by Alaric Bond
“We have a fresh crew and will be tacking using all hands,” Chilton told the lad with the air of one who had offered many explanations over the last few hours. “So we usually try to wait until the change of watch. That way we may retain men from the old watch for the manoeuvre, rather than allow them below, only to be summoned back later.”
The lad nodded wisely enough, but then he would probably have done so if the lieutenant had stated they were about to raise a crocodile to the main top. King caught Chilton’s eye; both men were close enough to Parfrey’s position to remember the total confusion of being at sea for the first time. The marine private tending the hour glass was peering at it intently, and some of the watch below were already starting to come up on deck.
“Do you wish to tack her?” King asked. Chilton hesitated and King continued. “It is a clear night and nothing hereabouts, I think the captain will trust us. Will you take the honour?”
“Very well,” Chilton reached for the speaking trumpet just as the bell sounded for the end of the watch.
“What is your name?” King asked, turning to the volunteer.
“Parfrey, sir.”
“You have witnessed the ship tack before, I presume?”
“Oh yes, sir, several times. Though I was below at four bells, so never at night.”
King smiled. “It is little different, and you will not see as much; some matters must be taken on trust.”
The lad absorbed this very seriously.
“Are you aware quite why we are tacking, Parfrey?” King persisted, and the volunteer silently shook his head.
“Wind’s coming from the west, which is where we are bound, making it impossible to travel straight in that direction. Consequently the ship is close hauled, that is sailing as near to the wind as she will lie.”
“I see, sir,” the lad said, and King looked at him doubtfully for a moment.
“So, while we are making a small amount of progress into the wind, it is at the cost of moving significantly to one side; currently it is the north, as we are on the larboard tack. The larboard tack is…”
“When the wind comes across our larboard side, sir?” Parfrey asked.
“Indeed. Were we to hold this course for too long we should eventually be in danger of running into the southern coast of England. And so we have to tack, to change direction; in this case we want to reverse the present angle we are holding to the wind, so that we make as much distance southerly as we have to the north. On both tacks we are gaining a small amount of progress to the west so, in effect, the ship is sailing into the wind.
Parfrey’s face cleared as if he had been struck by a mild revelation. Chilton called for all hands to make ready, while King continued more softly.
“Tacking is preferable to wearing, as we wish to keep what ground we have made, but will mean turning our bow directly into the wind. It is a little more complicated, however; we must maintain enough way, or forward movement, to continue until we are settled on the opposite course.”
“Ready about, stations for stays!” The men, who were in the main experienced enough, responded immediately and began taking up their positions without undue confusion or comment.
“Ease down the helm.”
The wheel began to turn while the Scylla‘s jib sheets were eased off and the spanker boom gently brought amidships by the afterguard.
“Helm’s a-lee!” The fore and head sheets were then released, allowing her bow to swing into the wind.
“Rise and tack sheets!”
“Haul taut, mainsail haul!”
Parfrey and King watched as the evolution continued until the ship was riding comfortably on the starboard tack, with all sails filled and her stem once more nosing into the swell. “It is complicated,” the lad said finally.
“It would seem so,” King replied. “But I chance you are a quick learner. Watch all you can and never fear to ask. I should say you will be tacking Scylla yourself before we see England again.”
“That soon?” Parfrey asked, his face the picture of wonder. King shuffled uncomfortably.
“It may be a long commission,” he said.
* * *
Within half an hour it was clear that the speech was coming to a close. By now all the audience were as if on fire; any would have cheerfully taken on the might of an English army single-handedly, and the murmurs of support were very nearly growls. Tone held up his hand for silence, which was given instantly. Then he spoke again, this time in a far softer timbre so that most had to strain to hear.
“You know of the uprising in May.” A brief groan went about the room, ending the second Tone’s mouth opened to speak again. “Many chances were lost, and many men died needlessly. Since that time the repercussions by the British have been brutal and barbarous. Five hundred alone were massacred in Kildare when they were ready for surrender, and there has been torture and suffering beyond the telling.” He paused to allow the dreadful truth to be absorbed, then continued.
“And now they are saying it is over. Telling us they have quashed the revolt. More than that, boasting of having quenched the spirit that caused the rebellion in the first place. They say that Ireland has no life left in it, and can continue as a British colony; a provider to the mother country, and a breeding house for their slaves and servants.” He paused again, as if absorbing the anger and energy from his audience.
“But I tell you this is not true. I tell you that even now there is a force alive in Ireland, a force provided by the French that has joined with our brothers to produce a mighty army.” His voice rose as some began to cheer. “And I tell you that, even as we speak, they are heading for the capital of our fair country.”
Now men were positively screaming, but Tone was shouting back, loud above the uproar, delivering his point home as a carpenter might hammer in heavy nails.
