Sloop of War

by Alexander Kent

  Some two miles ahead of the Golden Fleece, her patched sails hard-bellied and drawing well, the Miranda was already setting her topgallants in readiness to investigate. The unknown ship, whatever she was, lay somewhere across the larboard bow, and as she had not been seen before it seemed likely she was on a converging course.

  “Deck there! Sail in sight! Fine on th’ weather bow!”

  Bolitho looked round at the intent faces. For an instant he toyed with the idea of making his way to the dizzy mainmast crosstrees himself, in spite of his fear of heights which he had never been able to overcome. The long climb up those shivering, vibrating shrouds might drive his anger away and leave his mind clear once again.

  He saw Raven, the newly appointed master’s mate, and said, “Go aloft. Take a glass and tell me what you see.”

  Buckle had told him that the man was an experienced sailor, one who had already served in several King’s ships and would not be easily fooled by first appearances.

  Before Raven had even reached the mainyard the lookout called again, “Two ships! Close in company!”

  Every eye was on Raven’s body as he swarmed out and around the futtock shrouds and up towards the topmast head.

  Bethune, still smarting over his failure to see Miranda’s signal, suddenly stiffened and called, “Gunfire, sir!” He had his hands cupped round his ears, giving his round face the appearance of a freckled goblin.

  Bolitho looked down at him. Then as his hearing adjusted itself beyond the crack of sails and the plunging sweep of spray around the hull, he, too, heard the deeper, discordant thud of cannon fire. He was almost beside himself with impatience, but he knew if he hurried Raven he might become too confused to make a proper assessment.

  “Deck there!” It was Raven at last. “First ship’s a merchant-man! She’s under attack from a brig!”

  Buckle exclaimed thickly, “Privateer, by God!”

  Bolitho snatched a telescope and trained it through the dark mass of rigging and beyond some men who were grouped on the forecastle. A trick of the light. He blinked and tried again. No, there it was, a tiny white speck which seemed to mingle with the unending pattern of crisp wavecrests. The lonely merchantman had been unlucky, but now with any sort of good fortune they might turn the tables on her attacker.

  The Miranda was already tacking violently, her sails in confusion as she headed away from her original station. Even as her sails refilled and hardened on the new tack Bolitho saw her signal flags breaking to the wind.

  Bethune said quickly, “General signal, sir. Remain on station.”

  Buckle swore. “After the bloody prize money himself, the greedy bugger!”

  The gunfire was clearer now, and as he raised the glass again Bolitho saw smoke drifting down-wind from the two ships, the lithe shape of the attacking brig as she endeavoured to close the range still further.

  He shut the glass with a snap, aware of the muttering behind him, disappointment which matched his own. Miranda’s captain was probably making the attack more to break the frustration of a slow passage than to humiliate the Sparrow .

  He looked at Tyrell’s broad shoulders and said, “Signal the Bear to make more sail. She’s dropping astern badly.”

  Then he turned back to watch the frigate. She was moving fast in spite of the wind being almost abeam of her sails, and he could see her port lids opening, the single line of muzzles catching the sunlight as they were run out in readiness to fight.

  The brig’s captain must have realised what was happening. Even so, he was probably unwilling to lose his prize with victory almost in his grasp.

  On the gangways and gun deck his own seamen were chattering and waving their arms about, and he guessed they were discussing how they would have acted had they been given the chance to go for the privateer.

  Bolitho recalled Raven to the deck and said, “You did well.”

  The man grinned uncomfortably. “Thank you, sir. The brig’s a Yankee right enough. Seen many like her in me time. T’other one’s an Indiaman by her looks, ’though her gunnery ain’t so good as some on ’em. There’s never a mark on the Yankee’s canvas.”

  Tyrrell shouted, “Th’ brig’s broken off the action! He’s going to make a run for it!”

  Bolitho sighed. The merchantman was already turning steadily towards the little convoy while the Miranda under full sail charged towards her attacker. The brig, if well handled, stood a fair chance against a frigate in matters of speed and manœuvrability. But this one had waited just that much too long. Converging like prongs of a trap the three vessels would pass beam to beam, the frigate shielding the merchantman and well able to rake the brig from stem to stern as they passed.

