The Devil's Own Luck (24 page)

“You may remain on deck, Mr Ludlow,” said Carter, without turning round. “And you may employ yourself where you see fit.”

There was no way to say anything to the man’s back. “Have I your permission to go aloft?” he asked Craddock.

“Most certainly, sir. And please take a glass with you.”

“I have them now,” said Carter, acknowledging that the two Frenchmen were visible from the deck. The sun had a cover of wispy cloud now, and just to the west light-grey clouds merged, behind the French ships, into a rapidly blackening horizon. The barometer in the wardroom was still falling, presaging very foul weather. Which would engage them first: the enemy or the storm?

Harry ran for the shrouds. He reached the cap and started up towards the crosstrees. Up here the pitching of the deck became a wild gyration as the mast exaggerated the movement of the ship. He slipped his leg across one of the upper yards, and found a line with which to lash himself on.

Keeping his glass steady was difficult, since he was travelling thirty feet in either direction. And up here the roll was as pronounced as the pitch. Still, he had them in his glass now.

A whole host of questions come calculations were subconsciously going through his mind. How do they handle? How well are they manned? This could indicate whether they intended to try boarding, or to stand off and use gunnery to subdue the
Magnanime.
How long had they been at sea, these two? Was their rigging worn and sparse, or could they, fresh out of port, risk losing spars in a close engagement? Where had they come from? The West Indies, where their crew would have been exposed to yellow fever and thus weakened, and their rate of sailing affected by the weed covering their bottoms? The East? Or from a French port, which would see them with clean bottoms and a full complement, albeit inexperienced?

His mind turned to the coming battle. They would seek to engage with both ships at once. Carter would be best to try to avoid that, and attempt to fight them one at a time. And how much time would there be? The weather was worsening, and the wind was singing through the rigging. This, and a heaving sea, would make manoeuvre difficult. That counted against the inferior force, especially as Carter would have to keep his lower gunports closed. In this sea, opening ports so close to the water-line was to invite disaster.

On the other hand the same weather would likewise induce a degree of caution in the enemy. They would not wish to sustain serious damage with a gale in the offing. Closer now, and much closer in his telescope, Harry watched the crew going about their duties. A mite slow, he reckoned. And much shouting of orders and the need to push men to their duty. More importantly, neither ship had nettings rigged to deter boarders. The lead ship,
Achille,
was shortening sail, allowing the
Jemmapes,
her consort, to come up. Harry watched intently, noting how long this activity went on. And having gained her purpose, it took some time for her to set those sails again. Those sails? They seemed in very good order, with none of the patches of a ship that had spent a long time at sea. What about the captains, now sailing neck and neck with less than a cable’s length between them? What would they make of the
Magnanime?
She too looked like a ship just out, but if they had properly observed the way she handled, they would smoke that she had been at sea for a long time.

Harry, having seen everything he needed to know, made his way quickly back to the deck. Their aim was now plain to him. They intended to engage on both sides, firing several broadsides into the
Magnanime,
then attempting to board in the smoke and confusion. A quick affair, with capture rather than destruction the aim. No doubt they were relishing the prospect of taking a French ship that had, for so long, been in the possession of their ancient enemy.

Harry reported his observations and conclusions to Craddock.

“Fresh out of port with an un-worked-up crew. Sail handling and gunnery likely to be poor. Numerous however, and well-fed. Their intention is to board as soon as practical, having attacked both sides.”

The acting premier acknowledged the information, looking slightly bemused at the certainty in Harry’s face. He then passed it on to Carter. If that caused him to adjust his intentions, there was no sign of it. The
Magnanime,
now cleared for action, ploughed on towards the approaching enemy. Harry waited for further orders, but Carter gave none.

Again Harry felt the frustration. He knew what he would do. Perhaps Carter intended the same, but his silence gave no clue. The Frenchmen were not going to engage in any fancy seamanship, which was probably just as well. Without being fully worked up as a crew, it would endanger them more than their enemy. So it made sense for the French to rely on weight of metal and manpower, rather than sailing qualities to defeat the
Magnanime.

