The Torrid Zone (The Fighting Sail Series)

by Alaric Bond

  The two walked through the archway at the end of the drawbridge as the light started to fade, and by the time they were crossing the parade ground it was quite dark. The change from day to night came suddenly; however long each spent in a land less than a thousand miles from the equator, the transition would probably always come as a shock. Then the harsh staccato sound of a far off signal gun cut into their thoughts, to be followed, ten seconds later, by another and almost immediately afterwards a bugle began to be blown hurriedly and quite close by. Presumably a parade or some form of evening inspection was being called, but such a thing was of no concern to them, and both continued to walk without mentioning the matter, or considering it further.

  Then a lamp, shining high up on one of the two massive hills that dwarfed the town, caught their attention. The light was shielded and revealed several times in a seemingly random manner, presumably a signal, although the code was not obvious. This time Banks did turn to King and was about to comment when a group of uniformed men came hurrying out of the night and across the empty ground towards them. Their lack of order and obvious haste was disconcerting and as they passed Banks stopped one who appeared to be in charge. The man undoubtedly resented being delayed and gave a sharp reply.

  “It’s the battery,” he said, adding a grudging “sir,” after a glance at the bullion on Banks' tunic. “The gunners are being called to duty.”

  “Is your artillery not usually manned?” King asked, surprised.

  “Only with a skeleton crew,” the man replied, clearly eager to follow his men. “Enough remain on hand to maintain the equipment and carry out saluting duties, but the full compliment are officially designated for field service and only summoned when there is cause.”

  “And there is cause now?” Banks asked.

  “Indeed, sir,” the man almost snapped back. “Did you not notice the signal?”

  Neither officer replied and the man continued at little more respectfully.

  “The watch on Diana's Point has sighted an unknown vessel,” he explained. “And those on Ladder Hill confirm that a raider is in sight to the north; probably one of the warships that was bothering us this afternoon. It is a common enough occurrence during the shipping season and can cause a nuisance. Fortunately Captain Walker's vessel has already sailed, so there is only the fishing fleet to worry about. That and the wrecked Navy frigate, of course, but she is hardly our problem.”

  A rocket rose up from the roof of Government House, illuminating the surrounding area. By its light the man seemed to focus on their uniforms, apparently recognising them for the first time. “And if you are anything to do with it, gentlemen, I would return there forthwith,” he added, before disappearing into the night.

  * * *

  But both men had no thought of turning back to Scylla; poorly manned, and with scant armament, their presence aboard could do little good. Instead Banks and King rushed after the artillery men as they made for the batteries. As sea officers they were unaccustomed to running any great distances, and tired easily, but a further signal from Ladder Hill, together with what sounded like far off cannon fire made them hasten their step. As it was they arrived at the entrance to the small fortress, only to find themselves halted by a sentry who held his musket firmly across their path.

  “There will be no entry to the casemate during an action,” the man said, as if reciting the words from a book.

  Banks was too used to being in command and felt his anger rise as he gasped for breath. Fortunately King interposed.

  “We are king's officers,” he explained. “Kindly alert whoever is in charge to our presence.”

  The sentry eyed them suspiciously before finally calling out. The duty sergeant duly appeared and was followed, after a slight pause, by another figure that Banks immediately recognised.

  “Sir Richard, or should it be Captain Banks?” Major Morris asked, a supercilious smile upon his face as he emerged from the darkness. “Are you here in an official capacity, or is this merely a social visit?”

  “My ship is in danger,” Banks said; the words were still coming in gasps but his face was now red as much from the young man's attitude as any recent exertions. “I demand you let me through.”

  “Demand, is it?” the major asked, just as another distant barrage of artillery was heard. “I hardly think you in a position to make even a request.” His smile increased. “But then my uncle's widow will be well on her way to England by now, so there should be no harm in your at least witnessing what is about to happen.”

  He nodded at the sentry, and Banks and King followed him under a low stone doorway. “However you must remember that we are the experts here,” Morris cautioned. “You will not interfere with anything we do, and if I find your presence in the least annoying, you will be removed. Do I make myself clear?”

  * * *

  Caulfield had also seen the signal from Ladder Hill and was equally in the dark about its meaning but, when viewed from the quarterdeck of an immovable ship that was on the verge of sinking, he took it even more seriously. Scylla had struck her topmasts, so the highest viewing platform was her maintop, less than a hundred feet above deck, but still he sent a midshipman up to supplement the lookout in the hope of seeing what was about. Darkness was complete and the moon had yet to rise; nothing could be seen to seaward, although on land things were far more active.

  Lights were appearing on the wharf and about the town entrance that must be silhouetting Scylla beautifully, while there seemed to be a deal of activity at Munden's Point, the far eastern headland. But both of the two main batteries that protected him to the south remained apparently deserted. It was on them that the frigate's safety depended, and Caulfield was starting to worry.

