WE WERE EIGHT DAYS OUT OF BERMUDA, AND MAKING GOOD progress with a stiff westerly on our beam, when it happened. I had gone below to find Kittering, who had made some advance towards Miss Lyell the previous evening and was now licking his wounds in his cabin. Naturally, I had no sympathy for him – indeed, I welcomed his misfortune – but he owed me some money in respect of a game of backgammon, and I was keen to have it off him.
‘Is she not the most sublime creature,’ he mooned. ‘Yet cruel, Jerrold – cruel as the Medusa.’
‘She rebuffed you, I take it.’ I was curious to hear his story, not least from the jealous fear that she may have offered him her favours before casting him off.
Kittering propped himself up on his bed. ‘She laughed at me. She said her father would never hear of it, that he would think I aimed beyond my reach.’ He paused, nursing the memory. ‘He is very rich, you know.’
‘Is he?’ I spoke carelessly, for if I were to press my suit any further with Miss Lyell I did not want it reported that I thought of gain.
‘Oh yes. The rumour in London is that he is worth seventy-five thousand a year. He has made one fortune from the sinking fund, and a second investing the proceeds in industry. I am told he owns half of Birmingham.’
Well, he was welcome to that – though I did begin to understand why Miss Lyell’s rejection had left Kittering so heartsick.
He pointed aft. ‘What do you suppose he carries in all those strongboxes stored in the lazaret?’
‘If it’s more than the two guineas you owe me, I don’t care.’ I tried to steer the conversation to more profitable grounds. ‘If I am to—’
I broke off. As I turned to follow Kittering’s gesture aft I saw a dark figure on the far side of the mess room, edging open the door to my own cabin. He glanced about furtively, then scuttled inside.
‘Do you have a gun, Kittering?’ I whispered.
He looked at me as though I were mad. ‘A gun? Of course not. Why—’
‘No matter.’
I crept out of his room towards the dining table, skirting around the well of light which the skylight cast. As quietly as I could I took a stool and raised it over my head, then tiptoed to my cabin door.
The dark figure was kneeling beside the bed, almost indistinguishable against the gloom which surrounded him. As I watched in mounting fury, I heard the rasp of the drawer being pulled from its housing, and the scrabbling of a hand reaching into the space.
I peered closer, trying to make out more of his villainy. That was a mistake: the stool I held knocked into the doorframe, and in my surprise at the sudden noise I dropped it to the floor. It thumped into the deck like a cannonball, and even as it rolled away from me the figure by the bed leaped to his feet and spun around. Mercifully, he did not appear to be armed. Instead, he was holding a small basket of linen.
‘Mr Fothergill!’ I said hotly. ‘What in all damnation do you mean by this? Captain Trevelyan will hear of it, you may be sure; I will see you flogged from one end of the ship to the other. What in hell’s name did you think you would find, prying about under my bed?’
Fothergill’s impassive face soaked up my anger unflinchingly. ‘A stocking, sir.’
‘What?’ I picked up the stool from where it had fallen. ‘Do not sport with me, Fothergill.’
‘I was preparing the laundry, sir.’ He shook his little basket at me.
‘Under my bed?’
‘Sometimes stockings fall behind the drawer and get lost.’
I shook my head in disbelief. ‘I keep my stockings in my sea-chest.’
Fothergill stepped towards it. ‘Shall I take them for you, sir?’
I could have thrown the stool at him for his impertinence. ‘No! You can explain to me why—’
Fothergill never did explain himself, for at that moment I heard a great drumming of feet over my head, and felt the ship heel hard to starboard. I thrust out an arm against the bulkhead to steady myself, and as I regained my balance I heard someone pounding down the main ladder for’ard.
The door to the mess room burst open and Lyell stepped in.
‘Lieutenant Jerrold!’ he cried. ‘We rely on your courage.’ He paused, perhaps wondering why I was standing outside my cabin with a stool in my hand. ‘The lookout has sighted an enemy.’
At first, there were grounds to hope that Lyell had exaggerated. Snatching a telescope as I gained the deck, I trained it in the direction the lookout had indicated. Even through the glass, the ship which had occasioned the disturbance barely broke the horizon – far too far to tell whether she was friendly or otherwise.
‘What do you make of her?’ I asked Trevelyan, having nothing to offer myself.
He lowered his glass. ‘Big enough to give us trouble if she wants to.’
