“Stop your vents!” Rhodes was striding more quickly now. “Sponge out and load!”
The gun-captains had to work doubly hard, using a fist or two if necessary to contain their men’s excitement. To put a charge into an unsponged barrel where some smouldering remains from the first shot were still inside was inviting sudden and horrible death.
Stockdale pounded the breaching-ring of his gun. “Come on, boys! Come on!”
“Run out!” Palliser was resting his telescope on the hammock nettings to study the other ship. “As you bear! Fire! ”
This time the broadside was uneven, with each captain taking his time, choosing his own moment. But before they could watch the fall of shot men were already dashing to braces and halliards, while aft Gulliver urged his helmsmen to greater efforts as Destiny changed tack, standing as close to the wind as possible without losing her manoeuvrability.
Bolitho’s mouth had gone dry. Without noticing he had drawn his hanger and was holding it to his hip as the deck tilted, and then slowly but steadily his gun-captains saw San Augustin’s gilded beak-head edge across their open ports.
“On the uproll!”
San Augustin’s side erupted in darting tongues, and Bolitho heard the wild shriek of langrage or chain-shot passing high overhead. He found time to pity Midshipman Henderson clinging to the cross-trees with his telescope trained on the enemy while the murderous tangle of chain and iron bars swept past him.
“Fire!”
Bolitho saw the sea bursting with spray around the other ship, and thought he saw her main-course quiver as at least one ball ploughed through it.
As his men threw themselves on handspikes and rammers, yelling for powder and shot, oblivious to everything but the hungry muzzles and Palliser’s voice from the quarterdeck, Bolitho glanced at the captain.
He was with Gulliver and Slade beside the compass, pointing at the enemy, the sails, at the drifting smoke, as if he held every act and each consequence in his palm.
“Fire!”
Down Destiny’s starboard side, gun by gun, the twelve-pounders crashed inboard, their trucks squealing like enraged hogs.
“Stand by to alter course! Be ready, Mr Rhodes! Larboard battery load with double-shot!”
Bolitho ducked away from running seamen and bellowing petty officers. Their constant, aching drills on the long passage from Plymouth had taught them well. No matter what the guns were doing, the ship had to be worked and kept afloat.
Once again the guns roared out their challenge, a different sound this time, jarring and painful, as the double- shotted barrels responded to their charges.
Bolitho wiped his face with his wrist. He felt as if he had been in the sun for hours. In fact, it was barely eight bells. One hour since Spillane had been sent below.
Dumaresq was taking a risk to double-shot his guns. But Bolitho had seen the two schooners working their way to windward, as if to close with Destiny from astern. They had to hit San Augustin, and hit her hard, if only to slow her down.
Dumaresq shouted, “Fetch the gunner! Lively there!”
Bolitho winced as water cascaded over the opposite gangway, and he felt the hull jump to a massive pounding. Two hits at least, perhaps on the waterline.
But the boatswain was already yelling orders, and his men were running past the marine sentries who guarded each hatchway, to examine the hull and to shore up any damage.
He saw the gunner, blinking like an owl in the sunlight, his face creased with anger at being called from his magazine and powder rooms even by the captain.
“Mr Vallance!” Dumaresq’s face was split in a fierce grin. “You were once the best gun-captain in the Channel Fleet, is that not so?”
Vallance shuffled his felt slippers, very necessary footwear to avoid kicking up sparks in so lethal a place as the magazine.
“That be true, sir. No doubt on it.” Despite the noise, he was obviously pleased to be so remembered.
“Well, I want you to personally take charge of the bow-chasers and put paid to that topsail schooner. I’ll bring the ship about.” He kept his voice level. “You’ll have to look alive.”
Vallance shuffled away, jerking his thumb to beckon two of the gun-captains from Bolitho’s battery without even asking permission. Vallance was the best of his kind, even if he was usually a taciturn man. He did not need Dumaresq to elaborate. For when Destiny tacked round to engage the schooners she would present her full length to the enemy’s broadside.
Destiny’s bow-chasers were nine-pounders. Although not as powerful as several other naval guns, the nine- pounder was always considered to be the most accurate.
“Fire!”
Rhodes ’ crews were sponging out again, and the seamen shone with sweat which cut runners through the powder-dirt on their bodies like marks of a lash.
The range was less than two miles, and when Bolitho looked up he saw several holes in the main-topsail and a few seamen working to replace some broken rigging while the battle raged across the narrowing strip of water.
Vallance was up in the bows now, and Bolitho could picture his grizzled head bobbing over the larboard nine- pounder, remembering perhaps when he had been a gun-captain himself.
Dumaresq’s voice cut through a brief lull in the firing. “When you are ready, Mr Palliser. It will mean five points to larboard.” He pounded his fists together. “If only the wind would come!” He thrust his hands behind him again as if to control their agitation. “Loose the t’gan’sls!”
Moments later, answering as best she could to the flapping canvas, Destiny tacked round to larboard, and in seconds, or so it seemed, the schooners lay across her bows.
Bolitho heard the crash of a nine-pounder, and then the other on the opposite bow as Vallance fired.
The topsail schooner seemed to stagger, as if she had run headlong on to a reef. Foremast, sails and yard all crumpled together to swamp her forecastle and slew her round out of command.
Dumaresq yelled, “Break off the action! Bring her about Mr Palliser!”
Bolitho knew that the second schooner was hardly likely to risk sharing her consort’s fate. It was a masterful piece of gunlaying. He saw his men sliding down the stays to the deck after setting the extra sails, and wondered how Destiny would appear to the enemy’s gun-crews as they peered through the smoke and saw one of their number crippled so easily.
It would hardly affect the difference of armament between the two ships, but it would put heart into the British seamen when they most needed it.
“Steady as she goes! Nor’ by east, sir!”
Bolitho shouted, “It’ll be our turn next!” He saw several of the seamen turn to grin at him, their faces like masks, their eyes glazed by the constant crash of gunfire.
The deck seemed to leap beneath Bolitho’s feet, and with astonishment he saw a twelve-pounder from the opposite battery toppled on to its side, two men crushed and screaming under it, while others ducked or fell sprawling to flying splinters.
He heard Rhodes yelling to restore order and the responding bang of several guns, but the damage had been bad, and as Timbrell’s men ran to haul away the broken timber and upended gun, the enemy fired again.
Bolitho had no way of knowing how many of San Augustin’s shots found their mark, but the deck shook so violently he knew it was a massive weight of iron. Woodwork and pieces of broken metal clattered around him, and he covered his face with his arms as a great shadow swooped over the deck.
Stockdale pulled him down and croaked, “Mizzen! They’ve shot it away!”
Then came the thundering crash as the complete mizzenmast and spars scythed across the quarterdeck and down over the starboard gangway, snapping rigging and entangling men as it went.
Bolitho staggered to his feet and looked for the enemy. But she seemed to have changed position, her upper yards misting over as she continued to shoot. Destiny was listing, the mizzen dragging her round as men ran and stumbled amongst the tangled rigging, their ears too deafened by the noise to react to their orders.
