The wind was an ally; it was also a possible threat. Even without his small telescope, his spyglass as he had heard young Napier describe it, he had seen the brigantine standing away on the larboard bow, not running but standing close to the wind, reaching into it, it seemed with every stitch of canvas spread, thrusting over as steeply as any vessel could lie under such pressure.
He glanced now along the full length of his command. Men not employed at braces and halliards were watching, probably betting on the outcome of this unlikely contest. The new hands were openly excited; it was their first experience of ship-handling. The reasons were unimportant.
He had to admit that Albatroz was being handled superbly. Her master knew exactly what he was doing. By clawing closer and closer to the wind he held on to a chance of coming about and cutting across Unrivalled's stern. If he succeeded, he could wait for darkness and with luck make a full escape. He had the whole ocean. On the other hand, if he ran south-east with a soldier's wind he could not outpace the frigate, but if the wind grew any stronger it would be impossible to put down a boat with any hope of boarding her. He cannot fight us, so why must he run? Unless he has something to hide. A Portuguese vessel, sailing from a Portuguese harbour, should have nothing to fear. By the latest agreement, it had been reluctantly accepted that Portugal could even continue loading and shipping slaves from her own territories, provided they were south of the Equator.
Adam strode to the rail where Cristie and two of his master's mates were in close discussion, but they had to raise their voices to be heard above the boom of canvas and the noisy sluice of water which surged almost to the lee gun ports.
One, Woodthorpe, was saying, "Bastard's got everything but the cook's bloody apron spread! He'll give us the slip yet, damn his eyes!"
Cristie saw the captain and said harshly, "Two miles, sir. Another hour and he'll see some sense. But if he lulls, an' comes hard about." He shook his head. "You know what it's like."
Some of the others were listening, and his own words came back to him like a fist. My responsibility.
He shaded his eyes to look up at the yards, the quivering thrust of the topgallant sails, holding the sun now to mark the change of direction. Cristie had made his point.
He said, "Ask the gunner to come aft."
Rist, the other master's mate, showed his strong teeth in a grin.
"Mr Stranace is here now, sir!"
"Old Stranace, " as he was called behind his hack, shuffled out of the driver's great shadow and touched his forehead.
His face was a mass of wrinkles, and his years at sea, much of the time bent and groping in one magazine or another, surrounded by enough powder to blast him and the ship to fragments, had given him a permanent stoop. But his eye was as sharp as Sullivan's and his judgment relating to his precious artillery had not been faulted.
He asked, "Two mile, did 'e say, sir?" He bared his uneven teeth, a grin or disdain it was hard to tell. "Less 'n that in my view." He nodded. "You want 'im dismasted?"
Adam stared across the water, to give himself time. What would people say in England, he wondered. With their fixed ideas of the Heart of Oak, or the sure shield as William Pitt had once called the navy, if they could witness this? The frigate captain with his grubby shirt, a rent in one shoulder, hatless, with no sword or gold lace to mark him out from those around him. And Old Stranace, bent, with shaggy grey hair, and the shapeless felt slippers he wore to guard against striking sparks in or around the magazines.
He said, "If I alter course a few degrees to the south'rd, the wind will lay us over still further." He saw the gunner's eyes move quickly to the larboard battery of eighteenpounders, the sea barely visible as the hull tilted across her own shadow.
Then he grunted, "I'll lay it meself, sir. Number One, larboard."
Adam added, "I want her stopped, that's all." He was never sure if Old Stranace could hear him. So many broadsides, and countless other occasions from saluting to putting down a careering chebeck, had left him partially deaf. It was common enough among deepwater sailormen.
But there was nothing wrong with his ears today.
"I'll part 'is bloody 'air, sir!"
"Stand by on the quarterdeck! Braces, there!"
"Helm a-lee! Steady! Hold her, steer sou'-east!"
Cristie rubbed his chin and watched the gunner clawing his way down the lee ladder, calling out names as he went, his cracked voice carrying effortlessly over the chorus of wind and rigging.
Cristie said dourly, "Albatroz's master will think we're giving up.
He sounded mistrustful of the new arrangements.
By the time Unrivalled had settled on her new course the first gun on the windward side was almost ready, its crew kneeling and bowing around their charge like worshippers at some pagan ritual.
Old Stranace had been a gun captain himself. It must have been a long, long time ago, but he had forgotten nothing. He selected one ball from the garland, fondling it in both hands, then changing it for another with the same performance until he was satisfied. He even supervised the loading of the charge and the tamping down of the wad, and then the ball itself, but allowing one of the gun crew to tap it home.
Cristie said dryly, "He'll not use a flintlock either. The crafty old bugger!"
Adam found time to recognise the affection as well as the amusement. Unlike the hammer of a musket which was brought violently into play by a strong spring, the deck gun was worked by jerking a lanyard. If it failed to strike a spark instantly, the gun misfired. So great and regular was the risk in close action that slow-matches were always kept ready burning in protected tubs of sand.
Adam raised his spyglass again and waited for the brigantine to lift above the blue water like some great, avenging bird.
"Ready, sir!" That was Galbraith, his voice unusually hushed.
Adam looked forward at the small pattern of figures around the eighteenpounder closest to the forecastle. The port was open, the gun had already been run out, extra hands were throwing their weight on the tackles to haul the weapon up to and through it. He saw Old Stranace put his hand over the forearm of one of the crew, guiding the handspike while the muzzle was raised to its full elevation. And to his satisfaction.
If the shot scored a direct hit, the repercussions would be severe. If it went widely astray it would be no less harmful. He wondered only briefly if the men on the brigantine's deck had noticed that 46-gun frigate of the world's greatest navy was standing away. Giving up the chase. And would it really matter?
He closed his mind to it. "Fire as you bear!"
He saw Stranace glance aft for just a few seconds. The responsibility was not his to carry.
Adam saw his arm move with the speed of light, the puff of smoke like steam from a heated pipe. He felt the grip of ice around his stomach. Mi fire.
There was a sharp bang and the eighteenpounder seemed to come to life, hurling itself inboard, down the sloping planking until the tackles slowed and then brought the truck to a jolting halt.
Nobody made a move to sponge out the gun, as if the single shot had somehow paralysed them.
There was something like a great sigh, changing and rising to a wild cheer as a tall waterspout, white and solid against the dark water, burst skywards off the brigantine's quarter. At this range it was impossible to determine the exact fall of shot.
But Everett, the sergeant of marines, exclaimed, "Much closer an' them buggers'd be swimmin' with th' sharks!"
Adam said, "Bring her back on course, if you please."
Rist called, "They're shortenin' sail, sir!"
"Call away the boat's crew and inform the bosun." Adam plucked at his shirt. It did not sound like his own voice. What had he expected, and what would he have done?
He looked again. The brigantine was broaching to, her canvas in disorder while they prepared to await instructions.