‘The rais ?’
‘The senior officer commanding the squadron. A Barbary admiral.’
‘Should not we crowd on sail, sir?’
‘Nay, Mr. Latimer. As I’ve already said, we will not even attempt to outrun them.
That would be folly.’
‘How many are they?’
‘There are six galleys in the squadron.’
‘I meant in numbers of men, sir.’
‘Ah. Hm.’ Peering again through his glass. ‘The slaves will not fight, in course.
They are chained to the thwarts. I reckon each galley to carry thirty corsair fighters. One hundred and eighty men in all.’ Lowering the glass. ‘It is unusual for corsairs to attack a ship of war but not unknown. If they attack in sufficient numbers, they can reasonably expect to prevail. That is what they attempt today.’
‘Are you saying that they may defeat us, sir?’
‘Nay, I am not. We will prevail, Mr. Latimer. It may be very hot and bloody, but we will prevail.’
‘Very good, sir.’
‘Steady ..steady ..’ James to the helmsman.
‘Steady, sir.’
Long moments, then:
‘Starboard the helm!’
The helmsman spun the wheel clockwise spoke on spoke, and shadows angling across her deck Expedient swung heeling to larboard toward the oncoming squadron of galleys. Creaking timbers and ropes, the sliding wash of the sea.
‘Midships!’
The helmsman turned the wheel anticlockwise a spoke or two.
Expedient ceased to swing, righted herself on her new course, and was now sailing straight at the enemy.
‘We will drive through them, Mr. Latimer. Drive through and scatter them, and
give them both batteries at point blank, then reload with grape.’
Expedient sailed on, and as the distance between her and the galleys shortened, and shortened .the galleys began to break formation, four to larboard, and two to starboard.
‘Hah! The buggers thought we would run!’ James. ‘Now they will discover what it is to attack a British fighting ship, by Christ!’
Expedient rode a lifting sea, and was now only moments from cutting through the scattering squadron.
‘Larboard battery .aim your guns low! Stand by!’
Then something happened that James had never anticipated. As the galleys came abeam of Expedient on either side, he saw too late that three of them on the larboard side carried something hidden beneath a large black shroud amidships. White clad turbaned men hauled the shrouds aside, revealing single thirty-two pounder carronades, mounted on platforms.
‘Christ’s blood! They are armed with great guns!’
All of three of the carronades to larboard were fired in a rapid sequence,
like thunderclaps close aboard the ship.
BOOM-BOOM-BOOM
Fortunately for Expedient two of the heavy smashers had not been properly
aimed before they were fired. Thus two of the thirty-two pound roundshot went wide, sending up fountains of spray beyond the ship. The third shot, however, from the last galley on the larboard side, went home.
Thirty-two pounds of solid iron struck Expedient at the number six larboard gunport, just below the sheer strakes. It smashed the gunport to splinters and smashed the two ton gun back into the gun deck, fracturing the muzzle and chase and knocking the gun clear off its carriage. Three of the gun-crew were killed outright, a fourth lost a leg and collapsed, blood spurting in sprays across the deck, and a fifth suffered a terrible wound to his groin. His screams were drowned out by James’s quarterdeck bellow:
‘Larboard battery! Fire! Fire!’
BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG
The deck shuddering under their feet with the repeated concussions. The glass of the skylight buzzing and rattling. The stink of powder smoke and burning wad.
Even aimed low, at that short range only one of Expedient’s eighteen pound roundshot did any damage. The others flew harmlessly over the galleys. The shot that went home struck the galley that had damaged Expedient, and smashed the vessel’s high stern. In the brief lull afterward, the wounded seaman’s awful shrieks echoed the length of the deck.
‘Save me! Save me! Save meeeee-aaaghh!’
James knew that firing the starboard battery great guns was now pointless. ‘Aim and fire those swivels!’ he bawled.
The men at the swivels mounted along both rails aimed with the tillers and pulled the flintlock lanyards. The little guns spat orange fire, sending one pound loads of canister shot whistling toward the galleys sweeping past. The effect was negligible. Most of the shot missed, pocking the sea beyond the fast moving vessels.
