Jane Austen Made Me Do It (50 page)

The more distant xebec and corvette would definitely mount a defense, and together might even seize the initiative and attack the
Petterel
first—especially with the weather gage to their benefit. The xebec probably carried half a dozen guns firing six-pound shot. The corvette would be armed similarly to the
Petterel
, with fourteen or more six-pounders, and perhaps a couple heavier guns.

And then there was the brig, which would also approximate the
Petterel
's armament, and which even now cruised out of the battery's cover. If given an opportunity, would it dash past the distracted
Petterel
or join the fight?

“Do you mean to engage, sir?” Mr. Glover's question was meant not as a prompt, but as an assertion that he stood ready to execute Austen's orders the moment his commander issued them.

Austen weighed the odds. Without question, all together the French ships presented a superior force to that of the
Petterel
—particularly if the barques carried a few guns and decided to contribute
shots in their own defense. However, if engaged in succession rather than at once, they might all be defeated. And with the
Mermaid
's assistance, the two opposing forces would be more evenly matched.

“Where is the
Mermaid
?” he asked.

“There, sir.” Mr. Glover directed his notice downwind. The frigate was so far to leeward that Austen could barely see it. If the
Petterel
initiated an engagement with the convoy, Captain Oliver would need considerable time to maneuver his heavier ship through the headwind to join the action.

Austen's gaze swept the main deck, where seamen performed their tasks not only with skill and efficiency that rivaled that of any ship-of-the-line's crew, but also with a palpable aura—almost an electric charge—of anticipation. Austen harbored no doubt that within minutes of the convoy's sighting, every hand on the ship had known of it, and now waited to learn their commander's intent. Engaging the enemy meant the potential for prize money if the
Petterel
captured one or more of the ships, and the hope of financial reward galvanized sailors already motivated by duty, loyalty to king and country, and a healthy disdain for the French.

Mr. Glover brought the glass to his own eye again. “The brig is adjusting her course, sir. She appears headed to join the other vessels.”

“Pass the word for Mr. Thompson and Mr. Packer.”

Austen would not rush into a fight he could not win. So he would have to turn it into one that he could. The
Petterel
might be a sloop, but she carried a first-rate crew. Austen had faith in his men, faith in his officers, faith in his ability to lead them. And as the son of a clergyman, he had faith in God.

“Mr. Thompson,” Austen said as soon as the master and second lieutenant arrived on the forecastle, “hoist out the pinnace,
take seven men, and endeavor to cut off some of the vessels coming alongshore. Mr. Packer, call all hands aft for the Prayer. As soon as we have done, Mr. Glover, clear for action, beat to quarters, and signal the
Mermaid
our intent to give chase. We will start with the brig.”

Damn that brig to perdition.

Smoke and the scent of burned powder still hung about the
Petterel
, but it was nothing compared to the vexation clouding Captain Austen's mood as he stood on the quarterdeck, watching the French ship glide under the protection of another shore battery.

“Why will you not engage?” he said under his breath.

They had fired several shots at the brig—torn through a few sails, and sent one ball rolling across the deck. But instead of answering their fire, the brig had once more fled toward shore. It was not a matter of disparate firepower; from the number of gun ports and the gleam of brass on the upper deck, the brig and the
Petterel
were well matched. Indeed, the brig ought to accept the
Petterel
's obvious challenge as a point of honor if for no other reason; its conduct thus far was akin to a gentleman declining a duel—nay, declining a duel by hiding beneath his wife's skirts.

Were Mr. Thompson at the
Petterel
's helm, Austen would pursue the chase despite the battery, trusting the gifted master to steer them safely through the action—and through the rocks. But presently he needed Thompson commanding the pinnace, maneuvering the small boat to bedevil the barques and divert them just where Austen wanted them.

Where they finally were now.

“Do not become too comfortable,” Austen muttered to the brig before turning his attention to the convoy.

The
Mermaid
, still too far leeward to assist the
Petterel
directly, would at least with her presence deter the brig from attempting to flee south while the
Petterel
neutralized as many of the other ships as possible. The convoy sailed toward land, the barques and the ketch still well ahead of the war vessels, but all were far enough away from the battery that in pursuing them the
Petterel
need not worry about the fortification's heavy guns complicating matters from shore.

He gave the order for the gun crews to remain ready, and called several of the officers to him.

“We will disable the smaller vessels before the larger two come within range.” He turned to the quartermaster. “Mr. Morris, bring us close enough to fire our bow-chasers, then wear round—across all three vessels if we can, although the far barque is distant enough from the others that she might be able to divert her course and evade us once she sees what we are about.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Mr. Glover—pass the order to load half the guns with round shot, half with chain when we rake.”

The lieutenant understood. “We want to stop them, not sink them.”

“Precisely. If we can cripple their rigging and cause enough hull damage to scare them, they might surrender before the other two ships catch up to us, without our destroying the cargo.”

The
Petterel
neared the ships. As they approached firing range, Mr. Glover surveyed their targets with his telescope and uttered a mild oath. “It is a bomb-ketch after all.”

Austen took the glass and held it to his own eye. A chill that had nothing to do with the wind passed over him. The ketch held heavy artillery that could devastate the sloop, and at this point Austen's ship and crew were committed to an encounter. The
Petterel
's movements this half hour had made her intention clear.

In his heart he offered a silent prayer. In his voice he projected nothing but confidence.

“We must simply make sure we hit her first. Fire the bow-chasers.”

Mr. Glover left to pass the order, and the
Petterel
fired her pair of fore-facing long guns upon the ketch. One ball put a hole through its sails; the other fell into the sea. A second round tore through the shrouds of its mainmast. The sloop then tacked, turning across the path of the three oncoming ships.

