pursuing captain had used his bow-chaser to test the range; it was always a difficult shot, but it only required one good hit.
He went forward and waited for Dyer to meet him. 'I shall luff presently.' He saw Ritchie listening, taking it all in. 'Then we shall sail as close to the wind as we can. It should give us some advantage and extra elevation.' He watched his words going home. 'Double-shot ted chain- shot, too, if we have any. No full broadside.' He paused, holding Dyer's eyes. 'Gun by gun. Do it yourself. I want that terrier dismasted before we are!'
He snatched a glass from the rack and climbed into the shrouds to search for the second vessel. He found her and settled her in the spray-dappled lens. One of their large frigates. Like Beer's Unity
He strode aft again, feeling the eyes upon him, knowing their thoughts.
'Sergeant Whittle. Choose your marksmen, then clear the poop. Your scarlet coats make a good aiming point!' Some of them even laughed, as if it was a huge joke.
Whittle, an impressive figure with iron-grey hair beneath his leather hat, bawled an order, and his men moved to their usual stations.
Deighton said, 'I don't see the wisdom of that, Captain. Those ships are out for a kill, you said as much yourself!'
Perhaps he felt safer with the armed marines around him. Adam almost smiled. What was safe today?
He flinched, although he had been expecting it, as a long orange tongue shot from the other frigate's bow, and the bang followed like an echo.
It was well aimed, but the range was still too great. Maybe a nine-pounder; he imagined he could see the brief blur as the ball reached its maximum elevation. He saw the splash, and felt the hull jerk violently as the shot found its mark below the waterline. He glanced sharply at the wheel; Ritchie had three helmsmen on it now, but she showed no sign of running free or being out of command. With the steering gone, there would be no hope at all.
He raised his hand. 'Alter course three points! Steer nor'west!'
Men were already hauling on the braces as the helm went over. The effect was immediate, the wind tilting Valkyrie like a toy as she came round further and further, as close to the wind as she would hold.
A whistle shrilled. 'Open the ports! Run out!'
Squealing like pigs, the guns were hauled up to their ports, extra men running from the opposite side to add their weight to the tackles. At this angle, it was like dragging each gun up a steep slope.
Sails cracked and thundered overhead. Ritchie called, 'Course nor'west, sir!'
Dyer was already at the starboard gangway, oblivious to the demented sails and the men slipping and falling on the spray-drenched deck. He had drawn his sword, and was standing motionless, staring at the enemy frigate as she loomed into view, as if she and not Valkyrie had made the violent change of tack.
'Fire!' Dyer ran from the side as the gun roared out and hurled itself inboard on its tackles, the crew already working with their sponges and worm to clear the barrel of any smouldering remnants which might ignite the next charge as it was rammed home. Adam had seen it happen, men driven beyond reason by the fury of battle who had neglected to sponge out a gun, and had been blown to bloody fragments when it had exploded.
There was a chorus of wild cheering which Adam could not have prevented even if he had wished to. It must have been one of the last guns to fire; they would never know.
Almost with disbelief, he saw the other frigate's foremast begin to move, in a silence which made it all the more terrible.
Slowly at first, and then like a giant tree, the entire foremast with spars, torn canvas and trailing rigging reeled forward and over the side.
He shouted, 'Stand by on the quarterdeck!' When he looked again, the mast was dragging in the sea alongside the enemy ship, snaring her, dragging her round like a great sea-anchor. From a thing of beauty and purpose to a drifting shambles; but that would not last.
The confusion amongst the flapping sails was even more violent when Valkyrie swung round still further, almost aback as she laboured through the eye of the wind.
Adam dragged himself to the compass. 'South-east by east, Mr. Ritchie.' He saw Dyer staring at him and shouted, 'Larboard battery! Broadside.'
'Fire!' The range was about half a mile, but with a full, double-shot ted broadside, they could easily have been alongside.
As the wind drove the swirling smoke away like fog, Adam raised his telescope and studied the enemy's shattered stern; the fallen mast had dragged her around to expose her full length. Only her mainmast remained standing; topmasts, spars and booms covered her decks; torn canvas and coils of severed cordage completed the picture of devastation.
Deliberately, he made himself turn, testing his emotions as he saw the second frigate, leaning over on a converging tack, her guns already run out like black teeth.
He walked to the quarterdeck rail and saw the men stand back from their guns, one gun captain lifting a fresh ball in readiness for the next shot, and the one after that. Until it was over.
He said, They must not board us! We're done for if they overrun the ship!'
He drew the fine, curved hanger and held it over his head.
'On the up roll lads! Make each shot tell!'
Somebody cheered, and a petty officer silenced him with a threat.
The gun captains stood behind their breeches now, each with his trigger-line pulled taut, their crews crouched and ready with handspikes to change the elevation or training.
'Fire!'
The deck reeled beneath his feet, and Adam realised that the enemy had fired at the same moment. There was smoke everywhere, and he heard men screaming as splinters as large as goose quills tore amongst them. He wiped his face with his wrist and saw the enemy's sails, pockmarked with holes, but each yard properly braced, still holding her on the same tack.
The smoke was gone and he saw the upended guns now, the patterns of bright blood where men had fallen, or been crushed beneath the heated barrels.
Deighton was suddenly beside him, and seemed to be shouting, although his voice was muffled, faint.
'Disengage, Captain! That is an order, do you hearT
Adam stared past him at the oncoming ship; she seemed to fill the sea, and there were men in her shrouds, waiting to board, ready to mark down the most valuable targets. As if in a dream, he noticed that Deighton had removed his bright epaulettes. Marines were clambering up the ratlines, some with two muskets slung over their shoulders. Sergeant
Whittle's best marksmen… He tried to think, to clear his mind.
'I will not strike our colours, sir! You gave me an order to fight.' He knew Dyer was waiting for the order. 'Fight I will!'
Deighton winced as more iron crashed into the lower hull. 'I'll see you in hell for this!'
Adam pushed past him. 'We shall meet there, sir]'
He reached up to his shoulder, thinking somebody had tried to take his attention. His epaulette was gone, the cloth shredded into rag where a musket ball had torn it away.
'Fire!'
Men were coughing and retching as the smoke billowed inboard through the open gun ports; the enemy's sails seemed to be towering right alongside, and yet the guns still fired, and were reloaded. The dead lay where they had fallen; there were not enough spare hands either to throw them outboard, or to carry the whimpering wounded below.
Adam saw the other ship's tapering jib boom and then her bowsprit passing over the larboard bow like a giant's lance. There were shots everywhere, a rain of iron hammering the deck, ripping into the torn hammocks where several marines had already fallen.
So they would not collide. The American was carrying too much canvas.
Wildly he swung round, and shouted, 'Carronade!' Then, 'Let her fall off, Mr. Ritchie!'
A master's mate ran to throw his weight on to the wheel. Ritchie was propped against the compass box, his eyes fixed and staring as if still watching his ship's performance, even in death.
Adam waved his sword, and someone on the splintered forecastle jerked the lanyard. The carronade, the
