Germain didn’t respond for nearly a minute, long enough not only to absorb the import of Markham’s words, but to make the reaction sound like an idea of his own.
‘Mr Fletcher. Before they get a clear view of our deck, re-house the guns and get the crews hidden behind the bulwarks. Shot and charges to be left in place, but take the match amidships so that the smoke looks as though it is coming from the galley chimney.’
He looked over the stern, to where the boats lay, towed and full of the animals from the manger. ‘Boats in the water, in such hot weather, will excite no comment. The animals will just have to stay. But you, Mr Markham, will oblige me by taking your men below out of sight. Their red coats will certainly give the game away.’
‘Sergeant Rannoch,’ called Markham. ‘Do as the captain asks, but be ready to return to the deck at a moment’s notice.’
He took his own scarlet coat off and dropped it and the round black hat by the rail, throwing his sword on top. Germain didn’t object, he just continued to study the merchantman.
‘He’s certainly a complacent fellow. He hasn’t changed his course by a point since he spotted us.’
‘Why should he, if he rates us friendly.’
‘There is no love lost between warships and merchantmen, Mr Markham, in any language. No English trader would sail so close to a King’s ship, for fear of losing half his crew. It can only be because he has the wind that he acts so.’
That was true. While Syilphide’s yards were braced hard round, the merchantman’s sails were nearly square, the mizzen set angled just enough to allow main course and topsail to draw. He was making good speed, certainly better than the sloop. As in all actions at sea, time seemed to stand still, the vessels approaching each other at what could only be called a snail’s pace. But eventually the merchant ship was hull up, and as she rose on a swell, Germain spotted something that made him move suddenly forward.
‘How many guns does she carry?’ he barked.
Booker answered in his thin reedy voice. ‘She has ports for ten, sir, five on each side, though they are closed.’
‘I can see that for myself.’
‘There are guns housed behind them, with the same number on the starboard side.’
‘But no merchant vessel carries so much. Is there any activity on the deck?’
‘None but the usual, sir. There are men by the wheel, and a few working on deck. The rest are just staring over the rail at us, calm as you like.’
‘Keep a sharp eye out.’
Germain was clearly nervous. And so he should be in this, his first independent action. It was a lonely life, being a ship’s captain, and this was the pinnacle of that isolation. He was responsible for the ship and all that happened to her. Taking prizes was all very well, but the navy would want to account for any powder and shot expended. And the cost of repairing any damage, should the merchantman retaliate successfully, could easily fall at Germain’s door.
‘Pray God she’s not carrying anything too heavy.’
‘Which will force a retirement?’ asked Aramon.
He said that in a tone that implied he would not be disappointed if that was the case. Clearly he saw this as a mere diversion, another delay to a matter which he held to be much more important.
Germain glared at him. ‘I would not retire in the face of a hundred gun ship, sir. I merely allude to the fact that though merchant ships generally carry few cannon, they are often of a size to inflict damage on a thin-hulled ship like Syilphide.’
‘Indeed?’
‘I shall therefore not underestimate the threat they might pose, and act accordingly. Mr Fletcher, we will pass by within hailing distance. At the point at which we would be expected to trade pleasantries, strike that damned tricolour, and get our proper pennant up on the masthead.’
‘And man the guns, sir?’ the acting lieutenant asked.
‘Yes,’ Germain grinned. ‘Let them see our teeth. The first broadside to be fired high, to scare them, then we will luff up to cross her stern, and with the wind so placed have all the advantage. At that point Mr Markham, you may don your coat and reassemble your men. I will need them to take possession of the prize.’
It was as the bowsprits came level that the merchantman suddenly began to edge away. The master had charge of Syilphide’s wheel. By instinct and without orders, he trimmed his own rudder, until a barked order from Germain ordered him back on course. As ordered, the flag came down, to be replaced by Syilphide’s own pennant. Almost simultaneously, those five ports across the water flew open, and a row of black snouts protruded, that followed by a rippling broadside from guns that must have been, like those on the sloop, pre-loaded.
