Alexander Kent - Stand into Danger

His words brought a murmur of approval from the bare-backed gun-crews.

There was a ragged crash of cannon-fire, and Bolitho turned to see the San Augustin’s starboard guns shoot out long orange tongues, while the smoke rolled over the ship and partially hid the island beyond.

The sea foamed and shot skywards, as if the power was coming from beneath the surface instead of from the proud ship with the scarlet crosses on her courses.

Stockdale said, “Rough.”

Several of the seamen around him shook their fists towards the enemy, although at three miles range it was unlikely anyone would see them.

Rhodes strolled aft, his beautiful sword at odds with his faded sea-going coat.

He said, “Just to keep them busy, eh, Dick?”

Bolitho nodded. Rhodes was probably right, but there was something very menacing about the Spanish vessel for all that. Perhaps because of her extravagant beauty, the richness of her gilded carvings which even distance could not conceal.

He said, “If only the wind would come.”

Rhodes shrugged. “If only we were in Plymouth.”

Another broadside spouted from the Spaniard’s hull, and some balls ricocheted across the sea’s face and seemed to go on forever.

There was an even louder shout of derision, but Bolitho saw some of the senior gun-captains looking worried. The enemy’s iron was dropping short and was not that well directed, but as both vessels were moving so slowly on what would likely remain a converging tack, it made each barrage more dangerous.

He pictured Bulkley and his loblolly boys on the shadowy orlop deck, the glittering instruments, the brandy to take away the agony, the leather strap to prevent a man biting through his tongue as the surgeon’s saw did its work.

And Spillane, in irons below the waterline, what was he thinking as the thunder rolled against the timbers around him?

“Stand by on deck!” Palliser was staring down at the double line of guns. “Run in and load!”

This was the moment. With fixed concentration each guncaptain watched as his men put their weight on the tackles and hauled them away from the sides.

Bulky cartridges were passed rapidly to each muzzle and rammed home by the loader.

Bolitho watched the one nearest to him as he gave the cartridge in his gun two extra sharp taps to bed it in. His face was so set, so absorbed, that it was as if he was about to take on an enemy single-handed. Then the wad, followed by a gleaming black ball for each gun. One more wad rammed down, just in case the ship should give an unexpected roll and tip the ball harmlessly into the sea, and they were done.

When Bolitho looked up again, the other ship seemed to have drawn much closer.

“Ready on deck!”

Each gun-captain held up his hand.

Palliser shouted, “Open the ports!” He waited, counting seconds, as the port-lids rose along either side like reawakened eyes. “Run out!”

The San Augustin fired again, but her master had let her fall off to the wind and the whole broadside fell a good half mile from Destiny’s larboard bow.

Rhodes was striding behind his guns, giving instructions or merely joking with his men, Bolitho could not tell.

With San Augustin now lying off their larboard bow on an invisible arrowhead, it was hard to keep his crews busy and prevent them from standing to look to the opposite side to see what was happening.

Palliser called, “Mr Bolitho! Be ready to send some of your hands across to assist. Two broadsides and we will alter course to larboard and allow your guns a similar chance.”

Bolitho waved his hands. “Aye, sir!”

Dumaresq said, “Alter course three points to starboard.”

“Man the braces there! Helm a-weather!”

With her canvas flapping and cracking, Destiny responded, the San Augustin seeming to go astern as she showed herself to the crouching gun-captains.

“Full elevation! Fire! ”

The twelve-pounders hurled themselves inboard on their tackles, the smoke rolling downwind towards the enemy in a frothing screen.

“Stop your vents!” Rhodes was striding more quickly now. “Sponge out and load!”

The gun-captains had to work doubly hard, using a fist or two if necessary to contain their men’s excitement. To put a charge into an unsponged barrel where some smouldering remains from the first shot were still inside was inviting sudden and horrible death.

Stockdale pounded the breaching-ring of his gun. “Come on, boys! Come on!”

“Run out!” Palliser was resting his telescope on the hammock nettings to study the other ship. “As you bear! Fire! ”

This time the broadside was uneven, with each captain taking his time, choosing his own moment. But before they could watch the fall of shot men were already dashing to braces and halliards, while aft Gulliver urged his helmsmen to greater efforts as Destiny changed tack, standing as close to the wind as possible without losing her manoeuvrability.

Bolitho’s mouth had gone dry. Without noticing he had drawn his hanger and was holding it to his hip as the deck tilted, and then slowly but steadily his gun-captains saw San Augustin’s gilded beak-head edge across their open ports.

“On the uproll!”

San Augustin’s side erupted in darting tongues, and Bolitho heard the wild shriek of langrage or chain-shot passing high overhead. He found time to pity Midshipman Henderson clinging to the cross-trees with his telescope trained on the enemy while the murderous tangle of chain and iron bars swept past him.

“Fire!”

Bolitho saw the sea bursting with spray around the other ship, and thought he saw her main-course quiver as at least one ball ploughed through it.

As his men threw themselves on handspikes and rammers, yelling for powder and shot, oblivious to everything but the hungry muzzles and Palliser’s voice from the quarterdeck, Bolitho glanced at the captain.

He was with Gulliver and Slade beside the compass, pointing at the enemy, the sails, at the drifting smoke, as if he held every act and each consequence in his palm.

“Fire!”

Down Destiny’s starboard side, gun by gun, the twelve-pounders crashed inboard, their trucks squealing like enraged hogs.

“Stand by to alter course! Be ready, Mr Rhodes! Larboard battery load with double-shot!”

Bolitho ducked away from running seamen and bellowing petty officers. Their constant, aching drills on the long passage from Plymouth had taught them well. No matter what the guns were doing, the ship had to be worked and kept afloat.

Once again the guns roared out their challenge, a different sound this time, jarring and painful, as the double-shotted barrels responded to their charges.

Bolitho wiped his face with his wrist. He felt as if he had been in the sun for hours. In fact, it was barely eight bells. One hour since Spillane had been sent below.

Dumaresq was taking a risk to double-shot his guns. But Bolitho had seen the two schooners working their way to windward, as if to close with Destiny from astern. They had to hit San Augustin, and hit her hard, if only to slow her down.

Dumaresq shouted, “Fetch the gunner! Lively there!”

Bolitho winced as water cascaded over the opposite gangway, and he felt the hull jump to a massive pounding. Two hits at least, perhaps on the waterline.

But the boatswain was already yelling orders, and his men were running past the marine sentries who guarded each hatchway, to examine the hull and to shore up any damage.

He saw the gunner, blinking like an owl in the sunlight, his face creased with anger at being called from his magazine and powder rooms even by the captain.

“Mr Vallance!” Dumaresq’s face was split in a fierce grin. “You were once the best gun-captain in the Channel Fleet, is that not so?”