The Torrid Zone (The Fighting Sail Series)

by Alaric Bond

  The shot landed less than twenty feet from the packet's prow, causing the helmsman to momentarily allow her to fall off.

  “And again, Mr King,” Banks roared, adding: “This time you may aim for a hit.”

  The second nine pounder was duly fired, but the shot went undetected. Banks waited at the break of the quarterdeck. The first chase gun would be ready in under a minute; time enough for another try, even though the packet was now moving rapidly. If the third attempt had no effect he would have little option other than to put the helm over and use his broadside guns.

  “Ready, sir!” King called out from the forecastle, but before the order could be given a cheer rose up from the British seamen. Banks glanced up to the enemy; she was turning into the wind and her sails were shivering in the breeze; the French had struck.

  “We shall shortly be heaving to, Mr Fraiser,” Banks said steadily. “Mr Caulfield, the red cutter, if you please. Prepare an armed boarding party, and have a detachment of marines accompany them.”

  Chances were high that the packet was not over manned, but Banks was taking no risks at this late stage. Supplying a prize crew would take at least fifteen of his prime seamen, as well as two junior officers, but recapturing the Company's vessel would go down especially well with those on St Helena. In addition, he might shortly be releasing Lady Hatcher from the clutches of the French. Banks snorted silently to himself as he took a turn across the deck. On the last point he was uncertain. Of course he must make every effort to set a captured English lady free, but this particular one would be a lot less trouble if she were still held prisoner.

  He stopped pacing and his eyes fell on a master's mate, standing conveniently nearby. “Mr Lewis, you shall take command,” he said. It would have been preferable to send a lieutenant, especially as the governor's widow might be present, but he could not spare either Caulfield or King. “Take a junior mid. with you,” he continued. “Your choice, but make sure he is familiar with signals.”

  Lewis beamed as he touched his hat, and Banks knew instinctively he had made the right decision. The man was young and agile enough for the work, and had both the experience and confidence to command. He was also a first rate navigator, which might be a useful asset in the coming days.

  But what of the corvette? Banks switched his mind from the problems of supplying a prize crew to that of the other enemy, still some distance off their larboard bow. She was holding steady three miles away, a mute witness to her consort's capture. In the past both the smaller French warships had the heels of the more lubberly Scylla; some improvement might have been made with her recent repairs, but Banks decided that she was still likely to be the slower craft.

  The packet was coming into their lee now; Fraiser called for the mizzen topsail to be backed and soon one of Scylla's cutters was crossing the short distance between them.

  “Lewis' first experience of command,” Caulfield said in little more than a whisper, adding: “And he started out a regular hand, as I collect.”

  “I consider him ready,” Banks commented, equally softly. “And we shall not be far off, if there be trouble.”

  “He has men enough to quell any chance of re-capture,” Caulfield said, surprised that the captain should even consider such a possibility.

  Banks turned to begin pacing again. “I was thinking more of Lady Hatcher,” he replied.

  * * *

  By mid-afternoon they were underway once more, and heading east. Any hopes of rescuing the governor's widow had proved fruitless; the woman was not there, having apparently been transferred to the French frigate upon capture. Several hands from the original crew of the packet were present however, and their release had allowed Lewis to return five of Scylla's own, along with her marines. Once the transfer was completed Banks sent the packet off to windward, where she was now keeping station with them on the very edge of the horizon. Before long she should raise St Helena, and be able to exchange signals again shortly afterwards. The island may have had sight of the frigate but, even if not, Robson and his fellows would at least be aware that their packet was back in British hands. The French corvette was shadowing them on their larboard quarter, although Banks cared little for that. Perhaps, if the enemy frigate were encountered to windward, Scylla would not be in the best of places, but at present he could think of no alternative. When they came upon the Frenchman he trusted his fighting brain to begin considering the options more carefully. To do so now, with no knowledge of the enemy's position, was entirely futile; such thinking required the spur of action.

  The bell rang seven times; it was half an hour before the end of the watch and the second spirit issue of the day. Most of the hands would still be mildly befuddled from their noontime allocation, even though they had since eaten their main meal, and taken part in a two-hour gun drill. But the daily rum ration was sacred to the lower deck, and Banks knew he could only postpone or cancel it at his peril. Then a call from the masthead wiped all such thoughts from his mind, and the ship itself seemed to take on a far more urgent air.

  “Packet's altering course!” The shout cut through the normal shipboard sounds, quelling any chatter in an instant. “She's turning to leeward, and coming down on us with the wind.”

  Banks looked towards Middleton, the signal midshipman, but the lad was already making for the deck glass, and would soon be heading aloft. Lewis must have spotted something, simply turning back to relay a signal from St Helena would not have caused him to manoeuvre in such a dramatic fashion.

  It was strange how quickly Banks' earlier prediction was confirmed: already his brain had started working out the relative distances and speed in order to place Scylla in the optimum position. For the packet to have made contact with the French frigate meant the enemy was to the east, and probably not more than a few miles over their own horizon. He turned to the sailing master, who had come on deck early for the setting of the new watch and was currently studying the traverse board.