  Provided the brig was not too badly damaged she might be useful to the fleet. Either way, Miranda’s captain would gain a nice purse of prize money.

  He tore his eyes away as sounds of angry voices came up the quarterdeck ladder at his side.

  It was Tilby, flushed from some secret hoard of rum, his face heavy with rage as he said, “Beg pardon, sir, but this ’ere man says ’e wants to speak to ’ee.” He glared severely at the seaman in question. “I told ’im that no man under punishment can speak to an officer without permission.”

  Bolitho saw that the seaman behind Tilby was the one waiting to be flogged. He was a young, well-made man and was dragging at the boatswain’s arm with frantic determination.

  “What is it, Yelverton?” Bolitho nodded to Tilby. “Is it so important?”

  The seaman reached the quarterdeck and swallowed hard. “That ship, sir! She ain’t no Indiaman! She’s a damned Frenchie! I seen her in Boston some years back!”

  Bolitho swung round. “God in heaven!”

  It was at that moment the oncoming merchantman fired a full broadside into the Miranda’s unmanned side as she passed, the sound going on and on until it reached the heart of every man in the convoy.

  4 A TOTAL RESPONSIBILITY

  EVEN AT two miles’ range Bolitho saw the Miranda give a violent shiver as the broadside swept across her. It must have been aimed high, for as the smoke fanned away he saw the havoc left by the sudden onslaught, maintopmast gone, and most of her sails ripped and punctured like rags in a gale.

  He thrust himself from the nettings and noticed that the men near him were still standing like groups of statues, or people so stricken they were unable to think or respond.

  He shouted, “Mr. Tyrrell! Beat to quarters and clear for action!” He gripped Bethune’s arm, seeing his dazed expression as he added, “Run up the colours!”

  A ship’s boy seized his drum and began to beat out the staccato tattoo. The men on deck, and poised in the bows where they had waited to watch Miranda’s swift victory, came alive and began to run to their stations. But gone was the automatic movement of men at drill, or the grim silence of old hands facing one more battle. They hurried like those already too confused to act for a set purpose. Some cannoned into one another, others stood momentarily at the wrong gun, or groping with unfamiliar equipment until a petty officer kicked them away.

  Bolitho looked at Buckle, trying to keep his tone level amidst the din around him. “Get the courses off her and set the t’gallants. There’ll be enough risk of fire without having the canvas burn around our ears.”

  Below the quarterdeck he heard the thud and bang of screens being torn down, a patter of feet as the boys dashed from the magazine with powder for each waiting gun.

  He made himself face the approaching ships, knowing it was taking far too long to prepare for action. How near they looked. There was more gunfire, and he saw smoke lifting and writhing between the vessels making it impossible to know what was happening.

  He held his breath as he saw the Miranda’s yards swinging above the smoke, and knew her captain was trying to go about and run parallel with his attacker. Guns roared through the drifting fog, their long orange tongues flashing above the churned water, some of the balls whipping away over open sea, leaving vicious spurts of spray to
mark their progress.

  Miranda was still edging round, her pockmarked sails flapping weakly as she began to swing past the wind’s eye. Her captain was either going to fight the bigger ship gun to gun, or intended to slip past her stern and rake her with a broadside as he did so.

  Bolitho heard someone groan as the enemy fired into the smoke. Gun by gun down her hidden side, the balls could almost be felt across the tumbling white-horses.

  It was superbly timed, catching the frigate even as she was beginning to pass across the wind. The enemy was using langridge or chain-shot, for as the slow broadside smashed home Bolitho saw the Miranda’s fore and mainmasts stagger and then begin to topple sideways into the smoke, the sails jerking to the bombardment. From a lithe and beautiful ship to a crippled wreck, the Miranda was still trying to turn, her bow-chaser firing blindly, the ensign showing scarlet from her mizzen.

  Tyrrell shouted wildly, “Cleared for action!”

  Bolitho looked at him. “Load and run out, if you please.”

  The lieutenant stayed facing him, his eyes very bright in the sunlight. “You ain’t going to fight both of ’em, surely?”