‘But too big to catch us, surely.’ I glanced aloft at the fields of taut canvas stretched above us. ‘If the wind holds, we can outrun her with ease. And she may not be an enemy at all.’
‘We’ll take no chances. I want as much sail as she’ll bear. We’ll lay off to leeward and see if she follows, then tack to windward after dark.’
For the rest of the afternoon, and well into the evening, we stood by the stern and watched the distant ship’s pursuit. Gauging her progress became an itch, a craving: without a glass she was all but invisible, especially as night drew on and the horizon dimmed, yet we were forever finding excuses to take a telescope from the rack and assure ourselves that she still followed. At times I even caught myself hoping that she would catch us, simply to answer the mystery of her identity, though I was quick to dismiss such nonsense. But though she looked to be under full canvas, the distance between us never closed.
Dusk came early that day. Throughout the afternoon the wind had been rising, and the blue sky had firmed into cloud: first white, then ever darker shades of grey. Eventually, Trevelyan had to order us to shorten sail. All night I lay in my cabin and listened uneasily to the footsteps above me, the ropes creaking and the hull groaning. Every so often I dismounted my bed and pulled out the drawer, to feel the package hidden behind it and be sure it was still there. I was not at all happy about Fothergill’s intrusion, though I had not reported it to the captain. In the current commotion he would not have thanked me for complaining that I had caught the steward fetching my laundry. And still I wondered, as I lay there in the dark, whether it might be the package which drew our pursuer after us.
At dawn, I stumbled out of my bed and went on deck. Expecting the worst, I had dressed in my blue uniform coat. Though I’ve done as much as any man to disgrace that uniform, it was a curious comfort to me, a mantle against the impending dangers. I suppose it also made me a more obvious target.
‘Is she still there?’ I asked, sweeping the glass across our stern.
Grim-faced, Trevelyan pointed to larboard. Although the wind was sharp and blustery, and the clouds still hung low, I did not need a telescope. All our manoeuvring through the night, the changes of sail and tack, had availed us nothing: she had come level with us, and now followed a parallel course a few miles off our beam. I trained the telescope to see her better, bracing it against the heaving deck.
‘A brig. No colours – only a red pennant at the mainmast.’ I waited for the swell to lift her side into view, then counted quickly. ‘Eighteen or twenty guns.’ Twice as many as we had – and probably twice the size as well.
‘By her build, I’d guess she’s Spanish,’ said Trevelyan from behind his own glass.
‘Or a prize,’ I countered.
‘But whose?’
Trevelyan beckoned to the master. ‘Run up the private signal, if you please.’
A black and yellow flag raced up the foremast, snapped tight by the gusting wind. We stared across the heaving waves and their whitecaps, every one of us praying that the signal would be recognized and answered. There was no response.
‘She’s easing her helm,’ called one of the seamen. ‘She means to catch us.’
True enough, the ship’s bow had come down a couple of points, so that our courses converged. If the wind kept up, it would not be long before she crossed our path, broadside on and with the weather gage.
‘All hands aloft!’ shouted Trevelyan. ‘All hands aloft, and make all the sail she’ll bear. Topgallants and topsails both. Bear up the helm five points to starboard, if you please – we’ll outrun this pirate yet, I fancy.’
To my astonishment, not one of the seamen moved. None of them ran up the rigging or hauled on the halyards, and the only movement of the wheel came as the helmsman nudged it this way and that to keep us on an even course.
Trevelyan’s face bulged so crimson I thought he might have suffered a seizure. ‘Have you all gone deaf? In a few minutes we will be under the guns of a superior enemy who will either pound us to matchwood or send us home in chains. Have you forgotten our orders? We must run where we can.’
One of the seamen – the bosun, I gathered, from the brass whistle chained around his neck – shuffled forward. ‘Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but there’s no purpose runnin’. She’s too close, I reckon.’
He spoke cautiously, almost gingerly, but it did nothing to placate Trevelyan. ‘The devil you say! With this breeze at our backs and a full spread of canvas, we can run them all the way back to Bermuda.’
The bosun made a show of looking at the sails, and at the wind which still kept our signal flag fully extended. ‘I reckon not, sir. No purpose in a chase.’
His words were so impudent, and so bare-facedly contrary to fact, that I wondered if he had lost his mind. I could think of no other explanation; it seemed a queer time for a mutiny. Off the larboard bow, the unknown ship was drawing steadily nearer.
