And yet despite the toughness of such men, Galbraith knew the other side of the coin. Like the seaman who had been lost overboard, without even a cry. Later there would be a sale of his few possessions, before the mast, as they called it, and messmates and others who had barely known him would dip into their purses and pay exorbitant prices so that money could be sent to a wife or mother somewhere in that other world.
He turned and looked at his captain, speaking quietly with the master, gesturing occasionally as if to emphasise something. He gazed at the oncoming vessels. The moment of embrace. There would be more possessions to bargain for if today turned sour on them.
He blinked as a shaft of sunlight glanced down between the braced yards. The smaller vessel had tacked, widening the distance from her consort. The terrier, the captain had called her. Ready to dart in and snap at Unrivalled’s vulnerable stern and quarter. One shot could do it: a vital spar, or worse, damage to the rudder and steering gear would end the fight before Unrivalled had bared her teeth. He looked at the captain again. He would know. His first command had been a brig. He had been twenty-three, someone had said. He would know…
The enemy had the advantage of the wind, and yet Captain Adam Bolitho showed no sign of anxiety.
“We will load both broadsides and engage first at full range, gun by gun. Tell the second lieutenant to sight each one himself. We will then luff, and if the wind is kind to us we can rake the enemy with the other full broadside.”
Galbraith dragged his mind back to the present. Extra hands at the foremast ready to set the big forecourse, until now brailed up like the others. With the fore-topgallant sail missing, they would need every cupful of wind when they came about. And even then…
Adam called, “Open the ports!”
He imagined the port lids lifting along either beam, could see the water creaming past the lee side. Unrivalled was leaning over, and she would lean still further when they set the forecourse. He had guessed what Galbraith was thinking. If the wind deserted them now, the enemy ships could divide and outmanoeuvre him. He touched his pocket again. If not, the long eighteen-pounders on the weather side, at full elevation, would outrange the others. He smiled. So easily said…
Cristie had told him something about the Tetrarch which he had not known. She had been in a state of near mutiny when she had been attacked by the French frigates. Another bad captain, he thought, like Reaper, in which the company had mutinied against their captain’s inhuman treatment and had joined together to flog him to death. Reaper was back with the fleet now, commanded by a good officer, a friend of Adam’s, but he doubted that she would ever entirely cleanse herself of the stigma.
And Tetrarch might be the same. Her armament had been reduced in order to allow for more hold space, but she could give a good account of herself.
He looked up at the black, vibrating shrouds, the soft underbelly of the maintopsail, seeing it in his mind even now. Anemone torn apart by the American’s heavy artillery. Men falling and dying. Because of me.
He squared his shoulders, and felt his shirt drag against the ragged scar where the iron splinter had cut him down.
It was enough.
He said, “Run out!”
Every spare man, even the Royal Marines were on the tackles, hauling the guns up the tilting deck to thrust their black muzzles through the ports. The enemy was faceless, unknown. But it would be madness to show Unrivalled’s shortage of hands from the outset. After that…
There were a few hoarse cheers as the crouching gun crews saw the enemy angled across each port, and he heard Lieutenant Massie’s sharp response.
“Keep silent, you deadheads! Stand to your guns! I’ll have none of it!”
Adam walked to the rail and watched the nearest vessel, the brig. Like his old Firefly. Well handled, leaning over while she changed tack. Probably steering south-east. He thought of Cristie. By guess and by God. He measured the range, surprised still that he could do it without hesitation. The Tetrarch had taken in her fore and main courses and was preparing to await her chance, poised across the starboard bow as if nothing could prevent a collision.
There was a dull bang, and seconds later a hole appeared in the maintopsail. A sighting shot. He clenched his fists. Not yet, not yet. Another shot came from somewhere, sharper, one of the brig’s bow-chasers probably. He saw the feathers of spray dart from wave to wave, like flying fish. Still short.
“Forecourse, Mr Galbraith!” He strode to the opposite side. “Lay for the mainmast, Mr Massie! On the uproll!”
The enemy might be expecting a ragged broadside, and be waiting for a chance to close the range before Unrivalled could reload.
Adam heard Massie yell, “Ready! Fire! ”
He kept his eyes fixed on the other ship. Massie was managing on his own, pausing at each breech, one hand on the gun captain’s shoulder, the trigger-line taut, ready, the target framed in the open port like a painting come to life.
“Fire!”
Gun by gun, the full length of Unrivalled’s spray-dashed hull, each one hurling itself inboard on its tackles to be seized, sponged out and reloaded, the men racing one another to run out again, whilst on the opposite side the crews waited their turn, with only the empty sea to distract them from the regular crash of gunfire.
Someone gave a wild cheer.
“Thar goes ’er main-topmast! B’ Jesus, look at ’er, mates!”
But the other ship was firing now, iron hammering into Unrivalled ’s lower hull, a stray ball slamming through a port and breaking into splinters.
Adam tore his eyes from the spouting orange tongues of fire, feeling the blows beneath his feet like wounds to his own body. Men were down, one rolling across the deck, kicking and coughing blood, another crouched against a gun, fingers interlaced across his stomach, his final scream dying as he was dragged aside and the gun run up to its port again.
Galbraith yelled, “He’s standing off, sir!” He flinched as a powder monkey spun round, his leg severed by another haphazard shot. Adam saw another run and snatch up the fallen charge, eyes terrified, and averted from someone who had probably been his friend.
He turned. “Wouldn’t you? If you were full to the gills with powder and shot?” He shut them from his mind. “Stand by on the quarterdeck!” There was smoke everywhere, choking, stinging, blinding.
He could no longer see the other ship; the forecourse was filled to the wind, blotting out the enemy’s intentions.
“Put the helm down!” He dashed his wrist across his eyes and thought he saw the ship’s head already answering the helm, swinging bowsprit and flapping jib across the wind.
“Helm’s a’ lee, sir!”
Adam heard someone cry out and knew a ball had missed him by inches.
Come on! Come on! If Unrivalled was caught aback across the eye of the wind she would be helpless, doomed. He felt the deck planking jump again and knew the ship had been hit.
“Off tacks and sheets!” He walked level with the quarterdeck rail, his hand brushing against the smooth woodwork. Without seeing, he knew the forward sails were writhing in confusion, spilling the wind, allowing the bows to swing still further, unhampered.
“Fores’l haul! Haul, lads!”
One man slipped on blood and another dragged him to his feet. Neither spoke, nor looked at one another.
She was answering. Adam gripped the rail, and felt her standing into the opposite tack, sails filling and booming, the yards being hauled round until to an onlooker they would appear almost fore-and-aft.
“Hold her! Steer east-by-south!” Adam glanced swiftly at Cristie. Only a second, but it was enough to see a wild satisfaction. The pride might come later.