The Torrid Zone (The Fighting Sail Series) by Alaric Bond

linstock. With conditions as they were, a misfire from the gunlock was far more likely, and there would not be the time for a second chance.
    “Captain's a rum cove,” Timmons muttered with grudging respect, as Flint blew on the glowing end of the burning twine and warmed his hand next to it. “He could not have set us fairer.”
    Timmons was another new arrival on board; he only joined during their brief stay at Spithead but as an experienced hand he was already integrated into both Flint's mess and gun crew.
    “The Frogs might be in the right place, but them's still got the wind,” Dixon countered.
    “Aye, but we've position,” Timmons stated loftily before taking a kick at one of the ship's mousers that was straying too close. “He's a canny bugger and no mistaking.”
    Flint said nothing; he was wise enough to know that, in the current conditions, luck would figure far more prominently than skill. Still it was good that the enemy was off their bow, and not across it, and the fact that Scylla was turning to meet them indicated space enough for a considered rake.
    * * *
    O n the quarterdeck Banks' thoughts were travelling along a similar path. There had been no great surprise in finding the French; as soon as the idea had come to him he had somehow known they would be there. But the fact that Scylla had met them as she had, when it would have taken no great error of judgement to see them across her own prow, bolstered him. It was their first piece of good luck for some while; pretty much the whole voyage, in fact. The storm was still raging about them, and there was little possibility of seeing anything from the deck at that moment, but Chapman, who had relieved Jackson at the main top, was keeping them informed, and it appeared they had yet to be spotted. Caulfield was standing near by, as he had done for many years and countless actions, while Fraiser, another stalwart from the past, was by the binnacle, his folded notes clamped securely under one arm. Lieutenant King, who had joined him several years ago as a mere midshipman, was forward with the guns that he had made his own. Banks supposed there were finer officers in the service, but these were men he knew well and could trust; there were none he would rather see action alongside.
    “Enemy's turning to starboard, I think we're smoked!” Chapman's voice rose above the storm again and all stiffened. Then the ghostly image of a jib boom emerged from the darkness to larboard, and a murmur that quickly grew into a cheer erupted from all about.
    “Stand by your guns!” King's order came up from below, but no one needed any further encouragement. They were perfectly placed: in less than a minute Scylla would be crossing the corvette's bows. For the first time in what seemed like an age, Banks drew breath, and even as his ship prepared to deliver a devastating broadside, a faint smile spread across his face.

Chapter Four
    ––––––––
    T he night was lit by fire from the first gun, and the brightness grew as each successive piece added their own tongue of flame to the blaze. Standing by the larboard bulwark, Banks was momentarily blinded by smoke from the nearby carronades, although the air cleared long enough for him to see the damage they were inflicting. The enemy's beakhead was being peppered with shot that also carried away the dolphin striker, and dislodged her starboard anchor. Robbed of downward tension, her jib fell slack, and the corvette turned slightly with the wind. Darkness closed in almost immediately, although a faint glow still marked the Frenchman's position as Scylla slinked away into a heavier patch of squall and apparent obscurity.
    “Masthead!” The captain's voice rose up through the last of the shots. “What do you see there?” It would take several minutes for Scylla 's guns to be reloaded, and one of the other enemy vessels may be close by. There was a pause; no one replied, and he was about to shout again when an older