  * * *

  On the main eastern battery it was indeed dark. Banks stumbled after Major Morris as he sped down a stone staircase that led to what was clearly the main gunnery level. Still there were no lanterns, but all around men were active, and enough reflected light came from over the low parapet for King and Banks to make out a line of heavy cannon that were in the process of being served. From the headland to the east there came a series of bright pinpricks of light, too large for musket fire but not in the same league as the heavy monsters that surrounded them.

  “Field pieces,” Banks said, half to himself.

  “And too far off to be a real danger to shipping,” King agreed. Noise of the barrage reached them; the sound was high pitched – it was indeed small calibre shot, hardly likely to damage a determined enemy bent on entering the anchorage and destroying anything within.

  Both officers peered out into the darkness. The fire from the far off guns had left their eyes slightly dazed but, if there were an enemy out there, surely it would be in sight by now?

  A blinding flash seemed to erupt from the sea itself and illuminate the bay; King actually went to raise both hands to his face, so sudden was the shock.

  “The Frenchman,” Banks murmured, as the simultaneous broadside landed on the edge of the anchorage. The target was unclear; possibly the battery on the eastern headland or perhaps one of the small clusters of fishing boats that lay beneath. But the intense light was etched on their retinas for several seconds, while thoughts of what might be to come remained with them far longer.

  “She's travelling east to west,” King added urgently, as the image of a ship slowly became clear. It was indeed a frigate, and almost certainly the same one they had met at the equator. And she was passing, close hauled, on the larboard tack: sweeping in towards where Scylla lay, anchored and vulnerable.

  “That would explain the field fire,” Banks said. “They probably have a temporary battery established there.” Both men immediately peered at the eight heavy guns that lay in the gloom before them. Their range must be sufficient to reach the enemy ship and the modern carriages would give an arc of fire more than wide enough to find it even now. In fact a lucky shot might well damage the Frenchman; delaying would make the job more certain, admittedly
but must also risk hitting Scylla. Banks looked about for Morris, who seemed to have disappeared.

  “Where is your officer?” he snapped at one of the nearby gunners.

  “Sergeant's here, sir, but Major Morris and Captain Hamilton will be in the guard 'ouse, more'n likely.” The man indicated a small brick room that could just be discerned at the far end of the line of guns. Banks bounded towards it in the dark, tripping over a wooden crate, and all but colliding with another of the gunners as he went. He pounded on the door and when a voice came from inside, he entered.

  * * *

  “Shut that bloody door, you oaf!” Morris was sitting at a table with another officer. Both were drinking what smelt like spirit and the other man was holding up his hat, in an attempt to shield the small lantern that sat on the table between them.

  “An enemy ship is entering the harbour, and yet your men are making no move to even lay their weapons on it. When do you intend to open fire?” Banks demanded.

  “We probably won't have to,” the other officer, younger than Morris, responded cheerfully. “Not if you insist on signalling the battery's position to them.”

  Banks looked from one to the other. Ignoring the fact that they were of a different service, he outranked them both, and yet they were treating him like an annoying stranger.

  “You will address me as sir,” he said, enunciating each word distinctly.

  “We shall call you anything we wish,” Morris informed him blithely. “Inter-service courtesy is exactly that: courtesy: something I will not waste upon the man who killed my uncle.”

  Banks snorted with disgust; in the current excitement he had quite forgotten the relationship to Hatcher. But they were in action: his ship was in danger – this was hardly the time to bring up old quarrels.

  “I do not care who your relations are, or were; if you do not defend my ship I shall have your hide,” he said with feeling.

  “Oh, we shall be opening fire shortly,” the major conceded. “But even I know enough about wind and speed to guess it will be fifteen minutes or more before such a thing will be necessary. And I am far more informed about land-based artillery than you, Captain Banks. So if you wish to watch the remains of the action from the emplacement, you will kindly leave us now.”

  “But waiting will endanger my ship, and when you do finally open fire she may be hit by your guns!”

  Both men looked to the other and laughed. “When last seen your command was all set to take a final dive into the deep,” Morris said with obvious satisfaction. “Although I do intend to destroy that Frenchman, which is something that you have proved incapable of. Should your ship be damaged further in the process, then it is of little concern to me, and frankly I fail to see the problem.”

  “You might be in direct charge of the battery, but I intend to make a report, and your attitude and performance will not impress.” Banks said; he was properly angry now and could feel the blood fairly rushing through his veins. He longed for some physical activity to purge the energy inside, but was only faced by amused and contemptuous looks from the two young officers.

  Morris placed the glass down from which he had been sipping and sighed. “Captain Banks, let me explain the situation in words even a sailor might understand. Both of our main batteries were constructed in the last few months and, as far as we know, the French are unaware of the existence of either. With luck they should consider that those on the eastern headland they were trying this afternoon are all we possess, which is why we have only been firing the lighter cannon. It was a ruse to lure them into our trap, and one that has apparently worked. Now, contrary to what you might require, we would like them to continue deeper into the bay, where we should be able to destroy them completely. Consequently I will be delaying my main fire until the Frenchman is comfortably within range. Better than that, a moving target is never the easiest to hit, especially at night, so I will wait until she stops, which she should do when she comes alongside your own vessel. Once that occurs I shall have no hesitation in ordering my guns to open up and, with luck, may even sink her: a feat that you have proved woefully unable to achieve. I am sorry if that sounds too far fetched to your ears, but assure you it will read well enough at any subsequent enquiry.”

