A Sea Unto Itself (48 page)

What the hell had Captain Ball, Daedalus’s commander, been thinking? “Thank you, Mr. Hitch. You may approach more slowly next time.”

“Aye, aye,” said Hitch, saluting, then ran forward.

“The weapons are ready,” Bevan said, handing Charles his blade. “Your orders?”

“Clear for action, please.”

“Have you a plan yet?”

“Not a notion.”

“You’ll have to have one soon, you know.”

Midshipman Aviemore interrupted. “The flagship is signaled, sir,” the boy said calmly.

Charles thought he had probably benefited from Hitch’s example. “What does she say?”

“Engage the enemy more closely, it says. With an imperative.”

“I’ll bet he put an imperative with it,” Bevan observed. Then he said, “All right, all right, we’ll clear for action.”

“You may acknowledge the flagship’s signal, Mr. Aviemore,” Charles said. “In fact, you may acknowledge any signal she flies.”

Charles stared upward again. He should begin to shorten sail. Then he decided it would be better to wait until the very last minute. What was he going to do? The fort passed by on the port beam. He could see the walled Arab city and the dismasted frigate Daedalus, her guns silent, listing to port. The fifty-gun, two decked Leopard had anchors down fore and aft in precisely the position he had last seen her a month and a half before. As he watched, the flagship’s ports triced upward and her cannon ran out. Raisonnable bore down like a charging bull whale, taking in her sails. Leopard’s broadside blasted outward in a cloud of smoke. Orange fire flashed in a double line.

The effect was hardly noticeable. The French seventy-four glided irresistibly forward. Charles saw her anchor let go to fall into the sea with a splash, not fifty yards from Leopard. She began to swing, her own broadside coming to bear. He noticed a second cable veered aft from the anchor to enter a lower gunport toward the stern. The spring came taut as the larger ship loosed her own guns in a thunderous roar. Cassandra raced across the anchorage. Charles searched desperately for some opportunity, anything he could do that would make the slightest difference.

“Cleared for action, Charlie,” Bevan reported.

“Beat to quarters,” Charles said. That was the next logical order, but for what? He had to do something; his mind turned over option after option, rejecting each in rapid succession. He looked at Daedalus, dead in the water, and at Raisonnable on her spring and close to Leopard. “Wait!” he shouted after Bevan. “Beat to quarters, then get all of the ship’s boats over the side to starboard. Tether them bow to stern, the jollyboat first, and send a crew down into her.”

Bevan’s brow furrowed. A question on his lips.

“Do it now,” Charles said. “We’ll tow them behind for the moment. Get some men aloft to start furling the courses; take in the studdingsails. We’ve too much speed.”

Bevan shrugged his acquiescence and began bellowing the orders.

“Pass the word for Malvern,” Charles said to Sykes, who had returned to the quarterdeck. In a moment the coxswain appeared at the head of the ladderway. A mile ahead, Leopard kept up a respectable rate of fire, faster with her guns than the Frenchman but suffering more anyway. Her foremast had gone by the board; her bulwarks were pummeled.

“You sent for me, sir?” Malvern said, touching his forehead.

Charles paused to put order to his thoughts. “I want you to take the launch and cutters in tow behind the jollyboat. In a short time, Cassandra will turn sharply to port. You will cast off the moment we do and pull as hard as you can for Daedalus. Speed is everything. Do you have that?”

“Aye, sir.”

“Please inform Captain Bell that he may use the boats to make for the French warship and board her. Are you clear on this?”

“Yes, sir. He’s to attempt to carry the seventy-four in our boats.”

“Convey to him my sincerest regards and request that he do so with all possible dispatch.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And find someone to replace my steward in the boat’s crew, if you will.”

The ship became alive with activity. The drummer rolled out his tat-tat-tat-tat; men ran to their cannon or into the masts. The last of the boats went over the side. Raisonnable’s guns exploded outward yet again, the sound immediate and menacing. Leopard appeared pitiful, her mainmast now broken at the tops. Not all her guns answered as she fired back.

“Run out the port side battery,” Charles said to Bevan.

Bevan immediately shouted down the order to Winchester. “Do you plan to come across her stern and rake her?” he said to Charles. “We haven’t much shot to send across.”

Charles shook his head, his eyes never leaving the towering ship of the line, not more than a half-mile away. “I plan to have her think we’re going to rake her.” In particular, he focused on Raisonnable’s anchor cable and its spring. He saw that her gun ports on the near side remained closed. “Mr. Cromley, we will turn hard to port in a moment. If you would see to it that the sails are braced around, we must keep our way on.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Cromley answered.

Charles turned back to Bevan. “As soon as we have turned, you may man the starboard guns. Forget the ones to port. Fire as you bear.”

“So you do have a plan after all.”

Charles struggled to present a sense of inner calm he did not possess. “I am in hopes of running upon her anchor cable and parting it. We will then board by the bow. With any luck we’ll both drift down on Leopard and they can do the same. Daedalus has also been invited to participate. See that the men are prepared.”

“And if the cable doesn’t part?”

“We will be at leisure as prisoners of the French to debate other possible approaches.” Charles moved to stand beside the sailing master. “Do you see her cable with its spring?”

“Aye,” Cromley said evenly.

“I want to run our bow over it as close to her side as you can.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Cromley answered. Charles saw his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallowed.

Charles gauged the rapidly closing distance. Cassandra's bowsprit presently aimed to shave the Frenchman’s transom from an oblique angle. Raisonnable's near broadside cannon could not yet reach him and their ports remained closed. Those for her two stern chasers opened, their barrels sliding out. He was close enough. “Mr. Cromley, put the helm over, if you please. Hard aport.”

