Beating to quarters

Looking forward was perhaps the wrong phrase, although Edrington had to admit to a certain anticipatory excitement. "It will be interesting," he agreed, then added: "I explained to Private Thompson that I might be slightly slower - until I get used to the drill again. But you don't fire volleys like the infantry, so that won't matter."

As for boarding, apart from the fact that he would be on the deck of a ship, he ought to be able to ... "Do you look forward to it?" he asked curiously, although the Marine's expression told its own story.

"No worries 'bout it, sir. Ain't much chance fer stayin' aboard long 'nuff fer a lotta volleys. Jus' so long's yer firin', it'll do."

Branning grinnned. "Oh aye, sir. Prize money, y'see. 'Sides it bein' good t'fire off powder an' not have it be jus' fer practise."

Prize money, of course. It promised more money that could be earned on land, but this lad would be keen anyway, from the sound of it. Loud noises and bright colours appealed to the young.

The ship shook as it fired again, before the Frenchman had even fired once. Edrington blinked as the smoke rose from the port below him, blocking his view, but as it cleared he saw a ball strike, close to the water line and another further forward hit the ship between two gunports. Then the French ship replied. Edrington laced his hands over his musket and waited.

The gun crews were reloading again, more pleased with their second volley than the first. Their opponent took advantage of the brief pause to fire a broadside as well. A few balls passed through the rigging above, while one or two lower shots struck the weather deck. A pair of landsmen were knocked down by splinters when one ball shattered the belfry.

Chase and the others heaved on the tackles to run out the heavy cannons, deadly eager now that they, too, had received fire.

Peter joined the cheering when some shots from the second broadside struck home. He was certain that one of the shots had come from his own division. Chandos was already there, calling instructions out in his clear voice, raised above the din. The reply from the Frenchman was almost an anti-climax, as Peter had been prepared to see swathes cut through the gun deck by well aimed shot. In fact, splinters rather than shot were the main danger. Two men were hit, but this did not slow down the men handling the great guns. Chandos was there too, looking along the barrels at the Frenchman.

"Fire!" he relayed the order from the Lieutenant, and the guns spoke again.

A couple of Marines broke away from the ranks to help drag the wounded sailors below, but the rest stood fast. Branning couldn't help grinning. Ship engagements were always dangerous, yet he relished that danger. He couldn't quite put a name to it either, even if he cared to.

"Mind them splinters, sir, if they comes yer way," he remarked to the Army officer, remembering after a moment that the man was standing near him. It wouldn't do if a passenger ended up struck through by splinters simply because he was topside with the Marines.

half deaf, like everyone round him, John was furiously working the gun. a quick glance showed him equally drenched men on either side eagerly doing their own duty.

He felt the enemys broadside rattle the ship, but there was no apparent damage, and it was removed from him anyway. Splinters, while dangerous, were of no deterrant when you were being shot at. the tightness in his back, the tensness in his arms were as of the same import to him, all drowned in the gneral joy of not only firing, but firing at an enemy.

Edrington nodded, though other than going below there was nothing he could do about the splinters - like musket balls, they would not approach slowly enough to allow one to dodge them. "I will do my best to do so," he murmured.

The marine's face was alight, with excitement, without fear, and after a moment Edrington could feel the same sense of anticipation. Like waiting for the order from above to charge. Or awaiting a charge from the enemy. Holding fire until a volley could really do damage, although in the more slow-moving world of ships, they would probably start earlier. He would know when to fire, though, by following those around him: orders were not his responsibility. That would fall to the Sergeant, as their Lieutenant was noticeably absent from the deck.

"Glad of it, sir."

The two ships were drawing closer now. In the calming sea, it was more and more likely that the engagement would be a complete one. Branning clenched his musket and waited anxiously. Sergeant Quinn would give them the order to fire when he judged the time to be right. Hopefully it would be soon...

Bolitho gripped the quarterdeck rail to steady himself as the ship shuddered beneath him, first from the French broadside, then from their own replying round. The frigate's first attack had mercifully not done as much damage as it could have, but that could change at any moment as soon as they returned fire once more. Now that their opponent had responded, the Terpsichore's crew needed to gain the upper hand in any way possible.

