He forced his mind to absolute concentration-so much depended on it and this was too hot work to last long. Side by side, the ships moving at a slow walking pace while pounding shot into each other, it was a chaos of noise and destruction that beat at the senses, and out of it death could come at any instant.
Every detail of the enemy frigate could be seen through the eddying powder-smoke: the frantically labouring figures behind the gun-ports, the sadly scarred scroll-work and the glitter of blades as a boarding party readied.
Then her deck erupted in a lethal spray of splinters, scattering the assembled party in a welter of screams. His last order to fire high was sending shot upwards through the higher enemy deck.
It went on but Kydd could see that the tide of war was shifting. Tyger’s skill at arms-her matchless rate of fire-was telling. And with her guns charged double-shotted it must be near unendurable on the enemy decks.
Quite unexpectedly the picture changed: Preussen was slowing, slipping back! Amidships there was some sort of tangle of canvas where the staysail had been. In a wild leap of desperate hope he watched men struggle to deal with it. If this was another of Fortune’s hands dealt against the enemy, then …
The ship slowed further and Tyger increasingly pulled ahead. In a glorious surge of feeling, he knew that this was the defining moment of the contest and made ready to act. But the reek of the gun-smoke was making his throat dry and the words stuck in his throat.
His glance happened to flick to the after end of Preussen and saw it was no lucky stroke that had crippled Preussen-it was a deliberate and clever ploy to end the fight!
The big fore and aft driver sail on the mizzen was being hauled out by tackle to the wrong side, against the wind. In sudden understanding his gaze shot back to the midships shambles. He focused carefully and saw what it was-the whole thing was a mockery, the men heaving and tugging aimlessly and achieving nothing.
They had nearly got away with it, but Kydd had their measure. Their captain was intelligent and cool-he was falling back in pretence of damage but using the occasion not to disengage from a bloody dueclass="underline" at the right point he would abruptly put over the helm and, aided by the backed driver, slide around Tyger’s stern. And there he would be in a perfect position to send a broadside in a brutal raking fire down her entire length, a mortal wound.
Kydd hesitated but only for a moment. If they turned away it would make things worse, presenting her stern so much the quicker. There was only one course to take.
“Helm up! Put us across her bows!” he croaked urgently.
The quartermaster stared unbelievingly-Preussen’s bowsprit was only just passing opposite but Halgren at the helm acted instantly, the spokes whirling as he wound on turns.
Tyger obediently swung towards the enemy frigate, closer and closer and at an ever steeper angle until she was madly sheering across the bows. Preussen’s jib-boom speared across Tyger’s quarterdeck snapping and splintering in a crazy progression-but what Kydd had trusted to happen, did.
One by one, as they passed across, Tyger’s guns spoke in an endless hideous sequence, the balls smashing into the naked bow-he had turned the tables and raked Preussen instead.
His officers and men had nobly risen to the occasion and, on their own initiative, had held fire in anticipation of this crushing blow.
They passed to the other side but Preussen did not attempt to wheel and follow. She could not: the epic repair to the forestay had been shot through and the frigate once more was helpless.
With bursting emotion Kydd knew the day was theirs. The enemy was at his mercy.
Coldly, he gave the orders.
Tyger circled around until the angle was just right. Then she went in for the kill, arrow straight for Preussen’s stern.
There was nothing to stop him from pass after pass of raking fire into the helpless vessel until there were only corpses, but this was war and a battle could only be won by one side.
There were figures at the taffrail, brave men who could do nothing. They were waiting for release-death or their commander hauling down their flag in surrender.
Colours still flew, therefore the dread logic of war demanded Kydd do his duty and begin the slaughter.
Sail was shortened to bring Tyger to a slower pace to prolong the battering-but Kydd couldn’t do it. These were men as brave as his own and deserved a better fate.
He sent word to the guns to hold their fire and sent for a speaking trumpet. As they passed the high stern he bellowed in French, “Strike your flag, sir! You have done enough this day for the honour of your country.”
There was a thin cry in return and with a sinking heart Kydd heard the unknown captain passionately refuse.
They were past by now and he wore around slowly and came down once more on his mission of destruction but again held his fire and hailed-with the same refusal.
Bleakly Kydd brought Tyger round for the last time.
This then was the final act. He must perform his duty and-
“He’s struck!” Bray roared hoarsely. “The bastard’s dousing his rag!”
Kydd saw that he was right: the proud tricolour at the mizzen halyards was slowly descending to half-staff.
The last frigate had surrendered to Tyger.
In a tidal wave of emotion he looked round at the sea battlefield that had seen so much blood and heroism, agony and death, and rocked with fatigue and relief.
Far off, the disabled Albatros drifted while over on their beam the wreck of Odin still burned fiercely. Nearby he could see Stoat and boats picking up survivors from the water.
And there, lying under their guns, was Preussen, fairly beaten in as harsh a combat as he’d ever in his life known.
“My barge, Mr Bray. And I’ll trouble you for the butcher’s bill on my return.”
With his coxswain at the helm, he stepped into the boat, still in his battle-stained dress. He settled into the sternsheets, barely hearing the quiet orders Halgren gave that had it bearing off and making for the enemy.
His towering exhaustion gave rise to a feeling of unreality, a floating of the mind outside the body that brought a calmness, a strange tranquillity. The men at the oars pulled slowly, their red eyes in pits of white against the grey of smeared powder-grime, their clothing torn and stained.
No one spoke. There was no exultation, no cheers as they approached the vanquished. Too much had happened.
The bowman hooked on at the main-chains and stood aside to let Kydd mount the side-steps.
This close, the marks of the recent encounter were stark and plain. Great shot-holes in the wales, an infinity of lesser scars, the brightness of shattered timber against the black hull, a snarl of forlorn ropes and blocks dangling from above and trailing in the water.
Weighed down by fatigue, he pulled himself slowly up the lacerated sides. On deck he found a group of officers, grey-slimed and red-eyed, but one held himself erect, thin-lipped and grim.
Kydd recognised the lace of a frigate captain and crossed to him, ignoring the others. The man’s arm was in a sling and blood seeped but there was nothing in his cold, hard expression to betray his feeling.
For a long moment they faced each other without speaking, then the Frenchman bowed painfully.
“Capitaine de vaisseau Jean-Yves Marceau. I have the honour to command the French National Ship Preussen.” The voice was husky, controlled, the eyes coolly taking Kydd’s measure.