‘A thirty-two, no, a thirty-four gun frigate, sir. French, by the cut of her jib. No. No! By God, sir, she’s the Bellone.’
The Bellone she was, in her old accustomed cruising-ground. She had undertaken to escort two Bordeaux merchantmen as far as twenty degrees west and forty-five north, and she had brought them successfully across the Bay of Biscay, not without trouble, for they were slow brutes, and one had lost her fore and main topmasts:
she had stood by them, but she had no sharper sense of her obligations than any other privateer and now she was keenly interested in this odd triangular thing bobbing about to windward. Her contract had no stipulations against her making prizes during her trip, and for the last quarter of an hour, or ever since she had sighted the Polychrest, the Bellone had been hauled a point closer to the wind to close her, and the Bellone’s captain had been doing exactly what Jack was at now, staring hard through his glass from the top.
The Bellone. She could outrun any square-rigged ship afloat, on a wind; but for the next ten or twenty minutes Jack had the initiative. He had the weather-gage, and he could decide whether to bring her to action or not. But this would not last long: he must think fast
– make up
his mind before she could shoot ahead. She had thirty-four guns to his four and twenty: but they were eight and six pounders – she threw a broadside of a hundred and twenty-six pounds, and with his three hundred and eighty-four he could blow her out of the water, given the right conditions. Only eight-pounders: but they were long brass eight-pounders, beautiful guns and very well served
– she could start hitting him at a mile and more, whereas his short, inaccurate carronades, with their scratch crews, needed to be within pistol-shot for any certainty of execution. At fifty yards, or even at a hundred, he could give her such a dose! Near, but not too near.
There was no question of boarding her, not with her two or three hundred keen privateersmen, not with this crew. Nor must he be boarded, Lord above.
‘Mr Pullings,’ he said, ‘desire Mr Macdonald to get his men’s red jackets off. Fling sailcloth over the guns in the waist. Drabble it about all ahoo, but so that it can be whipped off in a flash. Two or three empty casks on the fo’c’sle. Make her look like a slut.’
How neatly the roles were reversed! This time the Bellone had not been preparing herself for a couple of hours; her decks would not be clear fore and aft; and she would still be in a state of doubt – it was she who would be taken by surprise.
Taken: the word rang like a trumpet. He hurried down to the quarterdeck, his mind made up. ‘Mr Parker, what are you about?’
‘These mats are to protect my gold-leaf, sir,’ said the first lieutenant.
‘Do not square them, Mr Parker: they are very well so.’ Indeed, they looked charmingly mercantile. ‘All hands aft, if you please.’
They stood before him in the grey light, some few delighted, some amazed, many despondent, anxious, apt to stare over the water at that dark shape.
‘Shipmates,’ he said, loud and clear, smiling at them,
‘that fellow down there is only a privateer. I know him well. He has a long row of gun-ports, but there are only six- and eight-pounders behind ’em, and ours are twenty-fours, though he don’t know it. Presently I shall edge down on him – he may pepper us a while with his little guns, but it don’t signify – and then, when we are so close we cannot miss, why, we shall give him such a broadside! A broadside with every gun low at his mizen. Not a shot, now, till the drum beats, and then ply ’em like heroes. Thump it into her! Five minutes’
brisk and she strikes. Now go to your quarters, and remember, not a shot till the drum beats, and then every ball low at his mizen. Ply ’em quick, and waste not a shot.’ Turning, he saw Stephen watching him from the companion hatchway. ‘Good morning, good morning!’ he cried, smiling with great affection. ‘Here’s our old friend the Bellone just to leeward.’
‘Ay. So Pullings tell me. Do you mean to fight with her?’
‘I mean to sink, take, burn or destroy her,’ said Jack, a smile flashing across his face.
‘I dare say you do. Please to remember the watch they took from me. A Breguet repeater, number 365, with a centre seconds hand. And three pairs of drawers, I should know them anywhere. I must go below.’
The day was dawning fast; the east was golden – a clear sky with white clouds streaked across; the merchantmen were crowding sail to come up with the privateer.
‘Mr Parker, lay the hatches, if you please. Mr Macdonald, your best marksmen into the tops at the last minute: they are to sweep the quarterdeck, nothing but the quarterdeck.’
This was his simple plan: he would edge down, never allowing her to forereach him, keeping rigorously to windward, puzzling her as long as he possibly could, and so batter her at close quarters, keeping her there by taking the wind out of her sails. Anything more complex he dared not attempt, not with this ship, not with these men – no quick manoeuvres, no crossing under her stern – just as he dared not hide his men below, these raw hands who had never seen an angry gun.
‘Ease her half a point, Mr Goodridge.’
Their courses were converging. How near would the Bellone let him come? Every hundred yards meant a minute less of enduring her long-range fire. Nearer, nearer.
If he could dismast her, shoot away her wheel – and it was just abaft the mizen in the Bellone . . . Now he could see the white of the faces on her quarterdeck. And yet still they
sailed, on and on, drawing together, closer, closer. When would she fire? ‘Another quarter, Mr Goodridge. Mr Rossall, you have the Papenburg. . . ?’
A puff of smoke from the Bellone’s bows, and a shot came skipping along the Polychrest’s side. The British colours appeared aboard the Frenchman. ‘She’s English!’ cried a voice in the waist, with such relief, poor fellow. A hail, just audible in a lull of wind: ‘Shorten sail and heave to, you infernal buggers.’ Jack smiled. ‘Slowly, Mr Rossall,’ he said. ‘Blunder around a little. Half up, down and up again.’ The Papenburg flag wavered up to the mizenpeak and appeared at last, streaming out towards the privateer.
‘That will puzzle him,’ said Jack. The moment’s doubt brought the two ships yet closer.
Then another shot, one that hit the Polychrest square amidships: an ultimatum.
‘Up foretopsheet,’ cried Jack. He could afford to let the Bellone range up a little, and the confusion might gain another half minute.
But now the Bellone had had enough: the white ensign came down, the tricolour ran up: the frigate’s side vanished in a long cloud and a hundredweight of iron hurtled across the five hundred yards of sea. Three balls struck the Polychrest’s hull; the rest screamed overhead. ‘Clap on to that sheet there, for’ard,’ he cried: and as the sail filled, ‘Very well, Mr Goodridge, lay me alongside her
at pistol-shot. Our colours, Mr Rossall. Mr Pullings, off canvas, casks over the side.’
An odd gun or two from the Bellone, and for a hideous moment Jack thought she was going to tack, cross his stern, and try a luffing-match to gain the wind, hitting him from a distance all the time. ‘God send her broadside,’ he muttered; and it came, a great rolling crash, but ragged – by no means in the Bellone’s finest style. Now the privateer was committed to a quick finish, out of hand. All that remained was to wait while the master took the Polychrest down into action, foiling every attempt at forereaching, keeping her just so in relation to the wind and the Bellone – to last out those minutes while the gap was narrowed.
‘Mr Macdonald, Marines away aloft,’ he said. ‘Drummer, are you ready?’
Across the water the guns were being run out and aimed again; as the last thrust out its muzzle he roared ‘Lie down. Flat down on deck.’ This was a mixed broadside, mostly grape: it tore through the lower rigging and across the deck. Blocks rattled down, ropes parted, and there was Macdonald at his side, staggering, a hand clapped to his arm. A wretched little man was running about, trying to get down the forehatch: several others on their hands and knees, looking wild, watching to see if he would succeed. The bosun tripped him up, seized him and flung him back to his gun. The smoke cleared, and now Jack could see the dead-eyes in the Bellone’s shrouds. ‘Stand to your guns,’ he cried.