The Torrid Zone (The Fighting Sail Series) (11 page)

Flint considered him as the rest of the team checked over the gun and its equipment. The man certainly was something of an enigma; he had come aboard from the pressing tender and yet, of all those taken on in that manner at Spithead, he was the only one to show little resentment at his seizing. Quite the reverse, in fact; he appeared to welcome the chance to get away from England, and had settled into the routine of life aboard
Scylla
faster than any. He was also an experienced seaman, yet had never travelled south of the equator before – not that there was anything terribly strange in that, but to kick up such a fuss over what was really nothing more than a little foolish horseplay went directly against what was expected of a regular hand.

Flint continued to watch the man surreptitiously as Timmons ran his fingers through the lamb’s wool 'sponge' that would soon be used to extinguish any burning debris in the gun barrel. He was not exactly a firebrand, and had never actually lost his temper in the mess, but there was an intensity about him that Flint did not like. And he was reasonably sure he was not alone; even after several weeks on board Timmons had yet to find a particular friend, and was one of the few who needed to ask for help when it came to tying his queue of a Sunday morning.

And then it came to Flint in a flash of intuition; the way Timmons was holding himself now, laughing, joking and clearly looking forward to the action when all about were far more pragmatic. The latent anger he held for Mitchell and Hind, even the fact that none of the ship's cats would have anything to do with him: these and many other subtleties in his manner that made up a surprisingly complex individual. Flint had known more than a few seamen who enjoyed a fight, some to such an extent that it was almost an addiction, and he wondered now if Timmons had taken such a trait one stage further. There was a type who actively enjoyed killing; he had met a few in his years at sea, and none had endeared themselves to him, or any other member of the crew come to that. Nasty, calculating, spiteful men, who took their pleasure from other people's pain; it was just his luck to have one in the mess and also under his command on the guns. He supposed something good might come of it; Timmons could turn out to be a solid man in a scrap, even if he were more likely to be looking after himself, and care nothing for those fighting alongside. But at least he felt he now knew the man for what he was, and could make sure Jameson was equally aware. Then, with sudden clarity, he remembered; of all the men of that type he had known, every single one had come to a bad end. And most had taken others with them.

* * *

S
cylla
turned hard to starboard and was soon close hauled and heading for the stern of the nearest corvette. The men had responded well, and with her bowlines taut, the ship made swift progress although there was little time to consider this: all had work to do. Banks moved to the starboard side and peered out, but the pursuing frigate, which had been taken by surprise by the move, was already out of the British ship's arc of fire, and only now starting to follow. No matter, their guns would be used soon enough.

“Will we be taking them to larboard, Sir?” Caulfield asked when the captain returned.

Banks shook his head. “No, I shall be altering course once more,” then, looking down to where the second lieutenant was waiting on the deck below, he shouted. “Divide your men, Mr King. Both batteries will be required, but wait upon my word.”

King touched his hat in response as the men began to separate so that each team was manning both pieces under their charge. Banks looked forward. At their speed and on the current course he hoped the two smaller ships would expect
Scylla
to attempt to rake their sterns, just as Caulfield had. The move might have some merit, but it would be asking too much for the French to allow such an act and, even if they did, once more his firepower would be divided. Banks supposed that, like any good man of business, he had to get the best return from his assets, and that meant using them all, and to the greatest effect. Spray streamed back from the frigate's bows, drenching the men at the forward chasers and forecastle carronades, but none noticed or appeared to care. The corvettes had registered his move, and were turning to meet him, as he had expected. One was two cables forward, and slightly to the north of the other, and both had the wind almost directly behind them. It was all well and good; he was to be denied their vulnerable sterns, but would still be in line for what should prove a greater prize.

Banks caught the eye of the sailing master. “I shall be taking her to larboard, before correcting to our current heading, Mr Fraiser. Be ready if you please.” Fraiser nodded grimly and Banks knew that, however much he might morally disapprove, the Scot had an instinctive grasp of fighting tactics.

The two forces grew closer, until the nearest enemy was fine on
Scylla
's larboard bow. If Banks maintained the present course they would pass and exchange broadsides. Being the larger ship, it was likely that
Scylla
would do the greater damage, but she must then face the second corvette with her guns empty. He could attempt to turn later and bring his starboard battery into play, but it would be a tight manoeuvre and if
Scylla
took any damage aloft, or to her steering, one that was likely to fail. Should that happen the two smaller vessels might easily overwhelm her, even before the frigate joined the fray.

“Ready!” Banks called, holding his hand high. Then he brought it down with a flourish, and shouted: “Turn!”

Fraiser, at the binnacle, began to call out the orders while the helmsmen, primed and eager, wrenched down on the wheel until the spokes were almost a blur. The afterguard and waisters heaved back on the braces, and
Scylla
dipped her bows deep into the Atlantic, allowing more water to slop over the forward bulkwarks.

“And back to starboard!” the captain called after no more than a minute.

The ship's weight and inertia carried her round, while the yards were hurriedly reset, and
Scylla
began to aim for the tiny gap between the smaller craft.

Below, Banks could see King, strutting back and forward behind his guns as each of their individual captains peered down the barrels of their charges. Clearly the lieutenant expected to direct the fire, but he would have a poor view of the proceedings and there would be no time to waste.

“On my word, Mr King!” Banks reminded him, and received a brief salute in reply.

Smoke erupted from the first corvette; they would be firing their chase guns, and any forward mounted cannon that might bear. Something hit
Scylla
forward, and there was a whine as either a shot or some lump of debris flew past Banks' right ear, but he paid it no attention.

“Ready starboard!” he warned then, just as they passed the closest ship's jib boom: “As you will... Fire!”

