His Majesty's Ship (33 page)

      
The short haired Dane was part of Copley's mess and knew the duty well. Flint turned away and began to check out the gun, his hands shaking only slightly as he inspected his priming equipment.

      
Since getting back to
Vigilant
, the normal routine and camaraderie from his mates had done much to restore his old trim. Even the smell of the ship, the familiar mixture of tar, bilge water and humanity, was enough to persuade him that the discovery of his father, that and the uncontrollable terror he had felt in action, were nothing more than temporary aberrations. It had to be that way: for he knew for certain that if the terrors did return he would be finished.

      
Men had turned soft during action before: it was not uncommon. He had seen it, even in those he had previously considered friends, and at the time thought himself justified in despising them. But now he knew their fears, knew and fully understood the horrors that could make a man run from battle. Understood and totally accepted how, even the threat of certain death by hanging was not enough to make some stand their ground.

      
“Thought you was dead meat,” Matthew whispered, daringly using a phrase he had overheard only recently. Flint almost jumped, and took a grip on himself to appear natural as he turned from the linstock. It was clear that the lad had been watching him for some time, and for a dreadful second he feared he had noticed the change; seen past the brash exterior of the old Flint, and through to the coward that was now trying to imitate him. But the boy had an odd look on his face, somewhere between concern and worship. Flint registered this, and with it came realisation.

      
“You don't want to worry,” he said with a smile that was hardly forced at all. “It'd take more than a bunch of Frenchmen to shake me.”

      
He might have lost the one person that he looked up to, but clearly there was still someone who looked up to him.
 

*****

      
The wind had backed still further and now strong enough to raise white crests on the mounting waves. After pausing to collect the cutter's crew, Shepherd had ordered
Vigilant
round and she cut through the water with the wind two points abaft the beam, heading for the oncoming frigates. These were rapidly approach-ing the mile and a half range that Shepherd would need to allow his twenty-four pounders, loaded as they were, to fire with any accuracy. The sun had moved down in the sky but there would be more than enough daylight to see the job done. Over to the east the merchants were on the starboard tack, sailing for all they were worth, although the two line-of-battle ships were running down, and would cut them off before long. Shepherd stood on the quarterdeck, watching the movements of each group of ships, and measuring in his mind the likely time each would take. If anything he wished the merchants would slow down, bringing the course of the liners nearer to
Vigilant
, although that would only be an advantage if he was successful in disabling the frigates. He turned his attention to these now.
 

      
They were modern affairs, with sleek lines and long hulls that were yet to be a common sight in British fleets. One, the smaller of the two, was painted conventionally in dark brown, with lighter beige highlighting above the wales in a long, wide stripe. The other was clearly commanded by a dandy. Her hull was jet black, with no contrasting colour, making her appear even more swift and sinister. There was a flash of gold about the bows, and he guessed the stern would be equally ornate; clearly someone with money, or influence. Shepherd wondered if this gave him any clues to the capability of its commander, then dismissed the thought as useless speculation.

      
The two ships were about three cables apart, and sailing slightly away from each other. Clearly they intended to pass
Vigilant
on either side, and hold her in their cross fire. It was a common enough move, and normally Shepherd would have been content to stake his ship's timbers against those of a frigate, even if it meant employing both batteries simultaneously. Today however, he was not looking for a pitched battle; this had to be one strike, hard and fast; then leave, even if the job was only half done.

      
Dyson came and stood next to his captain, “We're making nigh on eight knots, sir.” He muttered the words while looking straight ahead at the enemy, as if passing on a tip to a fellow punter. Shepherd glanced up.
Vigilant
was a good ship to make eight knots under the fighting rig of topsails, jib and driver. There were plenty of seventy-fours that would need more sail to keep up the all important speed. More sail meant more men to tend it, and less to fight; that was ignoring the extra fire risk when courses were involved.

      
“Very good, Mr Dyson.” Shepherd measured the distances once more. They would be within range in no time; at any moment he expected the bow chasers of the nearest frigate to open up.

      
“The guns are ready?” he asked.

      
“Yes, sir. Loaded with chain, and the people know their duty.”

      
Vigilant
carried five rounds of chain shot for every gun. Twin balls, joined with a length of chain, and designed to wrap about shrouds and spars, bringing down rigging and damaging the enemy's sailing ability. However, the broadside would do little, if any, damage to the frigate's fighting power.

      
“I wonder if I might mention a matter, sir?” Dyson still seemed intent upon the oncoming French, and Shepherd was mildly intrigued as to the subject his frosty second in command wanted to bring up at that moment.

      
“You have given no orders about Simpson.”

      
Heavens, he was right. For the last few hours thoughts of their failed deserter, still presumably chained up on the punishment deck, had been far from his mind

      
“You would have every reason to release him, sir.” Shepherd looked at Dyson sideways, although he was still apparently intent on the oncoming ships. He continued; “It might be thought bad amongst the people if he were to remain under restraint, and Simpson is a trained hand who has fought well in the past.” At last the lieutenant turned towards him. “Possibly you could accept his parole, sir?”

      
It was completely within Shepherd's powers to grant Simpson temporary release, although he wondered how much the need for an extra hand had influenced his first lieutenant. It was almost conceivable that Dyson felt sorry for him, although it would take a cold heart indeed to send a man into battle without a chance to defend himself.

      
“Very good, Mr Dyson. As you say, we need every man.”