“I tell you they have already routed the British in one mighty battle: no fewer than six thousand were sent packing by less than two thousand French and Irish brothers.”
There was hysteria now, and the only man in the room apparently unaffected was Tone himself. Even Crowley was standing, standing and shouting with the others.
“And now the victors have sent for us. They know that with our help they can take the entire land. Take it, and wipe every memory of the English from its shores. Take it and free our country from the yoke of oppression. Take it, and deliver a homeland back to those brave souls who will rise to fight for her. Take it, and be free. Now who will join us?”
* * *
The wind backed with the morning, and Fraiser was finally able to set a course that would allow a reasonable distance to be covered without undue strain on Scylla’s men or fabric. The captain came on to the quarterdeck shortly after first light and remained while the ship awoke about him. The decks, already passably white, had been treated to further attention from holystones, and were now steaming in the first of the morning’s sunshine. Hammocks had been turned out and the scent of breakfast was in the air as the hands ate. Banks was about to follow their example when Captain Westwood, accompanied by Lieutenant Adshead and a marine private, came up on deck. Westwood approached Banks as he stood with Chilton, who was once more officer of the watch. Banks briefly touched his hat in reply to the marine officer’s salute, and was about to turn away when he sensed there was something more.
“Go ahead, Mr Westwood,” Banks said genially. “I hold few rules about speaking on the quarterdeck.”
“Thank you, sir. I was wondering if you would permit a spot of target practice?”
The captain looked his surprise. “For the men, Mr Westwood?” he asked.
“No sir, I was thinking of myself and Mr Adshead.”
“Indeed?” It was customary for marine privates and NCOs to engage in firearm drill, usually when the great guns were being exercised, but almost unknown for officers.
“Pistols?” Banks asked. Then, because the morning was pleasant and he was in the mood added, “do you intend to fight a du
el?”
“Hardly that, Sir Richard,” Westwood laughed. “But I have recently taken delivery of a new piece from an Italian gun maker, and I would wish to put it to test.”
“Then I will gladly permit, Mr Westwood, and trust you will tolerate an audience?”
The servant was duly despatched, returning shortly afterwards with a wooden target holder and a cloth covered case that he placed on the deck.
“A rifle, sir?” Banks asked, when he saw the size. A gentleman might carry a long arm for hunting, but for one of commissioned rank to hold anything other than a pistol was almost unheard of.
Westwood looked up from opening the case. “More than just a rifle, sir,” he said. “I have yet to prove this piece but, if the reports be true, it is truly remarkable.”
Banks and Chilton looked with interest as the lid was opened. Inside the lining was quite rudimentary; apart from the firearm there was none of the usual compartments for flints, wadding, and powder, just two heavy metal flasks that looked quite plain and utilitarian. Banks supposed them to be for ammunition, although they appeared unusually heavy and would be awkward in use. At first sight the rifle itself looked conventional enough: roughly four feet in length, with a rounded and bulbous metal butt that would definitely not be comfortable to hold. Westwood picked up the piece and examined it while the other officers, and two nearby seamen, watched on. There was little or no decoration, rare for a gentleman’s firearm, but apart from that Banks could detect little to excite comment.
“What say we load, her, eh, Coleman?” Westwood asked. The marine private reached into the case and withdrew one of the metal flasks. “Took three men half the night to charge two of these,” The marine officer said, as he rested the fore end on the case, unscrewed the metal butt from the rifle and removed it. The private took the part from him and offered one of the flasks in its place. There was a faint hiss as the thing was fixed in position.
“An interchangeable butt?” Banks asked, mildly confused. The replacement seemed very much like the one Westwood had removed; and, once fitted, the rifle was apparently no different.
“It comes with three,” The marine captain explained. “Each will allow twenty to thirty shots, but it is better not to leave the piece fully charged.”
Banks said nothing, even though Westwood’s explanation made little sense. Carrying ammunition in a rifle stock was not unheard of, but he did wonder that so many balls of a reasonable calibre could be held in one of the metal butts.
“Gaskets are greased, sir,” the private muttered.
“Very well, Coleman; target if you please.” Westwood held the rifle vertically and looked across at Banks with just a trace of doubt. “She came by a circuitous route and was only delivered recently, so is not tested. I have heard the very best of the maker, but you will not judge by first impressions I trust?”
“No indeed.” Banks had just noticed that the hammer held no flint. It may well be one of those newfangled percussion weapons, although Westwood was not attempting to fit a cap, neither was he loading the piece with powder or shot. The marine private had attached the large wooden target holder to the taffrail, and a paper bullseye flapped gently in the breeze. The target was less than twenty feet away; hardly a test for any weapon, but nothing was said as Westwood lowered the rifle, took aim and fired.
There was no flash, no smoke and the noise was far less than that of a standard musket, but the target was penetrated credibly near the bull. Westwood beamed.
