The Devil's Own Luck (4 page)

“Schooner fine on the weather bow.”

“Permission to dismiss the men, sir,” said Bentley.

“Carry on, Mr Bentley,” said Carter coldly. Even in the lofty tone normally used by a captain when issuing orders, his lack of regard for Bentley was manifest.

The orders were given. The men dispersed slowly, their feelings for what they had just witnessed plain in their gait. At this point the captain would normally have left the deck, but he stayed, waiting to hear details of the other ship.

“Sail has hoisted a signal,” cried the lookout.

“Get the hands about their duties, Mr Craddock,” snapped Bentley, turning to the second lieutenant, an elderly red-faced man. Aware that Carter was staring at him, Bentley pulled himself erect and sent a midshipman aloft with a telescope. The midshipman called down the number of the flags. Another young gentleman leafed through the signal book.

“The sail is signalling ‘Enemy in sight’ sir.”

Silence followed this shout. Bentley was shaking his head, as if to clear it.

“Ask her to make her number, Mr Bentley,” said Carter, plainly angry.

“She hoisted a fresh signal, sir,” said the voice from above. Shout followed shout as the signal midshipman on the quarterdeck deciphered the message.

“She’s the
Medusa,
sir,” said the young man finally. Then after a pause to read the last few flags, “Privateer.”

“Privateer,” shouted Carter, his face going red. “What the devil is a privateer doing flying naval signals?”

“Why, I imagine he is trying to tell us something, sir.” Bentley made no attempt to mitigate the sarcastic tone in his voice. Though accustomed to Bentley’s insolent air with the captain, the other officers registered embarrassment. Carter flushed bright red.

“He has no right to tell us anything in that manner, Mr Bent-ley. And neither have you.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” said Bentley quickly, but there was a trace of a smile on his lips. He walked up to his captain and spoke quietly in his ear.

“If I’m not mistaken the
Medusa
is owned by Harry Ludlow.”

Carter said nothing, but the look of anger turned to one of shock.

“Another sail, same bearing,” cried the midshipman that Bent-ley had sent aloft.

“He’s giving me orders, damn him,” snapped Carter.

“She’s flying French colours, sir.” Then almost without a pause: “She’s let fly her sheets.
Medusa
has worn. She’s signalling, sir. ‘General chase.’”

Bentley, coming to life, started to rap out a series of orders that would bring all hands on deck and send men up into the tops to set more sail.

“Mr Bentley,” screamed Carter. “Belay!”

Everyone stopped where they were. Was this the long-awaited confrontation? No one knew why such a hard horse captain allowed Bentley such liberties. They had waited a long time for the moment when Carter would haul him up with a round turn.

“Belay, sir?” said Bentley quietly. Again that smile.

“Are you obeying the instructions of a bloody privateer, man?”

Carter’s shouted question ignored the presence of everyone else. Yet they were left to wonder why a captain was brought to discussing his orders, publicly, on his own quarterdeck.

“I am seeking to profit from the news she is giving us. If the
Medusa
is running, she can only be running from a superior enemy. That would imply that the chase is French. Perhaps a warship?”

Carter’s face froze. Bentley was talking to him in the most outrageous manner, completely ignoring the courtesies required when addressing a superior officer. He also had the right of it, and no one would really understand Carter’s hesitation.

“Permission to make more sail, sir,” said Bentley.

“Carry on, Mr Bentley.” It was hissed rather than spoken. Carter turned his back on Bentley, wanting no one to see the expression on his face.

Harry rapped out his orders as the
Verite,
having sighted the
Magnanime,
shot up into the wind, her sails flapping. The cable holding the kedge was cut, and the parties manning the falls let go of the sails. The man at the wheel spun it quickly and the
Medusa
wore round. Another command had the men hauling again, this time bowsing the sails tight. The
Medusa
was round, with the wind abaft the beam, and heading quickly for the
Verite
before the Frenchman, having missed stays in his attempt to tack, had got any way on him.

