Storm Tide Page 16

  ‘But we are not at war with France.’

  Angus shrugged. ‘Everyone knows it’s coming. After the first shot, no one’ll care who fired it.’

  A chill went down Rob’s spine. The day had gone dim; the coast had disappeared. Tendrils of fog were drifting over the gunwales, wrapping the ship in a blanket.

  ‘Shorten sail,’ came Tew’s voice from aft. Rob had not noticed him come on deck, but the captain had an uncanny intuition for where and when he was most needed on his ship. ‘We are too near shore for my liking, and there are treacherous reefs nearby. Put leadsmen in the chains, and lookouts on the bows. If there is a Yankee privateer about, she may well try to slip her anchorage in this fog.’

  The men hurried to obey. The earlier lassitude was forgotten in an instant. No one wanted to be caught blind on a hostile, unfamiliar shore.

  ‘You heard the captain!’ shouted Coyningham, striding down the deck with the boatswain’s mate in tow. ‘Up that mast and reef the mainsail. The last man down will feel the taste of the lash.’

  Thomas ran past Rob to the mainmast rigging. He was unrecognisable from the callow boy Rob had helped up to the crosstrees that first week at sea. Now he could swing himself out on the channels as lithely as any able seaman, racing his shipmates to the top.

  But something was different this morning. His face was pale, his eyes downcast. He fumbled on the ratlines, climbing slowly as if he was carrying a great weight. The rest of the topmen were already far above.

  It was the fog, Rob realised. He had trained the boy to overcome his fear of heights by looking at the horizon. Now that they were hemmed in by the fog, the horizon had disappeared. Thomas’s terror had come racing back. He would be stuck halfway up the mast, just like the first time.

  And Coyningham would make him pay.

  The topmen had already finished furling the mainsail. They slid to the deck along the backstays, landing agile as cats. Thomas was left alone in the rigging.

  ‘Get down here now,’ Coyningham ordered.

  One of the topmen moved to assist Thomas, but a bark from Coyningham stopped him dead.

  ‘A dozen lashes to any man who helps him.’

  Rob glanced back. Tew stood impassive on the quarterdeck, conferring with the sailing master. He must have seen what was happening, but he could not countermand his first lieutenant in front of the men.

  Thomas climbed down slowly. Each step was agony, though he knew that was nothing to what he had coming. The moment he reached the deck, the boatswain’s mate seized him. He tore off Thomas’s shirt and bent him over a barrel. Two petty officers held Thomas’s arms and legs, while the boatswain’s mate pulled out his starter rope.

  ‘Give that to me,’ said Coyningham.

  Rob could not believe his eyes. It was unheard of for an officer to flog a man – but Coyningham seemed to have abandoned reason. All his rage at being denied his prize yesterday was channelled into this.

  And something else. As Coyningham raised the rope, he caught Rob’s eye with a malevolent stare. I cannot touch you, he seemed to be saying, but I can hurt you.

  Rob knew he shouldn’t respond to the provocation. He knew it was what Coyningham wanted. If Rob went any further, he would lose all the protection of his rank.

  Coyningham brought down his arm. The rope hummed in the air – then stopped so suddenly the end cracked an inch above Thomas’s back.

  Rob held the rope where he had grabbed it in mid-air. The first lieutenant had brought it down with astonishing force, but Rob was stronger. He gripped the rope so tightly Coyningham could not pull free.

  Coyningham tugged against him with all his might. Rob held fast. The rope stretched taut between them.

  Rob let go. Coyningham, caught off balance, stumbled backwards, tripped and fell hard on his backside. A few of the men laughed, but quickly thought better of it. A dangerous light had come into Coyningham’s eyes.

  He stood and dusted himself off.

  ‘You will regret this,’ he hissed. ‘This is mutiny.’

  Belatedly, Rob realised every man on deck was watching him.

  ‘Marines!’ Coyningham bellowed. ‘Clap Mr Courtney in irons!’

  Two scarlet-coated marines threaded their way across the deck. The sullen crew were in no mood to make way, but they could not protect Rob without risking a charge of insubordination.