  Banks felt his fury rise still further.

  “Now in the interest of keeping our position secure, I will shield this lantern,” Morris continued. “I expect you to be gone, and the door closed behind you, by the time the light is revealed once more. If you are not, I shall have no hesitation in seeing you removed, and held in custody – for your own protection, of course. Indeed it is a pity you did not extend the same courtesy to my uncle.” He picked up the cap and held it against the light. But Banks had heard enough and stormed out of the small room, and back into the darkness outside.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Six eighteen pounders, housed in what had been the captain's quarters, were still in position, and Caulfield ordered them cleared away as soon as it become obvious that an enemy ship was close by. Such a paltry broadside would do little damage to a heavy frigate, and may even disrupt the delicate balance of barge, anchors and steadying cables that was currently keeping Scylla upright, but some reply was necessary, if only to give the forty or so men still aboard a degree of hope.

  The French had already fired one broadside, but the target had been a light battery on the eastern headland, and the angle at which they continued to approach meant that none of their main armament could reach them. Only one nine-pound shot, probably from a chase piece, had hit the British ship, and partially penetrated the starboard bulwark, but there had been no significant damage or casualties. Several minutes had passed since then, though, plenty of time for the French to reload. The moon was also rising in the east and the frigate could now be seen relatively easily against its warm glow. She was steadily altering course to starboard and, rather than being held on the very edge of a luff, was now on a comfortable broad reach under topsails and jib, while all the time inching inexorably closer to where the British ship lay.

  Watching, Caulfield could not fail but be impressed; by his estimation the frigate would continue the turn until she drew level with Scylla. Then it would just be a question of time before she came down upon their starboard side. She should pass close enough to touch, and would be able to deliver a massive broadside close to and at her leisure. Whether or not she spilled her wind, and continued to fire, or moved on, leaving the harbour with the wind conveniently on her quarter, it would make no difference. Exposed, as she was, and almost unarmed, Scylla would probably never recover from that initial hit, and there was very little he could do about it.

  * * *

  As Banks returned to the parapet he noticed that King had been joined by both the lieutenant governor and Henry Booker, as well as another man he did not recognise. There was enough light from the rising moon for faces to be seen. Robson introduced the stranger as one of his staff; he appeared to have been taking notes, and kept peering hard at the watch he held in his left hand so Banks assumed him to be some sort of personal assistant. At the anchorage Scylla was in plain sight; her foreshortened masts and extraordinary attitude making what once had been a proud warship appear even more vulnerable as the elegantly rigged Frenchman bore down on her in the fresh breeze.

  “These guns will be waiting until the enemy closes,” Banks said, in a tone that betrayed the disgust he felt. In apparent reaction to his words, the secretary began to scribble on his pad: clearly a report was being complied and Banks made a more private note to guard his tongue in future.

  “This battery has only recently been extended,” Robson said without emotion. “As has that to the west,” he continued, indicating apparently nothing but darkness on his left. “Neither have shown any light and it is likely the French will either not know of their existence, or if they do, what they are now capable of.” He paused and looked Banks directly in the eye. “All things considered, Sir Richard, I would say Major Morris is playing a very
close hand.”

  Reluctantly Banks could only agree, and actually saw matters as clearly from the Company's position as his own. Scylla, to them, was nothing more than a liability, and one that was taking up almost all the resources of their small dockyard. In time they might be able to restore her to fighting fitness, but to do so would take a good deal of effort, and even then there was no guarantee she would deal with the current problem. But as bait for a trap, one that would lure that same menace into the grip of their brand new heavy guns, she was indispensable. A few well-sighted broadsides and any future threat to the Company's precious island, as well as their visiting merchant ships, would be wiped clear. And if a Royal Naval warship was also lost in the process it would be of little concern to them; and considered nothing more than collateral damage. In their position he would have no hesitation in mirroring Morris' actions – it was just unfortunate that the man had connections with the late governor, and was also a prig of the first water.

  “I understand all that you say, Colonel,” Banks said, trying for an even tone. “But would suggest that opening fire now might still wound the Frenchman sufficiently, without endangering one of his Majesty's ships.”

  Once more the assistant began to scratch frantically.

  “I am sure you are concerned for the welfare of your command, Sir Richard,” Robson replied soothingly. “As are we all. But our prime worry must be the destruction of that enemy raider. The first fleet from China will have received the Grand Chop by now – it is a strange expression, I know,” he explained. “But in essence simply means that the Hoppo will have permitted them to sail. They can be expected within the month, and a powerful raider such as we see before us now could do untold damage, were she to encounter them.”