Ozzard looked at the bolted door and shivered. It was cold down here where he kept his wine, and in times like these took refuge.
Like Allday, he was privileged to come and go as he pleased, and was grateful for the profession Bolitho had given him. Now in his store, in the lowest portion of Achates' hull, he was afraid. But it did not trouble him. He had accepted it long ago.
When he had carried the fresh chicken to the cabin for Bolitho, he had found time to glance at the master's chart below the poop.
Ozzard held his arms across his narrow chest even more tightly. Below where he sat was the keel, and beyond it there was nothing but a bottomless ocean.
He winced as another gun made the deck quiver. But it seemed far away and without danger. Later he might venture up on deck. There was another muffled bang and he decided to wait.
Isolated from the enclosed world between decks, Bolitho climbed to the poop and looked at the French seventy-four. She had spread more canvas, but although she had closed the distance between them she had not yet fired a shot. He estimated that she had changed tack slightly and was now steering along an almost parallel course. By contrast, the little frigate had run with the wind before coming about to take station on Achates' lee quarter.
He said, 'Open fire.' He heard his order being passed to the quarterdeck, felt the response as the helm went over and the ship came reluctantly as close to the wind as she could manage.
He watched as the frigate appeared to move over until she lay directly astern. Then, as the word reached him far below, old Crocker jerked his trigger-line and the starboard stern-chaser recoiled with a sharp bang. Bolitho did not blink, and thought he saw the dark blur of the ball as it reached the apex of its flight before it splashed down almost alongside, the tall waterspout falling and scattering in the wind.
Bolitho heard the marines at the netting whispering and probably making bets on the next shot.
Old Crocker was good all right. He had almost winged the frigate with his first ball.
Now he had the range, and the 'feel' of it, as every gun captain should. Furthermore, the Diane's captain would know it.
The frigate fired one of her bow-chasers, and its thin spout of water well astern of Achates brought a roar of derision from the marines.
Their lieutenant snapped, 'Sar'nt Saxton, you will oblige me by keeping those ruffians quiet and in good order!' But he was grinning as he spoke and the reprimand was more for Bolitho's benefit than anything.
Adam climbed to the poop with a telescope and looked astern as another gun fired from below the counter.
This time there was no splash to betray the fall of shot. Instead a great streamer of torn topsail broke free and curled from its yard like a pale banner.
Bolitho heard the muffled cheers from below. They had hit her. If one of Crocker's eighteen-pound balls struck the Diane's slender hull it could be serious.
Adam exclaimed, 'Look, sir! Argonaute's setting her main-course!'
The seventy-four seemed to puff herself up as with sail upon sail she leaned over to the wind, her lower gun- ports almost awash as she changed tack towards Achates.
Bolitho heard Keen shout, 'Let her fall off three points again, Mr Knocker! Steer nor'-east by north!'
Even as the hands hauled at the braces and Knocker stood over the binnacle like a watchful hawk, Crocker fired yet again, and this time one of the frigate's jib sails was cut away to join its ragged companion.
Quantock was yelling, 'Mr Mountsteven! Another pull at the weather-forebrace there! Now belay, dammit, sir!'
Men bustled about at the braces and halliards, while only the crews of the starboard guns, which pointed towards the enemy, remained at their stations.
Bolitho gripped the nettings as the deck tilted to the thrust of the canvas overhead.
The French captain would have to close the range whether he wanted to or not. Unless he ordered his frigate to stand away, in which case Achates would be able to meet his challenge gun to gun. Bolitho smiled. Well… almost.
One of the marines who was leaning against the hammocks, his musket already cradled against his cheek, saw Bolitho's smile and dared to say, 'Us'Il teach them Frogs a lesson, sir!'
He seemed to realize he had spoken to a vice-admiral uninvited and lapsed into confused silence.
Bolitho glanced at him. He did not even know his name.
In a while they would be fighting for their very lives. The heaviest casualties were usually aft on the unprotected poop and quarterdeck. This marine might be one of them.
He said, 'I am relying on it.' He looked at their expectant faces, hating his own words. 'So give your best, lads.'
There was a jarring crash as Crocker laid and fired another gun. The frigate had changed tack very slightly, but it had not passed unnoticed by the grotesque gun captain. As her shape lengthened momentarily Crocker pulled his trigger-line and the ball smashed through the enemy's larboard gangway, hurling planks and splintered wood high into the air.
There were more cheers, and Bolitho held his breath as the frigate paid off down-wind, her torn canvas still whipping above the deck as she opened the range between them.
Then he ran down the poop ladder and strode to the rail above the gun-deck.
It would be very soon. He glanced quickly abeam and saw the seventy-four's bows edging into view, her canvas bulging to the wind as she changed tack still further towards the Achates.
'Stand by!'
The cheering ceased instantly and gun crews crouched beside their eighteen-pounders, staring through the ports. 'As you bear!'
The French ship had the wind-gauge, but so strong was the pressure in Achates' sails that her gun muzzles were elevated to maximum advantage by the slanting decks.
‘Fire!'
Deck by deck, gun by gun, the carefully aimed broadside flashed along Achates' side from stern to forecastle. Some of the forward guns were traversed to full extent, their crews leaning on their handspikes until they too could train on the enemy.
Bolitho watched intently as the Argonaute's topsails danced wildly, the wind ready and eager to explore the holes punched by the double-shotted guns.
Along and beyond her hull he saw the sea alive with flung spray as more balls slammed down with terrible impact.
It was impossible to determine if they had hit anything vital. But the range was still closing, the French captain just as aware as Keen of the danger of a lucky shot. One ship knocked out of the fight, another driven off by Crocker's two stern-chasers, the French captain would feel the humiliation too with his admiral breathing down his neck.
Bolitho saw the flashing line of bright tongues from the seventy-four's side, tensed for the sickening shriek of iron, the crash of shots slamming into timber. Instead he heard the insane whine of chain-shot and saw long streamers of broken rigging floating from the upper yards, the forward topgallant sail ripped apart like a handkerchief in the invisible onslaught.
'Ready!' Keen had his hand up high. 'Fire!'
Again the guns recoiled madly on their tackles, their crews leaping forward to sponge out and ram in fresh charges while the muzzles were still spewing smoke.
'Ready!' Keen wiped his streaming face with his forearm. 'Fire!'
The gunnery was superb. All the drills, the demanding discipline, were paying off now. Two broadsides to Argonaute's one.
They were hitting her too. Her mizzen-topmast was dangling like a fallen bridge, and her sails were pock- marked by shot and flying splinters.
Bolitho held his breath again as the guns flashed along the enemy's side.
He felt the jarring thud of balls hitting the hull, and saw the fore-course punctured in several places at once. The wind did the rest, and soon the fore-course was little more than rags.