Now all of the galleys had swept past and were astern of Expedient. James saw that they were going about and meant to attack him just as he had feared by cutting across and beneath his stern from both sides.
He made a rapid decision. He would stake everything on one tactic.
‘All swivel gunners assemble at the tafferel! Captain Dysart!’
Captain Dysart hurried to his side, his gorget splashed with blood, and specks of blood across his face.
‘Sir?’
‘All Marine sharpshooters to assemble at the tafferel with the swivel gunners.’
‘Aye-aye, sir.’
‘Mr. Latimer.’
Mr. Latimer had had little part to play in the action so far, and was again clutching the bloody, bandaged stump of his left arm. He straightened his back.
‘Sir?’
‘They will attempt to run up under our stern and come alongside, larboard and starboard, then clamber up into the ship and cut us to pieces with their scimitars. We must smash their damned galleys as they approach, and kill them all. Pick six men to act as crew to the swivel gunners, ready to sponge and reload. They must use grapeshot now, not canister. Bring cartridge and grape in plentiful supply.’
‘Aye-aye, sir.’ Very pallid.
‘Are you quite certain you are fit for duty, Mr. Latimer?’ Peering at him.
‘I am, sir.’ Lifting his head.
‘Then make it so.’
‘Aye-aye, sir.’ The lieutenant touched his hat, turned away and began to shout orders.
‘Mr. Catermole!’ James called.
‘Sir?’ The boatswain came aft.
‘We will let go our towed boats, and retrieve them afterward.’
‘Let go our boats, sir ?’ Dismayed.
‘Cheerly, now!’ Firmly.
Mr. Catermole touched his forehead, making his obedience. ‘Aye-aye, sir.’
The towed boats were duly let go, drifted away on the wake, and were soon far out of the way on the starboard quarter.
Just as James had predicted the galleys came at Expedient in a tight formation from astern, all except the damaged vessel, which lagged behind, her rudder badly impaired.
The galleys were gaining fast, the sweeps still cutting through the water in a fast, unrelenting rhythm. The starboard swivel gunners, whose guns had been reloaded with grape, were now lining the tafferel, their guns slotted into the brass mounting rings lined across the rail. The larboard gunners stood behind them, with the six men acting as gun-crew. Behind them were the Marine sharpshooters, brought down from the tops. That part of the quarterdeck was now uncomfortably crowded.
James waited until the leading pair of galleys were within a chain of Expedient’s stern, and:
‘Swivel battery! Aim careful and fire at will!’
The swivels were all fired at much the same moment. A sharp, rippling crack of detonation, and belching flame and smoke. One of the guns jerked off the tafferel in recoil, and the gunner fell. But the effect of that miniature broadside was remarkable. Both leading galleys were struck by a hail of grapeshot, which smashed their prows so badly that they began to ship water and sink at once.
The following galleys were obliged to take action to avoid the sinking vessels and the fearful men falling into the water. The screams of the
drowning slaves, chained to the thwarts, were pitiful in the extreme and James in spite of his ferocity of purpose felt his heart shrivel.
The second battery of gunners now stepped forward to the tafferel as the first pulled their guns clear and seated their loaded guns in the slots.
James sucked in a breath, and:
‘Find your target, and aim very careful and steady! It is our lives or theirs!’
A moment, then as the second wave of galleys approached:
‘Fire at will!’
Flame, smoke, and sharp, deafening concussion. The whistle of shot.
Two of the second wave were hit. One began to sink and the second slowed. A third came on, untouched, and tried to come alongside the ship to larboard. James could see the slaves bending at their sweeps, and the turbaned fighters waiting for their chance to board, their scimitars glinting in the sun. At the stern, beside the helmsman at the tiller, stood a tall figure in a red turban and black clothes.
‘The rais ’ Murmured to himself. ‘He will not best me, today. Nay, I will not permit it.’
‘Mr. Richardson!’ A quarterdeck bellow.
The gunner Mr. Richardson now appeared with his mate, carrying a box of grenades between them.