      
“Of course, sir.” Dyson threw a meaningful look at one of the midshipmen, who darted from the quarterdeck, evidently aware of his instructions without further prompting. There were captains who would be furious at such an example of his officers conspiring in secret, as it was Shepherd was mildly amused. The rare insight into Dyson's character was also of interest; something that could be worth remembering for the future.

      
A shout from one of the lookouts drew their attention back to the enemy. Grey smoke was billowing from the forecastle, and a shot skipped less than half a cable from the British ship's bows.

      
“They've opened fire, sir!” Dyson said, unnecessarily, as the dull boom reached them.

      
“Yes, tell the men to take cover.”
 

      
Dyson stepped forward and collected the speaking trumpet from the binnacle.

      
“Secure yourselves!”

      
The gun crews promptly stood down from their battle stations and sheltered in untidy heaps beneath the ships stout bulwarks, while the marines folded themselves into crisp neat lines beneath the hammock stuffed netting. Someone muttered a comment, and there was a ripple of laughter, quickly cut short by a growl from a boatswain's mate. Shepherd was glad to note the spark of humour, although how long that would last when they remained under fire without replying was uncertain.

      
Another shot from the frigate, this time it hit them square on the starboard prow. Despite the fact that the bows and stern were her weakest areas,
Vigilant
was quite able to withstand a shot from that range. The wind was growing stronger, and they crept perceivably closer, closer into the wide space the French had left for them, closer into the space that Shepherd had no intention of filling.

      
Another crash, this time followed by a scream that was quickly muffled. A shot had come over the starboard side, and struck a hand who happened to look up at that moment. It was a lucky hit, and even as the man went spinning into the scuppers, Shepherd wondered if it was to be an omen.

      
There was a muttering amongst the men as the unfortunate was lowered down to the surgeon. Shepherd considered ordering the bow chasers to return fire. They might at least bolster morale, even if the chance of doing real damage was small. But no, he must conserve all his fire power for the time when it would do the most good. It would only be minutes now, perhaps even seconds.
 

*****

      
Below the waiting was starting to tell on some of the men on number three gun. Most had used the pissdales at least once, and there was nervous muttering and crude comments that attracted no laughter. Matthew was sitting on the salt-box that held two ready-use charges of powder, Lewis was trying to read from a small book, and Jenkins stared aimlessly at a tobacco tin that was embossed with a horse's head. Rogers walked along the deck, cursing the absence of Pite and taking time to swear at Mintey, one of the remaining midshipmen, whenever the chance arose. Fletcher was spinning wild tales about his recent exploits to the men on his gun who, to a man, were not listening. King came up from the orlop, on his way to take up his position in charge of signals on the quarterdeck. His coat was draped over his shoulders and his open shirt revealed a bandage across his chest. He looked along the line of men, before acknowledging Rogers with a nod. Throughout the ship, all knew the time was very near.

      
The chaplain had now joined the purser and his stewards, and all stood ready to assist the surgeon, who was currently putting wide, strong, stitches into the shoulder of the most recent casualty. The schoolmaster and five seamen were in the after powder room, while the cook, gunner and twelve men tended the grand magazine. Carpenter's mates were stationed in the wings, the small corridors that ran level with the waterline which gave fast access to hull damage.

      
Crehan had also returned to duty. The Navy held no grudges: a crime was considered cancelled out by punishment, as if it had never been committed. Now that his body was healing he could take up his previous rating and responsibilities. Crehan could not forget as easily however, and the episode with Matthew still sat heavily with him.

      
On one hand Crehan felt entirely justified in taking his revenge; there was no doubt that the lad had broken a cardinal, if unwritten, rule in peaching on him. But however deserved, Crehan's retaliation had all but killed the child, something that was equally against his principles. Throughout his time on the punishment deck, and in quiet moments ever since, he had tried to absolve his conscience with reasoned arguments and explanations. A good deal of unspoken regret still remained however, and as he took up his station at the foretop masthead it was with all the solemnity of a repentant serving atonement. The French were not his enemy, and yet an inner voice told him that to fight this battle for the British would be one way of absolving the guilt that plagued him. He glanced across to Kapitan at the maintop and exchanged a wave with the forecastle lookout below. The sun was still quite warm. It shone on his back, which was mending well under the fresh bandages. He curled his leg about the topgallant mast and drew a deep sigh. Then, for the first time in ages, he began to whistle very softly.

      
Gregory and Tait paced the upper gundeck, ignoring the midshipmen who whispered nervously while Carling stood in cool contemplation, an example to his men and a credit to the bright red uniform that would make such a tempting target. On the forecastle the boatswain and two mates stood ready to protect their beloved rigging, while the quartermaster and four men were at the helm.

      
Also on the quarterdeck, the captain stood between Dyson and Humble, with Lindsay the captain's clerk, and a master's mate. Two midshipmen were positioned close by as
aides-de-camp
, ready to run messages or take the place of fallen men. And all of them, from the captain of the heads upwards, waited while the afternoon sun shone down, and the wind took them closer to the enemy.

CHAPTER TWENTY

      
“Mr Humble, we will tack in approximately one minute.” Shepherd consulted his silver watch as if for confirmation. Dyson stood motionless beside the captain. They were hardly a mile from the frigates now, and he was surprised that the enemy had held back for so long. Clearly they were waiting for
Vigilant
to enter the crossfire area, but it was unlike the French to play such a cool hand. Both could turn and bring their broadsides to bear, and the temptation to do so must be great. Of course that would naturally force
Vigilant
round to meet the threat, and any hope of a simultaneous attack from both sides would then be forgotten.