Germain was issuing orders before the shots struck home; to man the guns and respond; to change course and wear away from their assailant. Markham had grabbed his coat, hat and sword, and was running for the companionway, yelling for Rannoch as the salvo struck home. Not well aimed, it was a ragged affair. But the cannon were of large calibre, and what shot did strike, all of it before the mainmast, inflicted significant damage.
The sloop shuddered as though slapped by a great hand, some shot striking the hull. Other cannonballs wrecked the forward bulwarks. One gun was dismounted, the breechings parting so that the carriage slewed across the sloping deck. Wood flew across the forecastle, great splinters dislodged, shaped like spears. Blocks fell from above to add to the mayhem, and before they’d hit deck or exposed head, the enemy had got off another salvo.
It was only the quality of the crew that got them clear. Hard bargains they might be, but they were King’s Navy, proper seamen by trade, who’d been serving for over a year in the Mediterranean. They went about their tasks with a deliberation that was admirable. There was no panic; just clear orders from petty officers, competently obeyed. The men on the guns, while their pieces bore, fired at will, and once they no longer had a target they housed them and immediately went to help with the sails and rigging. The yards were hauled round to take the wind, and being a swift sailer, Syilphide was soon out of the zone of maximum danger.
Germain had stood rigid in position, while all around him men struggled to effect emergency repairs, the bones on his face standing out because of the way he was clenching his jaw. His voice, when he spoke, had that same tightly drawn quality. But it was calm, a very necessary trait at a time like this.
‘Mr Booker, please oblige me by returning to the deck. Mr Fletcher, I will be coming about to pursue. Please make sure that all the guns are fully manned.’
‘You intend to continue the action?’ asked Aramon, who hadn’t moved from the spot where he stood. His dark complexioned face looked more outraged than surprised.
‘You, sir, should have gone below deck. This is no place for a man of the cloth.’
Germain glared at Aramon, to very little effect. He then issued the orders that brought the sloop round into the other vessel’s wake. Immediately the gap began to close. The enemy ship was making no attempt to put on speed. Indeed she was busy taking in her maincourse and mizzen gaff, reducing to topsails only. This was, Markham knew, the proper thing to do in a sea fight, fire being a huge risk with the lower sails still loose. Germain was ignoring that danger, setting sails one after the other, and with the wind now astern, coming up hand over fist.
‘Can she be a merchantman, sir,’ said Booker, fresh from the masthead. ‘The guns were fully manned and as they fired their first salvo more came up from below.’
‘A privateer, I should think,’ Germain barked, so loud the youngster recoiled. ‘And, what’s more, Mr Booker, one who knew very well that Calvi has fallen.’
‘I would be happier if you tell me what you plan to do, Captain,’ said Aramon.
Germain gritted his teeth, and hissed his reply. ‘Not that it is any of your concern, Monsignor. But it is my intention to lay alongside that damned vessel, give her several broadsides, and board in the smoke.’
‘I am no warrior,’ Aramon said, in a smooth, infuria
ting way. ‘But it seems they have heavier guns that you, and they certainly have a more numerous crew.’
‘I have faith in my country, and the God that protects it.’
Aramon snorted. ‘I think you will find some of that same sentiment over yonder, young man, on that other ship. Which means at the very least God is neutral.’
‘Your God may be, sir.’
‘Is there any place that I can be of use?’ asked de Puy.
Germain blinked, almost as if he didn’t recognise the speaker, before responding. ‘As a soldier, sir, I would say you would be best placed assisting Lieutenant Markham.’
Aramon’s voice thundered out. ‘You will stay clear of any danger de Puy, do you hear me. You are too valuable to be taking risks. Markham must manage without you.’
