The Torrid Zone (The Fighting Sail Series) (12 page)

The French frigate had completed her turn and was now passing the corvette at speed. Banks must deliver the broadside, then turn sharply to starboard if he wanted to avoid her attention, but the evening was approaching steadily and he knew that in much less than ten minutes it would be quite dark.

“Ready!” King had hoisted himself up onto the larboard gangway, and was clearly intending to direct fire from there. In an ideal world Banks would have liked to have turned while firing, but that was probably asking too much, and must surely dissipate the effect of his broadside.

“She fires!” Caulfield said, almost conversationally, and Banks looked up to see a succession of flame run along the corvette's side. The French were perhaps a mite premature, probably hoping that a sound hit on
Scylla
would reduce the barrage she was about to deliver. The whine of shots passing overhead made some men duck but, apart from the severing of one forestay and two shrouds and a hole that appeared as if by magic in the jib, they were not hurt.

“Aiming high,” Caulfield commented with a wry smile as the noise of the broadside reached them. It was the French way, and might well have been successful. Had one of their masts been struck or weakened, the British would now be in a very different position. But once more they had survived and Banks' confidence grew slightly as he noticed the darkness visibly creeping towards them.

“As you will, Mr King!” he shouted, and the younger man touched his hat before bellowing the order that set
Scylla
's larboard side alight. So well positioned was the target that the British ship's fire was almost instantaneous, and Banks hesitated for a second to allow the smoke to clear before instructing Fraiser to take her to starboard. The French frigate was closer, and just clearing her consort, but
Scylla
turned quickly and would soon be totally obscured by night. He supposed that the action might be continued; he could retrace his steps in the darkness and attempt to take the Frenchman's bow, but the enemy's largest warship was totally undamaged and
Scylla
had already suffered enough. No, he would keep her as she was, and trust that the luck that had supported them so far would stretch just that little bit further. The Frenchman was still a good distance off; Banks estimated that they would probably hold their course and attempt to close with
Scylla
before darkness engulfed her. In which case the British could expect one broadside, but after that should be safe. He told himself it was not so very dreadful a prospect and at what would still be considerable range, need not worry him greatly.

Caulfield may well have been of the same opinion, and actually went to speak when a cry from forward made them all turn. The frigate was clearly not intending to come any closer, and had already turned to present her main armament. As they watched the tongues of fire stood out vividly in the dwindling light. Nothing was said and all waited for the shots to arrive, confident that such a distance, along with the Royal Navy's instinctive contempt for French gunnery, would see them safe.

And then there was chaos.

This time the enemy had obviously decided against aiming for
Scylla
's spars, but her hull was accurately and extensively targeted. Even at such a range the heavier metal of the frigate dug deep into her bulwarks, penetrating above, and below the waterline. The quarterdeck was suddenly alive with the rush of passing shot; one struck the barrel of a carronade, lifting and spinning the weapon round like some awful living creature, until it came to rest with crushing decisiveness on two who were unlucky enough to be standing close by. Shot and splinters also flew about the gangways and throughout the lower deck, and more men fell. The roar of orders did much to mask screams from those wounded, and the forecourse shivered and flapped above them as the larboard brace parted, adding yet another visual aspect to the carnage. Banks recovered himself, and stood to one side as a damage party began to attend to the wrecked gun. The boatswain's team soon had the errant sail under control and, as the final strands of daylight were extinguished,
Scylla
was allowed to disappear into anonymity.

“That was good shooting, sir,” the first lieutenant said grimly, while brushing something unpleasant from his jacket that was mercifully hidden by the gloom. “Not the standard we usually expect of the French.”

“Indeed so, Mr Caulfield,” Banks agreed.

The darkness now totally encased them, and they had twelve hours of night in which to shake off any pursuit although, with two wounded companions, it was doubtful that the single frigate would continue to chase them for long. Then he remembered that only a short time ago he had been actively considering surrender, and supposed he should be pleased. They had dealt out some serious damage to two of the enemy, and were once more heading south for St Helena. But he had felt at least one of the frigate's heavy shots strike them low in the hull, and knew that
Scylla
had been severely damaged. There were no true dockyard facilities on the island and, whatever their reason, the enemy were clearly intent on travelling the same road. The enemy frigate had also proved that she could both fight and sail better than most Frenchmen; Banks may have damaged the corvettes, but the larger vessel was clearly a more worthy opponent. Her gunnery was of an exceptionally high standard, and the ship herself remained totally unharmed. Should they meet again, the British must be at a distinct disadvantage, and Banks sensed that
Scylla
would not fare well.

“Yes,” he repeated, with an assumed nonchalance that he hoped would disguise the concern he felt inside. “It was good shooting indeed.”

––––––––

O
n the eighth day, and after the sun had once more risen above an empty ocean, they began to draw breath. Gone, at least for now, was any threat from a French battle squadron and specifically that crack and undamaged frigate; instead the British had the world apparently to themselves and were slowly becoming accustomed to the fact. The wind had been blowing strong and constant for the past week and with a reasonable spread of sail set,
Scylla
was heading for St Helena once more. But the absence of a visible foe did not leave Banks free of problems; there were many more waiting to plague him.

Scylla
was indeed holed. One, forward of the larboard entry port, had been relatively easy to reach and patch, but the other was lower down and to the stern: just under the gunroom. A heavy shot had struck below the wales, and shattered the third futtock: a major frame in the ship's construction. Its impact had caused the second, and lower futtock, to spring and left a splintered mess of the internal spruce spirketting and outer elm strakes. The profile of
Scylla
's hull in that area meant that a sail could not be fothered conventionally with any hope of success, and neither could the damage be properly repaired from within. Evans and his team had worked throughout the first night and for much of the time since. Now the ingress of water had been stemmed to something the ship's pumps could clear, if worked for three hours in every watch, but there could be no permanent repair until the ship was taken into dry dock. And, to make matters worse, the damage had also affected their stores.