  “If necessary.”

  Bolitho turned as more shots echoed and murmured across the shortening distance. He saw the brig clawing away from the two larger ships, her maintopgallant leaning at a dangerous angle where Miranda’s first balls had found their mark.

  The planks vibrated under his shoes, and as the port lids opened the Sparrow’s eighteen guns squeaked and rumbled towards the sunlight, the bare-backed seamen slipping on sanded decks as they tried to keep in time to the shouted commands from their captains.

  Bolitho stared along the length of his ship with something like despair. In moments now, all would be finished. His ship, his precious Sparrow, would be sharing the frigate’s fate.

  And it had all been so easy. It had happened so often in the past that the sight of a helpless merchantman being harried by a well-armed privateer had not even aroused the faintest suspicion. No wonder the privateer’s sails had been unmarked in their carefully staged battle. How the two American captains must have laughed when Miranda had swept in to defend her own murderer.

  He felt Stockdale breathing noisily beside him, the sudden grip of the swordbelt around his waist.

  He said huskily, “By God, sir, them’s bad odds!”

  “Deck there!” The masthead lookout had been forgotten in the sight of disaster. “Miranda’s goin’ to grapple!” The unseen lookout gave a cracked cheer. “She’s goin’ to close with the bugger!”

  Bolitho ran to the rail. The frigate was almost hidden by the heavier shape of the enemy ship, but he could tell from the set of her mizzen that she was indeed lurching towards her attacker. Another crash of gunfire made the smoke spout upwards between them, and the frigate’s remaining mast vanished in a welter of rigging and ripped canvas. But Bolitho could see the sudden activity on the enemy’s gangways, the surge of figures by her foremast, and pictured the battered frigate heading her bows straight for the forecastle. Muskets cracked feebly across the water, and he saw the telltale flash of steel as the two vessels ground momentarily together and the fight became hand to hand.

  He grasped Tyrrell’s arm and shouted, “Miranda’s given us time!” He saw no understanding in his eyes, only disbelief. “If she can hold on, we will close with the brig!”

  He shaded his face against the glare and watched the brig as she swept down towards the two transports.

  “She’ll cross Golden Fleece’s bows, and rake her as she passes.” He was shouting his thoughts aloud. “We will wear ship directly, pass between the transports, and return the compliment!”

  Tyrrell bit his lip. “But we might collide with th’ privateer, sir!”

  Bolitho swung him round, pointing him at the embattled ships.

  “Do you want those lads to die for nothing, man?” He pushed him to the rail. “Now get ready to wear when I give the order!”

  The brig was already dead ahead of Sparrow’s raked jib-boom, no more than a mile away. Aboard the leading transport Bolitho could see smoke from a solitary gun, although he saw no sign of a ball.

  “Signal the transports to keep station, Mr. Bethune!” He repeated the order to break the midshipman from his unmoving stance. “Lively!”

  If either of the transports’ captains lost his head now all would fail. The enemy would destroy or capture at leisure. Even now there was little room for hope of any kind.

  And all of it, from the first hint of surprise to this moment, had been merely minutes.

  He made himself walk aft towards the taffrail, his eyes passing over the crouching swivel gunners, the two helmsmen at their unprotected wheel, Buckle grim-faced and staring at the sails above. All of them.

  He saw Raven, the new master’s mate, watching him wretch-edly, and paused to say, “You weren’t to know. She was an Indiaman after all, but not, I fear, as she was intended.”

  Raven shook his head, so concerned with his failure to recognise the enemy that he seemed oblivious to the sporadic crash of cannon fire.

  “I should’ve seen ’er, sir. But I saw what I expected to see, an’ I’m powerful sorry on it after you givin’ me a chance to better meself.”

  Bolitho smiled, feeling his lips cracking with the effort.

  “And I will expect you to do even better this day, Mr. Raven!”

  He strode aft, hands behind his back, the new sword flapping against his thigh.

  Buckle pursed his lips in a silent whistle. “He’s a calm one. Death coming up the hawse an’ he just walks about like he was enjoying himself.”

