The Torrid Zone (The Fighting Sail Series)

by Alaric Bond

  “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.

  The French frigate had completed her turn and was now passing the corvette at speed. Banks must deliver the broadside, then turn sh
arply 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.”

  Chapter Eight

  On 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 o
ffered 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.