His Majesty's Ship (35 page)

*****

      
The chaplain held his bible tightly in his left hand while his right rested on the forehead of Clarke, the boatswain's mate, who was wounded terribly in the groin. His eyes were closed in prayer as his lips moved silently.

      
“All right, parson, we're ready for him.” Wilson's words were quietly spoken, but Bryant removed his hand immediately and opened his eyes.

      
“Plenty more for you over there,” The surgeon nodded to an untidy line of men waiting for his services. Bryant left Clarke to the terrors that awaited him and approached the next casualty a little warily. It was Hunt, a heavily tattooed man of middle years; one of the many who had mocked and taunted him in his time. The man looked at him now, eyes filled with pain and hope; Bryant laid a hand on his head and began to work.
 

*****

      
“Take my arm, sir.” Dyson caught his captain as he was about to fall once more. “We'll get you below.” Shepherd registered the face of his second in command, but no more. The man was asking the impossible of course, and he had no time to waste on things that were beyond his control. There was now no feeling in the left side of his body, his vision was hazy, and his tongue was far too large for his mouth.

      
Dyson swung round on a group of seamen watching in silence. Their captain, fit and well one moment, was now apparently wounded. The men appeared stunned and confused. “Help me, damn it!” Dyson roared. King along with Lindsay, the captain's secretary, joined him and together they lowered Shepherd to the deck. King opened his captain's coat and felt about his chest for some sign of injury.

      
“There's no wound that I can find!” King almost shouted at Dyson.

      
The first lieutenant nodded briefly. “The head's badly bruised; it was probably that passing shot,” he muttered quietly. King took in the news, ashen faced. The bruising suggested some impact, although with heavy round shot even the wind of passage could be enough. He had heard of such things causing everything from extreme physical shock to heart failure. “We'll get you below, sir,” Dyson repeated, then instinctively looked forward along the upper gundeck. The guns were ready to fire, and must have been for several seconds. He moved away and stood up, momentarily forgetting Shepherd. The frigate was in clear sight, there was no further time for delay.

      
“You have control, Mr Gregory,” he shouted, and paused to watch the shots as they pelted the masts of the ship. An empty spar fell from the main, but nothing more. Apart from some severed lines, and possibly a few men taken from the tops, the broadside had been ineffectual. Something moved by his feet, and he looked down. Shepherd has raised himself slightly and was now resting back against Lindsay. Dyson knelt to join him.

      
“How is it with you, sir?”

      
Shepherd's eyes, open and strangely dark, seemed to be set on something far in the distance. “Time to go back now.” His words were slurred and barely discernible. Dyson drew closer, trying to catch every syllable as blood began to trickle from the captain's ear. “Time to go back, else we'll be missed.” He paused for a moment and a smile flickered crookedly about his face. “Out too late,” he continued, apparently noticing Dyson for the first time and staring deep into his face. “We'll come again tomorrow, though, won’t we?”

      
Dyson looked his captain straight in the eye and suddenly understood.

      
“Yes, yes of course we will,” he said.

      
Then the smile twisted into a gasp, and with no further word, Shepherd died.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

      
Dyson pulled himself away from the fact of his captain's death with an effort that was very nearly physical. The men about him appeared in a trance, but the second frigate was still bearing down on them, and a further broadside could be expected at any moment.

      
“Mr Humble, take the ship round, I want her running south.” This would give them more room, and take them further away from the oncoming battle ships. Next he stepped forward and shouted to the lieutenant standing in the waist. “Mr Gregory, we will be passing close to the enemy, we'll make one more broadside with chain, then its round for the lower battery and canister for the top!” The time for hitting at spars had passed for now, although it would be futile to have the guns reloaded.

      
Dyson had taken up command instinctively, and the men had responded in the same way. Now that he had time to think, however, the enormity of what lay ahead appalled him. To fight a battle as second in command was nothing like the responsibility he now held, and he had to stop himself from pacing the deck like an excited child. Another thought occurred, and he swung round to single out a likely candidate. His eyes fell on the captain's secretary.

      
“Mr Lindsay, kindly deal with the captain.” Lindsay's face was white with shock, although many years of discipline had instilled in him an automatic response to orders. With the help of two men from one of the quarterdeck carronades he picked up the body and carried it back under the poop. After clearing for action the captain's quarters were merely an extension to the quarterdeck, although to one side the small chart locker was empty and relatively uncluttered. Without a word they deposited the body inside, closing the door on it with a sense of finality that was shared by all who had time to watch.

      
The frigate was keeping station with them now, and running very nearly parallel. She was weighty for her class, probably mounting at least forty eighteen pounders. Her timbers would be more fragile however and even allowing for the heavier classification of French gun, she was no match for
Vigilant
. Dyson watched without surprise as her hull came round, until she was on a converging course.

      
“She's trying to get in close to board!” It was King's voice, pitched higher than usual, although he clearly had a grip on the situation. Dyson glanced down at the gun crews, as they hurled themselves back on the tackle, hauling their guns into the firing position. It was what he would have done in the enemy captain's shoes. The French were known to carry large crews, often fortified with soldiers; the men of a big frigate would be quite capable of overwhelming a small line-of-battle ship, and there would be hardly time for more than one broadside to see them off.

      
Gregory had his sword clear of its scabbard, waiting for the chance to raise it. A shout came from the midshipman at the main companionway; the lower deck was ready, and the sword went up. Then, with a series of horrible crashes, the first shots of the French broadside began to strike them.