‘What would you have me do, then?’ Trevelyan asked bitterly. ‘Turn and fight, broadside to broadside? We might as well turn the guns inboard and shoot ourselves, save them the powder and shot.’
All the seamen, who had gathered in a circle on the afterdeck, nodded. ‘No gain in fightin’,’ I heard one say.
‘Then what – strike our colours and let them take us?’
‘Only thing for it,’ said the bosun blithely.
I could not believe what I was hearing. I’ve little taste for battle myself, but this was beyond cowardice. Trevelyan thought so too.
‘This is madness. If you will not think of your honour as men, at least think of your own interests. Do you want to see yourselves made captive?’
‘Not much chance of that, sir. A privateer won’t want a flock of prisoners ballasting her down. She’ll drop us in the Carolinas, or Virginia, and we’ll work a passage home. An’ all with a few bob in our pockets, on account of the insurance from the cargo what we lost.’
‘What cargo?’
The bosun shifted uneasily on his feet. ‘Our little adventures, sir. The spirits and that.’
‘But you unloaded all that in Bermuda – and sold it at a handsome, free-trading profit, I’ll wager.’
The bosun grinned. ‘Insurers didn’t see that, did they, sir? There’s an extra six months’ wages to be had in what they don’t know.’
At last, I began to understand why he and his men were so unwilling to obey Captain Trevelyan, so insistent on surrendering the Adventure at the first opportunity. It was a brute piece of infamy, though obviously beneficial to them. For my part, as a serving officer of His Majesty, I did not think my captors would give me up so lightly.
Lyell, who had lumbered out of his cabin to witness this exchange, now spoke up. ‘Do you mean to say that you would allow this ship to be captured merely to line your pockets with the proceeds of the insurance on items you have already sold?’ He sounded incredulous, though whether from outrage at their duplicity or admiration for their commercial nous I could not tell.
‘That’s puttin’ it harsh, sir. I’d say we’d no choice but to strike, and we made the best of a bad lot. You’d understand that, bein’ a businessman and all.’
‘Nonetheless, I cannot allow it to happen.’
‘And what will you do?’ Faced with the betrayal of his crew, Trevelyan had slumped into despondency. ‘Will you fire the guns and steer the ship and unfurl the sails all by yourself?’
‘’E’d snap the mast off if ’e went up there,’ sniggered one of the men.
Lyell ignored the gibe, and turned to address the crew. ‘Gentlemen, you are evidently sensible to your profit. Men of business.’
There were murmurs of agreement.
‘In that case, I propose a bargain of my own. I have, sitting in innocence below this very deck, a cargo of immense value to me, one I would despair to see in the hands of the enemy. I think you can guess what I speak of.’ His voice faltered a little, and I saw the sailors leaning closer. ‘I know it is of little import to you, but to me …’ He straightened. ‘Yet if you insist that your hearts will be ruled by commercial necessity, I have a proposal for you. How much will your insurers pay you for the cargo?’
‘Ten pounds, give or take.’
‘Ten pounds, eh? And that is if you do go free, and your insurers do not learn that you had already sold the cargo, or that you willingly engaged in the morally hazardous act of surrendering yourselves for profit. An uncertain proposition. What can I offer you in its stead?’ He was in his stride now, animated by the energy of the Exchange or the coffee house. ‘How does this strike you? Fifty guineas a man, in gold, if we reach New York safely. What do you say to that?’
Whether at the thought of rescuing a fair-haired maiden in peril, or of the five-fold return they would make from Lyell’s investment, the crew were united in their agreement. The bosun knuckled his forehead and ran to the mainmast, while the topmen swarmed up the ratlines. The wheel went over, and I saw the bow turning away from our pursuer.
Trevelyan alone seemed unmoved by the new spirit. ‘That was a fine speech, Mr Lyell, but I fear you are too late. We have lost what little advantage we had.’
As if to prove his argument, a flat bang echoed across the ocean. Away to starboard, a plume of white smoke rose from our enemy’s forecastle, and seconds later it was repeated in the cloud of spray which erupted from the water ahead of us. There was no advantage in dissembling now: at our enemy’s stern, I could see a flag unfurling in the breeze. The red and gold stripes, and royal crest, of Spain.
All action halted on the Adventure’s deck, and the men stared uncertainly at Lyell. This was something none of them had accounted for.
