The Torrid Zone (The Fighting Sail Series)

by Alaric Bond

  The image of Sarah giving birth without his support was far too painful and Banks determinedly moved on to other matters, yet still his mind returned to her frail, washed-out face and the child she carried. He knew, or at least hoped, that when battle were joined his skills as a commander would return to the fore, but in these doldrum days of doubt and indecision even the thought of her as a widow was preferable to the spectre of an indestructible enemy.

  Eight bells began to strike: four o'clock in the afternoon: the time he had set for them to raise the final anchor and set sail. They would have approximately two hours of daylight before darkness descended. Much of the night could be spent in exercise; it would not take long to bring experienced men back to their previous high state of effectiveness, then Scylla might set out in earnest to hunt for the French ships.

  Banks heaved himself up from his resting place while the bell was still sounding and, by the time the last note had been struck, there was a call from the marine sentry, followed by one of the midshipmen knocking at the cabin door. He smiled to himself; his officers were clearly up to the mark. All would be concentrating hard on the job ahead, without the distractions of complications ashore, or future problems in England. He envied them their single mindedness, and only wished his own life were even half so simple.

  * * *

  “Ready for you now, me hearty,” the guard told Timmons, not unkindly, as he and three of his fellows entered the cold stone room. The seaman stood and allowed his hands to be secured behind his back. The faces he knew well enough, even though Timmons had spent less than a week in the small cell, for hardly any of the time was he left alone. There always seemed to be one of them about – casually – as if they had nowhere else to go, and they would play cards when he wished, share a meal with him, or talk.

  Their conversations had been mainly one-sided, however; Timmons was never one who felt the need for chitchat, but instead drew wicked pleasure from their intercourse by continually introducing the one subject they would not address.

  But the time was soon spent, and his trial had been equally brief, hardly a morning taken while his divisional lieutenant and midshipman identified him. The former spoke in his favour, although Timmons could tell his heart was not behind the words and, even if something that might mitigate or explain his crime was said, he would have had none of it. His time had come, as he always knew it must; he was heading for home and frankly would sooner be on his way than attempt any useless prevaricating.

  And now, he supposed, this was the end of the journey. The men started out of the door and into the light of the parade ground outside. A prod from behind set him in motion and he realised with an odd feeling of loss that he would never sit, lie, run or even move his hands freely for the rest of his life. But that made only a minor impression on him. He was outside now, and looked about. There were a few officers and men of the India Army, but no sign of anyone from his ship, although Timmons did not care to look too closely; none of Scylla's people had any special meaning for him, except perhaps Hind, the one man with which he had yet to settle his score, and seeing him would only spoil the moment.

  A plain wooden gallows lay directly ahead, and Timmons supposed it was as good a way to go as any, certainly preferable to being hoisted up to a fore yard in front of an entire ship's company. He made for it without any encouragement, and mounted the wooden platform almost eagerly. A man dressed in black began to read from a Bible but Timmons had no interest in him or his words. There was a noose hung out of direct sight, secured to the cross beam by a strand of cotton; Timmons guessed it had been hidden in an act of clemency. A sack was pulled roughly over his head, but there was equally no need for that. He had no fear of dying; indeed the act had always rather fascinated him and, towards the end, even become the focus of his life. And he had always known it would come to this; there was never any future in his calling; in fact he felt he had done surprisingly well, and certainly far better than most. The rope was about his neck now: he could feel its roughness through the canvas that shut out the last of any light. Someone pushed him forward, the noose tightened and he took a step but, just before he did, the thrill came back, and with far greater force than he had ever known before.

  It was just as when he was in the act of killing; a vibrant sensation that rushed through his entire body, making both fingers and toes quiver and, ironically, seeming to breathe actual life into his frame. But this was far better than he had previously experienced, and it was all for him.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “When last sighted the enemy frigate was off Dry Gut Bay,” Banks said, stabbing the chart with his finger at the eastern edge of the island. “That was two days ago. Since then she could be anywhere but, given that they have looked in at the Jamestown anchorage every three days, she might be expected to do so again at any time.”

  “And will we meet her?” Caulfield asked. Banks shook his head. Contrary to most captains, he encouraged discussion at such meetings, and the first lieutenant’s comment was an example of how positive such an attitude could be. “No, but our presence may well be anticipated,” he replied. “In truth, I believe the French will expect exactly that. Consequently I propose another course: one that might not be foreseen.”

  Banks' glance swept round the small group as they waited. All the officers present had served with him for many years, and trusted each other totally. A spell on shore was always difficult; he supposed it possible that their recent interlude at St Helena might have affected some in subtle ways, but any trite emotional entanglements could be forgotten now. These were professional men: King's officers, and there was a job to do.

  “On previous occasions the enemy frigate was often accompanied by one or other of her consorts,” Banks continued. “But these sightings were always when she was to the south of the island. Whenever she looked in at Jamestown itself she was alone.”

  That was quite correct, although the significance was lost on the other three.

