that was upside down and back to front he watched his shipmates fight for their lives.

      
Crehan had no glass, but perched in the mizzen top he could see the general situation, and Mason, a midshipman of wealthy means, was giving a running commentary to the men who crowded the top as he gazed through his own handsome five element Dollond.

      
“They're pulling clear, and someone's hoisting another sail. Yes, it's taken; they'll make good speed now!”

      
“Any sign of Copley?” Pamplin's anxious voice this time. He thought he had caught a glimpse of his companion as he fell from the side of the merchant ship.

      
“Can you not stand to be apart from him for a moment?” Crehan had no time for such friendships.

      
“I can't see him particular,” said the midshipman, as he peered through his glass. “But they're making better progress now.”

      
“Only the Frenchie's gonna fire presently,” Crehan muttered. For him the French held a special fascination. Morally they were his ally rather than enemy, and it was not lost on him that those very ships might be bound for the Americas.

      
Pamplin shifted his position. He had thought Copley a fool to volunteer; their parting had been distinctly cold on his side, and now he yearned for the chance to make up.

      
The smoke of the first shot billowed from the frigate's side, and the second broadside began to roll out in disciplined order. At that range it was almost possible to watch the flight of individual shots, as the ripple of fire ran along the warship's side. A spread of individual splashes followed, all short and to the stern of the escaping boat, and a few seconds later the low guttural rumble of the broadside reached them.

      
“They've missed her!” screamed Mason above the thunder of the shots. A small cheer erupted amongst the crew of
Vigilant
as the cutter continued apparently unharmed.

      
“Piece of luck that!” murmured Crehan. Clearly the gun layers on the French ship had not allowed for the increasing speed of the small boat. By the time the next shots were ready they should be at extreme range.

      
“The frigate's manoeuvring,” the midshipman continued. “She's taking in her braces and coming back to her old course.”

      
That meant she intended no more broadsides, although she could still continue to take pot shots with her bow chasers.

      
“Why doesn't the silly ol' fool of a captain drop back?” Pamplin's voice broke out with more than a hint of hysteria.