Lyell looked to Trevelyan. ‘Well, Captain? “You must run where you can. You must fight when you can no longer run.” It seems that the luxury of running is denied us.’
‘“And when you can fight no more you must sink the mails before you strike.” Look at her, Lyell: she outmans us, and will outgun us faster than we can outsail her. It would be doom to oppose her.’
Lyell rolled his eyes. ‘Possibly, but we’ve more chance of seeing safe harbour if we fight than if we strike. I do not wish to spend the next five years rotting in a Spanish gaol on some fever-infested island in the Indies.’
‘What would Lieutenant Jerrold do, I wonder?’
Startled by this latest question, not from Lyell but in his daughter’s clear, ringing voice, I looked around. She was standing at the top of the main ladder, her hair blowing loose in the wind and her legs spread apart to brace herself against the swell. I had never seen her more beautiful.
‘Well …’ I floundered to conjure an acceptable answer, when the paramount thought in my mind was safe surrender. ‘Our enemy certainly has an overwhelming force. There would be no shame on Captain Trevelyan if he deemed it prudent … ah …’
To my dismay, Miss Lyell mistook my equivocation. ‘You see, Captain? Even though Lieutenant Jerrold understands your fears, he cannot bring himself to allow them. Yours is the course of prudence, but there are surely times when prudence must submit to higher virtues – gallantry and fortitude. Surely you are not deaf to their entreaties.’
‘I dare say that if you lack the stomach for a fight, Trevelyan, another can be found to take command. A hero of Trafalgar, no less,’ Lyell suggested slyly.
Whatever the deficit in Trevelyan’s courage – not that I judged him, mind – there was no faulting his pride. He visibly flinched at Lyell’s comment, so hard that for a moment I feared an enemy marksman might have struck him with a musket ball.
‘You will not see me relinquishing my command in the face of danger, Miss Lyell,’ he promised. ‘Bosun, reef all but the tops’ls, then clear for action.’
I was appalled. I could not fathom why the Lyells should goad him into battle, for it seemed suicidal madness to me. Yet there was nothing I could do; certainly not when Miss Lyell ran over to me, squeezed my arm, and whispered, ‘I know you will prevail, my Truest Hope.’
I was not at all sure. We had squandered vital moments with our arguments and the Spaniard had closed fast. She was now not above a mile away, broad of the larboard quarter. As I stood by the foremast, supervising the gun crews, I saw her gunports lifted and the snouts of her cannon poking out.
‘She’ll aim to dismast us,’ Trevelyan called. ‘We’re no use to her if we sink. Rig those nets smartly and get the mails brought aft.’
A detachment of seamen stripped away the tarpaulin which covered the heavy portmanteaus and dragged them to the stern. With some effort, they hoisted the bags onto the rail and made them fast to the davits, so that they dangled freely over the water like a bunch of grapes.
‘In case we gets taken,’ the gunner beside me explained. ‘One chop and down they goes. Saves us the trouble of throwin’ ’em overboard.’
A noise like a thunderclap filled the air. Instinctively, I dropped to my knees behind the gunwale, though the shots fell well astern of us.
‘Best get below, Miss Lyell,’ said Trevelyan. ‘The next one will come a good deal closer. Down with the helm,’ he added to the steersman. ‘See that the guns are double-shotted, if you please, Mr Jerrold.’
I gave him a queer look. ‘But that won’t serve unless we come to close quarters.’ At which distance all the shot in the world would not undo the Spaniard’s stouter hull.
‘God damn you, Mr Jerrold, you will kindly take my orders or remove yourself to the passengers’ quarters. You may have the experience of Trafalgar, but I fancy I know how to handle my own ship.’
He strode back to the helm, and I was left to echo his orders to the men. ‘Ram home shot and wad.’
‘Hard-a-lee,’ ordered Trevelyan. ‘Run out your guns.’
‘Run out your guns,’ I repeated.
I did not dare contradict him in front of the men, but my mind was in turmoil. What was his plan? Our advantages, if any we had, were speed and agility, yet Trevelyan seemed to be closing with the enemy. Did he hope to cross her bows and rake her stem to stern? If so, he had precious little time. She was coming up fast on our larboard side, with barely five hundred yards of clear water between us. I could see her gun crews hauling on the tackles, heaving out the guns for another broadside.
