Julian Stockwin - Seaflower

Chapter 12

'Be damned,' said Merrick, as he came up from below and saw the vessel. The meeting was most unfortunate: having emerged from the island passage Seaflower was prevented from going to windward by the lie of the land, and to bear away to leeward would favour the bigger canvas a brig-sloop could show.

'We put about an' return, sir?' Jarman asked immediately. There was no dishonour to fly before a vessel probably carrying half as many guns again as they.

Farrell turned on him angrily. 'What do you conceive is our duty, sir? To run at the sight of every strange sail?'

Jarman grunted. 'Well, we—'

'Clear for action, Mr Merrick,' Farrell ordered. Seaflower kept on her course westward towards the brig and girded for war. All eyes were on their opponent. The brig seemed nonplussed at Seaflower's aggression and fell off the wind somewhat.

Kydd took the tiller, feeling the willing restlessness of the craft, and even through his own anxieties he felt for the lovely cutter and what she must suffer soon. The enemy brig was longer than they and therefore could array a greater broadside; being square-rigged with the ability to back sails she was more manoeuvrable in a clinch. Seaflower's chance lay in her speed and nimble handling — much would depend on Kydd's steadiness at the helm.

A gun thudded on the brig and a large battle flag unfurled at her mizzen peak. There would be no preliminaries, they would grapple and fight and the contest could well be over within the hour. The brig yawed to starboard. This brought her broadside to bear. It thundered out, but at more than a mile it was a ragged display, balls skipping wide on each side.

Merrick grinned. 'Too eager b' half - a green-hide cap'n, I shouldn't wonder.'

'They's sixes and fours, 'n' we has all sixes!' Stirk said, with satisfaction. Kydd did not share his confidence: they had six-pounders, but only eight to a side. The brig resumed an easy close haul, knowing that Seaflowr must close and endure their wrath before she could swing about and bring her. guns on target.

'Stirk, be so good as to set your pretty ones to work,' Farrell said, with a grim smile.

Clambering over gear to the eyes of the ship, Stirk hunkered down and sighted along the black iron of his four-pounder chase guns. They were an older pattern and were not fitted with gunlocks; over the priming he held clear a glowing piece of match and, when satisfied with his quoin and at the right point in the pitching motion, his hand went down and they spoke with a ringing crack.

Kydd stared intently at the brig, but Stirk scrambled over the heel of the bowsprit to the other chase gun to repeat the exercise while the first was reloaded. Again the sharp report: gunsmoke temporarily obscured her, but when it cleared the brig showed in some confusion.

'Don' know what they wants ter do,' Farthing observed. He was behind Kydd standing ready if Kydd fell in battle. The brig's square yards were at odds with each other -it looked like someone had shied away from the balls slamming across her decks, and had tried to bear away, but then a more experienced hand had intervened to send her back. It was hard for Seaflower to have to wait to come up before they could reply with their own guns.

'Told yer, it's a right green hand there,' Merrick said, and looked at Farrell.

'Ease sheets, no need to rush at things,' the Captain said smoothly. Seaflower slowed, and Stirk kept up his gunplay. The brig yawed and let go another broadside, but the little cutter's head on profile was much too narrow a target, and all it achieved was to give Stirk a broader aiming point.

Seaflower tacked about to open the range once more. Her own broadside crashed out as she spun about, a French one not eventuating, as they were in the process of reloading. Stirk resumed his punishment, taking time to lay his weapon. 'If'n she had chase guns th' same as we ...' Merrick reflected.

Abrupdy, the brig loosed a broadside, then turned away before the wind and retired. Derisive yells erupted in Seaflower — the brig's plain stern presented itself as she turned in retreat, the shouts became an urging to close and finish the vessel with close raking fire.

Kydd glanced at Farrell, who was studying the brig through his Dollond glass. He seemed not to hear the crew's jubilation, but then spoke to Jarman. 'She wishes us to close. She is much the bigger — we keep our distance.' As if to add point to his words, the brig flew up into the wind and her guns fired, some of the balls coming uncomfortably close. Seaflower took immediate opportunity to slew round and return the compliment in kind.

'If y' please, sir,' Jarman had the chart, 'I believe she means t' round Cabo Falso an' head f'r French waters.'

"The nearest port he can find there?'

'Ah - that'd be, er, Port des Galions. Small, but has a mole f'r the sugar trade.'

'Any fortifications, do you think?'

'Always some kind o' unpleasantness at th' end o' the mole,' Jarman ventured, looking at Merrick.

'Aye, sir, if she gets inshore o' the mole, we 'ave ter give it away, I fear,' Merrick said.

Farrell remained pensive. The brig was too big to take on directly, they were being drawn away from their proper route to Jamaica and there was a possibility that a French man-o'-war was lying in Port des Galions that really did know his business. Straightening, he made up his mind. 'We let Stirk have his amusement for a little longer — if he brings down a spar we reconsider, but if the brig makes port we let her go.'

The rest of the afternoon was spent with periodic banging from the bow in a wash of powder smoke.

Kydd and others spelled the grey-grimed and red-eyed Stirk in his task. The considerable swell angled across and Seaflower's motion became a complex combination of pitch and roll. Behind the breech the sighting picture was jerky and swooping, and having to use a port-fire, instead of the instant response of a gunlock and lanyard, made the job nearly impossible. 'Makin' it a mort uncomfortable for 'em,' Stirk said hoarsely. He gulped thirstily at a pannikin of vinegar and water.

Beyond Cabo Falso the land trended north-west and within less than thirty miles they entered the French waters of San Domingo. The brig's course then shaped unmistakably for Port des Galions, a far-off thin scatter of buildings amid palm trees and verdure.

There was no result yet from the chase guns, which were now uncomfortably hot and radiated a sullen heat, but Stirk's crews worked on. The mole could be made out, a low arm extending out to enclose a tiny bay with a sandy spit on the opposite side, and no sign of any other vessel within. 'Give 'er best, mate,' said Farthing, as the brig prepared to enter the little harbour and safety and Farrell prepared reluctantly to tack about and retire.

'We'll give 'em a salute as we go,' Farrell grunted.

Seaflower stood on for a space, then put her helm up, turning for a farewell broadside. But it was what the vengeful brig had been waiting for - she yawed quickly and at last had the whole length of the cutter in her sights. Her guns crashed out: a storm of shot whistled about Seaflower, splintering, crashing, slapping through sails — and ending the life of Seaflower 's only midshipman. Cole had cheered with the best of them when the brig had turned tail, and his fist had been upraised when a ball took his arm off at the shoulder, flinging him across the deck. Stupefied, he tried to raise himself on all fours, but failed, rolling to one side in his own blood.

Farrell, himself winded by the passage of the ball, lunged across to the mortally wounded lad and held him gently as the life left him. He remained still as Seaflower's own guns answered. His head fell, and when he looked up there was a murderous expression as his eyes followed the brig past the end of the mole to the inner harbour and safety.