The breadroom had been completely drenched, leaving them almost bereft of flour and biscuit, while
Scylla
's aft magazine, which held up to a third of her powder, was partially flooded. Both areas contained commodities vital to the survival of the ship, but to Banks' eyes at least, the order of importance was not as might be expected.

Several tons of high explosive were certainly ruined and not all had been in the aft magazine; the main, although further forward, was set slightly lower and had also been affected. Most of that supply was in casks, however, and even some of the dampened cartridges might be reclaimed, if the ship were blessed with warm weather. He probably had sufficient for another sustained battle, if none were wasted on exercise, and with the men reasonably well practised, allowing the guns to lie idle for a spell would not affect them greatly. No, powder was not the problem it might have been; by chance the ship's main supply of flour, stored in the aft hold, had also been contaminated and it was actually the lack of biscuit, one of the staple elements of the crew's diet, that he considered to be the more serious of the two.

By nature seamen were conservative in their tastes; salt pork, salt beef and three Banyan days a week when no meat was served was what they were used to, and actually what they wanted. Not so long ago James Cook had offered prime fresh beef in lieu of their more familiar 'salt horse', but so certain were they that some elaborate trick was being played that the petty warrant victuals were only accepted under protest and threat of punishment. On long voyages men might be given turtle, penguin, seal, or even whale meat, but it was always on the understanding that proper food would also be available should they wish it, while to tempt a crew with fresh fish in place of stuff that might have been soaking in brine for upwards of two years, was usually impossible. Consequently, the lack of biscuit, surely the most versatile of their common foodstuffs and one that was hardly ever known to run low, was far more important. When in normal storage it outlasted any meat or vegetable, and could be replaced easily enough if flour was at hand. As an ingredient, biscuit formed the basis of many of their familiar made dishes and, when consumed on its own and in its raw state, the flint like texture made a satisfying snack, as well as doing much to improve their dental hygiene. But, like it or not, they would be without hard tack until they reached St Helena, and Banks supposed they would just have to get used to the fact.
Scylla
should pick up the south east trades at any time; the strong, steady winds would give them a measure of stability, and keep the pressure off their weakened hull, but even so it would take another ten to fourteen days before they could hope to raise the tiny island and, without biscuit, it would not be a pleasant journey.

He had been pacing the quarterdeck since dawn and now stopped at the taffrail and looked back over the empty seas. The sun was well up and the day had already grown warm. Thompson would have coffee waiting for him in their sleeping cabin but Sarah was now finding mornings increasingly uncomfortable: Banks had grown used to giving her privacy, and was in no rush to go below. Behind him came the sound of sawing; Evans and his team were at work somewhere else in the ship, a party of hands were washing out hammocks further forward and he could also hear the regular thumps of the armourer as he hammered some blameless piece of metal out of shape.

At first light the boatswain had reported their tophamper to be in reasonable order; the running rigging was already serviceable and all the damaged stays and shrouds were now replaced, even if the entire lot was really due for replacement with fresh cordage. He supposed they might attend to some while at St Helena, but really the prospect of returning to England and delivering his ship into the safe hands of his 'affectionate friends' as the dockyard commissioners quaintly termed themselves in correspondence, was far more attractive.

Then another noise, no softer but different from that usually heard on a warship, attracted his attention and he turned to see Sarah approach. She was raising the skirts of her long light-grey cotton gown slightly as the patterns that clad her feet clumped clumsily on the wet deck. Her face was as pale as the white over-bodice, but she was smiling with evident pleasure and her eyes seemed unusually alight.

“You have been up for some while,” she said, releasing her skirts and taking his hands in hers.

“Indeed...” Banks always found that the innate tenderness he held for his wife did not reveal itself easily on the quarterdeck. “I felt you should be allowed time to wake,” he continued awkwardly. “You are better now, I trust?”

“Very much so; thank you.” Her smile deepened. “And you are as understanding as usual; indeed I think you to be the most perceptive of husbands.” Their eyes met. “In which case you should have little trouble in guessing why I have been so unwell of late.”

“It is something I have pondered over,” he replied temporising. “But thought it better to wait until things were more certain...”

“Well, they are certain now,” she said firmly. “I have been speaking with Kate Manning: we compared notes and dates and think it fair to say there will be a baby born within seven months.”

His set look and silence worried her, and she continued hastily.

“Nothing is ever truly certain of course.” She had dropped his hands and was trying to become far more commonplace. “Much can go wrong: it is my – our – first child after all. Kate, as you know, was due to deliver, and...”

She stopped abruptly and for a moment they simply stared at each other. Many men had little time for children and for all she knew sailors, with the life they led, might be more prone to such an attitude. Even on land the majority of husbands rejected anything even loosely connected to childbirth and families, consigning all to their wives who they regarded as being entirely responsible. And in her own particular case, so much of their married life had been spent apart that it was not a subject they had even discussed beyond vague references to possibly needing a larger house in time. She might have misunderstood, or perhaps telling him now, here, and in public, was a mistake. Her eyes fell and she felt a flush appear on her face as the world that had suddenly been so bright and wonderful now seemed doomed to endless black. Then she gave a small cry of surprise as he pulled her close and, quarterdeck protocol or not, wrapped his arms about her.

* * *

“S
o there you have it,” Kate stated with her usual directness. “Sarah is pregnant, sure as eggs is eggs.”

Manning had suspected something was amiss when Kate asked for private use of the surgery and, now that the captain's wife had left and he was once more admitted to the small room, he was not unduly surprised. “How long does she have?” he asked.