The Marine sharpshooters were now at the rail, firing down into the galley, but the galley came on, closer and closer, the sweeps cutting through the water.
‘Are those grenades fused, Mr. Richardson?’
‘Fused and ready, sir.’ The gunner and his mate lowered the box to the deck. ‘A round dozen, altogether. Loaded with full allowance powder, and canister.’
‘Very good. We shall need them all.’
CHAPTER EIGHTY
Before the grenades could be deployed there was a further development that James could not have foreseen. The sixth galley, lagging behind the others, had now succeeded in repairing her rudder, and was again surging through the water. This repaired galley had swerved round the sinking galleys and cut in close under Expedient’s starboard side. James’s entire attention had been on the galley carrying the rais, to larboard. The tillerman beside the rais suddenly put his helm hard over and the vessel slid in against Expedient’s larboard side.
‘Grenades! Grenades!’ bellowed James, and the gunner and his mate began to hand them up from the box. Marine sharpshooters seized them, lit the fuses and threw them down, but the galley had moved forward and been tethered to the larboard main chains, and the fizzing grenades fell harmlessly into the sea.
‘God damn these scimitar wielding pirates!’ James, in fierce half whisper. ‘They will not come uninvited into my ship!’
And aloud: ‘Every able man to repel boarders! Mr. Latimer!’
‘Sir?’ Very pale and looking exhausted, but still on his legs.
‘Cutlasses and sea pistols for all hands!’
‘Aye-aye, sir.’
Even as James had given the order, turbaned corsairs swarmed up and over the starboard rail and on to the gangway, their scimitars thrust into sashes tied round their waists. As soon as they were over the rail they pulled these fearsome weapons free, yelling and roaring, and began to hack and swing at the guncrews that had left their guns to repel them.
Now, over the larboard rail, came corsairs from the rais’s galley. James clutched at his waist for his sword and remembered that he had not strapped it on. A corsair ran at him on the quarterdeck, black bearded and fierce eyed, his scimitar raised. He gave a blood curdling yell.
James snatched up a belaying pin from the mizzen rail, parried the scimitar, tried to parry a second chopping swing, and the pin was knocked from his hand. He backed away from the advancing man, tried to snatch up another belaying pin but lost his footing as the ship rode a sea, and the scimitar sliced past his head with a whipping sound and chopped into a cleat. The blade caught in the timber, and James took his chance. He fell on the deck and kicked up into his assailant’s groin with all the force he could muster. The man gasped in agony, dropped his weapon, and fell to his knees. James sprang up, seized the scimitar, and as the man lurched up and lunged at him James swung the broad curved blade and chopped it into the corsair’s neck. He tried to suck air through his severed
throat, his eyes rolled up white in his head, and he collapsed, frothing blood.
James turned forrard, his teeth bared in a battle snarl, the scimitar at the ready in his hands. Mr. Latimer came toward him, carrying a sea pistol, with two more hanging off a lanyard round his neck. His face was chalk white.
‘Pistols, sir ’ he said, and fainted.
James ran to the lieutenant, and another corsair attacked him, scimitar raised.
‘Allahu-akbar!’ he bawled.
James met the attack with his own scimitar, and there was a ringing clatter of metal on metal. James, standing over the lieutenant’s prone figure, tried to reach down and snatch a pistol from the lanyard round Mr. Latimer’s neck, but failed. Another man joined the first, and they both advanced on James, swinging their weapons. James swung his own weapon, whirled, and kicked the pistol from Mr. Latimer’s outstretched hand. He whirled again, swung his scimitar and it clanged against the weapon of the second assailant. He crouched, snatched up the pistol, dropped his scimitar and cocked the pistol two handed and fired point blank into second assailant’s face. The ball struck the top of his nose, and smashed his skull. He fell lifeless, his scimitar still in his hand.
The other assailant now came at James, but was skewered from behind by the bayonet of a Marine.
All around James on the quarterdeck, along the gangways, and in the waist, other desperate battles were taking place. Yells, screams, curses and threats filled the air. Then there was a sharp concussion and a burst of flame as a swivel gun was fired on deck.