  “Take her as far to starboard as she will manage, if you please, Mr Fraiser. And set t'gallants and stays'ls, if you think fit.”

  The increase in speed and extreme change of heading could only frustrate Lewis, who must now alter course again if he wanted to close with them. The enemy corvette would also be alerted, but Banks was determined to gain as much sea room as possible and even try to claim that all important windward gauge, if it were in his power.

  The sailing master manoeuvred them with his customary competence and soon Scylla was close hauled with the wind on the very edge of the luff. Lewis had not changed course and was now signalling, although his windward position meant the flags were currently unreadable.

  Caulfield cursed, but Banks remain unmoved; there was little the master's mate could tell him he had not already guessed. In his mind he could see the enemy, eastwards and probably slightly to the south. They would undoubtedly have sighted the packet, and guessed she was no longer in their employ. More than that, her sudden turn would give a fair indication of Scylla's position. Still such concessions were worth making if it meant they could finally meet the enemy with the wind in their favour, and as his ship cut through the dark Atlantic, Banks felt his confidence grow.

  Scylla was performing wonderfully; he had not seen her create such spray since their time in the Med. and the last gunnery practice had also been impressive. The men seemed to have benefited far more from their spell on the island than he had anticipated, either that or they were as eager as he was to see England again. It was a shame the drill had not been finished with a few rounds of live fire; nothing compensated for ninety minutes of backbreaking dumb play better than finally allowing the guns to speak, but even that might be remedied within the next hour or so.

  “Enemy sighted sou-sou east, steering west!” Middleton's squeal came from the main top, and Banks' heart skipped a beat before he realised the lad was simply relaying the signal Lewis was making. The master's mate had shown sense in keeping to his original heading and continuing at maximum speed;
Scylla was now making definite progress south, and they could finally read the tattered bunting that had been flying from the packet's main for some while. Such an action would have sailed the enemy frigate under their horizon, however, and it was vital they regained contact as soon as possible.

  “Acknowledge, and order them to return and shadow,” Banks said. If Lewes continued for much longer he was in very real danger of running in with the enemy corvette. The packet swung round, almost within her own length, and was soon bearing away from Scylla once more with a veritable bone in her teeth.

  “How far are we away from the island?” Banks called out to Fraiser.

  “Nigh on seventy miles to the nearest point,” the older man replied without hesitation. Banks nodded; then there was little chance of involving any of the shore batteries, but at least sanctuary was not so very far off, should the need arise and some consolation lay in knowing that future movements would probably be visible from the island's main lookout point. The ship's bell rang eight times; was it really all of half an hour ago that he had been anticipating the end of the watch?

  “You may pipe 'Up Spirits' then send the hands to supper, Mr Caulfield,” Banks said. “But retain the watch below; I want every man back and ready to beat to quarters within fifteen minutes – do I make myself clear?”

  Caulfield touched his hat and turned away to bellow down at the waist. It was fortunate that the men would be going into action with full bellies. Supper was normally nothing more than a scratch meal, and consisted of little other than cheese and hard tack, although the tot of rum would give them far more than mere sustenance. But that was assuming Scylla came up with the frigate while there was adequate light. The evening chill was already descending, and Banks rubbed his hands together as he thought. It was now less than two hours until night, and with the moon still too new to make much difference they would be chasing about in the dark for a good twelve hours. He knew that such conditions would affect the enemy as much as them: it was simply a question of who could make the best of such a situation. Who could make the best, he reminded himself, and who would come off worst.

  * * *

  By the beginning of the second dog watch the dark had indeed arrived, and they were no more the wiser. In the brief time before sunset Banks had altered course twice, once to the east, and again as much as they could to the south, but the French frigate would not be found, and all his efforts had achieved was to shake off the corvette. On several occasions they had also lost sight of the packet, but that was only temporary, and caused by Lewis using his vessel to the fullest extent, dipping over the horizon in an attempt to locate the enemy, before hurrying back with nothing to report. Now the two vessels lay within a few cables of the other, Banks not wishing to risk his consort being snapped up in the absolute night that had descended upon them. There was little point in remaining on deck, and he had gone below to the expanse of space that had been the great cabin, where he and Caulfield now stood peering over a chart that showed their estimated location and, for want of a suitable table, was laid over the barrel of an eighteen pounder.

  “I should say they will not wish to stray too far from the island, if only to verify their position,” Banks said, and the first lieutenant nodded in agreement. They had already decided that the two enemy ships were not likely to be in company. It would have been hard for them to meet up, or even closed to within signalling distance before nightfall without one of the British vessels detecting them. Since then a particularly dark night had descended, with thick, rain- filled cloud that effectively cloaked the ocean. Despite the India packet being close by, a feeling of isolation hung about Scylla, and any long distance observation was quite impossible. Only exceptional luck could have brought the two French ships together in such conditions, and Banks could not deny the feeling that, if the enemy were to benefit from such good fortune, there seemed no point in his pursuing the matter further.

  “So, do we stay hove to, in what we hope will be to windward of them?” Banks continued, finally asking the question that both had been trying to avoid. “Or venture north, and attempt to seek them out?”

