His Majesty's Ship (31 page)

      
The midshipman turned away from his glass and surveyed the seaman, uncertain as to whether a breach of discipline had just occurred.

      
“The captain made it plain that he could not leave the convoy,” he said, with as much authority as a fifteen year old could muster. “It was up to them to get back to us.” He was quite right; Pite had said as much in the midshipman's berth, only a few hours ago.

      
“Aye,” added another. “Them knew well enough what they was lettin' thiersels in for.”
 

*****

      
What they had let themselves in for was a nightmare. King, was allowing his wound to bleed freely, while desperately bailing water with his hat. Some of the marines were doing the same, their leather shakos holding almost a gallon at a time. Flint was pulling stroke, and setting a good fast pace, despite a somewhat strained look to his face. In fact, with the help from the sails, the boat was making good progress, but still it would be some while before they caught up with the nearest British ship. Copley moaned softly. He was packed up to the stern of the boat with crude bandage over his foot and a rope tourniquet biting deep into his thigh. The cold water slopped over him, cooling and cleaning the wound, although King still doubted that he would make it back in time. Glancing behind he could see the second frigate draw level with the merchant ship, about a cable off to one side. She was clearly intending to launch another boat. The first frigate was nearer, less than fifty feet to the other side, abeam of her own shattered cutter, presumably rescuing what survivors she could. The distance would not be enough to do great damage; maybe shake them up, nothing more.

      
But then he was assuming that the destruction caused by the first broadside hadn't dislodged the charge. He glanced at his watch, amazed at the passage of time. It should have happened by now, if it was going to happen at all. King composed himself, thinking of the reaction if the charge failed to explode. That would really be a waste; all his efforts would only have achieved the delivering of a fat merchant straight into the hands of the French. He swallowed dryly, wondering about the implications, and it was at that moment that the
Hampshire Lass
rose up and separated amid a ball of red flame.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

      
A call from the masthead alerted Shepherd, and he looked back in time to see the tongue of flame and pillar of black smoke that marked the last position of the
Hampshire Lass
. Both the French ships were far enough away to escape serious damage although the sheet of fire, presumably fuelled by the merchant's cargo, swept dangerously close. Specks of flame could be seen on the water about the ships, and then the larboard frigate's forecourse was alight. The sail flared briefly, before being totally consumed. Routing out and setting a replacement would not take long, although the enemy was likely to be more cautious when approaching the remaining merchants.

      
Shepherd's gaze naturally fell to the small cutter, now nearer to the British ships, but by no means safe. The wind, which had backed and was strengthening all the time, had forced them over, so that it appeared the leeward side was almost underwater. King was sailing the cutter as hard as he dared in order to close with the convoy, certainly they were travelling appreciably faster than
Vigilant
, or the pursuing French. At their present course and rate, and assuming no further changes in the wind, Shepherd estimated that it would be slightly over an hour before they caught up. He smiled grimly to himself; if he was correct the cutter's crew would be boarding
Vigilant
just in time for the opening shots from the French.

      
He began to pace the deck, unconscious of the many eyes that followed him. King's ruse had separated the frigates from the line-of-battle ships and created a chance for
Vigilant
to strike at either. If he maintained his present course for too long that advantage would be lost. Worse, the two pairs of ships would simply close on the convoy, still with the wind in their favour, in a classic pincer movement. Clearly he needed to act and act now.

      
To turn towards the line ships might be the best ploy; even with the odds so heavily against him, it would be unlikely that the French would escape serious damage and be able to cross the Atlantic. Of course it would be the end of his ship; more to the point, the end of any further influence he would have on the battle. The frigates would then round up the rest of the convoy, possibly give assistance to the liners, and
Vigilant
would be no more than a wreck and a memory.

      
The alternative? He looked again at the cutter battling towards him through the heavy sea, and the enemy behind it. The two powerful frigates would put up a hard fight; assuming that he was able to disable them both, what state would
Vigilant
be in to go on fighting? And there was an additional question that was almost as unpleasant: how would the Admiralty and his brother officers look on a man who chose to fight frigates in favour of line-of-battle ships?

      
Suddenly his attention was brought back to the cutter. An unlucky fluke of wind had laid it over, and they were now striving to right the boat. He stood motionless as men fought for their lives, pulling back on the shrouds to drag the sodden sails clear of the water. All at once the cutter was upright again, although riding lower than ever, while a series of splashes indicated that bailing had begun in earnest. Then the sails were pulled taught, their speed increased and the chase continued once more. Shepherd rubbed his eyes, his head ached dreadfully; the hours of relative inactivity were starting to tell on him. One of the merchants might easily wear round and collect the cutter, although he doubted if a signal to that effect would be understood, or acted upon. And all he could do was ponder and deliberate, while men were fighting for their lives.

      
“Wear ship!” he said, convincing himself that he was doing this for the good of the entire convoy and not merely the crew of a small boat. The unexpected command caught his officers off guard, and it took several seconds for them to react.

      
“What course, sir?” asked Dyson, slightly ahead of Humble.

      
“Intercept the cutter,” Shepherd almost snapped the order before turning away and starting to pace the deck once more.

      
Humble glanced down at the compass card and the returning cutter, hardly seeing the pursuing frigates. “Steer south, one 'undred an' ten.” The course would mean abandoning the convoy, although they may still be close enough to witness its demise. It would also take them into the very teeth of the enemy.