Along the larboard gangway a group of three corsairs were cut to pieces by grapeshot.
Another fiery concussion, and two more corsairs were cut down at the breast rail as they tried to come up on the quarterdeck. One fell by the fire buckets, half his head shot away.
‘They are beaten, lads! Drive them off the ship into the sea!’
The shout came from the waist, and was cut off in a shriek of agony.
They were not beaten. The battle was far from won. Perhaps it would not be won. Perhaps it could not.
These thoughts whirled through James’s head as he advanced to the breast rail, his scimitar again in his hand. Unbidden an image of Catherine came to him.
‘Do not leave me, James.’
Her eyes on his.
‘Do not leave me, my darling.’
crack
A pistol was discharged immediately behind him, and his ears sang deafened.
The image of Catherine was gone.
James came back to himself, the sounds of battle all round him, tumultuous on the air. He sucked in a breath, smelling powder smoke and blood, and the sour stink of fear in men’s sweat.
He gripped the damaged breastrail, and saw that corsairs were still swarming aboard the ship, and the ship’s people were hard pressed to resist them. Swing-ing scimitars clashed with swinging cutlasses. On the fo’c’s’le beyond a small party of seamen had acquired a great many pistols between them, and were firing and discarding them as corsairs tried to go forrard and attack them. The Marine sharpshooters had now gone into the waist, joined there by the Marines who had made up part of the great gun crews.
crack crack crack-crack
Shouts, screams, bellowed threats. The ringing clash of metal on metal. Smoke. More pistol shots.
‘Captain! Look out!’ A midshipman’s breaking voice.
James whirled, and faced a corsair who had picked up a pistol. He aimed it at James’s head with a glare of triumph, and pulled the trigger.
crack
The ball whipped past James’s ear, and he was unharmed. But he had flinched, and dropped his scimitar. James ran straight at his assailant, and punched him hard in the face. He felt nasal bone crack under his knuckles, and the man staggered back in astonishment. James s
tepped back, seized the scimitar from the deck, and as the man recovered and ran at him with a roar, blood streaming from his nose, James swung the scimitar double handed and chopped him in the midriff. He gasped, clutched at his stomach and crumpled on his side on the deck.
James turned forrard again, and now he saw, advancing along the larboard gangway toward him, the tall black clad figure of the rais himself, carrying a scimitar with a highly polished blade on which James could see intricate etched
decoration. The weapon flashed and gleamed in the sun.
James lifted his own weapon.
‘All right, come on, damn you!’
The rais strode lithely up on the quarterdeck, the etched designs on his scimitar appearing and disappearing in the dazzle.
‘You are going to die, English! Allahu-akbar! Allahu-akbar!’
CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE
They faced each other on the quarterdeck, and shut out the other, greater battle going on in the ship. Each knew that one of them would not live to see the sun go down.
They circled each other, and James fell back a little, to the aft part of the quarterdeck, where he felt more at home. The rais, his red turban stained with sweat at his forehead, clearly felt that in falling back James was showing signs of fear, and weakness. He swung his scimitar in slicing figures-of-eight, whiffling the air. And advanced. James fell back a little further, then suddenly stamped forward, using the scimitar as a conventional sword, and thrust deep. The tip of the long curved blade caught the rais’s left shoulder, and tore his black blouse. Blood showed on his shoulder through the tear.
His eyes showed the shock of the wound, not so much the pain of it as his own carelessness in allowing it to happen. Shock quickly became anger, and he swung his own weapon again, with greater vigour, and showed his teeth. Against his black beard they were a menacing ivory white. His dark eyes glared fierce, and now he advanced again.
James circled. Stamped forward, feinted left, parried a vicious swinging chop
with a sliding hiss of steel on steel, and thrust deep again. And again caught the rais on the shoulder, a deeper and more painful wound. Blood soaked through his blouse, and ran down his arm. He could not disguise his pain this time, and winced, faltered, then swung his scimitar with a yell of rage, chopping, cutting,
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