A Sloop of War Page 25

  ‘She’s not like that pissy little cannon we used to have,’ said O’Malley. ‘Look at the fecking size of the barrel. She’s a good honest twelve pounder like we had in the old Agrius,’ he said, slapping the short squat gun with pride.

  ‘Aye, and right swift to load,’ said Rosso. He turned to the gun’s powder monkey, and ruffled his hair. ‘You’re going to have to run like a rabbit to keep us fed with powder, Barker.’

  ‘Hey I just thought,’ said Evans. ‘We ain’t given our gun no proper name yet, her being all new like.’

  ‘You’re right there,’ said Rosso. ‘No time to paint a name on her proper, but we should give her one anyways. How about Spit Fire, like our old gun on the Agrius?’

  ‘We have had one of them already,’ said O’Malley, ‘Half the ships on the list will have a Spit Fire. I am after thinking we should choose something different. What about the name of that prize fighter you bested in your last proper mill, Sam?’

  ‘Jack Rodgers, the Southwark Butcher?’ said Evans. ‘Not sure that’s a proper choice, Sean. For one thing he lost, and for another people may make the link to me. Remember I was paid to throw that mill. There’s still some angry traps out a looking for me.’

  ‘How about another prize fighter then?’ said Rosso. ‘Mendoza? Broughton?’

  ‘Half the guns in the navy are named after those two,’ protested O’Malley. ‘We wants something new.’

  ‘If it’s new you’re after, Sean, call the gun Shango,’ suggested Sedgwick. ‘He is the God of Thunder in my homeland.’ The others looked at each other.

  ‘God of Thunder, is it?’ said O’Malley. ‘I am fecking liking that.’

  ‘I doubt there can be another gun so named in the whole fleet,’ said Rosso.

  ‘Done,’ said Evans, patting the carronade with affection. ‘Shango it is.’

  *****

  While number five carronade metamorphosed into a West African thunder god, Clay looked with increasing concern at the San Felipe. She had been growing closer as the Rush sailed on, filling the horizon behind them with her massive presence, much as he remembered from the last time they had met.

  ‘We must have overdone that drogue, Mr Sutton,’ said Clay. ‘I should say we are almost in range of her bow chasers. If she was to shoot away an important spar too early the whole plan could fail.’

  ‘How far have we still to go, Mr Appleby?’ asked Sutton to the master, who stood by the binnacle, making sure the Rush was on the exact course. He glanced forward, measuring the angles in his mind’s eye.

  ‘Shade over three miles, I should say, Mr Sutton,’ he replied. ‘On this course we shall pass over the sandbar when that sugar loaf mountain bears exactly twelve degrees north.’

  ‘That will be almost thirty minutes under fire at our current rate of progress, sir,’ Sutton calculated.

  ‘Too long for us, Mr Sutton,’ said Clay, ‘especially as the range will close during that time. Ah, the game has begun,’ he added as a puff of smoke appeared on the bows of the San Felipe, and a line of splashes marked the passage of the cannon ball. The final splash was only twenty yards from the rear of the Rush.

  ‘Hmm,’ said Clay, looking at the ring of disturbed water. ‘It would seem they have acquired some superior gunners. Already they make better practice than the last time they chased us. We need to find some more speed.’ As he spoke the second bow chaser fired from the Spaniard, although this time the ball struck the sea off to one side of the sloop.

  ‘We might cut free the drogue, sir,’ suggested Sutton.

  ‘We could,’ agreed Clay, ‘but how do we then account for our sudden increase in speed? I do not want the Dons to suspect us of making game of them till it is too late.’

  ‘I could spill some wind from the courses once the drogue has gone,’ said the lieutenant. ‘That would check our progress, sir.’

  ‘And also signal to the Dons that something is amiss,’ added his captain. ‘We are too close for that to answer now.’

  The first bow chaser had now been reloaded and it fired again. This time the chain of splashes was much closer, the final one wetting the stern of the ship. Clay forced himself to think, groping for a solution. How might he make the drogue less effective, without losing it all together? Now the second bow chaser fired once more. The line of splashes pointed straight towards him, ending with a shuddering crash somewhere below his feet. As the need for a solution to the dilemma became critical, the answer came to him.

