by Alaric Bond
He watched her now as she sat poring over the instruments laid out ready. He had shown her the basic items, and most were now memorised, or at least she was currently making some attempt to do so; her lips moving silently as each was examined before being placed back in line. Judy may well be of use assisting him in operations, but if they became as busy as he feared, such a luxury would not be possible and her help would be needed elsewhere.
* * *
“They've finally seen us!” Lewis shouted, as the two red flashes marked fire from the enemy's bow chasers.
But he was wrong, Banks decided. Even though flames from the burning battleship were some way off, the Frenchman would have been able to make out Prometheus bearing down on them at a bowline snapping angle for a good while. In these present conditions that meant upwards of thirty seconds, and the enemy gunners must have been holding their fire until a better target presented.
The delay might mean that whoever commanded his current opponent was of a slightly higher calibre. Banks still could not believe the ease with which he had surprised the first liner. Admittedly Prometheus must have appeared like a ghost from out of the night, and the Frenchman was now offering a spirited defence to Canopus' subsequent attack. But, he told himself, it had still been a remarkably fortunate encounter.
The two ships were still approaching each other at a fair rate and he mentally braced himself for a more challenging duel. One of them would have to turn shortly and it was anyone's guess as to who, and which way it would be.
“Mr Brehaut, we shall be steering to larboard on my word. Mr Caulfield, kindly warn the starboard battery. And for this engagement see the lower deck re-loads with double round; we shall have bar for the upper deck and carronades, with targets appropriate.”
The orders were repeated for confirmation then passed on their way. Whichever direction the enemy chose, it was wise to select his response now, so there would be no confusion. Should the French make their turn to starboard he would be presented with the ideal chance to rake the enemy's bows, whereas a move to larboard meant they must meet broadside to broadside. The latter was probably the more likely, and would also give his opponent an advantage in speed. But Banks felt in his bones that his choice was correct and soon, very soon, he would discover if he was right.
* * *
King felt the deck beneath him heel slightly; they were taking on speed and the stem was digging deeper into the waves. It was unlikely that Banks was adding additional sail so he guessed the wind had changed yet again.
“Target will be to starboard,” a young voice called down from the aft companionway, and Carlton's almost equally youthful tenor repeated the information to those standing ready at the guns.
Now they had actually fired their pieces, the atmosphere had changed significantly on the lower gun deck. No longer were there any instances of chatter, inappropriate laughter, or even quiet conversation; the men were standing patiently, simply waiting for the chance to act once more. Of course a thick haze of smoke still hung in the air, and the fact that every one of them was mildly deafened was a contributing factor to their subdued behaviour, but King felt any concerns he might have had about cowardice or panic could be ignored, at least for the time being.
“Captain wants the lower battery to aim for the hull, and reload starboard with double round,” the voice from the deck above continued and Carlton immediately relayed the message. King heard the exchange, and was certain every gun captain had taken note; but only slowly, when he had chance to reflect, did he realise the importance of such a command.
Double shotting the guns would reduce their reach and accuracy; Banks must be intending closing with the enemy to such a distance that neither would be vital. King supposed such short range work was inevitable, considering the conditions, but it also meant little warning could be expected before a target was revealed while, in addition, any shot received from the French was bound to be that much more lethal. Currently there was no ship in sight, at least from the limited view provided by the lower deck gun ports, yet Prometheus was apparently about to go into action. So they were clearly planning to surprise their target, and might be opening fire at any time.
King managed a pace or two along the crowded deck as he considered matters; this was quite unlike any battle he had ever fought; even night-time actions, when viewed from the upper deck of a frigate, held no such mystery. The weapons under his command were of far greater power than any he had ever controlled in the past, yet he had far less of an idea how they would be used. He could only hope the enemy would not stay hidden for long and that, when they were finally revealed, he and his men would be ready for them.
* * *
But Banks and others on the quarterdeck had no such concerns. From their superior vantage point, they could see the mass of tophamper that marked out the enemy battleship fine off their bow, and hardly more than a cable away. She was sailing with the wind just forward of her quarter, and all eyes strained to see the first sign of a turn. Banks swallowed, momentarily disconcerted. If she did not alter course but continued, apparently content for Prometheus to slice off her jib boom, he would actually be caught out. With the starboard battery alerted there might not be time to man their larboard guns: the Frenchman could pass well within ideal range, with hardly a shot fired from the British. There were several seconds of acute worry, then the enemy's forecourse and topsail were seen to shiver, and her hull fell away to larboard.
“Turn,” he snapped at Brehaut and, so ready were all for the order, that the ship began to heel almost immediately. His opponent had actually chosen the safer option, but they would be passing so close as to make any difference almost immaterial.
“Below! There's another following!” Adams' frantic call from the masthead came just as Prometheus had completed her turn, and was almost a distraction. But Banks' brain was accepting the information even as Caulfield called for the starboard guns to fire. Another enemy, another change of heading, and another broadside: Prometheus was ready and capable of all. Really, Banks felt, things could not have turned out better.
