His Majesty's Ship (38 page)

*****

      
On board the
Lozere
, Duboir was relieved to the point of feeling faintly smug. The plan that he had all but thrust at Lafluer was panning out nicely. The English ship was now locked between the wind and the guns of the
Savarez
, Rouault's ship, while they stood behind as back stop and interested spectators. Lafluer had left the deck as soon as it appeared the English were doomed, and for the first time since leaving Brest, Duboir felt properly in command of his
Lozere
. He watched the shot from the
Savarez
as it skipped willingly towards the enemy. They would be close enough in no time. If he commanded
Savarez
, he would have no hesitation turning a point to starboard and opening fire almost straight away.

      
He pulled up short as he remembered that this was the first time he had been in command of a ship in action. Possibly his recent success was going to his head. It was a fault; one he must beware of in the future.

      
An
aspirant
began to make notes in a small book. Probably this was just for his personal journal, though Duboir wondered if Lafluer had ordered minutes taken of the action in an attempt to discredit him. Duboir began to walk across the quarterdeck, with an attitude of unconcern on his face. He had presented his plan in such a public way because he wanted to ensure it would be acted upon. There was still the very real possibility that Lafluer would take the credit for himself, however, and in a cruise that should last several months, the admiral would have plenty more occasions to criticize his conduct. France was still effectively under marshal law, and Duboir knew the penalties a poor report from Lafluer might attract.

      
The gun rang out again, although this time he did not catch the shot. Possibly it had even hit. The
aspirant
began to scribble once more and he was about to question the boy when something caught his eye.

      
It was the English ship, no longer was she heading with the wind one point large; her yards were moving, and she was coming round. Yes, he could see the hull lengthening as she turned from Rouault's fire. The ship began to wear when the ripple of Rouault's first broadside burst from
Savarez
, and was almost about as the shots fell. Clearly the manoeuvre had been well timed, as most were half a cable short, and behind her moving hull. Now the English ship was bearing down on them; heading for his own
Lozere.
Duboir drew breath. His ship, with nearly a hundred guns, many of which far larger than anything the English had to offer, was more than a match for a mere sixty-four. Still, the English had reputation for hard fighting, and there was something about the way this particular ship had been handled that revealed her commander to be a man of determination and skill.

      
“Send for the admiral!” He almost spat at the young
aspirant
. “Say the enemy is turning towards us, and ask him, no, tell him that his presence is required on deck!” Duboir had no intention of engaging an English line-of-battle ship without his superior by his side. Despite her damaged foremast the English were making excellent speed, and the acute angle meant that he would not be able to open fire until they were less than two cables apart.

      
Lafluer appeared and glared at Duboir, his face a mixture of anger and fear.

      
“Order Rouault to intercept!” he bellowed. Duboir turned to the
enseigne de vaisseau
in charge of signals, and nodded.

      
Lafluer was breathing heavily as he stood next to him.

      
“We must turn!” Duboir all but shouted at his superior. “If we do so now we can fire two, maybe three broadsides into her before she reaches us!”.

      
Lafluer watched the enemy ship bearing down. Despite the damage, she carried herself well, as with most English ships. But three broadsides from his guns would make a difference to that solid hull.

      
“Do it!” he shouted back. “Let her feel the weight of our metal! Tell the
lieutenants
to open fire as soon as their guns bear!”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

      
Timothy looked hard at the midshipman.

      
“You're sure?” he asked.

      
“Yes sir, that's what Mr Dyson said.” A creak from the main-mast seemed to confirm it: they were going about. Timothy turned from the youth and brought his hands up to his mouth to bellow.

      
“D'you hear there? Starboard battery; man your guns, and train them for'ard!”

      
The midshipman who had delivered the message watched as men sprang into action and began crossing the deck to clear the starboard guns for action. The gun layers were just beginning to insert their hand spikes to heave the heavy carriages over as the boy made his way back to the quarterdeck, amazed at the activity his message had created, and terrified in case he had made some dreadful mistake in its delivery.

      
“We's gonin' about!” Jenkins muttered as he kicked a splinter of oak into the scuppers. “Takin' on a three-decker, now there's a thing!”

      
Sure enough the ship began to heel as the yards and rudder pulled her over onto the reciprocal course.

      
Lewis was peering though the gunport. “We're heading for the Frenchie all right!”

      
“How's she bearing?” It was Flint this time, all trace of humour absent from his voice.

      
“No change, still comin' right for us!”

      
“Not going to wear?”

      
“Not yet.”

      
“But why should she?” Matthew asked, of no one in particular.

      
“If she keeps as she is we meet her that much quicker.” Lewis had turned back from the port. “An' neither of us can fire broadside 'til we're almost on top of one another.”

      
Simpson nodded “But if she turns we gets the benefits of her three decks pointin' at us while we run down on her.” He gave Matthew a brief smile. “The closer we comes the better, then we're left with at least a prospect of reply!”

      
Matthew smiled back, and naturally turned to Flint for further reassurance. He was surprised to note that Flint's face remained deadly serious and there was a far away look in his eye that neither Matthew nor any of the others had noticed before.
 