  ‘We tilt the drogue,’ he said to Sutton. ‘Angle the mouth of it to one side so it is a little less effective, but so it shall still act to slow us.’

  ‘That would work, sir,’ said the lieutenant, ‘but how do we do that?’

  ‘The drogue is held by two tow ropes, one line on each side of the ship, yes?’ said Clay. ‘If we let one out by a foot, it will tilt the mouth to that side, reducing the drag. If that doesn’t answer, we let out some more, or if we find we go too fast we can pull it back some.’

  ‘Excellent, sir!’ said Sutton, ‘I will do it now. Afterguard, to me!’

  ‘Get a good body of men on that line, Mr Sutton,’ advised Clay. ‘The drogue will have a monstrous pull on it.’

  ‘Just under two feet on the port side line, sir,’ reported Sutton to Clay a little later. ‘That’s what was needed to make us a shade swifter than the San Felipe. It means we may have the odd ball come home for a bit, but it is worth it to keep them keen.’ As he spoke there was a further crash from below the counter.

  ‘Carpenter’s crew are down there at work plugging the first hole, sir, so they should be able to fix that one too,’ he added.

  ‘Very good, Mr Sutton,’ said Clay. ‘Ah, and I see the Agrius is on the move at last.’ Across the wide expanse of Black Bay, white sails appeared on the frigate as she got under way, ready to do her part in the plan. Clay moved over to the binnacle and lined himself up with the prominent dome of the sugar loaf mountain.

  ‘Was it twelve degrees north, Mr Appleby?’ he asked, sighting across the top of the compass rose.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Appleby, shifting from one foot to another. He drew a large red handkerchief from deep in his coat pocket and wiped the sweat from his brow. Clay looked at the master with concern.

  ‘Are you quite sure of your calculations, Mr Appleby?’ he asked. ‘You seem a little distracted.’

  ‘Quite sure, sir,’ replied the master. ‘My concern is what if the Burford ran aground on a particular part of the sand bar that is deeper than the rest?’

  ‘Come now, Mr Appleby,’ said Clay. ‘Sand bars are generally very regular features of the sea floor. Besides, the die is now cast. If your calculation is correct, we shall shortly discover all.’

  Clay may have appeared calm in front of the nervous Appleby, but inside his stomach churned with anxiety. His mariner’s instinct was to avoid navigational perils, yet here he was, driving his ship towards a known hazard. He could almost sense the sea bed underneath his feet as it rose up towards him, nearer and nearer. What if Appleby was right and the Burford had touched on a part of the sand bank that was not typical? Or what if the signal midshipman on the Agrius this morning had misread the Burford’s reply to Captain Parker’s question? Did the Burford actually draw ten feet, not the fifteen he had reported? He looked down at his hands. His knuckles showed white under his tanned skin with the force he used to grip the binnacle, as if he was braced for an inevitable collision. Between his hands was the compass. He looked from there across to the sugar loaf mountain which now bore ten degrees from them. Almost in disbelief he realised that the Rush must have already sailed across the sand bar. He turned to watch the Spanish ship that followed in her wake.

  She was a magnificent sight as she drove on. Her yellow and black striped hull stood high out of the water, the pronounced tumblehome of her sides obvious to him as he watched. Her bows were a mass of gilded carving, a white bow wave creamed at the foot. Her enormous masts towered up and up, the red and gold flag of Sp
ain streamed out from the masthead a hundred and eighty feet above the surface of the sea. Every one of her spreading yards was packed with sail. The cross he had seen earlier was two bars of solid black against the white of her massive topsail. Then in a moment, everything changed.

  Flowing, racing movement juddered to a halt. Her whole foremast came crashing down sheared off just above her deck, dissolving into individual sections as it fell. In its ruin it tore down her main top gallant mast with it. Clay saw a pair of tiny figures, black specks against the sky, tumble through the air and splash into the sea. Only when they had vanished did he realise they must have been the ship’s lookouts, their grip wrenched free by the force of the impact. Delayed by the distance came a deep muffled rumble of noise, and the San Felipe settled back among her plumes of wreckage, her bow noticeable higher than her stern.

