Through the gunport the enemy ship was clearly visible across the narrowing gap of water, and for a split second Kydd took in the black and yellow hull darkening the frame of the port. There was debris falling in the water alongside it from their own cannon strike and he was aware of countless gun muzzles staring at him.
Velasquez’s ramrod cut across his gaze as he plied it, his movements skilled and rapid, savage joy in his face.
Kydd went to the shot garland around the main hatch and rolled a ball on to the cradle. Standing on the grating was a ship’s boy, his ears bound and his eyes enormously big and bright. He clutched his cartridge box to him like a teddy bear, his strong little legs bare to the toes. Kydd smiled encouragingly at him, but there was no response in the solemn, wide-eyed face.
They faced about just as the enemy replied. The noise was fantastic, for their own guns spoke at the same time, the crashing thunder seeming to go on forever as the guns played up and down the sides of the two great vessels. No more than a hundred yards away now, they couldn’t miss, and Kydd knew that through the choking smoke their own ship-smashers would be doing deadly work.
Splintering crashes and screams somewhere in the gloom told of where the enemy shot had found its mark. As the smoke cleared he noticed a strange pattern of daylight two guns down, then saw that the ship’s side between the gunports was missing.
Behind it a seaman sat on the deck, staring at his right arm, which was now no more than a stick, the blood coursing steadily down from it. He watched it with a puzzled frown, then slowly pitched forward.
A rhythmic tearing gasp nearby made Kydd wheel round. A man was lying on his side, hands clutching a long jagged wound in his inner thigh, trying painfully to drag himself toward the hatchway. He left a bloody trail.
Cantlow appeared from aft. His white face stared sightlessly. Pushing past Kydd, he made his way forward aimlessly.
Shouts and cheers penetrated the general noise, clear through the sharp ringing in Kydd’s ears. Wildly thirsty, parched by the metallic-tasting powder smoke, he went to the scuttled butt of water amidships and ladled out a dipper of cool sweet nectar.
Again the gun crew rolled a shot into the muzzle and stepped back quickly. The French were now no more than a few dozen yards away, their harsh yells alien to the ear. They were answered with equal venom by the British seamen.
Velasquez spun like a dancer and sent the ramrod spinning in. But then he pirouetted and fell, the ugly tear of a musketball wound in his back.
Stirk bawled obscenely as he leaped forward and carried the writhing man tenderly to the rear.
“Double shotting!” Stirk roared. There would be two balls to one shot, the effect on accuracy greatly outweighed by the doubling of killing power. Their next ball was already on the cradle and they rushed it forward.
Stirk didn’t wait for firing orders – this was a smashing match and only the faster crews would win. There was no need to sight. He jerked on the gunlock lanyard. The gun bellowed and slammed to the rear with increased recoil, the breeching rope twanging dangerously.
Through a freak break in the smoke Kydd could see the enemy side. It shuddered visibly under the impact of their double shot and a massive hole appeared magically in the center of his vision. Before the smoke closed in he saw that the enemy guns were still not run out and there seemed to be some sort of jerky activity behind the ports.
The other ship was less than fifteen feet away and when they came together the massive grinding impact sent Kydd staggering. The smoke drifted away and there was the enemy side within touching distance – pockmarked, splintered and with blood running down the side in thin streams from a rent in her sides.
Raging shouts burst out. The enemy seamen were feet away only and with bull roars the British seamen attacked them even through the ports, with ramrods and anything that came to hand: battering, smashing, killing. Cooler hands raced to the arms chest and the flash and bang of pistols stabbed the smoky gloom.
“Awaaay, boarders!” Lockwood’s voice was hoarse. He stood with his sword out, his uniform grimed with powder smoke, eyes reddened.
Seamen nominated for the task ran for the hatchway, snatching pistols and cutlasses as they left.
Kydd turned back to the mêlée. Opposite, the enemy gunport framed a stout man with a mustache, who gestured violently with his ramrod.
Kydd remembered the cruelty of the French cavalry. Dropping the shot cradle, he ran over to the pistol chest and grabbed a weapon. It felt heavy and cold. Cocking it haphazardly, he aimed past the heads of the working gun crew at the man and banged off the pistol. It bucked viciously in his hand. Stirk and his men turned in surprise but, to his intense satisfaction, Kydd saw the man clutch at his face and drop out of sight.
Duke William had not quite come to a standstill, the enemy’s side slipping past at a walking pace. Stirk’s gun crashed out again, the crew working like madmen on the reload. Kydd’s back and arms felt a burning ache, his efforts at the oars still taking their toll.
Another crunching impact brought long sounds of splintering. The enemy guns began firing again – but they were many fewer.
Kydd felt a peculiar exultation, a rising of blood lust, a call from his Briton forebears. He shrieked defiance as he worked.
A man staggered in a circle, a jagged spear protruding from the side of his chest. He turned and fell and Kydd saw that it was an oaken splinter torn from the deck and driven into him. The man writhed and flopped, and almost in a trance Kydd turned back to the job in hand.
The Royal Billys ran out the gun but suddenly the enemy beakhead was passing from view, a figurehead of a virago with a conical hat and clasping a spear, then empty sea. They had gone past their opponent without coming to a stop.
“Stupid crazy bastard – the fucking lamebrain!” Stirk raved, spittle on his lips underlining his fury. “ ’E ’asn’t fuckin’ backed tops’ls!”
It was elementary: to keep the ship in position while the guns made their play, it was necessary to heave to by putting the topsails aback. Kydd wondered at the scene on deck. It could be that the Captain had fallen and could not give the order.
The firing died away. “Clear away this shit,” Stirk said dully.
Splinters and debris went out the port, the last wounded were taken below. Blood splashes were left-there were more important tasks at hand to ready the guns for the next bout.
Cautiously Jewkes leaned out of the gunport. “Wha – they’re running, the shy bastards!”
Kydd and others joined him at the port and eagerly took in the scene.
The enemy ships had hauled their wind and now shaped course for Brest, their high stern galleries prominent as they sailed away. The battered rigging of the British ships resulted in their falling farther behind, the changed angle again making their guns impotent.
Maddened shouts and cheering stormed from Duke William’s gunports until the chase brought them into range of the batteries ashore. Wearing around, the squadron made a dignified retreat, deeply satisfied that the battlefield was now theirs.
CHAPTER 11
Really, old fellow, I was too busy to worry,” Renzi said. They were sitting astride the cro’jack yard, busy splicing.
“And I,” Kydd agreed, beginning the whipping around an eye splice. He made the turns as tight as he could – Bowyer had always said that you could tell a seaman by his ropework.
“Was it… hot work on deck?” he asked, in a noncommittal tone.
“Hot enough,” Renzi replied.
Kydd wanted to share his newfound secret with his friend. “Heard a good enough piece of philosophy not so long ago,” he began, and told Renzi of Stirk’s secret.
“Oh, yes,” Renzi said. “Same base truth in Julius Caesar: ‘Cowards die many times before their death / The valiant never taste of death but once.’ ” He finished his splice with a workmanlike tuck, testing its strength. “Act two, scene two, I’d hazard.” He saw Kydd’s expression. “But that is not to detract from the essential verities in both sayings,” he added hurriedly. “Perhaps one day we will sail to the Orient – I have a morbid desire to imbibe their metaphysics at the source.”