*****

      
On deck the men were quiet.
Vigilant
steadied onto her new course and began to make up speed. In the waist Gregory was watching the flagship so intently that the bark of their own bow chaser took him by surprise.

      
“Level and short!”

      
Gregory made his way to the forecastle, where Tait had both guns under his command.

      
“Fire!”

      
The second eighteen pounder went off, and they watched in silence as the shot fell, barely feet from the flagship's bows.

      
The two officers exchanged glances. “Extreme range but we might reach them with the great guns,” Gregory commented.

      
Tait nodded. His fair hair made an odd contrast to his face, which was now quite blackened. He pointed forward suddenly. “Hold there, she's coming round!”

      
Sure enough the hull of the French ship was lengthening, and her yards swung as she began to present her broadside.

      
“Now we's for it!” Gregory said, grimly, as the triple line of gunports turned to greet them.

      
The first bow chaser was ready again, and at a word from Tait, spat once more at the slowing ship.

      
“A hit!” Tait hissed. The shot must have stuck the French ship, or passed over. Then her unused sprit yard sagged as if in confirmation.

      
“An' not quite maximum 'levation!” The gun captain added, grinning toothlessly at the officers.

      
Gregory nodded grimly. “We can reach her now!” He looked back to the quarterdeck, although Dyson could not be seen from where he was. “You carry on, I'll tell the senior!”
 

*****

      
On the quarterdeck Dyson was well aware of the situation. For some while the officers and men had been keeping him under covert surveillance, clearly expecting him to order a change of course.

      
“Steady as she goes,” he said it a quiet voice. The quartermaster repeated the instruction, and King was exchanging looks with Humble when Gregory bounded on to the quarterdeck.

      
“We got her range!” he shouted. “She's steering into the wind and coming round, but we can reach her with our lower deck!”

      
Dyson eyed him coolly. There was no private way to prick his bubble. “Thank you, Mr Gregory, I am aware of that.”

      
Gregory faltered for a moment. “Well, why don't we turn? We can fire on her!”

      
“We can,” Dyson confirmed, “But I feel it better that we do not.”

      
The look of incredulity on Gregory's face would have been comical, were it not for the circumstances. “But she'll be opening up on us directly!” he persisted.

      
“Yes, I expect you're right, Mr Gregory. But we will hold this course a while longer.” Dyson turned away discouraging further comment while his stomach heaved against what he was about to do.

      
Gregory was right; they could bear round to larboard now and open with their lower deck guns. Pound for pound they might be out gunned, but that could be balanced to some extent with their firing speed, which was almost certain to be faster. The two ships were not equal in timbers however; the three-decker, possibly Toulon built and from Adriatic oak, would boast scantlings that could withstand their fire well: certainly better than
Vigilant
might handle shot from the heavier French guns. By maintaining his present course he was gambling against losing any vital equipment aloft, so that they could close with the three-decker. If they made it that far, he had a chance to play his next card. This, he knew, was bold; bordering on the reckless in fact; so much so that he hesitated even to think of it.

      
“Enemy's opened fire!”

      
The call from the masthead alerted them to the ripple of flame that was now spreading along all three decks of the flagship. Dyson waited, resisting the temptation to order a hasty turn of the wheel. After a second or two the salvo passed, peppering where they would have been if he had ordered them round. He glanced at his watch. The French were unlikely to fire again for a good three minutes; that meant there would be two more broadsides before he intended to reply, and he could expect no further confusion as to his course. Two broadsides and, with the range closing, each would be more accurate and devastating than the one before.
 

*****

      
Dyson’s plan soon became clear as
Vigilant
clawed her way towards the French flagship. She approached with her bow angled slightly towards the enemy’s stern, the oblique angle giving extra protection from the murderous broadsides. Her bowlines drew the canvas tight, catching the strengthening wind and forcing her over until Timothy decided to order the larboard ports closed, to avoid any danger of the lower gundeck flooding.

      
Rogers watched this without comment. Certainly he was the senior officer, but Timothy was handling things well enough. Besides, at that moment he didn't trust himself to speak, much less give orders. He pressed his hand under his collar and eased his stock. They had been in action for a long time, far too long for him, and he was feeling the pressure. Pacing the deck in that crowded space was all but impossible, and with the larboard ports closed he began to dream of fresh air and open spaces. A hand-spike, dropped at a near by gun, caused his feet to almost leave the deck in fright. A sailor caught his eye, looking at him with interest; curiosity almost. Rogers turned away, ashamed, taking refuge in the bulk of the mast trunk that seemed so solid and safe. The guns were ready now, although as long as they held this course, there was no chance of using them. He watched as some of the men began to whisper and joke amongst themselves. Stupid fools, had they no idea what they were about? Didn't they care that every second brought the next broadside closer? Didn't they know that they could die shortly, die horribly? Die without ever seeing the sky or the sun again? He pressed his hands deep into his pockets in an effort to control the shaking, and lent his body against the warm wood of the mast.

      
The broadside came late; approximately five minutes after the first, and yet it still took everyone by surprise. A shout from above, then the familiar sweep of fire from the triple striped side of the flagship. This time the range was shorter, and the guns better laid.
Vigilant
was neatly straddled, with the majority of the shots hitting or passing over her forecastle.