      
The range was less than half a mile, but despite this
Vigilant
took the broadside well; accepting the punishment on her heavy frame like a prize fighter might an unexpected blow. In two places bulwarks were pierced, but neither was important to the integrity of her hull. A man was cut down on the forecastle, and a boy on the quarterdeck fell, knocked senseless by a flying hammock. Ironically this had been struck clear from the netting where it had been placed to absorb small arms fire. A marine was hit by the blast of a shot and fell back, dropping his musket on the deck where it fired, the ball embedding itself in a bulwark, dangerously close to the boatswain. Immediately the line closed up to fill the gap, while Corporal Jackson turned and touched his hat to the bemused petty officer.

      
At the foretop masthead Crehan felt the timbers beneath him shudder. The enemy still had the windward gauge, and most of the broadside had fallen low. But one of the last shots, whether by accident, or design, had hit the fore topmast, level with the fore topsail yard and, more important to Crehan, below his perilous station. Again the mast trembled, and he grasped on to the shrouds for their doubtful support. He would have to make a dash for it, a back stay was the obvious choice, although that would mean being dependent on the topgallant mast holding until he reached the deck. The alternative was to throw himself down the ratlines, and make for the fore top. That would give him relative safety, and he could continue to the deck by a shroud if he wished. He glanced about him, strangely unwilling to give up his post, although there would be little use for a fore lookout in the next few hours; Kapitan was still at his station, and everything would be horribly plain from the deck. Cautiously he swung his body round, but the mast gave an alarming lurch. He froze, frightened to move. There were a series of loud groans as the shrouds and stays stretched. The deck below seemed far away and yet ridiculously close. He moved once more, and once more the mast quivered. Then, throwing caution to the wind, he began to scramble down the ratlines. He was less than a third of the way to safety when the shrouds slackened, and the mast gave way.

      
“Fore t'gallant’s goin'!” The boatswain roared, pointing to the tangle of spars already crashing down towards the deck. They dragged with them the fore topsail which draped over the forecastle like a shroud. “Damage party: axes!”

      
The waisters and forecastle men surged forward with a will, hacking at the limp shrouds and roughly throwing the redundant tackle and torn canvas overboard. The fore topgallant mast, fore top yard and the remains of the crosstrees went the same way, and within ninety seconds there was little sign of any wreckage on the deck, and none whatsoever of Crehan.

      
Then they could reply. Gregory was ready, sword held high in the air. Dyson nodded, the blade came down, and
Vigilant
responded.

      
They were close enough to see the damage in detail. The chain shot reeked havoc amongst the delicately balanced rigging of the frigate, causing blocks, tackle and in two cases soldiers, to hang for a moment, before crashing down to the deck, or the ocean beside it. The gaff of the driver sagged as its lift was shot away, and the jib fell down upon the bowsprit like so much laundry from a broken line.

      
The French ship slowed, the wind taken from her sails, then her yards began to creep round and the hull leant in response to a kick from the rudder. She was turning harder towards them, and soon settled on a collision course.

      
Dyson swallowed, clearly his opposite number had planned this, as the evolution ran smoothly, despite the damage just inflicted. Now he was faced with the choice of continuing as he was, and take the frigate amidships, or alter heading or speed and have his stern or bows raked. There was a third option; he could turn towards the enemy, and attempt to pass and capture the windward advantage. Then he could take her with the unfired starboard guns and at that range the damage would be devastating. Dyson considered this for no more than a second; his men were unprepared and he doubted that they would be capable of such a manoeuvre at short notice, especially with the fore topsail missing. Besides, the advantage they would gain would be nothing to what might be lost, for to fail halfway would leave them in irons, the ship entirely at the mercy of the waves and current, with no steerage way to bring her back to the wind. She would be an open and easy target.

      
“Back mizzen top's!” The men responded to the command immediately, and
Vigilant
slowed up with groans of protest from her stays and shrouds.

      
The decrease in speed would bring the collision forward, giving his gunners the best possible opportunity of doing damage. The frigate would hit them in less than two minutes. The men sweated as the hot guns were run out once more. The angle had increased, they would be aiming almost straight at her bows; the two ships would hit and lock before a second shot was possible.

      
Gregory looked at the enemy forecastle, already filled with men; some soldiers, some seamen, armed with pikes, axes, swords and various fire arms, and making ready to leap on to their deck. He glanced at Dyson, there was no time for a request: he would have to take the initiative.

      
“Fire when your guns bear, men, then make ready for boarders!” Broadsides were all very well, but they slowed the rate of fire to that of the slowest crew. This way their guns could be discharged with the least possible delay, allowing the men to prepare themselves for the oncoming assault.

      
On the lower larboard battery, number three gun was one of the fastest, and Flint was already sighting his piece. Timothy appeared next to him, staring through the port at the approaching enemy.

      
“That's your target!” He shouted to the entire battery. “Take her foremast out and we’ll keep the buggers off!”

      
Timothy withdrew from the gunport as a small cheer ran through the waiting gunners. The feeling on the lower deck was good; the men had spirit and would fight well. His eyes fell on Rogers, standing motionless beside the foremast. Timothy grinned, his blood was up and he was spoiling for a fight, but the older man gave him a cold look and turned away.

      
Flint was concentrating; all thoughts of fear and disappoint-ment had been postponed until aiming at the Frenchman became a totally absorbing occupation. He had set the gun slightly ahead of the target, and was now watching as the mast slowly came into his field of vision. Silently he counted, measuring the speed of the ship, to anticipate the correct time to fire. Then, several seconds ahead of the ideal moment, he stood to one side and counted to three. He pulled the trigger line with a firm, even pressure and watched with satisfaction as the gun flew back against the breaching line.