* * *
The British ship's starboard side erupted in a wall of flame less than a second before their opponent began to return the compliment. And the reply came with none of the Frenchman's usual habit of aiming at spars. Neither was it instantaneous. Delayed by her own barrage, for upwards of twenty seconds, a succession of round shot struck Prometheus hard and repeatedly in an area concentrated solely about the level of the lower gun deck, and at a range close enough to puncture even a third rate's substantial sides.
The well ordered structure that King supervised dissolved into carnage as the first of the French shot burst through the wooden walls. Screams from the wounded followed swiftly, although few penetrated the deadened ears of servers still trying to tame their guns. Hot iron and equally deadly splinters flew about the packed and confined space, a thick smell of burning caused men to choke, while battle lanterns were hurled to the deck, creating darkness where none was required and starting several small fires. Shot was knocked from the garlands, both fore and main masts received glancing blows, and four of the battleship's own cannon were hit.
Flint's was the first. Struck by a heavy ball, its carriage instantly disintegrated into a dozen well sized splinters while the barrel reared up and over, landing squarely on two of its carers. Thompson happened to be one: the man who had lured Judy aboard Prometheus, was killed outright, whereas the toothless Harrison survived, although his smashed legs lay trapped under the tremendous weight of hot iron. Further aft, another gun was hit on the edge of its muzzle, sending the still mounted cannon slewing about to point disconcertingly down the length of the deck, while further round shot entered next to number five, and accounted for an entire side of servers. Midshipman Chivers cried out and some quirk of fate allowed King to hear him amid the cacophony of destruction. He turned to see the lad drop to the deck, knowing him to be dead even before the body landed.
“Secure y
our pieces: sponge your guns!” King's brain might refuse to register what was happening but, so ingrained was the task, that he continued to control the men as if by instinct. “Remmer – that side tackle needs clearing - Moffat, set that round shot to order!” He paused and drew breath, then spotted something anew. “Fire party there at number seven!”
As he watched, his orders were gradually responded to and some degree of order emerged. King was well aware that Prometheus' own broadside should have caused every bit as much damage and confusion to the enemy, and the ultimate winner would be the one who continued firing when the other had stopped.
Forward, he could see that Carlton, the new lieutenant, was also on top of matters. The young man's voice cracked painfully as damage parties and gunners were directed in their work, but he was keeping his head and obviously understood the importance of their well practised routine beginning again. King nodded in silent approval, making a private note to mention his attention to duty when the opportunity presented. And then all such thoughts were made redundant.
For Carlton was also dead, struck by a late shot that came through an open port and left no room for doubt. King watched as the lieutenant’s broken body was pushed roughly to one side and soberly accepted that he was now in sole charge of Prometheus' main armament.
But there was no time for deeper thought, he must take action if total chaos were to be avoided. There were still ten apparently sound guns; some might lack full teams but, with a few well chosen orders, those from damaged weapons were soon transferred.
In the midst of his reorganisation a man ran past, clutching at his shattered arm: King ignored him, as he did Harrison, a less mobile casualty, who shrieked a series of obscenities while the remains of his team tried to lever the heavy barrel from his legs. From aft came the hiss of steam: someone with an element of nouse had turned a wash-deck pump on the smouldering remains of a heavy round shot, and a team made up of one designated hand from every gun began to systematically clear the deck of the wounded and dead. And gradually all immediate dangers were dealt with: men began to return to more normal duties and finally the process of serving Prometheus' guns could start once more.
Within a very few minutes of receiving the French broadside, King saw the first of what shortly became several hands held high as gun captains squared their pieces. There was thunder from above: the upper deck were already releasing their broadside as he guiltily called his men to order. Benson's battery could not have been so badly hit as his own, and time had certainly been lost. But it was hardly irretrievable, and he swiftly dispatched those of his own cannon that were loaded, before abandoning simultaneous broadsides and ordering independent fire from the entire battery.
The last command had not come from the quarterdeck, but was given on his own initiative. There could be no doubt the lower gun deck had been hit especially hard. Only a few of King's crews had escaped intact; most were short of men or troubled by damage but to limit the firing rate of those unaffected to that of the slowest was madness. He supposed it was one of the advantages of being in sole command, and even smiled to himself at the thought, before snapping back to the work in hand and bellowing at a man staring stupidly at a wad hook as if wondering its purpose.
Another of the monsters nearby fired, and another after that until all the guns left intact were giving a creditable performance, and even those men detailed to deal with the dead and wounded had started to make headway on their grim task.
But the French were also active; after their first, drawn out barrage they had also apparently opted for independent fire and, from such a close distance, their shots were breaking through Prometheus' heavy timbers with worrying regularity. Despite this, King knew his men were performing well; they might not be setting any records for speed or efficiency but, amidst such chaos, it was surprising the lower battery worked at all.