  “It is my contention that, as she is expected to the north once more, the remaining two will be further out to sea, and somewhere to the west of the island.”

  “Keeping watch for a homebound convoy?” Caulfield asked, filling in the spaces.

  “Exactly,” Banks agreed. “The frigate is accompanied when she is to the south, as they can run west easily enough with the wind on their tails, but when to the north, both smaller vessels are better employed elsewhere.”

  The three men nodded; even if not guaranteed, that was a hypothesis worth working on.

  “At the moment I estimate the frigate to be here,” he said, indicating a spot just north of Flagstaff Bay, “And steering west, in order to look into Jamestown at first light. With luck she will not have heard that we left yesterday. There are three hours of darkness left: I intend taking Scylla to the west.” Banks pointed to the chart again. “In order to seek out the smaller craft. If they can be located we might take one, or even both, and settle the odds a little more in our favour.”

  King could see the wisdom in the words, but it was one thing to find the smaller vessels, and quite another to catch them. Scylla's performance would be improved by her recent repairs, but she was still likely to be slower than the corvette, while a well-found packet might run her under the horizon in a morning.

  “Mr Caulfield, I know you were hoping for further time exercising the hands aloft, but I feel we must make maximum speed, you will understand, I am certain.”

  “Indeed, sir.” The first lieutenant was positive. “Though all were at a high standard prior to our repairs, and I feel the attitude amongst the people is much improved of late.”

  “I would agree.” All eyes looked toward Fraiser, as the older man made a rare contribution. “The lower deck are keen to see England once more.”

  “They are also ready for a fight,” King added. “And have no need for extensive practice.”

  “Very good.” Banks' tone was level and totally matter-of-fact; no one could have guessed how
closely he empathised with the men. “But there is no reason why we cannot exercise the gunners, Mr King. I would like as many drills as possible, and they can be round the clock: in fact the hands should be especially practised at night. Clear for action after the second dog, although hammocks may continue to be slung on the berth deck and the galley stove relit each morning. In essence I want us at the maximum state of readiness; there is no telling when we will meet the enemy, only that we shall. And when we do, we must be ready.”

  King nodded; there were few things he enjoyed more than exercising the great guns and he totally agreed with the captain’s comments regarding time; more could be learned from working in dark than light.

  “Then I shall thank you gentlemen, and not detain you further.” They had obviously finished and, as he rested back on his chair, Banks suddenly felt immensely tired. Clearing for action would effectively rob him of his sleeping cabin and all privacy, but he cared not. The thing had to be done, and the quicker it was, the better; only then might they return home, and he could see Sarah safe. The other officers were rising to leave and, as he stood he also found himself moving stiffly, in just the same way as his father. Maybe he was getting old? Perhaps his fighting days were over, and really a respectable retirement from the Navy should be considered? It would certainly be better than suffering any disgrace at the hands of Lady Hatcher and her cronies.

  But he was made of stronger stuff than that, and when he was alone once more Banks did not slump back into the chair, but rather moved away from the table and strode briskly round the room. Many were relying on him – Sarah above all: she had not married an elderly man who would run from the thought of danger. No, he would meet the Frenchman, face him broadside to broadside if necessary, and then, when he was victorious, take Scylla back to England and brazen out whatever was to come. The movement and his determination eased his joints and, as Thompson entered to announce his meal ready to be served, Banks answered in a strong and positive voice. Yes, Sarah was reason enough to confront any enemy, and seeing her safe more than justification for what he was about to do. He began to spoon beef stew onto his plate even before the vegetables had been delivered, and was half way through the meal when the servant hurriedly retired. With luck they would find the enemy within the next few days – this time next week they might be heading for Spithead once more. The idea pleased him, and he was finished and calling for his pudding in record time. It was certainly a change for the better, and one he was determined to retain. But at no point did Banks actually credit the cause of his change to the right quarter, and acknowledge that his present mood was actually due to the actions of an habitual murderer, and his unintentional contribution to the war effort.

  * * *

  Stiles was once more installed at his favourite post on the maintop, and frankly could not have been happier. He had been one of those billeted ashore at the Company barracks, and none particularly enjoyed the experience. In theory their blockhouse was a marked improvement on the frigate's berth deck; there had been beds with rich pillows, blankets and more than enough room to move about, despite the fact that most seamen tend to remain motionless when asleep. There was even a pair of iron braziers filled with coal that could have been lit, if anyone had felt the need. But despite its space, warmth, clean clear air, and the fact that the room remained reliably stable, the place lacked the close-packed intimacy that all were used to. Being allowed to explore the town on alternate nights had also been pleasant enough, but even that novelty started to wane before long. There were only three decent pot houses in the town, and those were always packed out with Company soldiers. The beer was good and strong, a local brew, but there had been no visit from the paymaster during their stay in Pompey and, as most were owed for the past two years and more, they were effectively penniless.

