Down the fore hatch ladder clattered Midshipman Cantlow, still buckling on his dirk, his cocked hat askew. Kydd disliked him – the gangling man was older by far than the others, in his late twenties at least, not having the interest or ability to pass for lieutenant. He had once ordered a starting for Kydd over some trivial matter; it was not the colt whipping painfully across his shoulders that he remembered, it was the spite that had triggered it – Cantlow was embittered at his lot.
“What news – sir?” asked Stirk. He was ignored, Cantlow adjusting his cross-belt and scabbard over the threadbare uniform coat. He would take charge of the foremost six guns under a lieutenant of the gundeck. With a significant look, Stirk called over to Doggo loudly, “Looks like we got ourselves a right smashin’ match, mate. Yer’ve made yer arrangements, then?”
Kydd looked at him sharply.
“Why, o’ course – but it ain’t no use, there won’t be many of us left after the fightin’ really gets started, we bein’ down here in the slaughterhouse ’n’ all,” Doggo replied, his face blank.
“What are you yattering about, you useless swabs?” Cantlow said irritably, fiddling nervously with his dirk.
“Seen the doc sharpenin’ his saws,” Salter said gloomily. “Shoulda got the carpenter to do a better job – never could stand a blunt saw at me bones.”
“An’ where’s the priest?” Velasquez added mournfully. “’Ow we can die wi’out we ha’ a priest?”
“Silence! Do you think to bait me? You stinking, worthless scum!” Cantlow glared around.
“Why, sir,” Stirk said, with a saintly expression, “we’re cruel a-feared, ’n’ we need some words, some strong words, from an orficer to steady us in our time o’ need-sir!”
Cantlow’s venomous glare was interrupted by the arrival of Lieutenant Lockwood. “Report, Mr. Cantlow,” he ordered.
“Well, sir, I – ”
“You’re useless, and stupid,” Lockwood said, “so muster your men again and report.” Lockwood took position on the centerline. Although he was young, his voice already had the crack of authority. “Still!” All activity on the gundeck ceased. “We have just been alerted by Amphion frigate that the French have taken advantage of this easterly to put to sea. But not from Brest. Four ships-of-the-line and frigates have sailed from Douarnenez to the south of here, and we think they mean to proceed to the Caribbean and our valuable sugar islands. They did not reckon on our vigilance, and now we will make sure that they never arrive!”
A savage growl arose from the gun crews.
“The weather in this light blow is not in our favor – but they have formed line and are offering battle. We will oblige them!”
A deeper-throated sound swelled into cheers.
“Haaaands to make sail!”
The boatswain’s calls pierced into the excitement. Kydd ran topsides with the others of the gun crews assigned to sail trimming. The brilliant sun made him screw up his eyes, but he knew by instinct the position of the mizzen shrouds and his leap took him into the ratlines. He swarmed up to the mizzen top.
It was a chance to take in the scene of impending battle. Far ahead against the nondescript line of the coast were the enemy – four small clusters of ivory sails emerging from Douarnenez Bay and sailing large before the light easterly wind, four big vessels in line formation, taking advantage of the offshore winds of the morning. They were headed from right to left across Duke William’s bows, standing out for the Atlantic, but seemingly in no hurry to close and grapple.
On the starboard tack Duke William was heading toward a point of intersection ahead of them, clawing her way to windward in the frustrating light winds, doing her best to get within range. The ripple under her forefoot sounded like the contented chuckle of a country millstream at a sleepy knot or two.
“’Less we can get the old barky to lift up her skirts ’n’ run, we’re goin’ to lose ’em,” the captain of the top said bitterly. He looked over the flat seas to their fellow ships-of-the-line in staggered line abeam. Tiberius led Royal Albion by a short head, and both were significantly ahead of Duke William.
“Know what that is?” the man said sharply to Kydd, without turning his head. “That there’s gun money ’n’ head money ’n’ mebbe even a mort o’ prize money, that is. One chance we get in this bucket to lay ’ands on an honest guinea or two and we meets wi’ a dead calm.”
Others in the top rumbled their agreement.
A weather stuns’l was not a success, however, backwinding the main topsail, and it was struck. Swearing, they toiled at the sail, which had managed to wrap itself around the topmast stay when the halliards were let go.
As the day wore on, it became apparent that the enemy were equally affected by the lazy weather, straggling along in a slow, ragged line. At two, the wind failed altogether, and the ship hung lifeless in the water, sails barely stirring. She lost way and after ghosting along for a space she simply did not answer her helm and drifted, the slight swell causing an aimless clack of blocks aloft.
“Awaaaay all boats!”
Tumbling into the cutter, Kydd made room on the thwart for Renzi. The rowers would go double-banked in this attempt to tow Duke William into action, and together with the larger pinnace and launch they would do their utmost to close with the enemy. Even the Captain’s barge took a line from the fo’c’sle.
It was cruel, backbreaking work: the hard thwart and unyielding oar, the burning pain in the back and arms, the hands turning into claws. With the inertia of two thousand tons their oars threshed the water uselessly while the boat remained dead in the water.
It took all of ten minutes of toil at the oars by hundreds of men to see the tiniest move through the water of the great battleship. They were now half a mile behind Royal Albion, who also had all her boats out.
“Pull, you scurvy lubbers!” The tiny midshipman’s piping voice was almost comical as he tried to emulate the bull-roaring of Tewsley in the launch.
Although it was not strong, the sunlight glittered on the unbroken sea surface and reflected up into their faces. Kydd was grateful for his hat, but felt his face redden from the glare. They pulled on in silence, a steady long pull, leaning well back to get the straightest line from chest to feet against the stretchers athwartships.
A series of disjointed thuds sounded distantly, then cannonballs skipped and splashed audibly around them. Kydd glanced about him as he pulled, and was relieved to see that the shots were well scattered. One of the enemy ships was nearly hidden by clouds of slow-moving gunsmoke.
Nevertheless it was unnerving. The enemy had their broadside facing them while their own guns would not bear so far forward. They pulled on. More thuds, more balls. A long space, and then an avalanche of crumps. This time the sound was appreciably nearer and the balls skipped and smashed with venom among them. Some came between the boats and two struck the ship with a peculiar sound like a blunt axe smashing into rotten wood.
“Eyes in the boat!” piped the little midshipman, as some men missed their stroke looking over their shoulder.
There was a fierce muttering. It was one thing to be under fire with their own cannon roaring defiance from their wooden ramparts and another to be helpless in the open with no means of reply.
A catspaw of wind ruffled the water and subsided. Another came and went. Anxious faces looked toward the fo’c’sle but nothing changed.
A double rush of thumps and a storm of shot broke over them. One ball plowed into the bow of the pinnace and opened it like a banana, instantly cutting off the shrieks by plunging every occupant into the sea. Without waiting to be told, lines were slipped and the boats returned, the launch remaining to pick up survivors.