It seemed to take forever to cross the bow of the ketch, to reach exactly the right position, with Austen, his officers, the men all tensely, silently waiting … waiting to fire, waiting to be fired upon … until, at last—

“Fire!” Mr. Glover cried. On the forecastle, the marine sergeant echoed him.

“Fire!”

“Fire!” Halfway down the main deck, Mr. Packer's voice took over the command. The guns exploded in succession, the force of their recoil thrusting them backwards in their carriages, as the
Petterel
moved across the path of the ketch. Two explosions issued from the forecastle carronades, six from the main deck cannons, another two—almost deafening where Austen stood—from the carronades on the quarterdeck.

As the boys known as powder monkeys scampered to deliver fresh powder, the gun crews damped down sparks, sponged the barrels, reloaded, and ran the guns back out to position. They had averaged one minute, forty-seven seconds between rounds in their last drill, and looked to be maintaining that pace. When the
Petterel
crossed the bow of the second ship, they would be ready.

Through the smoke, Austen saw that their assault on the ketch had succeeded. The chain shot had done its job, tearing through the sails, tangling the rigging and bringing it down, crippling
the ship's ability to control its speed or direction. The carronades' balls had splintered its bow and rolled down the length of the ship to wreak further damage on the deck and hull.

The ketch had answered with only a single round of ineffective musket fire.

Mr. Glover returned to the quarterdeck. “No one injured,” he reported.

“Very good.” Though Austen was grateful for the news, his gaze remained fixed on the ketch. Its crew seemed in a state of confusion.

“Why did they not fire their artillery?” Mr. Glover asked.

Austen had been wondering the same. “I cannot speculate.”

They had not time.

The
Petterel
was upon the next French vessel. At the command, the sloop's gun crews fired at the barque, raking it, too, with broadside shots that delivered as much damage to the French crew's morale as they did to the ship itself. The other barque, having seen trouble coming, had time to divert its course and now sped southwest as fast as the wind could carry her.

“Shall we pursue her, Captain?” called out Mr. Morris.

Austen looked at the fleeing barque, then back at the two damaged vessels. The crews of the impaired barque and ketch were lowering their boats—abandoning ship.

“No,” Austen replied. They had captured two of the three, with the xebec and corvette still approaching. They needed time to secure the prizes already won before engaging the advancing ships—more important quarry than the barque.

As the French crewmen climbed into their boats and rowed toward shore, Austen gave the order to take possession of the prize vessels. “Lower the jollyboat,” he said. “Mr. Glover, take eight men to secure the ketch. Include Mr. McAucland among your party.” Perhaps the gunner could determine why the French
cannons had not been employed. Austen directed the master's mate to board the barque with another seven men to the barque.

A few minutes after their departure, Mr. Thompson and the men on the pinnace, their mission achieved, returned to the
Petterel
. Austen left the quarterdeck to meet them.

“Well done, Mr. Thompson!”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Are you ready for some real work now?”

Mr. Thompson laughed. “I am indeed, Captain.”

For all the lightness with which he bantered with his officer, Austen was heartily glad to have the master back aboard the
Petterel
before engaging the other ships. He doubted they would be so easily won.

The pursuit of the barques and ketch had taken them northwestward, still in sight of shore but considerably distant from where they began the morning. The
Petterel
stood in the bay off Cape Couronne while the damaged vessels were assessed for seaworthiness. After receiving word from Mr. Glover that the two ships, laden with an estimated nine hundred tons of wheat between them, were yet fit to sail, Austen directed the first lieutenant and master's mate to command the prizes whilst the
Petterel
engaged the xebec and the corvette. Though they were to lend whatever assistance they could, Austen doubted it would amount to much more than simply retaining possession of the vessels, as the barque was unarmed and the ketch, by the gunner's report, depleted of both ammunition and powder.

The lull allowed the
Petterel
's crew to clean the decks and eat a hurried midday meal following the forenoon engagement. The men were in good spirits, each calculating his share of the prize money their capture of the two vessels had likely earned. The seamen would receive little; the officers more.

“Those next ships coming—now
they
be true prizes,” Austen overheard one of the yardmen say. “The captain will see that we take them, too.”

Austen allowed himself a private smile at the praise—but even more, at the faith in him that the words represented. He was conscious every day—and on a day such as this, every hour—that the lives of more than one hundred men were in his care. It was a responsibility he had accepted along with his commission, and one which, at times, was heavier to bear than the weight of any anchor. He endeavored to be worthy of their trust, and to instill the same consciousness in his officers.

By two o'clock, the decks were once more cleared for action, all hands (save those manning the prize vessels) were at their stations, and the sloop was heading east—toward the corvette and xebec now cruising along the shore.

The
Petterel
sailed with the wind on the beam, at last not fighting it for every mile gained. The French ships, seeing the sloop advance, steered their courses even more toward shore. Austen had studied the charts; he knew how rocky a coastline the French vessels drew him toward, knew that the visible dangers posed by the batteries on land and the two enemy vessels in the water might prove nothing compared to unseen danger beneath the surface.

“Can you find us a fairway, Mr. Thompson?”

Mr. Thompson, too, had studied the charts, and had navigated these waters before. They posed a hazard to even the most experienced sailing master.

“Captain, 'twill be easier than plain sailing.”

Even Mr. Thompson could not entirely convince Austen of that.

Moderately reassured, he went in search of Lieutenant Packer.

“The gun crews are ready, sir,” Mr. Packer said. “In fact, more than ready—they can scarcely wait to fire the first broadside.”

With Mr. Glover leading the prize party, Joseph Packer was now second in command, and Austen hoped that Mr. Packer was equal to the challenge ahead. He was a young man, but he showed promise; the men respected his leadership, and he had proved himself reliable in action. Moreover, he possessed courage and a quickness of both mind and person that Austen appreciated.