  Movement came from below; Draude, the boatswain's mate and young Jameson, one of the newer topmen, were currently hanging precariously below the main crosstrees. They seemed to be adjusting the backstays, and working in concert with a team on deck. It was common enough in new line; however fine the quality all stretched to some extent, and their efforts were affecting Stiles' current post on the topgallant yard in a most disagreeable way. He was a seasoned hand, and well used to the wide arc the main mast could describe at its extremities, but the sudden jerks and jolts were far harder to anticipate, and just starting to annoy.

  But it would be dawn soon, he told himself, and four bells almost immediately afterwards: the time when his particular trick at the masthead would end. There was still a further two hours of duty to follow, but he had spoken to Grimley, the cook, the previous evening, and there should be a prime duff awaiting him when his actual watch did finish. The thought of a good breakfast encouraged him and, even though the work beneath continued, he determinedly retained his usual cheerful disposition.

  He took another wide sweep across the forward arc then, realising the sun was about to rise, clambered up until he was standing on the yard proper, enabling him to more easily monitor the entire horizon as soon as it was revealed. Scylla was sailing almost exactly due west, with the south easterly wind comfortably on her quarter. The captain was in no rush and, with their current sail pattern, she must be making no more than six knots, which meant that they should have covered nearly fifteen miles since the morning watch began. Stiles had no idea what the wind had been doing for the previous four hours, but during the first watch it had been blowing strong; the likelihood was high that dawn would find them in the midst of a clear ocean, with St Helena to their stern and well out of sight.

  Yes, here it came: he was growing used to the rapid rise of the sun, and braced himself to sweep the surrounding area, just as Jameson began to shin up the topgallant mast to join him.

  “You getting tired of hangin' about like a bat, then?” Stiles asked, as the young man made himself firm to the other side of the yard.

  “Aye, the blood rushes to your head after a while,” Jameson agreed laconically. “Back stays are regular now though, so I thought I'd join you and see what the morning was to bring. You're expectin' a convoy, is that right?”

  Stiles shook his head. “Convoy's comin' from the south east, but they al'ays overshoot and end up west of the island. They're s'pposed to be a way off, though,” he said. “It's the French we got to look for. Frigate an' two smaller. But anything you see, sing out,” he added as an afterthought.

  Since missing two sightings in the past few weeks, Stiles had become increasingly cautious of his own reliability. There had also been other, less important, incidents when items in clear view to everyone else were inexplicably overlooked. He could see detail well enough, and still had eyes better than most, or so he told himself, but sometimes quite large objects could be effectively invisible to him. Until, that was, they were pointed out. This did not happen all the time, and the sighting need not necessarily be far off: just in the wrong area. And sometimes if he looked at it directly the thing would almost disappear; the trick he had found was to catch it to one side. Should the condition continue it would have to be reported of course, but Stiles enjoyed masthead duty far too much and, being as how the problem came and went, he was content to see if it would simply cure itself.

  The sun came up almost directly behind them, chasing a shadow that, when viewed from their height, seemed to race across the ocean's misty surface, almost faster than could be followed. Stiles glanced back, purposefully not looking at the brilliant orb that was quickly establishing itself, then round to where the steaming dark waters were rapidly being revealed. Within seconds the light had spread as far as the western horizon, and he drew a sigh of relief as he noticed all was clear. He turned and went to speak to Jameson, but the young man's attention was fixed on something far closer to the ship. Stiles followed his gaze, but saw nothing. Then, by altering his focus slightly, an object did appear.

  It was a small square rigged vessel – the one they had anchored alongside in Chapel Valley Bay, and had later been taken b
y the French. She was almost directly ahead and, as he looked at her, Stiles became uncomfortably aware that the enemy corvette was also emerging from out of the rapidly clearing mist a mile or so beyond.

  “Sail ho!” he yelled, his voice only trembling slightly as he went on to make a full report. Both would be in clear sight of the deck and the packet lay comfortably within range of Scylla's guns, but it was Stiles' duty to report any sighting, and he was painfully aware that he had been prompted to do so only because Jameson had been there.

  Below there was a mass of activity, someone was bellowing orders; guns, already cleared away, were being run out, while a midshipman with a glass slung over his shoulder was starting the long climb up the main to join them. And it was all because of Stiles; him and his sighting. In the past such power would have thrilled, and was one of the reasons he especially enjoyed lookout duty, but something inside told him that his time at the maintop was about to come to an end.

  * * *

  “Open fire, Mr King!” Banks ordered, and the first of the bow chasers erupted less than a second later. The packet must have spotted Scylla first, as she was already turning to take the wind full on her quarter as well as hoisting an additional jib. But the range was so close that escape would be impossible; all the British frigate had to do was bear away and she could blow the smaller vessel out of the water with a single broadside. It was a tactic Banks would prefer to avoid, even without the possibility that Lady Hatcher was still aboard. Taking the packet intact would give him an additional craft; she may be of little use in action, but as an extra eye, or even a means of communication, her presence could be highly beneficial.