easy responsiveness to the waves. Fixed now on the one point in the harbor where, in theory, the cannons of the shore batteries could not reach, the Meteor waited.
Theory is a fine thing, John thought, surveying the vessels at rest within range, now to put it to the test . He slid his spyglass closed with a metallic rasp like the sound of a sword being drawn. The heels of his shoes rapped like pistol shots in the silence as he walked the length of the deck to the mortars.
“Sir?” said Sergeant Richardson, a dark bulk quivering with keenness beside his beloved weaponry.
“The galleys must go first. After that anything fast enough to follow us. We only have a few moments. Make them count.”
“Aye, aye sir!”
Richardson directed his crew with a low muttering. The bomb clanked against the mortar, and the dull thud of the rammer sounded apologetic, as if it cleared its throat in church. The slow-match glinted like a mad red eye. Richardson sighted along the barrel. “Winch her two points to leeward.”
The capstan rumbled. Winched towards one anchor, away from the other, the whole ship turned—there being no other way to aim the weapon—and “Fire!” bellowed Richardson, full throated, even as the slow match descended on the touch-hole. A moment’s fizzling, a hollow whoom! deep enough to steal the breath from John’s lungs, make all the bones in his body tremble, and with a shattering roar the first bomb exploded among the moored galleys. The second mortar roared and spat as the first team wormed and sponged; raking out and quenching any smoldering wadding that might remain to set off the next charge too early.
Lights kindled on every vessel lining the shoreline. John could almost hear the running feet and shouting in the fort, and then the shore batteries erupted in red tongues of flame and twelve-pound shot pocked the dark water an inch before the windward side. Satisfaction gleamed as pretty as gold in John’s heart as he realized his calculation had been true. The shore batteries could not quite reach the Meteor here. He had perhaps five minutes before the ships at anchor could man their guns and become a threat. But he could do a great deal of damage in five minutes. Roaring splendid destruction saw galleys bursting into tumbling jigsaws of pieces, drifting away from their snapped cables to tangle with each other, furled sails on fire.
Wounded xebecs tried to bring their guns to bear on the Meteor only to find themselves hulled by the fire of their own fort. Masts tumbled, and the water reflected flame. Richardson whistled as he worked, and the men at the capstans cheered each shot when it went home. As they swung back to bombard the vessels on the other side of the harbor, a ball from the shore knocked the head and ample bosom off Meteor ’s figurehead, the impact making John lurch to the rail. Before him the harbor of Algiers lay crammed with sinking, burning hulks of pirate ships. The shore seethed black with men scrambling into rowing boats. Caught up in the action, he laughed for joy before seeing from the corner of his eye the first of the moored ships slip its anchor and begin to work its way upwind towards them.
“Loose the anchors!” cried John, hacking through the windward cable with an axe, “Make sail!”
Freed from the anchors, the main topsail put before the wind, Meteor whispered forward once more. As soon as she answered to her helm, John put her about. Setting every scrap of canvas she carried, racing through a hail of hot iron as they left the sheltered spot and dashed for the harbor mouth, they fled for their lives, grinning.
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C
HAPTER 5
“How is he?”
True to his orders, Richardson’s barrage had spared only those ships which could not keep up with the Meteor . But it was a near thing; the chase had gone on for three days. When—on the morning of the fourth—the lookout reported no sail in sight, John celebrated by shaving carefully, putting on a
Theory is a fine thing, John thought, surveying the vessels at rest within range, now to put it to the test . He slid his spyglass closed with a metallic rasp like the sound of a sword being drawn. The heels of his shoes rapped like pistol shots in the silence as he walked the length of the deck to the mortars.
“Sir?” said Sergeant Richardson, a dark bulk quivering with keenness beside his beloved weaponry.
“The galleys must go first. After that anything fast enough to follow us. We only have a few moments. Make them count.”
“Aye, aye sir!”
Richardson directed his crew with a low muttering. The bomb clanked against the mortar, and the dull thud of the rammer sounded apologetic, as if it cleared its throat in church. The slow-match glinted like a mad red eye. Richardson sighted along the barrel. “Winch her two points to leeward.”
The capstan rumbled. Winched towards one anchor, away from the other, the whole ship turned—there being no other way to aim the weapon—and “Fire!” bellowed Richardson, full throated, even as the slow match descended on the touch-hole. A moment’s fizzling, a hollow whoom! deep enough to steal the breath from John’s lungs, make all the bones in his body tremble, and with a shattering roar the first bomb exploded among the moored galleys. The second mortar roared and spat as the first team wormed and sponged; raking out and quenching any smoldering wadding that might remain to set off the next charge too early.
Lights kindled on every vessel lining the shoreline. John could almost hear the running feet and shouting in the fort, and then the shore batteries erupted in red tongues of flame and twelve-pound shot pocked the dark water an inch before the windward side. Satisfaction gleamed as pretty as gold in John’s heart as he realized his calculation had been true. The shore batteries could not quite reach the Meteor here. He had perhaps five minutes before the ships at anchor could man their guns and become a threat. But he could do a great deal of damage in five minutes. Roaring splendid destruction saw galleys bursting into tumbling jigsaws of pieces, drifting away from their snapped cables to tangle with each other, furled sails on fire.
Wounded xebecs tried to bring their guns to bear on the Meteor only to find themselves hulled by the fire of their own fort. Masts tumbled, and the water reflected flame. Richardson whistled as he worked, and the men at the capstans cheered each shot when it went home. As they swung back to bombard the vessels on the other side of the harbor, a ball from the shore knocked the head and ample bosom off Meteor ’s figurehead, the impact making John lurch to the rail. Before him the harbor of Algiers lay crammed with sinking, burning hulks of pirate ships. The shore seethed black with men scrambling into rowing boats. Caught up in the action, he laughed for joy before seeing from the corner of his eye the first of the moored ships slip its anchor and begin to work its way upwind towards them.
“Loose the anchors!” cried John, hacking through the windward cable with an axe, “Make sail!”
Freed from the anchors, the main topsail put before the wind, Meteor whispered forward once more. As soon as she answered to her helm, John put her about. Setting every scrap of canvas she carried, racing through a hail of hot iron as they left the sheltered spot and dashed for the harbor mouth, they fled for their lives, grinning.
This page intentionally left blank
C
HAPTER 5
“How is he?”
True to his orders, Richardson’s barrage had spared only those ships which could not keep up with the Meteor . But it was a near thing; the chase had gone on for three days. When—on the morning of the fourth—the lookout reported no sail in sight, John celebrated by shaving carefully, putting on a
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