between decks they still managed to keep to themselves, in their own 'barracks,' as they called their messes.
There was a dull bang, and seconds later a thin waterspout shot up from the sea to leave a wisp of smoke where it had fallen.
The first lieutenant forced a grin. 'They'll have to do better than that!' But his eyes were empty.
Keen said, 'I cannot see the sense in dividing their strength, sir.'
'I think I know what they intend, Val. Three will go for our two consorts.' He saw his words sink in. 'The other half will come for us.' All at once the plan was so clear he could almost see it in action.
'Shall I load and run out, sir?'
He did not reply directly. 'Pass the word to the gunner and Lieutenant Joyce on the lower gun deck. We still have time. Valkyrie will be the first to engage.' He considered. 'Yes, there is time enough. The enemy will try to do as much damage to our spars and rigging as possible to keep us from supporting our friends. But our thirty-two- pounders will outshoot them. How much bar-shot and anything for that very purpose do we have? We will race them at their own game.'
It was not hard to understand the French tactics. It was customary for them to aim for the rigging to disable their opponents, whereas the English put their faith in rapid broadsides to smash the hulls into submission.
Keen said, 'It is unlikely that we carry enough for more than a few full broadsides. But I shall pass your instructions to the gunner immediately. Mr Joyce is a good officer-I shall see that he is instructed to point each gun himself. With the wind holding us over, we should be able to maul them badly.'
'After that, Val, pass the order to load and run out.'
There were a few more shots but nobody saw where they fell, probably ahead of Valkyrie in the van.
The three other French ships had shortened sail, preparing to fight the three-decker with a vice-admiral's flag at the fore. The first embrace would be vital. The wind's steady strength would carry the enemies apart immediately afterwards, and it would take more time to regain any sort of advantage.
Whistles shrilled below decks and as the port lids were hoisted, the whole ship seemed to hold her breath. Then, with her decks shaking under their tremendous weight, she ran out her guns, their crews busy with handspikes while they peered over the black muzzles to catch a glimpse of the enemy. More whistles. Every gun loaded, the great lower battery packed with murderous linked shot, some like bars which doubled in length as it screamed through the air, others shaped like iron spades which when fired spun around like the sails of a mill.
Keen said, 'Let her fall off two points. I want to draw the others away.'
It was at that moment that Valkyrie and then Relentless opened fire, the pale smoke fanning through their sails and rigging like low cloud. Much of the broadside fell short, flinging up banks of broken water, some of which reached the enemy vessels. The air quivered as the French line responded, the long orange tongues spitting out along the gunports. As Bolitho had predicted it was not a powerful reply; the lower guns were cruising just above the sea, and it seemed likely that the officers could not elevate them enough to reach the two 74s.
'Steady as you go!' Keen crossed the quarterdeck, his eyes everywhere as he stared from the set of the sails to the enemy formation. They were beginning to draw near on a converging tack, whilst beyond them he could make out the sleek hull of the solitary frigate. He turned to say so to Bolitho, but saw him smile.
'I've seen her. She flies a rearadmiral's flag. It would be exactly what Baratte would do. This way he can remain in control, but move between the formations without delay.'
Keen found himself able to smile back. 'What you might do, sir, if I'm not mistaken!'
Sedgemore was striding along the upper gun deck, his bared sword resting on his shoulder as he looked quickly at each crew. From the gun captains with their trigger lines already pulled taut, to the seamen on either side of the carriage, ready to sponge out the smoking muzzles and reload as they had done so many times in Keen's relentless drills. The boys had sanded the decks, while others stood ready to fetch fresh powder from the magazine so long as it was needed. Boys from the seaport slums, or unwanted children from families already worn down by childbirth. The same age as the midshipmen for the most part. A million miles apart.
Keen drew his sword and tossed the scabbard to Tojohns, his coxswain. He would not sheath it again until the enemy struck, or it was dragged from his dead hand.
The leading French ship was changing tack very slightly. Bolitho imagined Joyce and his subordinates on the lower gun deck, watching the square ports, the glittering expanse of water and then out of nowhere, the enemy's bowsprit and beak-head.
Bolitho glanced at the masthead pendant. It was pointing stiffly, like a lance, and he felt the deck tilting even further to leeward. The shrill of Joyce's whistle was drowned by the first pair of guns, and another, and still more until the air was filled with choking smoke. In the confines of that great gun deck it would be far worse.
The leading Frenchman seemed to wilt, her canvas writhing as if torn apart by giant claws, and with a sliding crash which could be heard across the water her foremast and rigging fell over the side, taking shrouds, spars and shrieking men with it.
The second ship, another 74, had been obeying a signal to close on the leader, and now because her consort was staggering out of line, her forecastle strangely bare with the mast gone, there was danger of collision.
Keen shouted, 'Fire at will!'
Whistles again, the upper and middle gun decks roared out at the enemy. Bolitho saw wreckage fly from the second ship, and holes punched through her flapping sails as the iron raked her from bow to poop.
John Allday gritted his teeth. 'For what we are about to receive…'
Every port along the enemy's side flashed fire and Bolitho gripped the quarterdeck rail as he felt the shots smashing into the hull like great hammers. But nothing fell from above, and already several of the gun captains below him had their hands in the air, ready to fire again.
Keen yelled, 'On the uproll, Mr Sedgemore!'
'Fire!'
The long twelve-pounders flung themselves inboard on the tackles, their black muzzles streaming smoke and hissing like live things as the wet sponges were rammed into them.
'Run out!' Sedgemore wiped his sweating face. 'As you bear, lads! Fire!'
The third ship had dropped downwind to avoid the leading two and swayed over to the force of a full broadside as she fired directly into Black Prince's quarter.
There were crashes and screams from below the poop, and the rumble of a gun being upended.
'Put your helm down!' Keen watched the leading ship swinging towards them, still out of control because of the great mass of rigging and spars hauling her round like some huge sea anchor. He raised a glass and saw the gleam of axes as men tried to cut away the fallen mast, while others stood, apparently unable to move as Black Prince's jib-boom passed their own.
At this range Joyce's great thirty-two-pounders could not miss. The enemy stood at barely thirty yards' range when his guns thundered from every port, and another broadside of screaming metal ripped through the remaining masts and spars or across the deck itself.
Major Bourchier watched with little more than professional interest as his lieutenant snapped, 'Marines! Fix bayonets! Stand-to! '
They stepped smartly up to the packed nettings and slid their muskets across the hammocks to take aim.
Smoke swirled over the deck. Bolitho felt Allday flinch beside him as a ball crashed through a port and splintered on the breech of a gun even as it was being run out.
The gun's crew were hurled in all directions, some cut to pieces to cover the men at the neighbouring twelve- pounder with blood, others smashed down where they had been standing in their fixed attitudes before they fell to the deck.
Midshipman Hilditch, one of the twelve-year-olds who had joined Black Prince at Spithead, had been running messages to and from the lower gun deck. He fell down the open hatchway, but not before Bolitho had seen that half of his face had gone. Like Tyacke.
'She's trying to cross our stern, Val!'
Bolitho watched men running to Keen's commands, hauling on braces and halliards to allow the ship to turn even further downwind. Their immediate danger was the third ship in the French line. If she managed to press astern, and at this close range, she could pour a full broadside deck by deck through Black Prince's unprotected stern. Any fighting ship, once cleared for action, was open from bow to counter; a single carefully timed broadside would turn the open gun decks into a bloody shambles. But the enemy had left it too late, and was now coming about to overreach the flagship's starboard quarter.
