‘Lord, I hope she’s a fat one,’ he said. ‘The Americans and those damned French have seemed to know wherewe are more often than the Admiralty, and keep sneaking round our backs like rats. I met a fella in Kingston says every ship has a soothsayer on it who kills chickens and reads where our ships are in their guts.’
James ignored him. ‘Very good, Mr Cooper,’ he said, slowly lowering his glass again. ‘Feed the men, then beat to quarters and clear the decks for action, please.’
Mr Cooper began to give his orders, Mr Mansel went to tend to his marines, and James rested his hand on the gunwale, a vague smile on his lips. It was possible the ship they were chasing was one of their own, or a prize already taken, but James felt a familiar stirring in his blood. He was sure this was a Frenchman and a prize – her course, her position, the report of the
Athena
’s Captain all suggested it. The
Splendour
herself seemed to agree; she was surging towards that tiny speck between the grey sea, and the grey skies, gaining steadily. The Midshipmen noticed the glitter in their Captain’s blue eyes and punched each other’s shoulders as they scrambled down the rigging.
Two Bells of the Afternoon Watch (1 p.m.)
The mood of excitement had changed to one of wariness. The
Splendour
was ready and warlike. The panels had been stripped from James’s cabin, the hammocks rolled up and strung along the bulwarks to stop splinters, and the guns run out with a thunderous roar. Now everything was still again. The surgeon’s station was set up in the cockpit on the lower decks, and he and his Mate sat in silence, saws, tourniquets and bandages lying neatly beside them. Ready.
Behind each of the cannon its crew waited, powder, shot and sand buckets standing by. Mr Meredith stood behind the hulking iron back of the 18-pounder under his command on the top deck, trying not to watch the Captain on the quarter-deck out of the corner of his eye. It had seemed at first that the ship in front of them would try to outrun them. When it became clear she could not, her pace had slackened considerably. An hour ago it had become possible to read the name on her side – the
Marquis de La Fayette
; it was also possible to see her flags. A British flag flew above the French, the sign that the ship had already been taken as a prize by some other, luckier, crew.
Another of the Midshipmen, Hobbes, commanding a neighbouring gun, leaned over to Meredith and hissed, ‘Doesn’t smell right. What would a taken prize be doing on this course?’
Meredith did not respond but kept looking at the
Marquis
as she grew large in their vision. Her gun doors were closed. A figure became visible on the stern, a tall thickset man in shirtsleeves. He watched them approach, then when they were close enough to draw his portrait, the man suddenly shrugged on his coat and shouted something.
‘
French!
’ Meredith bawled, and threw himself to the deck as the black mouths of two cannon emerged at the stern of the
Marquis
and belched smoke.
He heard the shot tear into the rigging and looked up to see the fore-topsail yard smashed and then the shouts of the Captain as wood and rope clattered to the deck around him.
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‘Fire bow chasers! Wear away, Mr Mackensie. Master Gunner, ready port guns and fire as they bear!’
The
Splendour
’s forward guns gave a great cough and spat fire. Her gun crews cheered; one had caught the
Marquis
’s stern and left a ragged hole in her. Meredith balled his fists and scrambled to his feet. The French ship had made all sail and was trying to run for it again, but Captain Westerman was having none of that. Even without the fore-topsail, the
Splendour
still had pace enough. Already there were men up in the yards splicing cut ropes.
The ships were horribly close. The marines in the
Splendour
’s rigging were firing down onto the decks of the French ship and doing horrible slaughter, but the
Marquis
had her own men armed with muskets. When Meredith heard a shout and horrible thwack behind him, he glanced over his shoulder to see the Major of the marines on his back on the deck behind him, groaning, a red wound blossoming on his thigh. The Master’s wife got her arms around him and began dragging him back towards the hatch to the lower decks and the surgeon, leaving a thick red trail behind them.
Spinning back round, Meredith saw the flanks of the
Marquis
just coming into sight; her guns were run out now. He could see men moving behind them, distorted mirrors of his own crew. The
Splendour
began to rake the stern quarter of the
Marquis
. The guns on all three decks thundered as one, hitting her low and hard.
Meredith waited for his moment, then gave his order. His gunner touched fire to the cannon and the beast roared, throwing herself back on the ropes. Scrambling forward, Meredith peered over the bulwark. Their shot had been as accurate as the guns forward of them. Three of the gun-ports on the
Marquis
’s starboard side had been torn into one great hole. Meredith could see one of the French lying in the opening screaming, his leg crushed and half torn away. Only the stern chasers of the
Marquis
could do them real damage here. The roar and whistle of ordnance passed above him. There was a scream and another man fell from the tops. His body never hit the deck, but was rather swung in the festoon of half-cut rigging like a child in a giant’s cradle.
‘They must yield!’ shouted Hobbes. ‘We’ve shot her to hell!’
Meredith found he was murmuring prayers between gritted teeth, his hands trembling. Then came a yell of victory from the bow. The
Marquis
had struck her colours. It was done. Unclenching his fists, the young man began to stand, the heat of the battle replaced by a flow of relief. The men around him were doing the same. The marines began to sling their muskets over their shoulders and descend from the ropes; Hobbes was all but dancing and his gun crew were smiling at him like proud parents.
Then the Frenchman let fly her sails, suddenly slowing her to allow her guns to bear on the
Splendour
. The broadside struck them hard and Meredith stumbled and felt the ship shudder under the impact. He looked to see Hobbes, his mouth wide and tears in his eyes.
‘But she struck her colours! She surrendered! Dear God, how can they?’
Meredith felt an anger slick up his throat like a sickness.
