His Majesty's Ship (29 page)

      
“You will do my ship harm, sir?”

      
King nodded. “That is inevitable.” Behind him he could hear the noise of the marines forming up and as he looked over the captain's shoulder at the French ships the urge for action became great.

      
“Your crew can remain here, or transfer to another merchant, or my ship,” he continued in a hurry. “They will be placed in safety, and not be pressed or asked to fight against their wishes.”

      
The captain nodded, and turned aside. Despite the need for haste, King felt a certain sympathy for the man. He had already decided that Newton must also be the vessel's owner, and guessed that any insurance he had would not cover these circumstances. Compensation might be paid by the government, but that would be a long time in coming.

      
“So be it.” he said finally. “Allow us to assemble a few belong-ings.”

      
King nodded and the captain left the mate to bellow at the crew, while he descended to his cabin for the last time.

      
The ship was armed with two four pounder guns. Fletcher had spotted these and was inspecting one gingerly, clearly not trusting any piece that was not Royal Ordinance. The weapons had reasonable carriages, and were positioned on either side of the quarterdeck.

      
“Any use, Fletcher?” King asked.

      
He looked up at the young officer. “Can't say, sir. Neither’s loaded, and this one's got rust up its barrel.”

      
“See what you can do. Robson, Douglas, Determan and Barnard help him. If you think they'll serve, move them both to the larboard side.” There was a port spare and a four pounder would be reasonably easy to move across the deck with enough man power. “Flint can captain the other gun when he's done with the cutters. The rest of you, to your stations.”

      
Men clambered about the unfamiliar ship, occasionally knocking into the departing crew, who had assembled their dunnage and were trying to launch the small boat that hung from the taffrail. Jackson had his marines sit down beneath the cover of the forecastle where their vivid uniforms would be best hidden. King walked back to the cutters. A single powder cask lay in the bottom of each, and the four men detailed were in the process of attaching lines, before parbuckling them up the side. Copley was standing near, a canvas bag containing slow match and flint swinging from his belt.

      
King turned to Pite, who appeared to have little to occupy him. “The cargo includes powder,” he said. “See if you can identify the casks, they should make a good home for that lot.”

      
“Aye, sir.” Pite nodded, and flashed a look at Copley who followed him across to the main hatch.

      
King watched as each body of men undertook the tasks they had either been allotted, or assumed. He looked about his command, the rising wind seemed to emphasise her frailty and size.
Vigilant
, thrashing through the water ahead of him, appeared safe, powerful and all too far away.
 

*****

      
Flint was the last to leave the cutter. Both boats had to be left with the masts lying loose in their keepers so that the first men back could step and rig them in a matter of seconds. Once the trap was set they would need to leave in a hurry. He was still thinking of this as he climbed up over the side, and found himself looking straight into the eyes of another seaman.

      
His feet touched the deck as the face registered in a distant part of his brain. Then, as the realisation came, he had to fight back the instinctive desire to embrace the older man. But there was no controlling the grin that spread across his mouth, nor the hand he thrust out in greeting.

      
“Dad, it’s me, John”

      
The older man looked at him in horror, and did not extend his hand. “John? What you doin’ here?”

      
Flint shrugged, “Same as you, I reckon’s. Gonna leave a nice surprise for the frogs.”

      
“Come on, Charlie, we’s off!” the mate shouted.
 

      
“Dad, it’s fine to see you; maybe we can meet up, after this is over, like?”

      
The older man scoffed, dismissively. “You mean in a French prison? Yeah, I’d like that.”

      
“Flint, if you don’t get a move on we’s goin’ without you!” Both men turned, but it was the older who was being addressed, and he moved to join the departing merchant crew.

      
“Hey wait, dad; you can stay with me.” Flint followed his father. “We’re gonna be heading back to
Vigilant
in no time. I’ll get you a berth, we can ship together – be like old times.”

      
His father turned back, a look of horror on his face that quickly gave way to something even more awful. It was an expression that Flint had never seen before, nor expected to see. His father appeared embarrassed, ashamed almost, and yes, there could be no denying it: he was afraid.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

      
The wind was rising; King could see the cat's paws increase as they spread across the ocean; the air was coming alive, and blowing moist and strong. In the
Hampshire Lass
the deck heeled as a fresh gust hit them, thrusting her down as the sails grew taut and full. She was on the opposite tack to the other British ships, and had more canvas showing than was sensible. Still, they had wrung an extra two or three knots from the old tub, and King looked back at her wake with satisfaction. Beyond were the two French frigates that had broken off to pursue as soon as the
Hampshire Lass
had left the main convoy. It was all going as he had anticipated, although the cold feeling in his stomach almost made him wish it were otherwise.

      
Pite stood next to him on the tiny quarterdeck, his hands firmly wedged behind his back as he closed his mind to the dangers about him. At any moment he expected a spar to snap or a stay to part, leaving them dead in the water, a rich treat for the French to enjoy at their leisure. And even if that did not happen the frigates were gaining fast, and would be up to them within the hour. At any time now there would be the opening shots, and King would put his idiotic plan into action.

      
A seaman approached, knuckling his forehead.

      
“Cutters secure, sir.” It was Copley, the man King had entrust-ed with the incendiaries. “They're taking a bit of a pounding, but nothing a lick of paint won't sort out later.”

