H.M.S. COCKEREL

Now!

'Porter!' he bawled, feeling faint and dizzy with the effort he put into his cry. 'Scandalise her! Quartermaster, helm hard alee! Ready, the larboard battery! Troops on deck, muster in the waist!'

Round she came, luffing up to windward, yards crying and sails cracking like gun-shots, masts groaning and loose gear coming adrift from aloft. The square sails were being brailed up, goosewinged by Spanish reefs, the foresails and jibs' sheets freed, the braces let ease. Radical slowed quickly, going from a painful struggle to flee to a weak surrender, the sort of rubbery-legged shudder a deer chased to exhaustion might display as it came to a halt at last, tongue lolling and ribs heaving to face the dogs, and its death.

The French corvette stood on for a startled moment, laid as full and by as she could lay, as Radical fetched up across her course, under her bows, almost at right-angles to her. She began to swing away, haul her wind, hoping to shave past Radical's stern, within spitting distance.

But Lewrie's borrowed frigate had come up in-irons, dead in the eye of the wind, her square-sail yards purposely thrown ail-aback, flat against the apparent wind, then against the true wind, as she groaned to a dead halt in a welter of disturbed water, began to make a slight stern-board!

The corvette's bowsprit and jib boom came thrusting inward like a lance, soaring over the larboard side, steeved high into the air, almost as high as the main-course yard, just before the main-mast chains. Her sprits'l yard, crossed beneath her bows but not deployed, tangled in the stays, ripping off, rigging lines parting like pistol shots, timbers moaning in agony as her elaborate beakhead rails were crushed back into her bows, as her cut-water slammed into Radical with a monumental, hollow booming that shook both ships like striking a rocky shoal at-speed!

Everyone was knocked off their feet-Radical shuddered- her side gave way to the impact of nearly four hundred tons of oak and iron striking her almost at right-angles!

'First grapnels, away!' Lewrie howled, getting to his own feet, even without looking. 'Tireurs, there! You marksmen! Tirez! Charles, give her a broadside!'

Radical's gunners clambered back to their guns, opened their gunports, and ran out. Men teamed up on crow-levers to shift their charges to aim inward, aiming point-blank at oak scantlings mere feet away, the twelve-pounders far fore and aft laid so canted at their ports they'd snap their breeching ropes. Musketry aloft snapping and cracking, shouts of fear from the French gunners on the foredeck and foc's'le as lead struck about them, clawing at their wounds as they were picked off before they could get back to serving their guns. Or freeing the flung grapnels.

Then Radical fired her broadside. Twelve hundred feet per second, a ball flew when it left the muzzle of a naval artillery piece. Grape-shot… more like a sack of hard iron plums… and eighteen-pounder solid round-shot behind that… the corvette screamed! Wood cried out as it was blasted away, timbers flew, scantling planking whirled in the air! Thuds and thonks rose from her as her gun deck and mess deck were turned into a pair of bowling pitches, and heavy iron tore through tight-pressed men, overturning artillery on carriages, shivering masts as they struck on the lower trunks. Carline posts, scantling, decks, overhead deck beam timbers broke or were turned by caroming ricochets into jagged clouds of wood sprinters, bits and pieces as big as bayonets, flicking quick as birds, quilling sailors and making them cringe or cry in terror.

Lewrie scampered to the larboard gangway above his guns, sword drawn. 'Cockerels, to me!' he called, waving his tars to join him at the bulwarks. 'Grapnel men? Boarders? Boarders, first! You, too, my man!' he shouted as he espied Cony and his French mate with their port-bottle grenadoes. They came with muskets, pistols and cutlasses bare and brutally glittering. There was nothing subtle or scientific about cutlasses-they were choppers, not really swords.

'Now, Cockerels… ready? Follow me, lads!' he screamed, to left and right. 'Boarders! Awwayy, boarderrss!'

They surged across the narrow space, scrambling along the foot ropes and bracing cables below the ruin of the corvette's jib boom and bowsprit, weapons in one hand and leaping from fore stay to fore stay with the other. Some spryer topmen sprinted down the jib boom, as if running across a wide log footbridge, horny bare feet tough and sure on pine spars and wound-rope doubling bands. All with a hank of white cloth tied round their left biceps over their shirts or jackets, marking an ally for the sharpshooters above.