‘Reload, you bastards!’ he yelled, his voice breaking with rage. His men were already on it, their faces as dark and bloody as his own. A ball from the cannon on the top deck of the
Marquis
burst through the bulwark no more than four feet from him, sending a blast of splinters up around it like a firework. Meredith clutched his leg and closed his fingers round a little dagger of wood. He pulled it out, hissing between his teeth. The cannon ball spun crazily across the deck before tumbling out of a port on the starboard side. It was like a child’s marble game. Meredith laughed. James Westerman, his face white, was striding up the deck and clapped his shoulder as he passed.
The
Splendour
would not permit the French to get behind her but let the wind spill from her sails till she was once again in the rear. The
Marquis
let her stern-chasers fire at them on the upward roll of the sea, trying again to savage their rigging. Meredith looked up, but could hardly tell what damage had been done, the rigging was so wreathed in gunsmoke from the marines’ muskets. All around him, the balls flew with a sharp crack. The mood was vicious.
The
Splendour
’s forward guns gave another great bark and there was a cheer as the English crew saw that the
Marquis
was hulled at the waterline; the sea was pouring in. Meredith could see men in the hole, nails in their mouths and batons in their hands, trying to keep out the ocean. ‘Drown, you bastards,’ he murmured. He could feel tears on his own cheeks. He dared not think what damage the broadside had done on the lower decks, but would swear it was the smoke from the guns.
‘Prepare to board!’ The
Splendour
began to inch back alongside the
Marquis
.
Meredith watched in horrid fascination as a French gunner put a slowmatch to his cannon. The world disappeared in smoke for a moment and Meredith heard the air split with a scream. Hobbes had been caught and thrown to his knees on the deck. His arm was shattered and already his blood was making the boards under Meredith’s feet slippery and treacherous. ‘Get below, Hobbes!’ he yelled, and the boy began to drag himself towards the hatch with his good arm. Then: ‘Fire!’
The
Splendour
’s broadside at this distance was devastating. Metal ripped through the French ship like a holy fire. Meredith aimed for the base of the Frenchman’s main mast. There was a thunderous crack and it fell towards them, catching on the
Splendour
’s spars and holding the two ships together in a bloody embrace – yet still the French did not cease firing.
The Captain was striding back down the length of his ship, his face set and his sword already in his hand. Behind him, men were lifting pikes from their racks under the mainmast, and the little boys who fetched the powder from the magazine were pressing fresh cartridges into the hands of the marines. Meredith felt for his sword.
‘Boarding party!’ he roared, and his men dropped their business at the gun and ran for pikes of their own. As he swung his legs over the bulwark, preparing to leap onto the deck of the Frenchman, below him he could see o of the crew clambering from their portholes over their dead and their guns to swing themselves into the
Marquis
through the gaping holes torn in her sides. Meredith leaped and caught onto the Frenchman and hauled himself up. A light wind touched his cheek and in front of him the smoke parted enough for him to see a couple of French officers in fierce argument even as the English surged towards them across their bloody, shattered decks. He looked behind him and noticed a marine, his musket loaded and raised back on the
Splendour
.
‘There!’ he shouted, pointing at the two men with his sword. The marine nodded and Meredith dropped to the deck as the musket fizzed and cracked behind him, his arms over his head and his whole body trembling. One of the officers fell, the other at once dropped to his knees and began to fumble under the corpse’s coat, pulling his sword free with such force the body rolled on its back, gaping up sightlessly at the fallen mast.
The officer remained kneeling and lifted his Captain’s sword above his head, shouting as loudly as he could above the yells and gun-shots:
‘On se rend! On se rend!’
Captain Westerman emerged from amidst the smoke: ‘Cease firing!’
The English cheered and the gunfire came raggedly to a halt. Meredith lifted himself to his feet and looked around him. Dotted about the decks, his fellows from the
Splendour
stood over their French captives looking bloody and wild. The Captain looked more ferocious than Meredith had ever seen him; his sword was red and wet.
The living officer remained on his knees, still offering up the sword. Westerman grabbed it from him, spun on his heel and smashed the flat of the blade against the fallen trunk of the mainmast. The blade flew away from the hilt and skittered on the deck.
The French officer flinched.
‘Rendez vos armes!’
Westerman shouted, and as the pikes, guns and knives of the remaining French crew clattered to the deck, he threw down the hilt of the Captain’s sword by his corpse and turned back towards the
Splendour
.
Eight Bells of the Afternoon Watch (4 p.m.)
James’s cabin was restored to order while he visited the surgeon and sick-bay to find out what men he had lost. When he finally returned to his cabin, there was already more coffee on his table, his wife’s letter had been returned to the place where he had left it, and his First Lieutenant was waiting for him.
‘How bad is it, Captain?’ Mr Cooper asked.
‘Forty dead. One of the young gentlemen, Hobbes, has lost an arm, but he took the operation bravely and will live. Major Mansel is dead.’
Around them, the ship echoed with the sound of hammering and the shouts of the carpenter. Mr Cooper shifted on his boots and put his hands together behind his back. His Captain’s mouth was set in a thin line. He was like a beplaceormed from the ship’s mind. The rage each member of the crew felt at the false surrender soaked through the timbers and into James Westerman’s flesh.
Cooper cleared his throat. ‘I’ve been talking to the officer – the one who gave up his Captain’s sword.’ James looked up sharply and Cooper wet his lips before continuing. ‘His English is as good as mine. They had a run-in with one of ours a week ago, but managed to get away. Half the crew was in the sick-bay being treated for their wounds before we came near them. Good thing too, or that broadside would have ripped us to shreds. They wanted their Captain to find a safe harbour for repairs, but he insisted on pressing on. I think they were near enough shooting him themselves.’
James sighed and passed a hand over his forehead. ‘Any notion as to why he wouldn’t stop?’