      
“Very good.” King remained unmoved, trying to assume the poise of an untroubled man, and fooling everyone but himself. To his left Fletcher and the others had rigged both guns to fire to larboard; the side, King guessed, from which the French would approach. If he was wrong it would mean the effective waste of both weapons, although he had boarded the merchant unaware that she was in any way armed. He tried to justify his actions, both in the short term, with the guns and the long, in planning the adventure, while struggling to stop the nervous fidgeting that was so eager to take him over.

      
Both guns were loaded with round shot; there had been no canister to hand, although Corporal Jackson had produced a store of musket balls that had been added to the charges for good measure.

      
“Not long now.”

      
Pite gave him a tight smile. King could tell his nerves were stretched to breaking point. On two occasions he had noticed the midshipman staring at the French with an expression rich with fascination, and he guessed he would have given anything for the action to begin. This was the same lad who had fought so well on the streets of Toulon, who ventured into the hold when the ship was thought to have sprung, who could be trusted to rouse his men to lead or fight off boarders, but whose raw courage could not stand the long drawn out wait for a superior enemy to attack.

      
“Better take a look at the cutters,” King said, more out of sympathy than doubt. “Just to be sure.”

      
Pite made his way forward, passing the groups of squatting seamen who were, as ordered, keeping out of sight as much as possible. From watching Pite, King's gaze naturally fell on
Vigilant
, now several miles away. For the past hour she had been leading the merchants a merry dance, changing course by a point or two every twenty minutes. The exercise must have caused no end of consternation to the civilian captains who, by nature, would tack or wear as infrequently as possible. Shepherd was discarding valuable time with each exercise as even small alterations allowed the enemy to close that much sooner. But then there was no doubt that the ships were responding with more speed and fluency, even after such a brief practice. If Shepherd had plans to manoeuvre the fleet later, the time would have been well spent.

      
King had ignored all the signals, being only intent on getting
Hampshire Lass
as far away from the convoy as possible. His behaviour would be accepted by the enemy; indeed it was quite common for ships to strike out alone when chased
en masse
. It might even have been a feasible bid for freedom, especially as a good proportion of the convoy had escaped only that morning. The French commander could well have considered a single merchant unworthy of a chase, instead of despatching his frigates to deal with them and any that might follow.

      
The shot passed overhead, missing him by a good twelve feet. Despite this, King instinctively ducked, before looking back at the ship responsible.

      
A wisp of smoke was fast disappearing from the bows of the nearest frigate, and shortly afterwards a dull boom told him that he was not mistaken and the enemy had opened fire. It was the first shot of the battle, and it had passed overhead, not a cable or two short, showing that the captain was neither excitable, nor an amateur. King quickly assessed the calibre of his opponents, and hoped that Shepherd had also noticed.

      
“Splice that backstay there!” yelled Pite turning back to the quarterdeck.

      
“Belay that!” King waved a seaman away. The sight of well trained seamen repairing damage might be all the warning the French needed. “And take cover, all of you!”

      
The men who had risen instinctively to the clarion call of the shot, slunk back, reluctantly taking shelter behind the brig’s scant timbers as another shot pitched close alongside and short.

      
Pite rejoined King, “I beg your pardon. I didn’t think.”

      
“All right, I felt the same myself.” King allowed him a smile. “We're going to have to put up with it a while longer. Just pray we don't lose anything vital.” Pite nodded stiffly, his face set with tension and anxiety. “And don't worry,” King continued in a softer tone. “It'll be over in time.”
 

*****

      
Flint was stationed next to Fletcher at one of the guns. The weapon appeared ludicrously small compared with the twenty-four pounders in
Vigilant
, and as he blew on the glowing end of the slow match, he wondered what use it would be. In the scupper beside him were his pistol and cutlass. The former was a clumsy affair; heavy and without sights. Sea service pistols were at best unreliable, the pan frequently needing re-priming, and even then the conditions they were used in meant that there was a likely chance of a misfire. Used properly they could be effective; fired in a volley at a crowd when boarding the weapon even carried an element of terror that might knock the stuffing out of a hesitant opposition. It also made an excellent club afterwards. The cutlass was another matter, and a far more efficient killing tool. Well, though crudely made, it would hold a good edge, while being heavy enough to take considerable punishment without breaking.

      
The severed backstay had caused the mainmast to creak ominously, adding to the tension that Flint felt building about him. He glanced at Fletcher, who grinned nervously back. Normally that would have been enough to dissolve his own fear and boost him up above common men, with their natural and healthy dread of battle. Flint had always told himself he was different; built of sterner stuff: one with a pedigree of bravery that had to be lived up to.

      
But now the trick would not work. He had finally found his father; less than two hours ago their eyes had met and he had spoken with him, before the older man turned away. Turned away because he was scared, either of the oncoming action or being spotted as the deserter he undoubtedly was. Whichever, the fact of his fear pierced the illusion that Flint had built about him. The brave young man who had inspired him in the past was suddenly revealed as old, vulnerable and frightened. Consequently Flint was now experiencing the various stages of fear, and finding the interminable pause before action as hard to take as any man on board.
 

      
The frigate fired once more, another of the shots that had been punctuating the time every ninety seconds or so for the last half hour. But this one caused more damage, hitting them somewhere low on the stern, making a loud splintering noise, and sending a shockwave jarring throughout the small craft.