  Rob waited defiantly. What could he do? It had been madness, putting himself between Coyningham and Thomas. He had given Coyningham the excuse he wanted, and he would pay the price. But he could not have done anything else.

  ‘Wait!’

  Tew’s voice rang across the deck. He strode towards Coyningham.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’

  Coyningham froze. For a moment, Rob thought he might lash out at the captain. That was too much to hope for. There would be no comeback from striking Tew: Coyningham would be court-martialled.

  And perhaps he might have done it. The deck was gripped in silence, waiting to see what would happen. The fog deadened sound, so that the slap of the waves on the hull beneath them seemed distant.

  But the roar of a twelve-pound cannon carries through anything. The boom echoed out of the cloud and across the deck, dislocated by the fog so it seemed to come from everywhere at once.

  No one moved as the sound rolled away. Then Tew snatched the rope from Coyningham’s hand and threw it aside.

  ‘Pull yourself together,’ he said brusquely. ‘And clear for action.’

  The fog was beginning to lighten. The bowsprit speared through shreds of cloud as the Perseus moved forwards. All eyes peered out over the gunwales, scanning the mist for every shadow. The other ship must be close. They could hear the creak of timbers and cordage, rumbles that might be running feet – or guns being run out.

  ‘What’s that?’ Angus pointed off the starboard bow, where a grey mass seemed to float through the fog. They stared, but it did not resolve itself. Instead, it faded away until they could not be sure it had ever been there.

  ‘You are jumping at shadows,’ Rob said.

  Nonetheless, he watched closely where Angus had pointed. There was no sound. Angus must have imagined it.

  Rob turned his attention to the port side.

  ‘There.’ Rob’s sharp eyes picked it out before anyone else. Through the wisps of fog, something substantial. He punched Angus lightly on the shoulder. ‘You were looking the wrong way.’

  ‘I know what I saw,’ Angus insisted.

  But there was no time to argue. As the helmsman altered course, the other vessel came into definition. A brigantine, large for her type but smaller than the frigate. She was a merchant ship, or had been once. Now her sides had been pierced for guns. Rob counted eight, including two swivels mounted near the stern. The red-and-white striped flag of the rebel navy hung from her stern. A privateer.

  She ran out her guns. It was raggedly executed, without precision. The crew must be volunteers, full of enthusiasm but lacking drill or discipline. The Perseus showed them how it should be done. On Tew’s command, every gunport lifted as one. The men hauled on their tackles, and fourteen cannons ran out in perfect unison.

  The men cheered. The brig would be easy prey, and then a payday for them in the prize courts.

  ‘What is she thinking?’ Rob wondered. ‘She cannot hope to match guns with us.’

  ‘She will not fire,’ said Coyningham. His temper had improved as he contemplated the prize he would command. ‘They are baring their teeth, so they can say they took on the mighty Royal Navy. They will not bite.’

  The brig fired.

  It was not the single overpowering broadside of a navy ship: the guns exploded erratically, like a string of fireworks igniting. It didn’t matter. From a hundred yards off they could not miss. Eight cannonballs struck the Perseus. Some screamed through the rigging; others hit the gunwales, throwing off clouds of splinters.

  ‘Fire,’ ordered Tew.

  The Perseus’s full broadside crashed out as one deafening blast. Flame spat from the guns. Smoke mingled with the remnants of the fog. Across the water, Rob saw devastation unleashed on the brig. She was lower in the water and the British gun crews had aimed their cannons with lethal accuracy. Great bites were gouged out of her side. One of her guns was overturned. Her mizzen yard was snapped in two and fell to the deck.

  Her crew did not lack courage. Even in the face of the onslaught, they kept reloading. Once more, the British crews were faster and more efficient. They poured out another broadside before the Americans could fire again.

  ‘Strike your colours!’ Tew shouted across the water through his speaking trumpet. ‘You cannot win.’

  ‘You will sink me before I strike!’ came the defiant reply, accompanied by half a dozen shots as the privateer finally readied her guns again.

