James ignored him. “Very good, Mr. Cooper,” he said, slowly lowering his glass again. “Feed the men, then beat to quarters and clear the decks for action, please.”
Mr. Cooper began to give his orders, Mr. Mansel went to tend to his marines, and James rested his hand on the gunwale, a vague smile on his lips. It was possible the ship they were chasing was one of their own, or a prize already taken, but James felt a familiar stirring in his blood. He was sure this was a Frenchman and a prize-her course, her position, the report of the Athena’s captain all suggested it. The Splendor herself seemed to agree; she was surging toward that tiny speck between the gray sea, and the gray skies, gaining steadily. The midshipmen noticed the glitter in their captain’s blue eyes and punched each other’s shoulders as they scrambled down the rigging.
TWO BELLS OF THE AFTERNOON WATCH (1 P.M.)
The mood of excitement had changed to one of wariness. The Splendor was ready and warlike. The panels had been stripped from James’s cabin, the hammocks rolled up and strung along the bulwarks to stop splinters, and the guns run out with a thunderous roar. Now everything was still again. The surgeon’s station was set up in the cockpit on the lower decks, and he and his mate sat in silence, saws, tourniquets and bandages lying neatly beside them. Ready.
Behind each of the cannons its crew waited, powder, shot and sand buckets standing by. Mr. Meredith stood behind the hulking iron back of the eighteen-pounder under his command on the top deck, trying not to watch the captain on the quarterdeck out of the corner of his eye. It had seemed at first that the ship in front of them would try to outrun them. When it became clear she could not, her pace had slackened considerably. An hour ago it had become possible to read the name on her side-the Marquis de La Fayette; it was also possible to see her flags. A British flag flew above the French, the sign that the ship had already been taken as a prize by some other, luckier, crew.
Another of the midshipmen, Hobbes, commanding a neighboring gun, leaned over to Meredith and hissed, “Doesn’t smell right. What would a taken prize be doing on this course?”
Meredith did not respond but kept looking at the Marquis as she grew large in their vision. Her gun doors were closed. A figure became visible on the stern, a tall thickset man in shirtsleeves. He watched them approach, then when they were close enough to draw his portrait, the man suddenly shrugged on his coat and shouted something.
“French!” Meredith bawled, and threw himself to the deck as the black mouths of two cannons emerged at the stern of the Marquis and belched smoke.
He heard the shot tear into the rigging and looked up to see the fore-topsail yard smashed and then the shouts of the captain as wood and rope clattered to the deck around him.
“Fire bow chasers! Wear away, Mr. Mackensie. Master Gunner, ready port guns and fire as they bear!”
The Splendor’s forward guns gave a great cough and spat fire. Her gun crews cheered; one had caught the Marquis’s stern and left a ragged hole in her. Meredith balled his fists and scrambled to his feet. The French ship had made all sail and was trying to run for it again, but Captain Westerman was having none of that. Even without the fore-topsail, the Splendor still had pace enough. Already there were men up in the yards splicing cut ropes.
The ships were horribly close. The marines in the Splendor’s rigging were firing down onto the decks of the French ship and doing horrible slaughter, but the Marquis had her own men armed with muskets. When Meredith heard a shout and horrible thwack behind him, he glanced over his shoulder to see the major of the marines on his back on the deck behind him, groaning, a red wound blossoming on his thigh. The master’s wife got her arms around him and began dragging him back toward the hatch to the lower decks and the surgeon, leaving a thick red trail behind them.
Spinning back around, Meredith saw the flanks of the Marquis just coming into sight; her guns were run out now. He could see men moving behind them, distorted mirrors of his own crew. The Splendor began to rake the stern quarter of the Marquis. The guns on all three decks thundered as one, hitting her low and hard.
Meredith waited for his moment, then gave his order. His gunner touched fire to the cannon and the beast roared, throwing herself back on the ropes. Scrambling forward, Meredith peered over the bulwark. Their shot had been as accurate as the guns forward of them. Three of the gun ports on the Marquis’s starboard side had been torn into one great hole. Meredith could see one of the French lying in the opening screaming, his leg crushed and half torn away. Only the stern chasers of the Marquis could do them real damage here. The roar and whistle of ordnance passed above him. There was a scream and another man fell from the tops. His body never hit the deck, but was rather swung in the festoon of half-cut rigging like a child in a giant’s cradle.
“They must yield!” shouted Hobbes. “We’ve shot her to hell!”
Meredith found he was murmuring prayers between gritted teeth, his hands trembling. Then came a yell of victory from the bow. The Marquis had struck her colors. It was done. Unclenching his fists, the young man began to stand, the heat of the battle replaced by a flow of relief. The men around him were doing the same. The marines began to sling their muskets over their shoulders and descend from the ropes; Hobbes was all but dancing and his gun crew was smiling at him like proud parents.
Then the Frenchman let fly her sails, suddenly slowing her to allow her guns to bear on the Splendor. The broadside struck them hard and Meredith stumbled and felt the ship shudder under the impact. He looked to see Hobbes, his mouth wide and tears in his eyes.
“But she struck her colors! She surrendered! Dear God, how can they?”
Meredith felt an anger slick up his throat like a sickness.
“Reload, you bastards!” he yelled, his voice breaking with rage. His men were already on it, their faces as dark and bloody as his own. A ball from the cannon on the top deck of the Marquis burst through the bulwark no more than four feet from him, sending a blast of splinters up around it like a firework. Meredith clutched his leg and closed his fingers around a little dagger of wood. He pulled it out, hissing between his teeth. The cannonball spun crazily across the deck before tumbling out of a port on the starboard side. It was like a child’s marble game. Meredith laughed. James Westerman, his face white, was striding up the deck and clapped his shoulder as he passed.
The Splendor would not permit the French to get behind her but let the wind spill from her sails till she was once again in the rear. The Marquis let her stern-chasers fire at them on the upward roll of the sea, trying again to savage their rigging. Meredith looked up, but could hardly tell what damage had been done, the rigging was so wreathed in gunsmoke from the marines’ muskets. All around him, the balls flew with a sharp crack. The mood was vicious.
The Splendor’s forward guns gave another great bark and there was a cheer as the English crew saw that the Marquis was hulled at the waterline; the sea was pouring in. Meredith could see men in the hole, nails in their mouths and batons in their hands, trying to keep out the ocean. “Drown, you bastards,” he murmured. He could feel tears on his own cheeks. He dared not think what damage the broadside had done on the lower decks, but would swear it was the smoke from the guns.
“Prepare to board!” The Splendor began to inch back alongside the Marquis.