  On the quarterdeck around him there was a moment of complete open-mouthed silence at the horror of what they had witnessed, followed by the wash of sound as everyone was talking at once.

  ‘Silence!’ bellowed Clay, glaring around him. When it was quiet once more he issued a series of orders. ‘Afterguard! Cut free the drogue, if you please.’ Two of the mizzen sail handlers rushed to the stern of the ship to release the lines and the sloop surged forwards. ‘Mr Sutton, kindly reduce sail to fighting trim. Topsails only. Then have the ship put about to close with the enemy. I want her in as close as possible, within fifty yards of her bows and then hold her there.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ replied Sutton.

  ‘Mr Croft, please send this signal to the Agrius. I am engaging the enemy by the bow.’

  ‘Agrius acknowledges the signal, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Croft,’ said Clay. He walked forward to the rail at the front of the quarterdeck. Below him the gun crews looked up expectantly, their faces alight with grins. He could feel their delight at the prospect of an easy victory over such a superior foe, mixed with respect towards their resourceful leader. Clay realised this was the moment when most captains might give a brief speech. The men wanted him to offer them some words they might cheer at, but inside he felt too flat, shocked by the devastation he had caused to that beautiful ship. In his mind’s eye he could still see the little tumbling figures as they fell through the air towards the stone-hard sea far, far below.

  ‘Mr Preston,’ he ordered. ‘Run out larboard side and wait for my order to fire.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ said the midshipman, and Clay turned away from the rail.

  *****

  ‘Clear!’ yelled Rosso before he brought down the linstock on the touch hole. The carronade belched its tongue of flame and shot back down the slide into the middle of the gun crew who leapt forward to reloaded it. Evans swabbed out the hot barrel, and twirled the rammer around, ready to ram home the next charge. O’Malley pushed in the bag of powder, followed by the ball and wad, each item forced down the short barrel by Evans. The others hauled on the tackles, and the loaded carronade slid forward up the slide. Rosso bent to spike the charge through the touchhole and insert the quill of fine powder. He glanced through the porthole at the target, but they were so close there was no need to waste time on aiming. The bows of the San Felipe filled his vision, an easy stone toss away, now battered and pock marked by the numerous holes torn into her by the relentless pounding of the little sloop. It was a shock to see what damage even their seven carronades could do over time at this very close range. He stepped back once more and yelled his warning to the gun crew as the carronade pumped a fresh cannon ball into the Spanish ship.

  The carronade shot back down the slide again, and Evans sponged it out, steam hissing from the hot metal.

  ‘Sorry, Rosie, I got no fecking charge to load,’ said O’Malley straightening up from his place by the gun. ‘Reckon we really have run that little nipper off his feet, we been working Shango that brisk.’ Rosso stepped back from his place by the gun and looked around for the next powder bag, but could see no trace of Barker. Something ripped past him and he looked up. The Spanish sailors who had thronged the forecastle, battling to clear away the wreckage of the fallen mast had been replaced now by a line of marines. He could see them firing and reloading as quick as they could under the urging of their sergeant.

  ‘Keep your heads below the gangway, lads,’ he ordered his crew, ducking back into cover himself. ‘The front of that ship is full of soldiers with muskets.’

  ‘Good luck to the buggers,’ grinned O’Malley. ‘Muskets against cannon. I know what side of that fecking argument I wants to be on.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Rosso. ‘But what about cannon with nothing to fire? Where is that bloody boy?’

  ‘Barker may have been hit, Rosie,’ said Evans. ‘We’re that close in now the Don’s small arms fire is getting pretty warm.’ Rosso glanced around to report the lack of ammunition to petty officer Green, just in time to see him being carried below clutching a wounded leg.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Sedgwick, go and report to the Grunters we can’t fire for want of a charge. Rest of us will stay here in case Barker finally turns up.’ As Sedgwick ran down the deck there came a distant roar, the sound clear even over the bang of the carronades around him.