I saw Kittering standing by his cannon, lanyard gripped tight in his fist. ‘Get down!’ I called, though I doubt he heard me.
Trevelyan’s ploy had failed. The Spaniard was to windward, and as she came past our beam she choked the air from our sails. The Adventure slowed; her canvas began to twitch and shiver, and there was little we could do save watch as our enemy’s full armament, nine fat guns with the tapered muzzles of carronades, drew level.
‘Fire!’ shouted Trevelyan.
It was as though the entire, murderous cycle of carnage had been compressed into a single second. Feeble though they were when set against our enemy’s armament, or the great guns I had commanded aboard the Temeraire, our cannon thundered out their broadside in a torrent of flame and smoke. They hurled themselves inboard, tearing so hard on their tackles it seemed they must rip the gunwale to pieces; and in that same moment the answering blizzard of iron hit home in the spars and rigging above. A block fell and landed in the netting over our heads; I could see the end of the mizzen gaff dangling precariously where a shot had almost sheared it in two. Splinters rained down on us, and I dropped my gaze to the deck, shielding my eyes.
As we had expected, the Spaniard had aimed most of her broadside high, hoping to disable us and leave us open for the taking. But whether by design or otherwise, some of her broadside had gone lower: near the bow, a jagged hole had been gouged out of the bulwark, while one of the stern davits looked to have been shot away completely so that the mailbags dangled by a single rope. A couple of the seamen were streaked with blood where splinters had caught them, but otherwise we seemed to have been fortunate with casualties.
I ran across the deck to where Trevelyan stood by the helm. His face was pale, and his knuckles white around the hilt of the sabre he carried.
‘For pity’s sake, turn and run before we are dismasted,’ I begged him.
‘That is no longer possible. If we show her our stern she’ll rip the guts out of us.’
‘She’ll rip the guts out of us anyway.’
Behind me, I could hear the crews working frantically to reload the guns. On the Temeraire we would have had a second broadside well away by now, but these men were too few and too unused to battle for that. One of them had dropped his worm-iron in his haste; another was running out a gun with the rammer still protruding.
Trevelyan sliced down his sword. ‘Fire! Fire!’
Only one of our guns was ready, and it made little more than a lonely pop after the blast of the last broadside. Our enemy was not so tardy: across the water, I saw her full length erupt in flame as she delivered a second dose of iron. This time she aimed lower, to clear our decks and break our will. The larboard gunwale exploded in splinters, hurling back the men who stood beside it. Blood was sprayed across the deck but I had no time to gape at it, for one of the guns had torn loose from its mooring; I had to leap aside to be out of its way before it smashed into the starboard bulwark. The helm remained mercifully untouched, but the rest of the deck was a shambles of debris and broken men. The Adventure was disintegrating under the onslaught.
‘Strike,’ I implored Trevelyan. ‘Strike and save what you can. There is no dishonour in surrendering an unfair fight.’
He seemed not to hear me. He gripped his sword and stared across the water, through the weaving tendrils of smoke to where our enemy bore remorselessly on. Our own efforts barely seemed to have scratched her.
Once again, her guns rumbled out of their ports. I fancied I could hear the squeak of the trucks as they rolled into position.
‘Sweet Jesus have mercy.’
Another broadside, and the ship convulsed down the length of her keel with the impact. All around me men were thrown to the ground, either by the shuddering deck or by the fragments which scythed through the air in a slaughtering storm. Screams rose in their wake, yet above all else came the twisting, agonized protest of fractured timbers. I looked up. The mizzen topmast had been struck square on; it tottered against its hounds, twisting and writhing in its rigging, then broke free. With an excruciating crescendo it toppled over, bucking like a leaf in a breeze as it tore away the stays and braces. I ran forward out of its path and dropped to the deck beside one of the cannon, hoping it would shield me from any falling spar. A loose rope cracked over my back like a whip and I squealed, convinced my spine would be snapped in two, but it was a glancing blow barely worth a bruise. Then the noise subsided, the air cleared, and a relative hush fell over the ship.
I stood. The entire aft quarter of the Adventure was covered with the ruins of the mizzen. A portion of the topgallant mast had smashed open the mess-room skylight, and a topsail had covered the helm. Everywhere, the ship was snared in tangles of rigging. Almost the only mercy was that the topmast had fallen clear of the deck, into the water to starboard. It had not come free, though: remnants of its rigging still held it against our side like a giant steering oar, its fractured stump thrust high over our heads.