The first piece was discharged a second or two later, followed by the quick staccato rumble of the other guns, and ending with the nearby quarterdeck carronades that all but made Banks jump, so intent was he in his work. The corvette replied, but to no great effect; either they had not been prepared for
Scylla
's move, or her stuffing had been knocked out by the frigate's deadly fire. The second Frenchman was already closing fast to larboard, however, and could be expected to be better prepared.

Once again, Banks would be able to control the fire. He was gratified to see that, even though an enemy was close by, and they were about to be fired upon, the starboard gun crews paid it no attention, and concentrated every effort on reloading their pieces. The second corvette was turning slightly to open up their arc of fire, Banks acknowledged the fact, but knew it would do little to change his plans. He was already banking on his ship's timbers being stronger, and her guns the more powerful. Then there was a call from forward, and the Frenchman came into range.

They might have reduced speed slightly, or perhaps the larboard gun captains were not so positive, but this time the broadside took slightly longer. The British also received more damage in return; a French shot came in through the larboard bulwark and smashed part of the crews of two facing eighteen pounders. But
Scylla
was also scoring hits and, as they finally cleared the second ship, a cheer rose up as the enemy's mizzen tumbled down upon her tiny quarterdeck in a tangle of wood, line and canvas.

The sailing master brought them round to larboard and once more the men behaved well, following his commands that kept the ship with the wind so that little time or speed was lost, and leaving her heading back for the second enemy's starboard side. On the gun deck Banks noted that their own starboard battery was close to being ready while the larboard teams, having fired later, must still weather a broadside from the corvette before replying. It would have been far better were the situations reversed, and it was at that moment that he had an idea that verged on inspiration.

Fraiser was less than two yards away, his face set in that glum, disapproving expression he usually wore when
Scylla
was in action. As sailing master he was responsible for manoeuvring the ship, and Banks freely admitted him to be the better seaman, but if what he intended was to work, he had no time to consult and must order it himself. He collected the speaking trumpet from the binnacle, and brought it to his lips.

“Hands, prepare to wear ship. Ready starboard battery!”

The order brought forth a murmur of comment and some of those serving on the deck below looked up in concern.
Scylla
had crack gun teams, but manning both batteries reduced their efficiency, and the starboard battery needed a minute at least before it would be ready. Four pieces were still inboard, and the gun that had lost men was nowhere near to being hauled out again. But the confusion reassured Banks somewhat: if he could fool his own people he had every chance of doing the same to the enemy.

“Mr Fraiser, we will wear ship!”

The Scotsman touched his hat and began the manoeuvre as calmly as if he had been expecting the order for some time and they were in the midst of an empty sea. The wheel spun and
Scylla
's prow began to turn when the jib boom was barely inches away from the enemy. As Banks watched, the final starboard guns were run out, and all but one was ready to open fire as the ship moved through the wind and turned sharply to larboard, eventually presenting her broadside to the smaller vessel's undefended rear.

It was a classic rake, and delivered at such a distance that it must have a devastating effect. As they watched, the entire stern seemed to cave in, dissolving into fragments of wood, glass and gilding, while the heavy shot continued throughout her vitals, killing, wrecking and laying waste to all in their way. It was that broadside alone that won the engagement; once it had been delivered the corvette was robbed of much of her ability and inclination to fight, and even seemed to settle slightly as Fraiser kept
Scylla
to the wind, as she made off northwards. Had they been fighting alone there was no doubt the corvette would now strike before the British could return and wreak yet more havoc upon her, but Banks still faced two further ships, and his own was not undamaged.

The other corvette now lay some two hundred yards off their beam. She had been robbed of her mizzen, but the wreckage was mainly cleared, and the warship was under way once more, running east, under fore and main alone. It would be a simple enough task to turn and catch her but, more importantly, the enemy frigate lay behind, still close hauled and heading for them.
Scylla
now had the wind, but the presence of the smaller craft limited Banks' use of it while he was well aware that, should he engage the corvette, it would only mean him meeting with the far larger enemy with at least one battery empty.

Then, as he watched, the frigate tacked, turning hard to starboard and presenting her larboard broadside. She was still a fair distance off, and Banks was not unduly worried; the French were not known for their gunnery, and he did not suppose this ship would be any different.

“Wear ship, Mr Fraiser – turn to starboard!”

Scylla
began the manoeuvre just as the frigate released her broadside but, moving target or not, the British ship was perfectly straddled and found herself peppered with heavy shot. A cloud of dust and splinters rose up from where the figurehead used to be, and the bowsprit took a sound smack at its base. The clang of metal striking metal told how their best bower was also hit, but the anchor remained fast, and the only wounded were two men at the bow chasers who were struck by the same shot. It was remarkably little damage from what had been a well aimed broadside The rest of the enemy's fire went high, but even there the British were fortunate: no spars were damaged; several of the sails did show holes, but still drew well enough and, as
Scylla
gained the wind once more, Banks could not dispel a mild feeling of guilt that they had got off particularly lightly.

“Group your men to larboard, Mr King, and prepare!” he commanded.

It was the end of any thoughts of using both batteries. The sun was starting to set behind them, and now his only concern was to strike hard at the second corvette, before seeking sanctuary in the darkness of an almost moonless equatorial night. The French frigate that had proved so deadly was making a full turn, and clearly intended to give chase, but soon the smaller ship would come between them and, ironically, protect
Scylla
from her larger colleague’s fire. 

King indicated that his guns were ready, and
Scylla
was now positively flying through the water. Banks glanced round the deck, the men at the nearby carronades had their pieces trained forward, and were waiting for the enemy to venture into their reach, while the marines stood grouped along the bulwarks in stiff red and white lines. It would be far too long a range for muskets to be of any use, and
Scylla
was in no danger from boarders, but their officers were clearly content for them to remain at action stations, and Banks guessed that the iron faced men would have no wish to be anywhere else.