Two quartermasters threw their weight onto the wheel, the spokes spinning. Charles felt the deck heel as the rudder bit. “Mr. Sykes, run to the taffrail to see if the boats are cast loose. Shout for them to do so if they haven't already.”

He saw Lieutenant Ayres close by, awaiting his attention. “Do you want my boys aloft as sharpshooters, sir?”

Charles scratched at his cheek to buy a moment’s thought. “No, bring them to the forecastle.” Sharpshooters in the tops could serve to good advantage, but if Raisonnable's anchor cable proved stubborn and did not part, it was likely all of his masts would go by the board.

Cassandra increased her speed as the sails pivoted to catch the wind. She settled on her new course angling toward the two-decked ship’s towering side. Charles started along the gangway toward the bow. He saw the heads and shoulders of the officers on the French quarterdeck staring at him. There must be confusion on her decks as she rushed to man her offside cannon. The gun ports remained closed for the moment as the bowsprit swept past Raisonnable's stern at fifty yards distance, angling sharply closer. Beechum’s guns exploded as he reached the forecastle. A long rippling thunder followed as the remainder of his cannon bore. The twelve-pounder shot would be pinpricks, but it at least announced their presence. One by one, the enemy gun ports jerked open; too late, Charles thought. He would be on them before the cannon could be untethered and heaved outward. He saw the hard line of the cable, with its spring tilting downward from the bow and stern at a low angle into the sea. It disappeared from his view as Cassandra's bow rushed onward. A yardarm from the French warship tore through his foresail, snapping lines directly overhead. Raisonnable's side loomed above. Ten yards away, he could see inside her gun ports, the crewmen frantically casting off the tackles and breechings to free their weapons.

“Here, Cap’n.” Augustus appeared behind him thrusting two pistols into Charles’ hands. “I didn’t know we was goin’ on board.”

He pushed them into his belt. “Stay close by me, please,” he said.

A loud, screeching protest of stressed timbers and cables came from beneath his feet. Cassandra slowed precipitously, her bow riding up on the obstacle. Charles clutched at a foremast shroud to keep from falling. She seemed to hang, frozen, the downward force on the cable pulling the ships closer. An unearthly rending sounded, then a snap as loud as a musket. Cassandra’s beak settled back toward the sea, the remainder of her diminished momentum pushing toward Raisonnable’s bow. His own starboard cathead and anchor smashed against the seventy-four’s sideboards in a grinding crash and carried away.

Charles drew his sword and flourished it in the air. “Boarders away!” he yelled at the top of his lungs. He jumped onto the breeching of a six-pounder cannon, then to the top of the hammock netting. The rail for Raisonnable's beak came within grasp and he heaved himself up. The space was clear; he had caught the French unprepared, rushing to man her guns. He suspected it wouldn’t be clear for very long. Already, others of his men were clambering up behind him.

Charles jumped for the ladderway to the forecastle and ran upward. Immediately two men confronted him from beside a nearby cannon. One held the gun’s rammer, which he thrust forward in defense. Charles grabbed the object in his left hand and slashed down with the sword in his right. The blade bit into the seaman’s shoulder, slicing muscle and shattering bone. The second, in a lieutenant’s uniform, screamed out a warning, drawing his own blade. Charles thrust, the lieutenant parried expertly and jumped back. Other English, shouting insanely, rushed up onto the deck with cutlasses and pikes. The French officer looked around him wide-eyed, hesitating, his guard momentarily lowered. Charles lunged for the man’s middle before he could recover, pushed the sword point into soft belly and wrenched it free as the man fell. English seamen and marines swept past. The air filled with cries and shouts in two languages; muskets fired; steel rang on steel. He saw Augustus close beside him and the blue coats of Bevan and Winchester among the seamen a short way ahead. Raisonnable's forecastle was almost won in the initial rush. His own men continued across onto the beak, and up the ladderway. He noted that the French cannon had fallen silent.

Charles started forward, looking for an opening in the mass of men. Cries of "Repell l' anglais!" reached him above the din of battle. A loud, "Horra!" sounded. He saw scores, if not hundreds of French pouring up from Raisonnable's gundecks, surging toward the ladderways. Overwhelmed by the sheer weight of numbers, the line in front of him faltered. Step by step, his men fell back, yielding precious space only recently won.

Charles threw himself toward a knot of British, nearly surrounded by French seamen, slashing and hacking with his sword. Two men fell; a third came at him inside the arc of his blade with a cutlass. They locked swords, chest to chest, wrestling and pushing in a struggle for space to swing their weapons. Augustus wrenched the man off and threw him over the side. Still the hoard of French advanced across the forecastle in overwhelming numbers. All coherence to the battle evaporated into a general melee of isolated islands of English in a sea of the enemy. The decks became slippery with blood, the footing treacherous with fallen bodies and discarded weapons.

Charles knew that he must regroup his men. A Frenchman lunged forward with an outthrust pike. He jumped to the side to avoid the strike, pulled a pistol and fired, then used its butt to smash the face of another. “Fall back! Fall back!” he shouted in desperation. He doubted the words could be heard over the uproar; there was nowhere to fall back to.

“HUZZAH!” A loud cry bellowed out from somewhere close by. Charles saw the broken stub of a ship’s mast just beyond the starboard rail. Men swarmed over, rushing at the defenders. The tide turned again. Dozens, scores, uncountable numbers of Leopard’s seamen came across, beating down the French. Those of Raisonnable’s men still on the forecastle retreated toward the ladderways, dropping weapons in their haste, or raising their hands in surrender.

Charles gasped in lungsful of air to catch his breath. His heart hammered. He knew himself to be nearly spent. The resistance stiffened in the gundeck below and along the gangways where the French retreated grudgingly toward the quarterdeck. Augustus stood beside him, his face twisted in pain. One hand clutched his arm; blood seeped between its fingers.