But Joyce was in full cry.
‘All right, my lads, all right! God love you, we’ll take them on! And never fear, we’ll send her to the bottom! We’ll arm, we’ll arm, we’ll each have sword and musket if the fight gets close! But first, to the guns! Gun captains at the ready, rouse out what you need. Go now, go, make ready! And listen—’ His voice became harsh, it cut through the jumbled noise. ‘Me and Madesly and our friends will lead you now. And any damned coward who will not fight will feel cold steel, mark; or the bullet! Are you with us?’
There was another cheer, and men began to run about once more. Some ran with purpose, some were clearly lost, frenzied, terrified. Madesly stayed by Joyce, but the rest of their gang hurried here and there, cajoling, threatening, organising gun crews at pistol point. It was chaotic, ridiculous. And clear across the cold grey waves was the man-of-war. As near as Broad could judge, she was almost within range. It was a matter of minutes.
Joyce and Madesly had their pistols in their hands, Matthews and Broad did not. But there were feet of deck, the wheel, the mizzenmast between them. As the two new leaders approached, the two deposed ones drew their weapons. They faced each other in the moaning gale.
‘I want the keys, Matthews. We will fight this out like British sailors, not like yellow men. If that bastard closes, we will fight them hand to hand.’
‘Henry, you are mad. We cannot win it, man. Have we not done enough? Leave it, Henry, leave it.’
‘You fool,’ said Joyce. ‘Does nothing ever touch your sort? Would you let them hang you, just like that?’
His face was pale, his eyes were bright, his tone twisted with bitterness. Broad was speechless, racked with pity.
Along the deck he saw men running, aimless, lost. Again he thought of chickens, and nearly smiled; we’ll all be headless soon, I guess.
‘Come on,’ repeated Joyce. ‘Give me the keys. If you have not the courage to fight give us a chance. You will hang whatever, both of you. If you will not die fighting, for the love of God let me!’
There was a distant bang, flat and torn. All four of them looked to the leeward ship. A trail of smoke blew off downwind of her from a bow-chaser. A couple of hundred yards ahead of them a plume of water rose in the grey sea, collapsed and disappeared. She had fired across the Welfare’s bow.
‘If you intend to clear for action,’ said Matthews quietly, ‘I suggest you look to your guns.’
Joyce’s small pig-eyes were full of hate. ‘And you?’
Broad spoke. His voice was trembling. ‘We will not interfere. Of that you have our word.’
Joyce and Madesly looked at each other. Madesly turned.
‘Then damn you for filthy cowards,’ said Henry Joyce. ‘I only hope I live to kill you both.’
It looked as if he might spit on the deck at their feet. He cleared his throat noisily. Then he shrugged, and followed Madesly forward.
Thirty-Three
Jesse Broad and Matthews took no part in the action, although they could not find it in their hearts or minds to move. They stood on the quarterdeck as though paralysed, watching the strange, slow scene unfold. They saw the downwind frigate snug down to fighting rig, they saw the officers grouped near her stern, they saw the well-drilled sailors run out the guns. Now that the ships were so close the unreality was even greater. For the vengeful frigate was more or less hove-to, lying in the jumbled, leaden sea waiting, while the Welfare, sluggish and short-canvased, covered the last distance that would bring her to her fate straight as an arrow, but oh so very slowly.
On the deck before them, and on the deck below for all they knew, the frenzied process of making ready the guns for firing went on. But it was laughable, horribly pathetic. Half the gun crews were of men who had no knowledge of the weapons. Half the men on board had given up all hope. Joyce and his henchmen rushed about like furies, but little groups, small knots of seamen, could no longer be moved. They swayed as they were harangued, made half-motions to man a gun; and then subsided, staring at the rigging or the deck when the jostler went away.
Firing the long naval guns was a skill that needed training and application, and Broad wondered why it was that Swift had so neglected it. There had been a period, long ago, that they had done gun-drill, but even then it had not been intense, and the mood had not affected the captain long. Since the Line, or earlier, not a gun had been run out. Something to do with his sealed orders, perhaps. The mission that would never now be done, the reason they had not stood to fight that time, the reason they had battered south without a stop. Or was it just another quirk of the owner’s character? Had he merely forgot that they must train?
Whichever way it was, Broad could see that chaos was afoot. The guns were heavy, they were dangerous. In the awkward corkscrew motion of the quartering sea, the upper-deck guns, as they were released from their heavy-weather lashings, began to roll back and forth on their carriages, to be brought up short by their breech ropes.
Men manned the tackles, tried to run them out, but with not such marked success. One slewed sideways and a man went down with a cry. The upper-deck twelve-pounders must weigh well above a ton at his guess. He could imagine it careering round the rolling, pitching deck. It would be a juggernaut.
‘This is madness.’ Matthews spoke quietly, his voice reflecting the sadness that Broad felt. ‘Cannot they see it? They will not have a dozen guns cleared.’
Broad did not reply. He thought again of trying to end it now, of trying to retake the men by arms or switch of mood. But it was too late. Several were armed, and half a hundred, maybe more, were working with the guns. They were determined, or desperate, or mad, or anything. He half believed them right in any case. Almost anything was better than be bested by the dreadful Daniel Swift at last. To be hanged was a bearable idea; at least inevitable. But that Swift should end the day triumphant. It was terrible.
‘Half the guns won’t fire anyway,’ Matthews went on. ‘I am no expert in this, but consider the conditions. Our cabin, even, is wet and stinking with the damp and condensation, and that’s the best accommodation. When we had a proper crew on board, the gunner and his mate and yeoman kept up a constant conversation with their powder. Maybe it’s gone like porridge; it cannot be dry, surely? Or does it not feel the damp like we do, I do not know. And what about the balls? Some of them below are rusted up to hell. They’ve gone like chair-cushions some of them. It is sheerly madness.’
The downwind ship was nearly ready now. The captain had jockeyed her so that when the Welfare was well in range he could up helm and rake her from stem to stern with his starboard broadside. Even had the Welfare got a broadside manned, only the fore portion of it could be brought to bear. She plunged along with the wind over her larboard quarter into the jaws of that battery, with chaos still unconfined. Her decks were covered with men in every state, from readiness to panic to demoralised inactivity.
‘Will Madesly put himself on the wheel to try and bring her round to bear, I wonder,’ Matthews mused. Broad wondered too; and caught himself wondering.
‘Good God,’ he said. ‘Now this is queer, you know. Here we are talking tactics like a pair of armchair admirals, and any minute now the action starts. We are cold fish, you know.’
‘I do not think it— Ah!’ Matthews’ voice changed. ‘Yes, Madesly will take the wheel, I thought he might.’ He looked aloft. ‘You know, Jesse, if he shoves her round we’ll likely lose the mizzen. Best watch out.’
Madesly hurried aft and gestured the helmsman to stand down. They were in range, plainly. The downwind ship nudged the head sea, her luffs shaking as she spilled the wind, almost stationary, almost across their path and over to the larboard side. Madesly took the wheel, but did not alter course. He and Joyce had clearly decided to wait as long as the nerves of their fellows could stand it.