He called out the order to reload, but the gun crews were already ahead of him, preparing the guns for yet another round. Looking out over the deck again, he quickly passed on the order to fire.

that quick order to fire came and again the crew sent a broadside at the closing ship. The sea was calmer now, though by no means still yet, and it was easier to see the path of their shot.

John was intent though, letting the others sight their own shot. It was clear they'd have to be as onto it as they'd ever been, no time to spend looking at the view. He couldn't resist the quickest of glances though, as again the recoil flashed the guns backwards.

The French frigate had gained speed and moved herself out of range, but she would have to tack soon and they would have her defenseless stern in their sites. Far aft at his gun in the captain's coach, Billy waited and watched as the forward guns fired.

"Come on, come on," he muttered, waiting for her to tack to larboard. If the Terpsy carried on, he would have a beautiful shot at that pretty stern window. He knew the Frenchies would have to be desperate to make such a move, but they would lose the wind if they didn't tack soon. "There she goes!" he laughed as he saw action in the yards. "What the hell?!" She was turning to starboard, right across the Terpsy's path.



[see note]

The new movement of the French frigate had taken Bolitho completely by surprise. The ship was now directly in front of them, passing across their bow. At once he realised that the two ships would collide if the Terpsichore did not alter course somehow. Knowing this required an instant decision, Bolitho quickly weighed their options. If they tacked to larboard, it would allow them to get off a broadside or two at the opposing ship, but it would expose their own starboard side to attack. If they ceased moving altogether, they would be completely vulnerable to the enemy vessel. And they could not tack to starboard, for they would surely...wait. Yes, that was it. If they turned to starboard, they would most likely collide with the French ship, but it would not be as hard a blow. And that would allow for them to hopefully board as well. His mind made up, Bolitho turned to call out the order to the helmsman.

"Hard to starboard!" he shouted, "Surely they won't be expecting such a move!"

Then he called to the rest of the crew, "Prepare to board when we come alongside! We'll not let them get the better of us!"

Billy half laughed and half cursed, then turned to the inexperienced Samuels at his side. "Hold onto sommat, mate, and get ready for a bump. This is gonna be a tight squeeze."

Quinn was just as startled as the rest of them as the French ship began turning to starboard, across Terpsy's bows.

"Move up for'rard!" he bellowed over the sounds of cannon fire. They were far enough away that they had time to load.

"Marines! Fire and load in your own time!" He bellowed the order, suiting the action to the word as his hand went to his cartridge pouch to find a cartridge. He loaded his musket, the movements swift, yet sure and unhurried. He levelled his musket and pulled the trigger, even as the other Marines brought their own weapons up, some faster than others. The marines did not have to all fire together, unlike Army soldiers, and individual skill counted for more here.

Edrington went with the rest of the marines to a point on the rail where he would be able to fire at the French ship. At the sergeant's command he took out the cartridge and followed the proper drill, as Thompson had shown him. The hammer at half-cock, bite the cartridge - a vile, familiar taste - pour a little powder into the pan and close the frizzen. Pour the rest of the powder down the barrel, follow it with the paper cartridge wadded round the ball. Ram it home, and remove the ramrod. Raise gun..." Now he took sight on the deck of the Frenchman, crossing in front of them still as they themselves turned, the slow movement that would bring them onto parallel courses again, well within musket shot, and open to each other's broadsides. He fired as quickly as possible, behind the others admittedly, and drew out another cartridge to repeat the drill again.

But if the French ship was in range of their muskets so were they vulnerable to the French guns. Amid the booming of their own guns, the crashing of shot hitting their ship, and the crack of their own small-arms there was now the whipping sound of musket balls... Another shot.

Now it was broadside to broadside, both ships firing mercilessly at each other. There was a deafening sound forward as incoming shots blew a gun free from its tackle, but Billy didn't even give it a glance, so focused was he on his own perfect shot. There came the rudder... almost... there!

