When he decided to run, Tyger’s gunners had been tracking their pieces, and even at long range, when the guns spoke a forest of plumes shot up all around the light frigate, bringing hits on the distant squared-off stern, which must have caused havoc inside.
The first shots of the engagement had drawn blood.
Kydd put the helm over and allowed a minute for gun-captains on the opposite side to lay their weapons, then let them loose.
Nearer, more shots must have told among the white gouts, but he was quite unprepared for what happened next.
Gently turning, Albatros came up into the wind and stopped, caught flat aback and lying helpless.
Joyce tumbled to it first. “Aye, and he’s had his rudder struck off!” he said happily, as cheers and shouts of jubilation erupted from all about the ship.
In a stroke of sheer luck the vessel had been knocked out of the fight without firing a shot in return!
Kydd was tempted to continue and finish the job but he resisted: it was enough that the odds had shortened to two against one, and in any case he could never take possession of it.
Now to the real contest. He was confident that in an equal fight with either, even against a bigger foe, Tyger could win, but against two, not only did it divide his fire but the necessary manoeuvring would be hideously complicated. To avoid being caught between two fires yet lie alongside one or the other without interference would be his chief problem.
Meanwhile Tyger was closing fast, head to head with the two enemy, which sailed close together in mutual support for the coming exchange, Preussen to starboard, Odin opposite.
The valiant frigate charged down to confront her adversaries. This was the moment of truth, when fates and destinies would be decided.
Kydd raised his telescope. Aboard each of the enemy the courses were taken in, the big lower sails drawn up out of the way of gun-flash and burning wads.
“Shorten to topsails, sir?” came an anxious enquiry from Bray. Unless they did so, they would be caught with men still aloft when the guns began firing.
But Kydd had no intention of conforming to expectations. He was going to put his ship to the test as never before and issued his commands calmly but firmly.
Under a press of sail she raced onward. It would be a near-run thing but if it succeeded …
They would be expecting Tyger at the last moment to decide on one or the other, then range alongside on her outer side, backing sail to come to a stop and begin a furious cannonade as they lay locked together, the other forced to circle around before coming in to join the fight. He was going to disappoint them.
Still under full sail, he careered on, his bowsprit exactly centred on the narrow gap of sea between them as if delaying his decision to the last moment.
As the frigates closed at the speed of a galloping horse time seemed to hang breathlessly. Not a soul moved on deck, hypnotised by the onrush-and then it happened.
Kydd did not choose one or the other. He plunged directly between the two, facing the very thing he should avoid-being caught between two fires.
And it worked.
Expecting the outer battery to be engaged on either ship the wrong-footed French gunners had to cross the deck to man the inner-but were then presented with a sight picture of their consort. To fire on Tyger would be to maim and kill their own side.
The English frigate swashed into the gap and as she hurtled through her guns smashed out in a devastating sequence, at point-blank range impossible to miss. Smoke briefly filled the void between them, the sound of the guns echoing back in a cacophony of thunder-but only to the starboard side. To larboard there was silence as Tyger’s gunners held their fire and Preussen was unaccountably spared.
But not for long-clearing the gap, Tyger wheeled round to catch Preussen with a raking blast from her larboard guns, but her captain was quick-witted and put his own helm over. Nevertheless she was caught by savage close-range fire as her stern rotated past, smashing and splintering her ornate windows and carving as the balls created their hell within, muffled shrieks and cries testifying to their work.
Now there was no escaping it: they must suffer.
Kydd had done what he could-now it was close-in, brutal pounding and Preussen had her outer broadside at the ready. While Tyger’s guns were reloaded with desperate speed these guns thundered out.
In an appalling avalanche, balls smashed across the short distance and into the ship in savage thuds felt through the deck, the storm of shot shrieking through the air, sending splinters that whirred viciously to find human flesh. From above, a rain of debris tumbled down, bouncing and falling on the netting over the quarterdeck.
He paced slowly along the deck, conscious of muskets in the enemy tops but a torrent of thoughts and calculations left him no time to dwell on them.
The wash of enemy gun-smoke engulfed them briefly as it was driven past by the stiff breeze, dry and reeking.
Kydd took stock of the first impact. Mercifully no serious hit that he could see, no ceasing in the furious activity around the guns, the boatswain thrusting forward with his mates to stopper a parted shroud, all sail drawing, though now blotched and scarred by shot-holes.
There was no pretence at broadsides now. Tyger’s guns crashed out as they readied at the bigger frigate barely thirty yards away and closing in a frenzied cannonade. Black holes were appearing in the enemy side, the gun-crews in a fierce race to load and fire first.
Kydd’s earlier manoeuvre had deliberately placed Tyger to leeward of Preussen, commonly thought of as the inferior position, but he’d seized on something as they’d approached: Preussen was high in the water, probably because they’d stored for only this brief voyage and hadn’t bothered with compensating ballast.
And now he was turning it to advantage. To be close-hauled in the brisk winds meant a distinct heel to leeward-fine for targeting the enemy but it hid a crucial flaw that a more experienced commander would have expected.
On a level deck, guns fired and recoiled inboard, placing them neatly for sponging out and reloading. Preussen now was finding she did not have that assistance: her guns after firing rolled out again under their own weight and must now be hauled uphill bodily and held while recharged with powder and shot, throwing out of rhythm any well-drilled sequence.
By the time the first reply came, Tyger had got in two, three shots-a massive advantage. Her weary hours of gun-drill were paying off. Preussen was finding she was facing not a lesser 32-gun frigate but one with the equivalent of sixty to ninety guns, that of a ship-of-the-line!
She was taking real punishment now, damage visible, ominous dribbles of blood coming down from beaten-in gun-ports. In any other circumstance Kydd would have allowed a feeling of triumph, but not now, not with what had to be endured still.
It was a short time only before the other frigate would emerge to turn the tables. He had to get in a settling blow before that happened or …
The roar of guns was a continuous din and he had to shout at a trembling youngster: “Odd numbered guns to fire high, target the enemy’s rigging!” The lad scrambled off to the gun-deck below to pass the message to the hatless Brice, maniacally shouting at his gun-crews.
It was British practice to smash and hammer at the hull at close range. This took time-the real battle-stoppers were masts falling, spars carrying away and this was what the French generally tried for. It had its own drawback: there was a lot of empty air between ropes and the chances of dealing a settling blow were slim and, of course, sails could still draw with holes in them.