His Majesty's Ship (36 page)

*****

      
Carling was ready, sword and pistol drawn, beside the forecastle detachment of marines. Sergeant Bate had started them firing in volleys as soon as the frigate was within range, and now the men were busily reloading and shooting at a rate equal to that of a crack field unit. To his right seamen were assembling, variously armed with pikes, cutlasses and axes.
Vigilant
's main guns were firing spasmodically as each gun was ready and found its target. Carling imagined he could see splinters flying from the frigate's bows, although that could be merely imagination, or wishful thinking. The enemy's bowsprit glided closer, and shots from her marksmen began to thud into the netting about them. King joined him from the quarterdeck, his dirk drawn and young face set in an odd expression that might be eagerness or fear.

      
“Some will fall coming across,” the marine officer told him in a steady, professional voice. “And some will be cut down by my men. Those that make it are all yours, but don't get carried away and follow them back.” King turned to him and opened his mouth to speak. Then a shot cracked into the frigate's foremast, and it began to give way.

      
The British seamen waiting at the bulwarks cheered as the entire mast dropped in a tangle of line and sail. Those stationed in the tops fell as their platform was taken from them, their screams all but drowned by the crash of timber and tearing fabric.

      
“A fortunate shot!” Carling grinned at King. “About the first bit of luck we've had so far!”

      
The wreckage dropped about the frigate, almost stopping her in the water and forcing the stern round. Gregory yelled at his crews who quickly returned to their guns and began to reload with a vengeance.
 

*****

      
On the quarterdeck Dyson allowed himself two seconds to consider the frigate, before looking back to the battle ships that were running down on them. They would be in range within ten minutes; there was no time to finish the frigate off.

      
“Make sail!” he snapped at the master. The marines were still taking pot shots at the men on the wreckage, while the gun crews slaved at their pieces. “I want the forecourse on her, and rig a replacement jib!” The forecourse would correct some of the balance lost by the fore topsail and the jib would be needed to carry out the manoeuvres that Dyson knew would be necessary.

      
There was a distinct pause after Humble bellowed his order. The men at the nearest quarterdeck carronade glared rebelliously back at him, and Dyson was conscious of a sudden atmosphere of disapproval that could almost be touched. Taking hands away from the guns to set more sail appeared a terrible waste when they had the enemy at their mercy. The extra speed would hardly justify the effort, and another two or three full broadsides would see the Frenchman wrecked. But only he was in command, and only he knew of the almost painful urge to put as much sea room as possible between them and the approaching liners.

      
“Get to it, you lubbers!” Gregory's voice cut through the squeal of pipes; clearly he had noticed the men's reluctance and was hitting back with true lower deck logic. “Plenty of time to finish her off when we've dealt with t'others!”

      
Some gave a cheer, and all went to their work with added will. Dyson caught Gregory's eye and nodded his thanks; Gregory nodded back, and through the smoke and confusion, touched his hat in a token salute.
 

*****

      
On the lower gundeck the guns were being swabbed and loaded with a will never found in exercise. Matthew dumped a charge with a loader, before spinning round to start back to the main companionway. They had suffered a number of casualties, and the intricate loading chain had almost broken down as boys were being called to make up deficiencies in gun crews. Acting alone, Timothy had organised a different system, with a fewer number of lads running for the main hatch, where two men, under the direction of a midshipman, were handing out the charges passed up from below. Each took a double load, thus halving the number of journeys, and slightly easing the confusion. A small queue of panting boys lined waiting for their charges, stoically ignoring the screams of the wounded that came up from the orlop. Jake was at the end, and Matthew smacked his back as he took place behind him.

      
“How's it with you?” Matthew asked. Jake grinned, his face was blackened, he had a cut to his shoulder and blood was smudged on his shirt.

      
“Lost our loader.” he shouted, although Matthew could hardly make out the words. “An' larboard number fifteen's out of action; carriage broke and men smashed to pap!”

      
Matthew nodded. He too had seen sights that would have appalled him normally. Ever since the first gun had fired he had been largely deaf, and it was rather the same with his other senses. They were numb, paralysed, deadened; whatever atrocities were being committed, he only registered a fraction, and even then they seemed unable to affect him.

      
“Buzz is the capt'n's down” another boy told them as he joined the queue.

      
“That right?”

      
“Stopped one early on,” the boy confirmed.

      
It was their turn now, and a grizzled hand passed them the charges. Matthew snatched at his twenty pounds of high explosive, before rushing back to his guns.

      
Flint was laying the gun when he arrived, and Matthew stood to one side, waiting for it to fire.

      
“Captain's dead!” he muttered to Lewis. “Does that mean we got to surrender?”

      
“Nay, lad.” the man replied with a grin. “We goes on, it's not a game of chess!”

      
Then the gun spoke, and the process began again.
 

*****

      
The extra speed was taking them away from the frigate; in no time they would be unable to fire on her. Dyson looked up at the sails, now filled and pulling well, and back at the pursuing line-of-battle ships. The first part of the plan had worked moderately well; both frigates were temporarily disabled, and yet, apart from the loss of the fore topyard and fore topgallant mast,
Vigilant
had suffered remarkably little structural damage. The line-of-battle ships were in full pursuit; with every yard they made taking them a yard further away from the escaping merchants. A jet of smoke came from the bows of the nearest, and seconds later a splash erupted a cable's length off their stern.