Harry, having had James standing by, added the signal “General chase” to the one already flying. He knew that he risked causing offence. No naval officer would take kindly to any sort of command from a mere privateer. But he could think of no other clear way to signal his intentions, other than the use of the Navy’s own signal book. He left the signal flying long enough to ensure that it had been read, before hauling it down and replacing it with “Am engaging.”

The seventy-four was cracking on. Harry saw sails flashing in and out as the captain looked for his best point of sailing. The
Magnanime
heeled over under the press of sail, her lower larboard ports under water as she shot along, her bowsprit sending up great cascades of water. Harry himself was gaining fast on the
Verite.
His first task was to outreach her and get ahead so that the
Medusa
could interfere with her attempts at flight. But before that he must sting her in the tail, sting her so hard that she would turn to deal with him while the gap between her and the
Magnanime
was still wide enough to ensure escape.

The guns were run out to starboard. He could not run out his larboard guns. The heel of the ship was too great to allow that. But they had been run out, loaded, run back in, and bowsed tight inboard. They were ready to fire the minute the
Medusa
shortened sail and the deck became level again. Right now it was like a pitched roof.

Harry stood there, his arm looped round a backstay as he watched the relative positions of the three ships. He was gaining fast on the
Verite.
He raised his glass to watch the Frenchman’s quarterdeck. At all costs he must ensure that they didn’t best him by turning to fight him before he had got into position. Again he noticed how the French captain was overpressing her, pushing her head down by carrying too many upper sails, more obvious now with the wind pushing him forcefully. That, and what he had seen of her attempt to bear up and get away, underlined his earlier feeling that it was not only the captain who lacked experience, but the entire crew.

The whole scene seemed to freeze. Men stood still, and to an untrained eye so did the ships. The gain seemed barely noticeable, and James, exhilarated in spite of his doubts, felt the first pangs of impatience begin to invade his excitement. His drawing materials had been put aside.

“How long before we catch him?” he shouted to his brother.

“Within the hour,” said Harry, as though that meant immediately.

They raced on, with only the position of the
Medusa
seeming to alter, as she slowly increased the distance between herself and the seventy-four, and drew closer to the
Verite.
Yet the seventyfour was gaining. Harry could see the French officers plainly now, gathered at the taffrail, their glasses concentrated on the
Magnanime.
They would be content, sure that if need be they could deal with him and still get away. He was looking forward to surprising them.

Harry steered the
Medusa
until she was sitting in the Frenchman’s wake. There was a flash from the stern and he saw the ball fired by the stern chaser fly overhead to land harmlessly in his wake. They would keep shooting at him, hoping that they would wound a spar, or even better the mast, and thus reduce his speed.

“Is there nothing we can do in reply, Harry?” shouted James, as the second ball sent up a plume of water on the starboard side.

“Not for a while. We could only use the starboard chaser, and on this deck I would think we would just be wasting powder and shot. But when we pay them back, it will be more than in kind.”

Ball followed ball, one better aimed than the rest going clean through the maincourse, leaving a neat round hole. But they missed the wood, their prime target if they were to achieve anything. Harry gave orders to stand by. Men ran along the steeply sloping deck to take up their various stations. Harry knew that his guns were pitifully light for an action against even the smallest frigate, but his attack would be delivered against the unprotected stern. Any ball that could penetrate the deadlights, which had been shipped to cover the frigate’s stern windows, would run the whole length of the lower deck. The potential for damage to wood was minimal. But flesh and blood could not withstand it. His aim, anyway, was to make him turn, and seek to rid himself of this pest.

Harry yelled the command and the way came off the
Medusa,
as the quartermaster swung the wheel. She came round, her starboard guns facing the stern of the
Verite.
Harry did not fire a broadside, but instead instructed each gun to fire as it bore. One by one the guns went off, smashing into the heavy wooden shutters. He could hear the sound of breaking glass as one shot followed through the hole made by the previous round. He shouted again, and those men set to look after the sails hauled on their ropes to bring the yards round. The
Medusa
caught the wind, and as the guns were reloaded she set off again in pursuit of the quarry.