The object of this remark was amidships, which on the Syilphide was not too far away. But his thoughts were, and he wondered, as he saw a dispirited de Puy turn away, if Germain shared them. Markham was operating in a strange environment. But certain things applied to military affairs whether they were carried out on land or sea. Numbers and weight of firepower respected no individual location. And if Germain was right, and the enemy ship was a privateer instead of a proper rated vessel, then there were certain conclusions that could be drawn.
The first was that no such vessel was in the game of engaging in long drawn out fights, especially against proper warships. If Syilphide had been anything bigger than a sloop, then it was almost certain they would have put their helm over the minute they’d sighted her. But they’d come on, which must mean that they were prepared to do battle. That in itself was singular. The aim of a privateer was to capture, intact, both the ship and cargoes of her nation’s enemies, then to sell both for the highest sum they could command. To this end they carried numerous crew, bloodthirsty rogues in the main, who worked for profit rather than any patriotic feelings. What could they possibly want with a sloop of war?
He’d heard Germain’s reply to Aramon, and that too had given him cause for concern. Germain had gone on enough about the manoeuvrability of his new ship. Yet here he was proposing to throw that advantage aside and seek to engage the enemy on what could only be his terms. Why not lay off her stern as he’d originally proposed, out of the arc of her guns, and try and reduce the odds by bombardment. Clearly he was angry, smarting from having been outwitted by what looked like an easy capture. But was he letting his temper get in the way of his better judgement?
‘If you will forgive me,’ he said, as de Puy approached the companionway. Markham smiled reassuringly at the Frenchman, before slipping past him to approach Germain’s back. ‘May I have a private word, sir?’
‘What!’
Markham touched his arm, causing Germain to jerk it a way in response. He’d also leant close, so that the words he spoke would not be overheard.
‘I can understand your desire to pay them out in kind, but boarding against superior odds is hardly a wise idea.’
‘You as well, Markham?’ Germain responded loudly, green eyes flashing and cheekbones covered with taut skin. ‘Am I to be plagued by unwanted advice all day? Neither you nor the Monsignor has the faintest notion of naval tactics, yet you both see fit to lecture me.’
‘I have no desire to do anything of the sort, sir. But since it is my men who will lead the assault, I would be happier if the numbers on the enemy deck could be reduced somewhat by firepower.’
‘Is this the same man I watched at Calvi?’
‘Exactly the same, sir. The man at Calvi knew just as well the difference between an unarmed ship and that vessel we are pursuing. We have the ability to lay off and use our cannon.’
‘I intend to take that ship, Markham, and send her to Lord Hood in a condition that will guarantee she fetches a decent price. That will no be got for something whose stern I have reduced to matchstick. No Frenchman can hold a candle to us in rate of fire. And as for the numbers you so fear, by the time I have swept their deck with grapeshot a couple of times, I daresay they will have evened out somewhat. Now be so good as to take up your proper station.’
‘Can I put men in the tops as sharpshooters?’
‘No. We are carrying too much sail. They will do more to start a fire with their damned powder flash than the enemy.’
Markham had to agree with that, and was slightly annoyed with himself for not realising it before asking. He went back to his men, the thought of grapeshot uppermost in his mind. Firing that was a two-way street, a tactic just as available to the French captain, if he had the means aboard, as it was to Germain. A group of red-coated marines, lined up neat and ready to board, would provide a tempting target to anyone planning to employ it.
Standing before them, his mind went back to the first action he had seen as their commander. That had been a fiasco, one in which they’d demonstrated fully their contempt for him. Many things had changed since then, but looking at what was happening now, he could not avoid the feeling that though the circumstances might be different, and his Lobsters willing to support him, the end result might just be the same.
‘Sergeant Rannoch, I want to disperse the men. Split them into three sections. You take one to the bows, Corporal Halsey will man the poop, and I will keep the others here. You may threaten with your muskets, but don’t fire them unless you’re absolutely certain of hitting someone. Mr Germain intends at some point to close with the enemy and attempt to board. I want us concentrated at whatever seems to be the salient point, at the moment of contact, and I want a proper fusillade that will clear our way on to the enemy deck.’