  “Finding even two ships in such weather will be no easy task,” Caulfield grunted. “And at least we are relatively certain to be between them and the island.”

  “Or so we think,” Banks reminded him. “It would have taken very little to have passed us a few hours back. They might have turned to the west, and be seeking out the homebound convoy, or headed east and be standing off Jamestown as we speak.”

  “We might attempt to raise the island and enquire,” Caulfield mused. “Though at night any signal would betray our own position and be of little benefit unless the enemy were in sight.”

  “Indeed, that is the crux of it,” Banks grudgingly agreed. “Sight is what we need, and sight is something we do not have.”

  * * *

  Sight was also a commodity that Stiles apparently lacked. He had reported the problem to Middleton, his divisional midshipman, who immediately removed his name from those detailed to masthead duties. He had also been sent to the surgeon, but there was nothing that could be done. Mr Manning had peered at his eyes, and shone lanterns with various coloured lenses, but apart from muttering a few nonsense words and making Stiles feel mildly sick, no conclusion was reached. And now, at a time when he should have been comfortable and aloof in his lofty perch, he was sheltering under the starboard gangway next to one of the guns that had been allocated to him. Stiles was happy enough as a gunner, and actually enjoyed his first drill with Flint's team, where he had handled Mitchell's rammer as if he were born to the task. Yet, even though the men were pleasant enough, he would still have preferred to be alone, and at the masthead.

  “Getting used to having your feet on the deck are you?” Jameson asked.

  Stiles snorted, but said nothing. It was all very well for him. Even though he was officially gun crew, the lad was still rated topman, and could be aloft at any time, were there the need.

  “Wouldn't make much difference if you was up there now,” Flint added philosophically. “No one can see in this weather – we might put a blind man on watch, and not notice the difference.”

  “I ain't blind!” Stiles snapped. “I can see perfectly well – it's just a passing thing – the sawbones said so.”

  “The surgeon stood you down,” Flint reminded him more firmly. “An' said you were to have nothing to do with lookout duty.”

  “Said you were a danger to us all as well, I don't doubt,” Dixon added. “So he sent you down here to be a gunner, where you couldn't do no harm.”

  The rest of the men laughed good-naturedly, but Stiles stood up and stomped off towards the forecastle ladder in disgust.

  If he were honest, the knowledge that he was losing his sight had been with him for some while. It was not a pleasant companion, and he had kept it to himself, hoping that the condition might somehow resolve itself. At the moment it was worse during the day – at night he still felt he had remarkably good vision, in certain areas. But, accepting that it would deteriorate further, Stiles could only predict a bleak future. Today he had been stood down from lookout duties, in a month he might not see much at all, and be unable to even earn his place as a gunner. Scylla was due for a refit; within a few months they could be at peace, with all paid off and no one needing a blind sailor. By this time next year he could be begging on the streets: it was not a pleasant prospect.

  “It may pass.” Flint's voice startled him slightly, and he turned as the man appeared from out of the gloom and continued. “Maybe a rest is all you need?”

  “There is nothing wrong at night,” Stiles insisted rather pathetically, his voice and tone now low. “Just sometimes, in bright lights...” He looked across to where the packet was hove to and wallowing in the broad Atlantic swell. “There is Lewis next to the helm,” he said. “Can you see him?”

  Flint peered through the blackness and rain. With negligible moon it was hard enough to make out the packet in
any great detail, and actually spotting individuals on her deck a total impossibility.

  “You mean you can?” he asked, surprised.

  “Not when I looks direct,” Stiles confessed. “But if I catch him to the side of my eye, he comes through clear as day. They got a small patch of light near the forecastle – like someone hasn't blacked out below correctly, can you see that?”

  Flint shook his head, impressed despite a measure of doubt. To him the packet's prow merged into the gloom, but then for all he knew Stiles was talking humbug, and could see nothing at all.

  “And beyond her, to for'ard – there is somethin' else,” the seaman continued, his voice now rising slightly and gaining urgency. “Something's out there in the dark.”

  Flint raised his head and peered forward, but could see nothing. “Where away?” he asked.

  “There!” Stiles voice was far louder now, and he stabbed his finger out over their starboard bow insistently. “It's another ship, and she is also hove to, but drifting more to leeward – I can see her jib!”

  Flint looked again, then shook his head. “There's nothing to be seen, matey,” he said sadly.

  “Yes there is!” Stiles all but shouted. “It's the French!”

  He turned from the forecastle and began to run along the gangway to the quarterdeck. King was at the conn, and looked surprised and almost annoyed as the seaman rushed up to him.

  “I can see the Frenchie!” Stiles spluttered. “She's about half a mile off our starboard bow, but fadin' fast!”

  King moved across to the starboard bulwark and peered forward, but all he could make out was the vast blackness of ocean and sky, with no discernible division between. “Send for the captain!” he snapped, and heard the duty midshipman scurry off. King made for the binnacle and brought out the night glass. He focused and swept the brass tube about for more than a minute before lowering it once more. “Take a look,” he said, handing the telescope to Stiles. “There's nothing to be seen.”