By the same set of calculations, Carter had an experienced crew, who could be relied upon to outsail the enemy. Harry, well aware that the French had telescopes trained on the
Magnanime,
could have deliberately slowed the preparations to make the hands appear inexperienced. Carter, if it had occurred to him, decided against any such subterfuge. But surely he must see that being the lesser force he must seek to redress the balance by splitting the enemy, driving them apart, and away from their plan, so that he could exploit their weaknesses.

Time was rapidly running out. Carter should have already got his topgallant masts rerigged, and some men aloft ready to increase sail. True, the storm was approaching, and he’d likely have to get them down again in difficult circumstances. But the French were going to fight, and beating them was the first task. Those telescopes, seeing the British sailors rigging masts to carry more sail, might presume that the
Magnanime
intended to flee, causing the subsequent actions to come as even more of a surprise.

By staying on this course, with perhaps a touch more southing, suddenly increasing his speed would produce a definite gain, since the French would take much longer to achieve a similar result. If he could achieve sufficient speed, their courses would converge at a moment more of Carter’s choosing, the aim being to force the French into line ahead, to be fought one at a time. If not that, he still held an even stronger card simply because of the nature of his crew and officers. By letting fly his sheets and bearing up at the right moment, he could cause them to overshoot enough on their converging course to nullify the advantage they now held with the wind in their favour. If he could get windward of the
Jemmapes,
it was only a short step to getting athwart her stern. A modicum of luck would see such a weight of shot pour through her rear as to render the ship useless.

And if all that failed Carter could wear, turning away from his enemy and forcing them into a stern chase. Not glorious perhaps, but that at least would be a situation pregnant with possibilities for splitting the enemy, given that he could manoeuvre so swiftly. To Harry, taking the initiative was vital. For if Carter did not negate that numerical advantage, and tried to fight both the
Achille
and the
Jemmapes,
then he was courting almost certain defeat.

The minutes ticked away. Still Carter did nothing, simply standing staring at the approaching enemy. Not even a rousing speech to the men, silent beside their guns. Harry looked at Craddock and the other officers to see if they too had any doubts about their captain’s behaviour. All he saw were set jaws and an air of keen anticipation.

“Captain Carter,” said Harry, walking over to where he stood. “Would it be in order for me to suggest a course of action?”

“It would not, Mr Ludlow. Making yourself useful does not extend to interfering in the running of the ship.”

“Then might I ask what your intentions are?”

“Intentions?” Carter turned and looked at Harry without comprehension. “Why, I intend to fight these two Frenchmen.”

“I was more curious about the method you will employ.”

“Method? I shall put myself alongside the enemy and engage them.” There was a note of exasperation in his voice, as though the question was stupid.

“Yard-arm to yard-arm?”

“Precisely!”

“Mr Craddock passed on to you my observations?” It was a great temptation, this desire to tell the captain the foolishness of this course of action. Harry fought to keep the strain out of his voice, but time was rapidly slipping away.

“I have received a lot of information, most of it with my own eyes, Mr Ludlow.”

“Then you will be aware that the enemy will probably attempt to engage you on both sides?”

“I am.” Carter’s shoulders tensed.

“You have the ability to outsail them, even in a rising sea. Could I not suggest to you, as a more profitable course of action . . .”

Carter spun round, his face suffused with anger. “Damn you, Ludlow. Will you never cease to carry a superior air. It is insufferable to be addressed so at such a time.”

Harry was aware that he was incurring the disapproval of everyone on the quarterdeck, not just Carter. He was indulging in a shocking breach of manners.

“I would wish you to be successful, sir, for my country’s sake, if no other.” This was said in a loud voice to carry to all of them.

