and tiny in their midst. The bodice of her dress, a buttercup yellow, was a gay spot ofcolour that drew Clinton's eye irresistibly. It was & distraction that he could not afford at this moment.
The American seemed to be watching Clinton, seemed to have singled him out from the group of officers, and even across the wide stretch of water that still separated them, Clinton was aware of the mesmeric pull of those golden-flecked eyes, the eyes of a predator, a leopard perhaps, poised with a lithe and patient gram upon the bough above the waterhole, awaiting the moment when the prey moved beneath him.
At the level of Mungo St. John's knees were the heads of his gun crews, little knots of pale tense faces, contrasting starkly with the quiescent rank of black slaves. They crouched over their weapons, - and the long slim barrels were reduced to small dark circles as Clinton stared directly down the bores.
at a deceplaying crews to on to There were men also in Huron's rigging, roosting in the cross-trees of the yards and masts, and the long barrels of their muskets were clear to see against the backdrop of the wind-driven sky.
They would be picked marksmen, Huron's best, and their preferred and special target would be the small group of officers on the gunboat's quarterdeck. Clinton hoped that the clipper's wild action in the gale would throw out their aim. Gentlemen, I advise you to take cover until we can bring the ship into action, he told Denham and Ferris quietly, and felt a little prick of pride when neither of them moved. It was the tradition of Drake and Nelson not to flinch from the coming storm of fire, and Clinton himself went on standing at his ease, hands clasped at the small of his back, calling a small adjustment to the helm as Black joke drove in eagerly, the terrier going for the hold on the bull's nose.
He saw the American move his head, a final judgement of range, considered against the clipper's rolling and beside him Ferris murmured the age-old blasphemy which Clinton this time could not find it in him to resent, for it was also a part of the great tradition. For what we are about to receive-' said Ferris, and as if he had heard the words, the American drew the sword from the scabbard on his belt, and raised it above his head. Involuntarily all three naval officers drew breath together and held it. Huron was at the bottom of her roll, her cannon pointing down into the sea close alongside, then she was coming up, the barrels rising levelled, and the sword arm fell.
The six cannon leaped together, in perfect concert, and the startling white gusts of smoke shot fifty feet from her sides, completely silent, for the sound had not reached them, and for a fleeting part of a second they could believe that Huron had not loosed her broadside.
Then the very air beat in upon them, shocking the eardrums, seeming for a moment to suck their eyeballs from the sockets with the vast disruption of air caused by passing shot, and close above Clinton's head a stay parted with a whiplash crack.
That was one ball high, but under Clinton's feet, the deck jumped with the multiple impact of ball into her, and the bull rang like the strokes of a gigantic brass gong.
A single ball came through at deck level. it struck a burst of sparks from the steel hull, like Brocks fireworks at Crystal Palace, brilliant orange even in the strong sunlight, and the hole it tore through Black Joke's plating was fringed with bare jagged tongues of metal like the petals of a silver sunflower.
A seaman in striped vest and baggy canvas breeches, who was kneeling behind the bulwark, took the ball full in his chest.
his severed limbs were strewn untidily across the gunboat's spotless deck and the ball went on to strike the foot of Black Joke's mast, shivering it like a tall tree struck by lightning, and tearing a long white splinter from the seasoned Norwegian pine. Then, with its force mainly spent the ball rolled the length of the deck, smoking and stinking of scorched metal until it thumped into the scuppers and rolled idly back and forth. Only then, seconds after the broadside struck, did the crash of the discharge reach their ears across the turbulent waters that separated the two vessels. Not bad shooting for a Yankee, ' Ferris grudged them, raising his voice above the gun thunder, and Denham had his watch out and was timing how long it took for the clipper's gun crews to reload. Forty-five seconds, Denham intoned, 'and not a single gun run out again. A bunch of fairground tinkers could do better.'
Clinton found himself wondering if it was ely brainer vado, or complete indifference to danger and violent death which allowed the two younger officers to chat so casually, while the seaman's severed arms still twitched on the deck, not twenty feet away.
Clinton was afraid, afraid of death and afraid of failing in his duty and afraid of being seen to be afraid, but then he was older than they, for despite their manly airs Ferris was a boy and Denham barely twenty, so perhaps it was not courage but ignorance and lack of imagination. Fifty-five seconds! 'Denham grunted scornfully, as the next ragged broadside crashed into Black joke's iron hull, and somebody started to scream below decks, a high mindless keening like steam from a kettle. Send somebody to stop that fellow, ' Ferris murmured to the seaman who crouched nearby, and doubled over still the man hurried away. Seconds later the screaming stopped abruptly. Good work, Ferris told the seaman as he took his place at the bulwark again. Dead, sir, he is, poor devil.'
Ferris nodded without change of expression, and moved closer to listen to his Captain.
Mr. Denham, I am going to lead the boarding-party.
You are to be ready to sheer off and leave us to it, should there be any danger to the ship-' There was a sharp fluting sound, like the flight of a giant insect past their heads, and Clinton glanced up irritably. The marksmen in Huron's rigging had opened fire, the pop of their muskets seemed muted and without menace. Studiedly Clinton ignored them and went on issuing his final orders, raising his voice to compete with the crash and roar of shot and the strike of it into the gunboat's hull.
As Clinton finished speaking, Denham blurted abruptly, 'It's hell not being able to reply. ' He was staring across at the clipper whose silhouette was blurred with a bank of pale gunsmoke that even the gale could not disperse rapidly enough. 'It's bad for the men, he corrected himself swiftly, and Clinton had his answer.
Denham was afraid as he was, and the knowledge gave him no comfort at all. If only they could do something, anythin& instead of having to stand here in the open and make studied conversation, while Black lake tore across the last few hundred yards of white crested sea that still separated them.
The crash of cannon shot tearing into Black joke's vitals was almost continuous now as the fastest gunners aboard Huron outstripped the others. The bow cannon that the American Captain was supervising and laying was firing three times to the other's twice, Clinton had been counting the plumes of muzzle smoke, this would be the sixth ball they sent into the little gunboat since the American had given the order to fire as many minutes ago.
He watched the gunsmoke bloom again from the cannon's maw, and this time the gunboat's deck was swept as if by hail stones, but leaden hail stones as big as ripe grapes that pierced the thin steel bulwarks with pricks of sunlight and clawed chunks of wood from the maindeck, a deck that was now threaded with meandering scarlet snakes of blood and slick little puddles of it that spread from beneath the inert and crumpled figures that seemed to be scattered in purposeless profusion wherever Clinton looked.