      
A wardroom steward, carrying a pewter tray loaded with mugs, appeared on the quarterdeck and approached the group of officers. King took one and sipped cautiously. It was lemonade, sour and strong. Without another thought he drained the mug.

      
Humble caught Dyson's attention.

      
“Bosun's rigged the fore topmast stays'l.” He said, his voice unnaturally loud. “It's slung lower than normal, but he reckons it'll serve well enough.”

      
“Very good, take her on to the starboard tack.” Dyson replied, also accepting a mug. “I want the wind well on our quarter.” Their speed was all important, and yet with the rigging already weakened, he dare not risk more sail.

      
Gregory had left his guns in the waist and now joined them on the quarterdeck. “What do you intend?” he asked Dyson, almost conversationally.

      
“Run for as long as I can,” the first lieutenant replied. “But when they come into range I will have to turn and fight.”

      
Gregory nodded, and accepted a mug of lemonade from the steward. “Will you strike?”

      
It was the question Dyson had asked himself a dozen times since the captain's death. “Yes, when it comes to it,” he said simply, before sipping at his lemonade. British line-of-battle ships were not known for surrendering. Dyson would always be remembered as the man who yielded to the French, and in later years there would be few who would give any consideration to the odds he now faced.

      
Gregory nodded, and handed his mug back with a grim smile. “We'll take a few with us though, eh?”
 

*****

      
On the orlop, Bryant was closer to God than he had ever come in his life. The line of wounded now consisted of twenty-two, with twelve still waiting to meet the surgeon. Bryant, who had long since abandoned his bible, was administering neat rum with the care and devotion he had previously given to communion wine.

      
The man he was currently attending to had a splinter in his leg. It stuck out, bold and black, through the torn white duck trousers. Bryant turned his attention to the wound, carefully cutting away the bloody material with a pair of the surgeon's scissors. Skirrow knelt down next to him. Both knew that most of the waiting needed attention without delay.

      
“Surgeon says he'll be a while, an' I'm to do what I can for the rest.”

      
“I understand,” and Bryant did, all too clearly. “Can you operate?”

      
Skirrow's teeth gleamed in half light. “No, sir. Mister Wilson don't trust me to cut toenails.”

      
It was exactly what Bryant had been expecting. He had been placed on board
Vigilant
for a reason; that had never been in doubt. Now his purpose had been revealed he was almost relieved, however ghastly the calling might be.

      
“If you clean the wounds and assist, I'll see what can be done.” His father's estate included several farms, and in his youth he had regularly helped, both during the lambing season, and whenever an animal injured itself and needed stitching. Though no expert, he knew a little of wounds, and he didn't suppose a human body would be so very different from that of a sheep.

      
“You're sure, sir?”

      
Bryant nodded.

      
“We'll need tools, and more light.”

      
“Aye, sir; there's free space next to t'surgeon.”

      
“Very well,” he said, before continuing with rare authority. “Get a move on!”

      
Skirrow was right; four sea chests were set out next to Wilson, presumably for just such an emergency. Bryant moved the lanthorns until the light was more or less on the place, then Skirrow and another appeared with the wounded seaman hung between them.

      
They lowered him down on to the operating area, and deftly bared the wound. Bryant looked at the black splinter for a second or so, before picking up a small knife. On wooden ships splinters accounted for a large number of the casualties. The natural barbs of the grain meant that they could rarely be removed the same way that they had entered, and this one was no exception. It ran down the length of the leg, deep into the muscle; Bryant would need to cut it out sideways. He looked up and for a second caught the eye of Wilson, the surgeon, literally up to his arms in his current patient.

      
“Do whatcha can, they won't get better on their own.” the surgeon's voice was strained, and his manner almost brusque. “You can call me if you have a real problem.” he added, before returning to his work.

      
Bryant glanced down at the leg once more. He was strangely confident, and yet knew little of what was expected of him. Skirrow understood the procedure, and began to pour spirit on to the wound. The patient tensed, gave a low moan and Bryant began to cut.
 

*****

      
“Five minutes should do it!” Gregory told Tait, as they looked back at the French liners. Already shots from the enemy's bow chasers were straddling the ship, and it was just a question of time before the broadside guns would be able to reach them. “Dyson'll be taking us round to starboard, so we'll only have the one to fight for a while.”

      
The manoeuvre would mean a long wear round, then holding
Vigilant
as close to the wind as possible.

      
“What if they turn with us?”

      
Gregory snorted; the stress of battle had awakened his seaman roots, and he spoke with the guttural parlance of the lower deck. “Like as much they will, then we get's both broadsides to our one. Mind, they'll needs to be right spry to follow, an' careful not to bunk the other when they does.”

      
“How are you loaded, Mr Gregory?” Dyson's voice came from the quarterdeck.

      
“Round down, chain up, sir!”

      
“Very good.” Dyson looked over to the binnacle. It was reassuring to be able to leave details such as the shotting of the guns to competent men. Close hauled, they should be able to manage 300 degrees, with the wind as it was. That would take them across the starboard bows of the leading ship. To mask the other would mean holding their current course for a while longer, and possibly even suffering a few broadsides in the meantime. The sun was falling lower in the sky, he glanced at his watch; well past four o'clock. Another shot passed close overhead, knocking off the galley chimney with a loud metallic clang. A murmur of laughter rose from the men. They were still in good spirits, just how long their morale would last was difficult to say, but he had a suspicion he would find out before the day was done.