‘He is never going to send us amongst that crowd, is he?’ asked Rannoch.
‘Be thankful, sergeant. The mood he’s in, and the way he sees us, I’m surprised he hasn’t dropped us into a boat.’
‘He is in a passion right enough,’ Rannoch responded bitterly. ‘How many men have I seen die for an officer’s loss of temper.’
There was no time to ask Rannoch what he meant by that. Nor would asking have done any good. The Highlander had been a soldier a long time, and a damned good one. He also had, on his thumb, an ‘M’ that had been put there with a branding iron, the sign that he’d been found guilty of manslaughter. But he was cagey about discussing it, and could get very belligerent if quizzed. One thing was certain. He hated that breed of officers, of which Germain it seemed was one, who cared more for glory than for the men they killed in pursuit of it.
‘What are you about, Mr Markham,’ called Germain, as he saw the marines divide.
‘If they cannot lay down musketry from the tops sir, they may be able to do something from both ends of the deck, as long as they are clear of the gunners.’
‘May God rest your soul.’
The voice was Bellamy’s, and had his usual tone of deep irony. It came as no surprise that his two NCOs had left the Negro with him, though it did anger him.
‘I wish he would rest your tongue. And you should pray so too, considering the trouble it gets you into.’
‘Should I, sir, faced with pig-like ignorance, say nothing.’
‘What caused that near riot below decks?’ demanded Markham, wondering where the sudden inspiration had come from to make him ask now.
Bellamy wasn’t Rannoch. He had no notion that officers, as a separate breed, should be kept in the dark about certain matters. He was only too keen to tell his side of the story.
‘They were saying the most lewd things about the Mademoiselle’s maid, just because she was a Negro. They do not see beauty or grace in the way she moves.’
‘You sound a bit struck yourself, Bellamy.’
‘I admit to an attraction as great as that which you harbour for her mistress.’ Bellamy, if he heard the sharp intake of breath at such damned cheek, ignored it. Nor did his expression betray any hint that he might have said anything untoward. ‘It was natural then, that I should make every effort to ensure her comfort and well being. I took every opportunity, when my duties permitted, to deepen the acqu
aintance.’
‘A fact which would hardly be a secret from the crew.’
‘All they saw was an outlet for their lowlife libidinous ways. They were laying bets, in my hearing, as to how many of them she could service in one watch. Some of them, it seemed, had been to the gunner’s quarters and tried to ask her price. That was bad enough, but one fellow went so far as to make an approach while I was actually talking with her.’
‘What’s her name?’ asked Markham, his eyes firmly fixed on the approaching ship.
‘Renate, and she is a Coptic Christian from Abyssinia, of good family, and can read and write. And there she was being treated like a harlot. I could hardly be expected to remain silent in the face of such behaviour. I pointed out to several of them, when I got back to the mess deck, that just because their own mothers had probably been whores of the most brutish variety, it gave them no right to so judge other people.’
‘That sounds like a recipe for harmony,’ said Markham, with deep irony. Bellamy could have the right of it, but it was more than likely that, observing his interest, the sailors had set out to guy him. The Negro had taken seriously what had probably been intended as a rather cruel joke.
‘I will not see any women traduced, sir, especially those of my own colour.’
‘Bellamy. I hope you never end up in a prison.’
‘May I wish you the same, sir.’ the Negro replied, in a voice that was as sarcastic as it was solicitous.
Germain had nearly overhauled the chase, and was now shortening sail while at the same time calling for the guns to be trained forward to give the enemy a taste of powder. They in turn had their cannon levered towards their stern, and were just waiting for Syilphide to come in range before serving her out once more. Markham was more concerned about the relative sizes. The sloop was low in the water compared to the merchant ship; normally he assumed no cause for alarm when boarding due to the relative disparity in numbers.
Honour Be Damned Page 8