  Behind the fixed smile Bolitho continued to pace the deck, his ears pitched above the gunfire to catch the news that the brig had reached the first transport. If her captain saw through his frail plan it would be pointless to continue with it. He would either have to run away from the fight and carry Miranda’s important news to the admiral, or stay and await the final meeting with the converted Indiaman. A few of the Miranda’s guns were still firing here and there, their muzzles almost overlapping those of the other ship. Between decks it must be a slaughterhouse, he thought despairingly.

  Tyrrell shouted, “Brig’s crossing her bows!”

  Sharper explosions echoed over the water, and Bolitho knew the brig was firing her starboard battery as she ran easily across the transport’s bowsprit. Before she had vanished beyond Golden Fleece’s great bulk he saw the American flag whipping jauntily from her gaff, the sudden stab of musket fire from her low deck as sharpshooters practised their aim.

  “Now!” Bolitho sliced the air. “Wear ship!”

  As the helm went over and along the Sparrow’s crowded decks the men threw themselves on the braces, the hull seemed to stagger violently under the shock. Blocks screamed, and above the decks the great yards creaked round with such speed that Bolitho could feel the whole fabric shaking in protest. But nothing carried away, and as she heeled steeply to take the wind under her stern the sails lifted then filled to its thrust.

  Bolitho cupped his hands. “Mr. Graves! Engage with the lar-board guns first! You will point the thirty-two-pounder yourself!” He saw Graves nod before vanishing beneath the forecastle in the direction of the bow-chaser.

  How fast she was moving, despite both her courses being brailed up to the yards for fear of fire when the guns started to engage. The maintopgallant seemed to bend forward, the mast-head pendant flicking straight out towards the bows as if to point the way.

  Already the jib-boom must be crossing the leading transport’s quarter, and to starboard Bolitho saw the second one, Bear, altering course slightly as if fearful of a collision with the sloop which was dashing across her path.

  More shots came from beyond the first transport, and he saw smoke funnelling down her hull to mark the brig’s progress.

  From forward came the cry, “Thar she be! On th’ larboard bow!”

  The Sparrow’s unexpected appearance between the two transports seem
ed to have caught the brig’s captain totally by surprise. The privateer was passing down the transport’s side, about a cable clear, her yards braced round to hold her on a starboard tack.

  Bolitho yelled, “We’ll cross the enemy’s hawse and rake him as we go!” He saw some of his men staring at him from their guns, faces strained and confused. He drew his sword and held it over his head. “As you bear, lads! Make each ball strike home!”

  The brig was barely half a cable away, her bowsprit pointing at right angles towards Sparrow’s figurehead. The distance seemed to be failing away at a tremendous speed, and Bolitho knew that if he had misjudged it, or if the wind chose this instant to drop, the enemy would drive into the sloop’s side like a battering ram and split her seams wide open.

  The big thirty-two-pounder in the bows broke the spell, the crash of the explosion transmitting itself through the deck until it reached Bolitho’s feet. He saw the brig’s shrouds slashed open, the whirl of bright wood splinters as the ball ploughed into her tiered boats. Then gun by gun down Sparrow’s side the broadside continued, with Graves bursting into the smoky sunlight, waving his sword and yelling orders to each crew in succession.

  Frantically the enemy captain tried to wear ship and follow Sparrow’s onrushing charge. Unable to get her own guns to bear, and with most of the forward shrouds and rigging hanging like black weed above her deck, the brig was staggering drunkenly under the well-aimed barrage.

  Then with the helm over and some wind still alive in the torn sails the brig finally came under command. Here and there a gun banged out, but in their haste the privateers were firing haphazardly into the whirling smoke.

  “Load and run out!” Tyrrell was yelling above the din. “Roundly!”

  Bolitho shouted, “Don’t wait for a broadside! Let each captain fire whenever he has loaded!” It was useless to expect these men to keep on firing as a team once they, too, were under the enemy’s metal.

  Graves rasped, “Sponge out, you stupid bugger!” He had to drag a dazed man to the rear of his gun. “Are you mad?” He pushed the luckless seaman towards the gun captain. “I’ll put you in irons if I see you . . .”