      
“Let go an' haul!” the master's voice held steady, just as it would if the captain had ordered the colours down, the anchors dropped, or women to be allowed on the quarterdeck. The ship creaked as it was brought round to the new course, and Shepherd felt the pressure almost physically build up in his brain. Then they were free of the convoy and picking up speed with the wind two points abaft the beam and the bows, for the first time, pointing towards the enemy.

      
Tait turned his glass on the merchants, and studied their inverted image on the night glass. They would see
Vigilant
change course and know she was taking on the frigates, although what solace that would give them he could not guess when they were to be left for line-of-battle ships. He turned his glass back to the frigates glad, not for the first time, to be free of his captain's responsibilities.

      
Dyson noted the course on the traverse board and looked towards the cutter. He estimated they would be with her in less than fifteen minutes. The wind had backed and increased further and
Vigilant
was fairly racing under her forecourse, jib and topsails, so the time might even be less. Shepherd was still pacing the deck, a sure sign of agitation, while he remained still and composed next to the binnacle. But despite the differences in activity, Dyson was at one with Shepherd. It was the right move, one that he would have chosen himself, although naturally there was no opportunity to reassure his captain without a distinct breach of etiquette.

      
If they were to take on the French line-of-battle ships, they must first silence the frigates; not to do so would open up any amount of chances for the more manoeuvrable vessels to position themselves inconveniently across their bow or stern while the liners pounded them on either side.

      
Of course to silence the frigates was no small task in itself. The French carried considerably heavier broadside metal than an equivalent British ship, and were also quicker and more agile.
Vigilant
, sailing alone against two and rated as a mere sixty-four was facing a significant force. Dyson smiled to himself; they could muse all day, but both sides of the sword remained as sharp. Whether they steered larboard or starboard they would eventually meet with the enemy. Perhaps they would do damage, maybe take some with them, but
Vigilant
was bound to be overpowered eventually, of that there could be no doubt.

      
The odds were also not lost on Gregory. He had left the quarterdeck and was standing in the waist looking over the upper larboard battery of twelve pounders. He too was calculating the pick up time of the cutter, although he allowed for
Vigilant
to slow and take on the men, some of whom would be wounded. With the frigates close on behind he felt that they would be in action within thirty minutes, and was determined to see that everything in his section was correct.

      
Rooke, one of the master's mates, was of the same opinion, and had been checking through the weapons laid out for ready use; the pikes, cutlasses, pistols and axes, necessary for the hand to hand fighting that would follow were they to be boarded, or themselves attempt to board. Occasionally Rooke cast an envious eye over the twelve pounders that made up the armament of the upper gundeck. Each gun captain should have double checked their equipment, and any discrepancy was a direct responsibility of them, the quarter gunners, the gunner's mates, and ultimately the gunner or the gunnery lieutenant; not something to concern a master's mate. Still, Rooke could hardly resist a twitch as he noted two swab pails only half filled, and an area of deck that was not sufficiently coated with sand.

      
“Sharp enough for you, Mr Rooke?” Gregory enquired.

      
“Aye, sir.” Rooke self-consciously replaced the boarding pike in its bracket about the mast. “Reckon we'll be needin' them afore long!”

      
“Belike you're right!” Gregory grinned before turning and addressing the nearest quarter gunner. “Miller, that area needs more sand, and you're low in two swab kids!”

      
There was a scurry of movement and Rooke relaxed slightly, before turning his attention to the cutlasses.

      
Rogers stood at the break of the quarterdeck, and stared forward at the two enemy ships. At any moment now they would beat to quarters, and he would take up his position on the lower gundeck. But here the air was fresh and clear, and he was taking consciously deep breaths before he had to descend to the suffocating atmosphere of battle. The dressing down from Dyson now appeared totally insignificant; in fact his whole life seemed to have taken on a subtle change of direction. Priorities altered; he had wanted to appear the seasoned officer, one who his peers would hesitate to cross or offend. But now, in the eve of a true fight, his previous conflicts dwindled to a state of inconsequence. So Dyson might degrade him in the eyes of his fellow officers and even the Admiralty; he would still prosper. Many before him had left the Navy to pursue careers in commerce, politics; even the Army if it came to it. The main thing was to see this out, stay alive—be captured if need be, his father would be sure to secure his release. Then say goodbye to all this nautical tomfoolery; there were better ways of spending a life.

      
Shepherd paused in his pacing, and turned to Dyson. This was not the first time they had seen action together, but in all previous occasions they had sailed with the might of a fleet, or against a far inferior enemy. Now they would be together in defeat and, almost in a revelation, Shepherd realised quite how much he had come to rely on this queer, clinical man. He allowed him a half smile. “Beat to quarters if you please, Mr Dyson.”

      
Dyson touched his hat, and gave the order that set boatswain's pipes squealing. The marine drummer beat out the
rafale
until the ship was alive with sound. Men primed for action jostled with each other as they took up their battle stations. Shepherd watched them as they joked foolishly amongst themselves, mocking an enemy that was about to try very hard to kill them. The majority of the crew were old hands, but the new had clearly integrated themselves well enough in the short time they had been aboard. He felt a pang of regret that the cruise had not lasted longer. Within hours many of these men would indeed be dead or wounded, and the ship, if she survived at all, nothing more than a trophy for the French. But these were not thoughts to carry into battle, and once more he looked for his first lieutenant. “Ask the purser to organise a tot of rum for every man.”