There was a quick mкlйe among the survivors of the bow-chasers' crews, those who had not already been picked off, or had fled. French sailors were overrun in a twinkling, hacked down with cutlasses or axe heads, a fleet few screaming in terror and scampering over the top of, around the sides of, the petty officers' heads in the roundhouses of the forward bulkhead.

'Kennedy!' Lewrie shouted from the beakhead platform. 'Bring your men, now! Grapnels! We'll take 'em to the anchor cat-heads! Be ready with pistols!' he said, drawing the first of a borrowed pair.

He climbed up from the beakhead platform to the foredeck, and the abandoned chase-guns, shouldered into the bulkhead, and hopped up for a view, trying to scale it. A French sailor was climbing atop it with a musket in his hands. Eye to eye, not a single yard between!

He brought up his pistol cack-handed, snapping it back to full-cock with his sword-hand wrist, leveled and fired. The man's forehead turned plummy, and the back of his skull was blown out, flinging blood and brains in a sudden rain behind him. His own dying scream was echoed by the men who'd been in his rear, trying to dash forward to repel.

'Up, men!' Lewrie yelled. 'Give 'em pistols! Point-blank!'

His men erupted from either side of the bulkhead and the roundhouses, shouldering into rough line and leveling their weapons. Guns went off from both sides. A British sailor was flung backwards with a howl. There was a sharp crack, a cloud of smoke from the far side, and more howls among the French, followed by another light explosion, and the air sang with lead and broken glass! Cony and his grenadoes!

Lewrie got to the top of the bulkhead, crawled across it and looked down onto the forecastle. There were half a dozen dead below, a like number writhing and shrieking… but a full two dozen running forward towards him. Muskets crackled near his ears, making them ring, and a few of the French skidded or tumbled to a halt, the ones behind tripping over them, and coming to a stop. Lewrie drew his second pistol, glanced left to see a reassuring flash of red uniform coat. The Irish had made it across!

The French took pause, confused by the sight of British Red, a heartbeat standing still. Then the corvette was quaking to a second broadside, and the men below were scythed away by raking fire, as more iron bowled and caromed the length of her gun deck!

'Take the forecastle!' Lewrie pleaded, turning to search for Lieutenant Kennedy. There he was! 'Kennedy! Take the forecastle! Right to the railing! Volley and cover us!'

The Irish swept past him, bayonets winking, muskets presented at hip level; about twenty men shuffling into ranks whilst the first brave ten hurriedly reloaded to a clatter of ramrods.

'Grapnels, now! Set 'em to the cat-heads, behind the troops!'

He took the larboard side, Bosun Porter the starboard, trailing heavy four-inch manila lines across from Radical, heavy-barbed grapnels being carried by seamen. Skulking low, as the French got organised at last, as they picked themselves up amid a welter of blood and smoke, of sensible order overturned. Ignoring the shrieks of men torn in half by iron shards, those quilled like hedgehogs by splinters, or crushed and howling beneath shattered gun carriages, they were advancing, their numbers growing quickly. Musket fire began to buzz around them. Men went down. Lewrie lost his second hat, felt a brush against his scalp, and staggered, as a musket ball clipped the hair above bis left ear.

But they had the grapnels set, two wraps about the projecting cat-head timbers, then driven deep into the bulwarks. Lewrie could see the strain coming on the lines, lifting them like snakes from the deck and turning them bar-taut. And a look forward showed him de Crillart and some of his regular gunners coming over, with French soldiers in a bunch along Radical's gangway, clumsily scrambling for handholds.

'Hurry!' he shouted to them, waving Charles forward. 'For God's sake, hurry 'em over! We can't hold long!'

Sure enough, there were men dashing along either gangway towards his outmanned boarding party. Porter to starboard had two pistols in his hands, seamen-Royalist French and British-at his back, ready with cutlasses or a few loaded muskets. Lewrie cocked his second pistol and leveled it, glaring down the barrel at the men running directly at him.

Hoping they might flinch. And his own body turned side-on, like a duellist. Hoping he wouldn't be shot!