Carter, turning away again, replied through clenched teeth. “Then, sir, please leave the running of the ship, and the conduct of this action, to the person your country has seen fit to put in command!”

There were many more things he could have said. Like Carter’s aversion to exercising his guns meant that his crew would have a slow rate of fire. Faster than the French perhaps, but too slow to make up for the effect of shot coming from both sides.

Harry was tempted to spell out to Carter precisely what he would do, but how could he address Carter’s back? And what would he achieve? The man’s jaw was as set as his tactics, which were of the pounding variety. He was going to rely on the bulldog quality of his crew, and a tradition of victory, to make good the deficiency in guns and men. Perhaps he was right. All Harry knew was that to speak would be useless. He walked over to Craddock.

“Mr Craddock. The enemy will try to board us. May I suggest that I put myself with a party for the purpose of repelling them.”

“Mr Turnbull has charge of that duty, sir.”

“I am aware of a Marine officer’s place in action. But I would like to gather those hands who will become superfluous when we engage to form an extra group with which to counter-attack.”

“Carry on, Mr Ludlow.” Harry looked towards Carter’s back.

“Please take the captain’s approval as read,” said Craddock, looking over Harry’s shoulder. The other officers likewise avoided his eye. He had become a nuisance.

Harry, given young Prentice to assist, gathered the spare hands as they completed their duties. They tended to be the less nimble members of the crew, mentally and physically, and they would normally have been set to carrying the wounded below. He could see Turnbull with half of his marines lined up as if on a parade ground. They had taken station at the rear of the quarterdeck. The other half of his men were in the tops, acting as sharpshooters, their presence wasted in Harry’s view. They would be needed on the deck. A steady discipline in a close fight more than compensated for any lack of numbers. Besides, he disagreed with too much firing of muskets from the rigging. It was as likely to set fire to the ship as cause discomfort to the enemy.

Harry’s party was pitifully small, some twenty hands. For what was coming he needed more men and he racked his brain to think where to find them. Looking down the deck, he could see that all the hands were fully occupied, the problem being compounded by Carter’s decision to fight both sides and man the gundeck, even though the ports were tight shut. On the gundeck, quarterdeck, and forecastle, the guns had been loaded and run out, and the crews stood like horses before a race, in a high state of tension.

“Mr Prentice. I suggest that we take station by the beak,” said Harry. Prentice looked at him without replying. Pender, standing behind the boy, smiled.

“You, young man, are in command. After all, I cannot give orders to the crew.” It was amusing to watch the child digest this information. He was totally unused to real authority. But he would find that, young as he was, in the Navy, one could suddenly find oneself pitched into the most difficult situations with no one to rely on. Giving some orders would boost his confidence.

“Yes,” he stammered nervously. He took off his hat, and wiped his forearm across his fair hair. His thin face was set in a concentrated way, as he tried to work out what to say. Then his face cleared as he had a thought.

“But I would welcome any advice, sir.”

Harry laughed and patted him on the shoulder. Prentice smiled, and led his party along the gangway towards the bows.

“Might I also suggest that the hands take cover behind the bulwarks, Mr Prentice. No point in presenting the enemy with easy targets.”

Prentice started to say, “Aye, aye, sir.” But he checked himself and passed on the necessary orders.

“They’re getting close now, Mr Ludlow,” said Pender, who had remained standing.

Harry looked out past the bowsprit at the French ships. They had head-reached the
Magnanime
and altered course to bring themselves round into her path, the
Jemmapes
slightly ahead of the
Achille
to avoid taking the wind out of her consort’s sails. And they were edging closer together, reducing sail, so that when they engaged, they would hardly have any way on them.

The sea was making life difficult, pitching them about. That and the wind, which was still steadily increasing in force. But that same wind stood to benefit the French as they came alongside. Simple, to make the
Magnanime
spin a few points. The wind would check her, and bring her to a halt. She would be at their mercy. They could then lash themselves to the British ship and, at the right moment, after several telling broadsides, seek to board.