Command

their quarry but the advantage would be priceless.

By two in the afternoon the end was in sight. After miles of a sea chase Teazer was comfortably to windward of her opponent and was about to establish an overlap—the guns would be speaking soon.

Kydd had done all he could to prepare his ship and her company. Now it was time.

'Firing to larb'd,' Kydd warned. There was no doubt of their target, slashing along just ahead of them and to leeward, but by this he was indicating that he would not be putting his wheel over suddenly and crossing the enemy stern for a savage raking broadside from his starboard side—that would offer one chance only and, with six- pounders, it was not a battle-winning tactic. Instead he would continue coming up, then pound away broadside to broadside until there was a result—one way or another.

And because of Teazer's hard-won weather position his foe could not turn away from the onslaught as that would present his vulnerable stern-quarters to a double broadside. The French commander must have come to the same conclusion for he could see aboard La Fouine that they were shortening sail: it could only be in readiness for combat.

At last: no more tactics, manoeuvring, hard racing. This was the moment.

Kydd allowed Teazer to move ahead before he ordered sail shortened and their frantic speed faded to a purposeful trot as they squared away to their opponent. As he had seen his captain do at the Nile, he started pacing slowly up and down to throw off the aim of muskets in the fighting tops of the enemy picking him out as an officer.

Along the exposed decks the gun crews tensed, held to a hair-trigger, seeing their enemy so brutally clear. Kydd saw no reason to delay: as soon as the last gun had slewed round and could bear it was time to begin. 'Mr Dacres, fire when ready.'

All along the larboard side the six-pounders woke to violent life, eight ringing cracks joining in one ear-splitting discharge, which, Kydd noted again, was quite unlike the deep smash of Tenacious's twenty-four pounders. Still, when the smoke cleared there were several tell-tale dark blotches on La Fouine's sides.

But there would be pay-back. The gun crews worked like maniacs; Kydd remembered from his past at the lower-deck guns that the best cure for cannon-fever was furious work at the guns. Then La Fouine's eight-pounders replied in a vicious stabbing of gunflash and smoke. A musical twang sounded as a stay parted, and a single scream came from forward, cut off almost as soon as it began. Teazer seemed to have escaped serious injury.

Firing became general, guns spoke as soon as they were loaded in a harsh cycle of labour and pain, which was now the lot of the gun crews. Kydd's glance went down to the facings on his coat, smeared with the soft grey of gun-smoke. This was now a smashing duel and it was only just beginning.

He turned at the mainmast and began his pace back to the wheel. He knew only too well that the helmsman had the hardest task: the target of so many sharp-shooters, he could neither move nor retaliate, but at the same time he had the vital responsibility of keeping the ship from veering wildly off course, a fatal matter in the heat of battle.

He glanced across—it was still Poulden at the wheel, calm and measured, a fine example to all who saw him.

From far forward there was a distinct strike of shot, the shock transmitted down the ship through her frames, even to where Kydd stood. Then followed a slow, rending crack as of a tree falling—which could have only one meaning.

'Hold her! ' he bawled at Poulden. Teazer was sheering up out of control into the wind, her sails banging and flapping as they were taken full aback and her speed dropped away to nothing.

A seaman pelted up, wild-eyed. 'Sir, we took a shot in th' bowsprit at th' gammoning an' it carried away.' Chest heaving, the man seemed to be looking to Kydd for some sort of miracle, but with the bowsprit and therefore all the headsails gone there was nothing his captain could think of that would salvage the moment. One thing was imperative: to stop the wild flogging of the sails—even as he glanced over the side they were slowly gathering sternway under their impetus.

Mercifully, La Fouine had shot ahead, leaving them flailing astern, his guns falling silent as they ceased to bear. Kydd hurried to the bows. Teazer's dainty bowsprit had taken an eight-pounder shot squarely at its base and now lay in the sea under her forefoot, shattered and tangled in an appalling snarl of ropes and blocks. With the ruin so complete, Teazer was now dead in the water.

A single lucky shot: it was unfair so early in the fight—and in the worst possible place. Completely out of balance Teazer could neither turn away nor keep a straight course and was now terribly vulnerable.

Over the fast-opening stretch of sea La Fouine continued on, the smoke around him dissipating quickly. Now was his chance to make his escape to continue unimpeded on his voyage of destruction.

But he did not. He wore round in a lazy circle that would end with the methodical annihilation of his helpless opponent.

A cold pit of fear opened in Kydd's stomach, not so much for himself but for the men who had trusted him, for his lovely ship that had minutes of life left—and he knew for a certainty there was nothing he could do about it.

The circle was closing. As a carnivore stalks its kill, La Fouine was going to make sure of his prey. Out of range of Teazer's little six-pounders he was coming round to cross her stern—a true deciding blow, for with perfect impunity he could slowly pass by, sending every shot in his broadside in deadly aim smashing through her pretty stern windows and on into her vitals, unstop-pably down the length of the ship. It would be an onslaught of death and devastation that would be unimaginably violent.

It was the end. The only question left was, at what point did Kydd stop the carnage by yielding to the enemy?

La Fouine came round and steered straight for Teazer's forlorn stern. If war was logical, thought Kydd, dully, now would be the time to give up and strike his colours. But war was not logical; if he hauled down his flag, after mere minutes of fighting, he and the Navy would be damned