Three times Harry carried out this manoeuvre, but instead of firing into the stern of the
Verite
he set his guns at maximum elevation, firing on the up-roll, both trying to hit a spar, as well as unnerving those directing the battle from the quarterdeck of the frigate. The actual damage he caused was minimal, but the French captain could not let the
Medusa
just continue, since she was bound to inflict some serious damage eventually.

Harry, gaining speed in the wake of the
Verite
after his fourth sally, saw the French crew rushing to man the sheets. These ropes, once loosened, would allow the yards to swing, taking the pressure off the sails. The helmsman could then use the rudder and the remaining forward movement of the ship to swing her broadside on to the
Medusa,
bringing her guns to bear on the smaller ship that would, if properly aimed, inflict terrible damage.

But this was just what Harry had set out to do. First to get the
Verite
to confront him, thus slowing her down. Then to use the superior sailing qualities of the
Medusa
to get past the Frenchman. Placed in front of her, the task of slowing her down would be simpler. The question was, which way would the
Verite
turn? Would she tack or wear?

Harry had all his men in place. He watched the rudder, hanging from the great sternpost, waiting. He wanted to pass her stern close to, and fire a full broadside into it as he did so. He saw the sails flap as the yards were released. The rudder started to swing the
Verite
to starboard. He set the wheel and trimmed the
Medusa
’s yards to take her to larboard. It was a dangerous manoeuvre. If the Frenchman came round quickly, she would get a broadside off at him before he could get out of the way. Harry was entirely reliant upon their lack of skill.

The side of the
Verite
started to show, the row of open gunports coming into view. He could see the men on the guns trying to lever them round so that they could fire on the
Medusa
as soon as possible. The
Verite,
coming up into the wind, was trying to use that to check her way. Harry needed the same wind to escape. It was kinder to him than it was to the Frenchman, whose sails were simply not coming in quick enough for a speedy manoeuvre. Harry, at the wheel himself, had the wind perfectly placed abaft the beam. Still, it was a narrow scrape. The
Verite
’s side disappeared in a cloud of smoke. One shot smashed the stern lantern, but the rest fell harmlessly, churning up the sea behind him.

“Back the foretopsail,” he yelled as he came across her stern. The
Medusa
’s speed was slightly checked, and as she drifted by the
Verite
his gunners, now firing from a steady platform, poured a telling broadside into the Frenchman at point-blank range.

“Man the braces,” he shouted. “Haul away!” The foretopsail was hauled tight again and the
Medusa
sailed past the Frenchman. Harry let her pay off to keep his ship out of the arc of the enemy’s guns. He saw that they were setting sail again. But now he was ahead of them, and he could see that the last manoeuvre had cost the
Verite
a good mile. The
Magnanime
was coming up hand over fist.

Now the most dangerous part of the game had to be played. He had to slow his opponent down when she had the weather gage. Up until then he had held the advantage of the wind. He loaded his guns with grape. His guns were too light to cause any serious damage to the mainmasts of a warship at this range, but a steady diet of grapeshot across her deck would make them shear away, slowing their progress. As long as they did not take the wind out of his sails he would be able to manoeuvre. If it should happen that the
Verite
got between him and the wind, he would be at the Frenchman’s mercy, and that, even with poor gunnery, could only have one result.

He darted in and out firing his guns from a position on her larboard quarter, then turning away and using his speed to get out of harm’s way. And his plan was working. The
Verite,
faced with his assaults, could not maintain her best rate of sailing, constantly having to shear away to avoid his thrusts. The
Magnanime
was closing. Four times he stood in towards her quarter and fired his deadly grapeshot. The screams could be clearly heard across the intervening sea. The
Verite
replied with as many of her forward guns as could be brought to bear, but these were few, and wildly aimed.