Alexander Kent - Relentless Pursuit

"Off tacks and sheets!"

Adam stared above the heads of running men, while the ship continued to answer the wheel until she was pointing directly into the wind.

"Run out the larboard battery." I le drew his sword, and found time to imagine Unrivalled as she exposed her opposite side to the anchored frigate. They would have been expecting an immediate challenge, and they would have been ready.

"Run out!"

He gripped the boy's shoulder and knew he must he hurting him badly.

He saw the guns lurch against the side, muzzles lifting to the thrust of wind and wheel, as if to sniff out their old enemy.

The sword was above his head. All else was forgotten. Even the tearing crash of iron slamming into the hull meant nothing.

Not a voice he recognised.

"As you bear, lads! Fire!"

Lieutenant Leigh Galbraith half rose from his place in the gig's sternsheets as another ragged broadside crashed across the water. He saw the flashes reflected in the stroke oarsman's eyes, but forced himself not to turn. It seemed so much deadlier, more personal, in spite of the unbroken thunder of heavier weapons which, as far as he could tell, had not stopped since the opening shots.

He had seen Unrivalled's topgallants, taut and filling again as she came fully round on to the opposite tack, had heard the squeal of blocks, and imagined the shouted commands and stamping feet while men threw the full weight of their bodies and souls on braces and halliards.

Then the broadsides, Unrivalled's, and the sharper bark of the brig Magpie's nine-pounders as she sailed deliberately amongst the anchored shipping.

Here in the gig it was all so different, like being a spectator, or a victim, without the usual stealth and cunning of a boat attack.

He felt the heavy pistol at his side, the hanger already loosened in its scabbard. Puny against the thunder of battle, ships of the line matched against the Dey's batteries. The smoke over the town was thicker than ever, the fires rising through it, the gun crews probably half blinded and too dazed even to be afraid.

He said, "Ease the stroke, cox'n. We'll lose the jollyboat if we're not careful!" He thought he heard Jago grunt, and saw the quick exchange between him and the stroke oar. The jollyboat was abeam, heavier and slower because of Williams' explosives and some extra hands to allow for opposition, and sudden death.

He twisted round as another broadside cracked through the smoke. The anchored frigate was still firing, but the rate was slower; Unrivalled's sudden attack had worked. There were more shots on a different bearing, probably Halcyon. Wounded or not, she was well able to hit back.

Galbraith peered ahead as two anchored barges loomed through the haze. He found he was gripping the hanger as if to steady himself. The schooner lay directly beyond them.

He saw the bowman on his feet with the swivel gun on the stemhead. There would only be time for one shot. After that… Jago muttered, "There she is!"

The schooner's counter seemed to loom through the smoke. Galbraith measured the distance. One grapnel would suffice. Each man was hand-picked. They all knew what to do. How to die without complaint if their officer made a mistake. He knew Jago was looking at him. Probably thought him mad anyway, if he could actually grin in the face of death.

Someone hissed, `Boat, sir! Larboard bow."

It should not have been there. A major battle was in progress. Nobody sane or sober would venture out from a safe mooring.

There were wild shouts, and a sudden crack of musket fire. Galbraith heard and felt the balls smacking into the hull, saw the stroke oarsman throw up his hands and fall across his thwart, the oar trailing outboard like an extra rudder.

He shouted, "Fire, man! Rake the bastards!"

So close to the water, the bang of the swivel gun was deafening, the packed canister smashing into the other boat at almost point-blank range. The oars were in total confusion, the boat slewing round in a welter of spray, the air torn apart by the screams of men scythed down by the blast.

The bowman stumbled aft to help push the stroke oarsman over the gunwale and take his place. It all took time. Galbraith glanced at the corpse as it floated astern, turning slightly on one shoulder as if to watch them press on without him.

More shots now, from overhead.

Galbraith gasped as a blow flung him hard against the tiller bar. As if a white-hot bar of iron had been dragged across his back; he could even smell the cloth of his coat burning, then Jago's hard hands as he tore it away and slapped a wad of rags across the wound. But no pain. Just breathlessness, as though he had been kicked.

Jago said sharply, "Easy, Mr Galbraith. We'll get you fixed up, good as new!" He turned as the jollyboat passed abeam, oars rising and falling without cease, as if they had only now cast off from the ship's side. "Frank Rist can manage." He felt Galbraith turn to listen, to understand, and added, "He always wanted a bloody command of 'is own, anyway!"

Then the pain did come, and Galbraith found himself lying by the first stretcher, his head propped on somebody's hat. He was alive. But all he could think of was that he had failed.

Jago held out a hand. "Oars." He gauged the overhanging stern. Young Deighton would have enjoyed this, he thought vaguely. But his mind was still like ice. "Ready in the bows." He heard the hiss of steel being drawn, and knew a couple of them were armed with hoarding-axes. He trusted that the grapnel had been thrown, and lurched to his feet as the gig came under the counter with a violent jerk. A swivel gun exploded, it seemed only a few feet away, and for an instant he imagined that the schooner's crew had been ready and waiting for them. Instead he heard a wild whoop and knew it was Williams, the mad Welshman. At 'em, lads." Then he was clawing his way up and over the stern with all the others.

He paused only to peer down at the gig, where Galbraith lay where he had been dragged into a safer position. He even grinned. Bloody officers!

Frank Rist, master's mate, had heard the burst of firing and the swivel gun's murderous response. As ordered, he had brought the jollyboat alongside. He knew he would have done it in any case. Even if a friend is cut down in battle, don't offer your hand. Or it's your turn next.

He rubbed his stinging eyes; the smoke was everywhere. Miles and miles of it. He swore silently as his boots skidded on blood and fragments of flesh. There had only been one man to challenge them, and he had taken the full blast of canister, all on his own. Some other whimpering shapes had been seized without even a struggle. The anchor watch were alone on board, eight men in all. One had tried to escape, but a boarding-axe had stopped him in his tracks. A splash alongside told the rest.

He found that he could relax, albeit holding his nerves on a leash. He heard the battle roaring in the background, men being killed and maimed, ships disabled or sunk. It was all meaningless in the distance and the smoke.

And Unrivalled's guns had stopped firing. With her two consorts, she would be waiting. He stared around the unfamiliar deck, scarcely able to believe it. Because of us.

He heard Williams calling to one of his mates, pictured his nimble fingers twisting and fixing fuses, like that other time with the chebecks. Galbraith had been there then.

He thought Williams was humming to himself, unconcerned about everything beyond his immediate reach. Rist felt himself smile. The madness of a fight. Williams would probably lay a bet on the outcome of this raid, down to the last minute. Although he was a powerful man, he made his strength seem effortless; Rist had seen him pick up a handspike and use it to train an eighteenpounder gun to explain something to a green landman at Plymouth. He had used no more effort than somebody moving a chair up to a table. But a gentle man in many ways, despite his trade of gunner's mate. Like the time he had carried the young black girl in his arms, on board that damned slaver when her master had recognised him, or thought he had, from the past. The girl had been abused so badly that it was unlikely she would recover. It was common enough. But she had not said a word or protested once when Williams had carried her to her own people, when by rights she should have seen him as just another white devil.