“Hardly a recoil,” he said. “And the shot is almost instantaneous; no delay for the pan to ignite, or even a cap to fire.”
“Very impressive, Mr Westwood,” Banks said politely.
“But does it have range?” Chilton, who was also an interested spectator, asked.
Westwood had raised the rifle once more. “She’s credited with one hundred and fifty yards, sir,” he said. “That is for accurate shooting. And a ball should penetrate an inch of oak, or the body of a man.”
“Fair performance,” Chilton said appreciatively. Westwood was lowering the piece once more and, without making any attempt to reload, fired again. Another shot could be seen on the target, slightly off this time, but still a reasonable hit.
“I say,” Banks said, amazed despite himself. “It repeats.”
“And will continue to do so,” Westwood replied, with just the trace of a smirk. “There is a magazine of twenty balls here,” he said, pointing to a metal tube running along the stock towards the hammer. “And upwards of thirty charges in the butt.”
“And what is the charge, sir?” Chilton asked.
“Air,” Westwood beamed. “It is a Windbüchse; deadly and accurate, yet powered by nothing more mortal than the wind! Will you take a shot, sir?”
Banks shook his head. He had a credible eye, but was not going to risk his dignity by shooting a strange firearm on his own quarterdeck.
“Mr Chilton?”
The young lieutenant was less reluctant, and eagerly collected the weapon.
“Hold it upright,” Westwood instructed. “You will feel the ball roll into the chamber.” He turned to Banks. “It is not only fast and convenient, but this method of loading allows for a prone marksman to retain his position.”
Banks pulled at his chin speculatively. Westwood was correct, a man could stay relatively hidden while maintaining an astounding rate of fire. There would be little risk to him while reloading, and the lack of smoke and flash would mean he was almost invisible to the enemy. Chilton had the rifle now and was holding it cautiously.
“The butt is a touch large,” Westwood explained. “Though the lack of recoil means that placement is not so essential.”
The lieutenant took sight for several seconds then fired. The target was hit, a little lower than before, but still within the bull. Chilton grinned at Westwood. “What an astounding thing, sir. Sure, there is no flash and hardly a kick at all; it is a sharp-shooter’s dream!”
“All of the force of the charge is directed at propelling the shot; there is none lost through the pan, and no chance of stray embers blinding the firer or robbing him of his night vision.”
“I should like to see its penetration,” Banks said. “And there may be issues with the loading; you said it took some while to compress the air.”
“Experiments are in hand to produce a larger device that several might operate; similar to a ship’s pump, so a detachment of men might be accommodated at one time. The intention is for them to load the charges overnight, or just before action. As to the penetration, for a ball to carry accurately it must hold a fair degree of force. The first ten shots are reckoned to be the better, beyond that the range and penetration grow less, although they remain able to stop a man. And, of course, a fresh butt may be inserted at any time. Sure a musket may be more powerful, but this is almost as effective and, considering the higher rate of fire, must be considered the more deadly weapon.”
“Highly impressive, Mr Westwood.” Banks conceded. “I assume the government knows of such an invention?”
“Indeed, sir. It is currently issued to regiments of the Austrian Army, and the Americans are also considering adoption. The British Army are holding trials and I would hope to see our marines carrying them in action before so very long.”
“How typical that the Army should have them first.” Adshead snorted.
“First or last, I simply hope we will not be missed,” Westwood replied. “A weapon such as this could surely change the course of the war, and I consider it vital that we are not left behind.”
* * *
A bunch of gentry coves playing with a toy gun. Surridge viewed the spectacle with disdain from the forecastle to where he had returned following his morning ablutions. Officers might fancy themselves as fighting men, but a true scrapper didn’t need gewgaws or trinkets to get the job done. Surridge had never actually been in action with the enemy but was the veteran of countless private brawls, and he was confident that he could handle himself well enough w
ith maybe the occasional help from a cosh or knuckleduster.
But he was off watch and wasn’t going to waste time in fruitless musings. Besides, Surridge was not a happy man; he had a headache, which was rare for him, and his throat felt dry and rough. His tongue was also strangely swollen and there was an unpleasant taste in his mouth. The cause was obvious to anyone with even half a brain; he had a bad case of ‘fat head’, it was what came from sleeping in an airless berth full of common hands. Surridge stomped about the crowded forecastle with a face like thunder; he would not go below, as it was the cause of his current problems, but equally did not want to remain in the fresh morning air, even if doing so might allow the symptoms to disperse. There were still some while before his watch would be called, he had nothing constructive with which to fill the time, and, for Surridge, a bad mood and a loose end was a dangerous combination. Even as he stood there, while annoyingly contented men worked or relaxed about him, the quarter-gunner felt well known symptoms of repression and anger build up inside. Experience told him that his temper was ready to explode, and he longed for a cause, a justifiable reason to release the pent up emotion.