Men were running aft now with axes, hacking at the wreckage, though there seemed little order to their efforts. I tried to find Trevelyan, who must have been standing perilously near where the mast had fallen, but I could not see him. I felt a tug on my arm.
‘Yes?’
It was the bosun, blood streaming from his cheek where a six-inch splinter had pierced it. He had to repeat himself twice before I could understand him.
‘What now, sir?’
‘What do you mean?’ I looked around in desperation. ‘I am not in command here. Where is Captain Trevelyan?’
He pointed to the fallen sail. ‘Under there.’
‘The mate?’
‘Dead, sir.’
I grabbed him by the arm and shook him. A fresh trail of blood oozed from his cheek. ‘Then you are in command, Bosun.’
He shrank away. ‘Not me, sir. I’m not an officer. I ain’t never been in a sea fight before – I’d not know where to start with somethin’ like this.’ He nodded towards the enemy, whose guns had fallen ominously quiet. ‘You was at Trafalgar.’
How he expected that to help I cannot guess: even if I had been at my station at Trafalgar, commanding a battery on the lower gun-deck of a ninety-eight was nothing comparable to this mismatched duel. But there was no gain in indecision. If nothing else, we would need someone in command to surrender the ship.
‘Very well. Get your men working to clear the mizzen. We can achieve nothing until the helm is clear. You two’ – I pointed to Fothergill and Kittering who were standing by the main hatch – ‘take Trevelyan below to the surgeon and see what may be done for him.’
Though I held no commission, and though I doubted my command of the Adventure would last above quarter of an hour, the eagerness with which the men jumped to obey was astonishing. Even the bosun, who had quailed at the thought of captaining the ship, was all brisk efficiency as he marshalled the men on the stern. Not that I expected it to avail us much.
I crossed to the larboard side and looked out. I could see immediately why we had gained respite from the Spaniard’s guns: our courses had diverged so that we were almost at right angles to each other, like two arms of a compass. It was the mizzen, I realized. Hanging off our hull on the leeward quarter, it was dragging in the water, acting as a pivot and turning our bow downwind, away from the enemy. So abrupt had been its effect that the Spaniard had not had time to alter course, but had been carried some distance beyond us. Now, though, she was moving, and what little relief I had felt vanished in an instant. She was not following our course to stay broadside on, but instead turning upwind, tacking about. In a few minutes she would cross our unprotected stern and rake us to pieces, while with the mizzen still bound to our hull we would be anchored in place.
‘Here, sir.’ It was Fothergill. His shirt was covered in blood, but it must have been Trevelyan’s blood, for he was unharmed. He was pressing something into my hand. ‘I thought you could use it, sir.’
It was Trevelyan’s sword, the handle still wet with his blood. I took it with a nod of thanks, though I doubted what I would use it for. Perhaps to cut down the colours and offer the enemy captain my surrender.
I looked back across to the Spaniard. For the moment, she was pointing away from us, a quarter-mile off our larboard quarter, but as soon as her bow came through the wind we would be lost.
‘Stand clear!’
The crew at the stern ran forward as, with a heavy grumbling, the mizzen topmast came free of the ship. It slid over the side, dragging a tangle of fractured spars and tackle after it, and splashed down into the water. The effect was immediate: freed of the encumbrance, the Adventure began to press forward under the following wind.
‘Good work, Bosun,’ I said. Probably futile, I did not add. The Spaniard was still coming about behind us, though she had slowed somewhat. Her main course was flapping about uncertainly, and one of her topsails seemed to be braced backwards. I doubted it would offer much relief.
‘What now, sir?’
I looked blankly at the bosun. The only answer in my mind was that we should strike, save ourselves while we could before the Spaniard tore us apart. I had no business commanding the Adventure, and there would be no dishonour in surrender. And yet … Surrounded by her expectant crew I could not bring myself to give the order. Ten minutes earlier, with the last broadside ringing in their ears and their captain felled, they would gladly have embraced defeat. Now, I sensed, they wanted one last effort to prove they had given their all. It would be a long spell in the Spanish gaol if they did not believe that.
If I could not surrender, I would do the next best thing. ‘Get the men aloft,’ I told the bosun. In his delusion that we were a ship-of-the-line, Trevelyan had taken us into battle with all but the topsails reefed. ‘I want every scrap of sail she’ll carry, as fast as you can.’