And he was also keeping his head. King knew himself to be less than the fire-brand he tried to portray, and secretly worried about his occasional bout of soft heartedness. But in the current bedlam there was no room for such niceties and he found himself screaming at the sweating bodies to stretch themselves still further, while vehemently wishing his guns were causing similar devastation across the short stretch of dark water.
The noise was almost constant now; if a British cannon was not in the act of firing then shot was being received from the French. A thick cloud of smoke threatened to engulf what light there was from the remaining battle lanterns, and the lads carrying powder were desperately dodging unexpected obstacles as they carried their deadly loads to the waiting guns. There was no way of knowing the state of the action but this was undoubtedly warm work. Then a section of bulwark directly opposite was blown in, and the Frenchman's fire suddenly became very much more personal.
King watched, transfixed, as the heavy ball entered, even noticing the fair sized hole it punched between two adjacent ports, thus expending much of the raw energy that could have carried the thing on for at least a further thousand yards. But there was momentum enough remaining for it to rip into Prometheus' inner timbers, and certainly sufficient for a swath of well worn oak to be torn into a dozen deadly splinters. And King actually saw the one that made for him, felt the chunk of wood that ripped through his arm before puncturing the side of his thorax. It was just below the level of his heart and the shard was naturally sharp, entering his body with little more pain than a gentle caress.
A part of his jacket fell away, and he gasped as what felt like something large filled an important void deep within him. Breathing became difficult, then impossible. He noticed with dispassionate interest that blood, his blood, was flowing down, staining the second best pair of white britches donned especially before going ashore the previous morning. His left arm was also bleeding and swung impotently at his side, and there was a sudden feeling of heat that came, then went, in a single instant. The sounds of hell echoed about his head before mercifully fading, to be replaced by feelings of peace, light and an odd sense of reassurance. He knew himself to be lying on the deck, although how he arrived there remained a mystery. And then, at last, came a deep and blessèd, silence.
Chapter Twenty-One
On the quarterdeck, no one was aware quite how badly the lower battery had been hit: their main concern was damage done to the enemy. Already the two ships were drawing apart on opposing tacks but, even as their opponent dwindled into the night, the changes to her tophamper were obvious. Fire from the British ship's upper deck and carronades had been both devastating and accurate; the enemy's mizzen topmast was the first to go and soon the main followed. Now, as they watched, the foremast was also apparently in danger, although all that could really be seen was the white waves of canvas as they floated down, robbed of support. Prometheus had inflicted definite and decisive hits to the Frenchman's hull as well; in several places adjoining gun ports had been knocked into one, both levels of the starboard quarter galleries were all but destroyed and the enemy's starboard mainchains had disappeared, meaning any sizeable wind from that side should see them totally dismasted. But however loud the men might cheer, Banks knew that no respite would be possible. There was another, undamaged and possibly more deadly, enemy following, and they must act now, or be caught napping.
“Mr Brehaut, lay her to starboard, if you please. As close to the wind as she will lie.” The sailing master reacted immediately and, despite their excitement, the afterguard was not so very far behind. “What see you, masthead?” Banks called up to the invisible Adams.
“Approaching enemy is two cables off,” the boy replied, timing his words between gunfire. “Steering a steady course and coming across our prow as we turn.”
That was good, the captain told himself. He just hoped they could gain enough sea room before they were caught in irons. All stared forward into the gloom, but there was no sign of a Frenchman's bows.
“Even if we make it, we should soon be trapped by the wind,” Caulfield voice was low but it spoke surprisingly close
to him, and Banks realised he had been standing right next to the first lieutenant for some while. “And it will be tight; no closer than a biscuit toss,” he added, enunciating each word clearly, to make sure his captain heard.
Banks did not reply, but took note. More to the point, Caulfield's statement had alerted him to the fact that the two ships might run foul of the other. If their yardarms were to touch and tangle, the French could board, and he was not sure if those in Prometheus were ready to repel a determined attack. He wished there had been chance, and space, to tack; allowing him to present their broadside to the oncoming enemy's bows. But voicing regret would not change the wind and, even as he thought, Banks accepted the fact that it was also starting to fade.
“It will be close, without a doubt,” he agreed instead. “Make certain upper deck and carronades reload with grape on round, and switch their aim for the hull; do you think we should prompt King to reload the larboard battery with double?”
“He will surely notice the distance and do so without our interference,” Caulfield replied, confidently. “Why Benson has already told off his crews without our asking: see, there is grape drawn.”
Caulfield was right, although Benson had a better view of the action than King, who was stuck deep below in the bowels of the ship. But then the second lieutenant was a seasoned gunnery officer, and must notice how close they were off the third target. He would reload with double round without their prompting; it was the obvious choice for anyone with experience.