  ‘What was that?’ asked Evans. O’Malley ducked to the next gun port and looked through. He bobbed back again with a broad grin.

  ‘That, my shipmates, was the sweet sound of victory!’ he beamed. ‘The old Agrius has finally arrived, and just given her full measure right up her fecking arse!’

  *****

  In the front rank of the Spanish marines who lined the forecastle rail of the San Felipe stood Alvaro Gaya. He pulled another cartridge out from his ammunition pouch and lifted it up to his mouth. He ripped the top off with his teeth and felt the heavy musket ball settle on his tongue. Gunpowder peppered his lips, and he tasted once more the slight bad egg taste of the saltpetre. He took a pinch of powder from the open cartridge and stored it between his forefinger and thumb, the digits pressed into an ‘O’. He then poured the balance of the powder down the barrel of his musket. Leaning forward, he spat the lead ball into the muzzle, and prodded the now empty cartridge paper in with a finger to form the wad. He banged the butt of his musket down onto the solid deck and slid the long ramrod out from its housing.

  Of course the deck was solid, he fumed to himself, all too solid. Those idiot officers had rammed his beautiful ship deep onto this hidden sandbar. Now the hull lay as inert as a rock, letting the sea wash high up her sides, as if his cherished ship was already a wreck. His arm still ached from where he had fallen on it earlier. Almost the whole crew had been thrown to the deck when they had run aground, as if from an earthquake. But he was one of the lucky ones. Just beside where he had fallen had been one of the cannon. It had slewed forward against its breechings and rolled over. He had rushed to try and help lift the colossal weight from the members of the gun crew crushed beneath it, heaving at the cold metal as those trapped under it clawed at his legs, pleading for him to hurry.

  Alvaro held the musket against his tunic. The butt was still on the deck and the barrel was caught against his chest by his left arm, the left hand still holding the pinch of powder. With his right hand he worked the ramrod, crushing the ball and wad of cartridge paper against the powder charge and tamping it all down firmly. He returned the ramrod to its oiled slot below the barrel and looked around him. The deck was still awash with the wreckage of the fallen mast. He shuddered at the memory of its collapse, debris raining down all around him. He had seen spars splinter and break, and shrouds part under impossible pressure in a series of whip cracks as they lashed across the deck, hissing like snakes. And then the Royal Navy ships had closed in.

  That little sloop in front had spun round the moment they had struck the hidden sand bar. She had sunk her teeth into the San Felipe’s bows, where only her two bow chasers could return any fire. Except that both guns had been in action when they ran aground, he reminded himself. One had slammed forward into its gun port, smashing
its carriage in the process. The other lay on its side near him, its crew frantically trying to get it back upright. He could hear the little ship’s tiny battery of carronades as they pumped ball after ball into the bows, each one thudding home in a shower of splinters, battering through the tough curved timbers. But it was the other ship, the frigate, that was the real problem. He could see her behind him raking his beloved San Felipe again and again, sending broadside after broadside crashing into her unprotected stern. He felt the deck beneath his feet tremble as yet another storm of shot swept the length of the gun decks. The sound of fresh screams from the wounded drifted up through the open hatchways.

  Alvaro could sense that the fight would not last much longer. He could no longer hear the noisy bravado of his shipmates. That had faded into sullen silence all around him. He understood what was happening. He knew that his fellow crew would fight bravely in an even contest, but not if they had no means of striking back. The enemy’s ships had come against the San Filipe like jackals against a wounded lion, avoiding her still powerful jaws and claws. Down both sides of her hull were the lines of her guns, all of them silent, their crews standing mute beside them. He could feel their fighting spirit ebbing away, like children ground down by another beating from an abusive adult. His face hardened with determination. He could yet strike a blow. He rested his musket on the rail in front of him, and wiped the little pinch of powder into the firing pan. He pulled the lock back, felt the reassuring ratchet click beneath his thumb, and brought the butt up to his shoulder. Then he waited.