‘Who’ll tend the guns?’
I looked at our larboard battery. The gun which had broken free was now lashed impotent against the far side; another’s carriage sagged against the deck where its axle had broken. Only three remained intact.
‘Those guns won’t save us now.’ Not that they ever would have. ‘Get aloft, while we still have masts to climb.’
They might not have distinguished themselves as gunners, but Captain Trevelyan’s crew were deft seamen. The topmen had the gaskets off the mainsail in moments, while the men on deck hauled on the clewlines. The canvas bucked and billowed in the wind, then swelled out as the Adventure began to gain momentum. Even so, I could not believe it would save us. If we escaped the range of the Spaniard’s raking broadside we would still be downwind of her, and without our mizzen we would never outrun her. At best, we were only delaying our doom.
‘Captain! Captain Jerrold, sir!’
Surprised by the unfamiliar title, I turned around. The gunner was standing at the larboard rail, pointing back to the Spaniard with a disbelieving grin spreading over his face. She was not moving. Her bow pointed clean into the eye of the wind, and her sails were blowing angrily into the masts. It almost looked as though she was moving backwards.
‘She’s in irons.’
There was a look of wonder in the gunner’s eyes. With the wind dead ahead, the Spanish ship had lost all steerage way and could not move.
A surge of excitement gripped me – excitement, spurred by a clutching fear that the moment would pass and that we would fail to grasp the opportunity. If we could not take advantage of her distress to cripple her now she would quickly come around and pound us into pieces.
‘Down with the helm,’ I called. ‘Keep her on the beam, not too close to the wind. Bosun, get the yards braced round. You’ – I pointed to the gunner, aware that I did not know a single man’s name – ‘load the larboard battery. If you can borrow a couple of the starboard cannon, so much the better.’
The Adventure came around. With her mizzen reduced to a stump she had become more unstable, her movements sharp and ungainly, yet she seemed to come up to the wind more quickly than before. Even so, it felt an eternity that I watched her bow swinging about, the bosun bracing the yards to our new tack and the gun crew manhandling the cannon into position. I kept darting glances towards our enemy, convinced I would see her freed from her straits and ready to pour a broadside into us. But though she had men frantically working the sails, she did not move. Inch by inch, we edged across her stern.
‘Aim low, and plumb down the middle,’ I reminded the gunner. ‘Make every shot count.’
‘Aye, sir.’ He knuckled his forehead, and squatted by the first cannon, pushing the quoin in almost as far as it would go to depress the barrel, and muttering instructions to the men with handspikes beside him. ‘There she goes, nice an’ steady. Right a touch. There.’
‘You may fire at will,’ I told him, superfluously.
The Adventure was moving steadily now, her sails full and her pitch even. The clouds had scattered, punching ragged blue holes in the sky, and the pale sun gave an almost spring-like touch to the ship. It felt most incongruous to be standing there with the smell of powder still in my nose, and blood splashed across the deck. At long last, the Spaniard had begun to make some headway out of the wind, but it was too late. Our bow went past her stern – I could see her name now, the Bernal Diaz – then our foremast, and then our first gun.
‘Fire!’
For the last time that day, the sea echoed to the roar of gunfire. It rippled slowly along our deck like a sombre drumbeat as, each in turn, the four cannon we could bring to bear came even with her stern post. The gunner ran from gun to gun, pausing only to check the sighting and jerk the lanyard, and a quarter of a mile away the Spaniard’s stern was pulverized.
‘Look at her wheel,’ I ordered the bosun, who stood beside me with a telescope trained on the enemy. ‘Are they turning it?’
He chuckled. ‘Aye.’
‘And the rudder – is it moving?’
He paused, long enough that I almost snatched the glass from his eye to see for myself. If we had missed her steerage fittings she might yet get under way and catch us.
‘Dead in her gudgeons, sir.’
Whatever vital force had sustained me to that point drained away in an instant, and I felt only an overwhelming need to lie down. My legs sagged under me, and I became aware that my throat was achingly dry. Even my eyes no longer seemed so steady.
‘Well done,’ I said. It was the most I could manage without giving my stomach the opportunity to empty itself.
There was one more surprise that day. As I went below to see how Captain Trevelyan fared, I heard the men on the foredeck cheering. I paused on the ladder while I struggled to make out the words.
‘Huzzah! Huzzah for Captain Jerrold!’