"Secure that gun!" Leat roared above the noise and powder smoke as soon as he saw the tackle break loose. The order was hardly needed, for the men were already upon the metal beast, grabbing hold of the ropes and sticking chocks beneath the carriage wheels and sending down to Chips for a new tackle. If anything it had been a warning for any of the others on deck. He had seen a loose canon in battle kill six men and then punch a hole in the ship's side; clean through her timbers before going overboard. The sea was running high still, and so the young lieutenant was infinitely glad all had been stowed away almost immediately. The crews knew their work well, and for that he felt a small glow of pride.

"Keep 'em rolling!" he bellowed to the crews. "In your own time now! Don't slacken up on her, lads!"

Peter, unable to run about as he ought to, felt as if he had been tied to the mast he was clinging to. His voice was rasped from calling out the drill, and from cheering and exhorting, but when Chandos passed him between guns, the older midshipman gave him a cheerful and encouraging grin, white in his powder-blackened face.

Lieutenant George came at a run up the companionway, his face still streaked with blood and a bandage replacing his hat - when had that happened? "Mr Yates," he shouted, inches from the boy. "We'll be alongside her shortly. If they get on board - just stay low, boy. You'll be of no use in a brawl. Remind me to teach you when that arm is broken. There's some handy tricks you pick up on a collier." Then he was off again, along the deck, to where the gun captain of one gun had been felled by a splinter.

The tackle had been brought up and the gun was being repaired. Leat turned away just as he felt the ship heel. They were turning to starboard. He wondered at the move, though it must mean that the captain was certainly on the offensive, as the French ship had turned, and that would mean the Terpsy's turn would bring them grazing alongside. Orders would be going out for the assembling of boarding parties soon.

Another cartridge bitten, loaded and fired into the blue coated figures lining the rail of the French ship - The Victorieuse someone had said. Send us victorious, Edrington thought, and grinned. This time, he would have sworn that the figure he had aimed at had fallen, but other marines were firing, including the big lad at his side, and some from the tops. It would be wrong to claim the credit. Most of them were watching the two ships converge, as Bolitho sought to bring them aboard the other ship. As soon as they touched...

Once Sergeant Quinn had given the order, Branning paid scant attention to anything else around him. He concentrated on loading, aiming, and firing; such a single-minded focus helped keep him steady on the present task until new orders were given.

A Marine nearby staggered and swore, probably hit, but Branning didn't move to help. He forced the ramrod down the barrel and back out again. The distance between the two ships was closing and soon they'd be close enough to board. Or be boarded.

Edrington's glance flickered towards the Marine who had been hit. He admired the way the Marine next to him ignored everything else but his own firing - that was the way the ranks in the line regiments were meant to behave. But officers had to have regard for other things, and Edrington found it difficult to turn off that awareness. Like the crash from below, followed by a bellow of pain and shouting which was lost almost immediately in the roar of another broadside, from the front guns alone, at almost point blank range.

Had he hit the rudder? It was impossible to tell, but he aimed his gun at the stern again, an awkward shot at an awkward angle, but Billy was determined. "Come on lads, more, bit more, raise up... stop!" His hand jerked on the lanyard. At the same moment as the explosion from his gun, there was a sickening lurch that caused nearly the whole gun deck to stumble one or two steps aft.

"What's happened?" Samuels shouted.

"We've collided," Billy answered, grabbing his arm and pulling him back to his feet with a grin. "Told you to hold onto sommat, didn't I?"

Branning uttered a surprised whoof at the sudden shudder that made the deck tremble and his musket jerked upwards when he stumbled. His shot passed harmlessly up somewhere into the French ship's rigging - but that wasn't the most pressing matter any more.

"Bayonets!" Somebody was yelling. It was probably Corporal Johnson. "Fix bayonets!"

Grumbling to himself about the waste of a lead ball, Branning dragged out his bayonet and twisted it into place on his musket's muzzle. Would they be lucky now and get to board the Frog, or were they about to repel boarders?