  ‘You cannot fault their bravery,’ Tew conceded. ‘But we will get no prize money for a sunken ship.’ He searched out the second lieutenant. ‘Mr Verrier! Prepare a boarding party.’

  Rob, standing nearby, saw the fury on Coyningham’s face. By rights, the first officer should have led the boarding party. Even in the chaos of battle, Tew had not forgotten Coyningham’s treatment of Thomas. This was his punishment.

  Verrier shouted orders. Rob ran to his side, handing out pikes and cutlasses to the men in his watch. The brig saw what they intended and tried to bear away, but the Perseus had the weather gage and followed her around. Their hulls inched closer.

  ‘Keep down,’ Rob called. ‘She has not lost her teeth.’

  The American guns were still firing, still dangerous. A marine reeled away with a splinter piercing his cheek into his mouth. A block was shot away. It fell from the rigging and cracked a man’s skull. Rob crouched with his men behind the gunwa
le, Angus beside him, as the ships slowly closed together. They were so near that the brig’s guns could hardly elevate high enough to shoot over the side of the frigate.

  Seized by the glory of the moment, Midshipman Milnrow stood up, waving his sword like a lunatic.

  ‘Prepare to be boarded, you damn Yankee bastards!’ he shouted.

  The cry was still echoing across the water when his body convulsed, struck from behind. A cannonball erupted through his stomach, tearing him in two. His head and torso were torn from his waist, cartwheeling through the air and over the side. His legs stayed upright for a moment, like a headless chicken, then toppled over, gushing blood across the deck.

  The men stared. But worse than the horror they had witnessed was the realisation of what had happened. The cannonball that killed him had not been fired from the brig. It had come from behind, from the other side of the ship.

  Forgetting the brig to port, all eyes turned to the starboard side.

  Another ship had appeared. She had crept up behind them while they were distracted by the brig, hiding in the fog until she was almost upon them. Rob glimpsed the outstretched talons of her figurehead.

  ‘The French frigate!’ he cried.

  É

  tienne de Bercheny had waited his whole life for this moment. He gripped the sword his mother had given him, with its gold handle and ivory inlay. He would make her proud today. He would kill Englishmen.

  Through the fog, he glimpsed the striped flag of the Continental colours fluttering at his masthead. He grimaced. It was not glorious to sail into his first battle under false colours, but it was a necessary expedient.

  A man sat beside him on a stool, sketching deft lines on a pad with a charcoal stick. His name was Jean, and he was an artist. Constance had paid for him to accompany Étienne. When they returned home, the pictures would be engraved and printed in all the newspapers to illustrate her son’s triumphs.

  ‘When you draw the ships, show us under the flag of King Louis,’ Étienne ordered him. ‘Maman will not want the Paris public to think me a coward.’

  Obligingly, the artist smudged out the rebel flag and drew in a fleur-de-lis instead. The comtesse’s instructions had been clear. He was here to burnish a legend, not to document fact.

  Étienne nodded. Along the deck, his crew crouched by their guns, linstocks at the ready. Étienne assumed an heroic pose, chin up, eyes staring into the distance. Let the artist record that. He raised his sword, ready to spring the trap on the English frigate.

  ‘Pour le roi!’ he bellowed. The men cheered.

  ‘Aim high,’ he told them. ‘We must have our prize in good condition to sail back to France.’

  He swept his sword down.

  T

  he French frigate fired. So did the brig. The Perseus was smashed from both sides, caught in a vice of flying iron. A blizzard of metal and wooden splinters exploded at the men on deck from every direction, while blocks and cordage rained down from above.

  ‘But we are not at war with France,’ protested Verrier. He had the plaintive voice of a child, whose opponent had broken the rules of the game.

  ‘She is not fighting for France,’ said Rob grimly. He pointed to the frigate’s masthead. Instead of the white flag of King Louis she had flown the day before, she now sported the same striped ensign as the brig.

  ‘It is a trap,’ said Tew. ‘They planned the whole thing.’ There was no time for recriminations. ‘We cannot fight two ships at once. Lieutenant Verrier, take your men and board the brig.’

