The King's Commission by Dewey Lambdin Page B

merciful favor of smacking him on the head with a heavy mallet to knock him unconscious. He was too badly hurt to live, and the surgeons could do nothing with such a savage chest wound. Out cold and knowing nothing of the indignity, he was passed out through a larboard gunport where he splashed into the sea to drown quickly.
    More French iron hammered into them, and Alan fell to the deck as a rammer man staggered into him. A covey of splinters took flight like passing quail over his head, and his head rang
with the shock wave of a concussion somewhere. The rammer man was sprawled across his lap with his back flayed open to the spine, and Alan gave it a long thought before shoving him off and getting back to his feet. Damned if it had not felt rather safe flat on his back, out of the line of fire.
    â€œSpare man from the larboard battery here,” Alan directed, and a rabbity man darted forward to scoop up the discarded rammer and take his place in the starboard battery.
    One of the new midshipmen, the youngest and stupidest, tugged at his coat tails, and he turned to look down at the child.
    â€œMister Railsford says prepare the larboard battery as we’re … we’re …” The boy fumbled, his teeth chattering in fear.
    â€œWe’re ready to what, damn your thin blood!” Alan barked like an exasperated commission officer. It felt damned good to yell at the boy instead of musing on his own quaking.
    â€œWe’re to come about and rake her, sir,” the boy finished.
    â€œLarboard quarter-gunners, to me!” When they had gathered round he told them to ready their pieces, double-shotted with grape for good measure.
    â€œWe’m short, sir,” a grizzled older man told him.
    â€œThen fetch the hands from the starboard chase gun,” Alan told him. “That six-pounder is only making them sneeze. Run out as you are ready and get those ports open now. Starboard battery, load and stand by for broadsides!”
    â€œâ€™Ware below!”
    â€œOh, Jesus!” Someone cringed as the repaired main yard came down with a crash across the cross-deck beams where the boats usually nestled.
    â€œSo much fer fixin’ that fucker,” a quarter-gunner spat, drooling tobacco juice from a massive wad in his cheek.
    With a loud creak, the mizzen tops’l was thrown aback to slow their ship down. Alan bent down to peer out a gunport and saw that the Frogs were drawing ahead rapidly.
    â€œOn the up-roll … fire!”
    At such close range, even their light nine-pounder shot could do harm to a frigate with heavier scantlings, and the broadside brought a groan of racked timber from the French ship as she was struck hard. Nettings and bulwarks flew, and screams sounded from French throats this time. Alan could feel when Desperate ’s helm was put hard up to windward, even without looking at the waisters on the riddled gangways as they flung themselves on the braces to wear ship.
    â€œTake your time and reload the starboard guns! Sponge out
your guns! Overhaul that tackle there, or you’ll get mashed like a pasty,” Alan called. “Mister Burney, do you take charge of readying the battery. Larboard guns, stand by.”
    The ship swayed like a drunkard as she wore down-wind, and the yards and masts of the French ship swung across the bow, with the tip of Desperate ’s bow-sprit barely clearing her mizzen shrouds and taffrail lanterns.
    â€œWe may only get one chance at this, so make your shots count,” Alan warned his larboard gunners. “Don’t aim too high and blow holes in her quarterdeck. Let’s put round-shot and grape down the full length of her gun deck, just like a good game of bowls. Tear her stern out, shake her mizzen to shreds.”
    Willing or not, Alan had to climb up onto the larboard gangway to judge the best moment, his hanger tangling between his shins. They would pass the Frenchman’s stern at close