  Verrier stared. The brig had veered away, putting clear water between herself and the Perseus. The boarding party would have to approach her in the ship’s boats.

  ‘That is madness.’

  ‘It is an order,’ said Tew. ‘Even if you cannot take her, you will at least stop her from engaging us. I will make sail and try to come to terms with the Frenchman.’

  It was a desperate plan. Even one on one with the Rapace, the Perseus would be downwind, outgunned and short of men. Added to that, she had already sustained heavy damage, while the French ship was fresh.

  For the boarding party, the odds were worse. If they somehow got aboard the brig, they would be stranded on an enemy ship, outmanned and with no hope of reinforcement. The best they could hope for was to sell their lives dearly.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ Rob shouted.

  He vaulted over the side and slid down the ladder into the cutter. With cries of ‘Perseus’ and ‘King George’, the rest of the men followed.

  They were terribly exposed. The Perseus’s guns had fallen silent as Tew sent men aloft to make more sail, but the brig and the French frigate continued to batter her. Cannonballs from the brig screamed over the heads of the men in the boat. As the Perseus drew away, the cutter was left in open water between the two ships. A sitting duck.

  ‘Pull,’ Verrier commanded.

  The men bent to the oars, speeding the cutter through the waves towards the brig’s bow.

  Cheers sounded from the American brig as the crew saw the Perseus draw off. They thought she was running away. Her captain crammed on sail to give chase. It bought the cutter vital moments while the Americans were distracted.

  But the boat was not invisible. As the brig’s men went aloft to loosen sails, they saw the cutter closing. Shouts alerted the men on deck. Rob saw them with rifles running up the ratlines to take position in the tops.

  The marines in the cutter kneeled and tried to pick off the American marksmen. From the rocking boat, their inaccurate muskets had little hope of hitting their targets. The best they could do was worry the Americans, making it harder for them to aim.

  It was not enough. One of the rowers fell from his oar, clutching his side. Rob took his place at once.

  ‘Pull harder,’ Rob urged his shipmates.

  The brig was gathering speed. If she passed them, then the cutter would be left a spectator in the battle, while the brig would be able to cross the Perseus’s stern and rake her decks.

  The men heaved, breaking their backs with the effort. Another man was hit in the shoulder by a musket ball. Lieutenant Verrier changed places with him, so that the officer rowed while the wounded man took the tiller with his one good arm.

  Slowly, the cutter and the brig came together. The rifle fire from above ceased as the cutter came into the shadow of the hull. A man leaned over the side. Verrier raised his pistol and shot him in the face.

  But they could not keep pace with the brig under full sail. The men at the oars were flagging.

  ‘One last heave!’ Rob shouted.

  Leaving his oar, he clambered over the benches to the bow. A rope lay coiled in the bilge, with a grappling hook tied to one end. Balancing himself on the thwart, Rob took the rope and paid out a length. He swung it in the air, as he had many times back home slinging a lasso around his father’s cattle, then let fly.

  He had one chance, and he judged it perfectly. The grappling hook sailed through the air and caught on the chains below the brig’s bowsprit. Rob fastened the rope end to a cleat on the cutter’s bow, just as it jerked taut. The cutter bounded forwards as the brig took the strain.

  Rob and Angus hauled in the rope until they came under the bowsprit. Behind them, marines and sailors readied their weapons. Rob waited for the command.

  It didn’t come. Rob looked back: every second they delayed increased their danger. What was Verrier thinking?

  Verrier lay slumped over his oar, a dark bloodstain spreading around the small hole punched through his blue coat. Rob felt a pang of sorrow. The lieutenant had been a good man, brave, and a bulwark against Coyningham’s brutality. But that did not matter now. If they waited any longer, they would all die.

  He sought out the only other officer in the boat, a pimple-faced midshipman named Evans. He was younger than Rob and white with terror.

  ‘Give the command,’ Rob hissed.

  The midshipman looked at him blankly.

  ‘The order to board. The men look to their officers,’ Rob added urgently. ‘You are the senior officer aboard now.’

  Evans swallowed hard and nodded. He stood, his knees shaking so badly Rob feared he would fall in the water.