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

enemy frigate was revealed. Well set up and with the wind in her favour, she was speeding into the perfect position and appeared almost beautiful in the foul night. But less attractive was the line of heavy cannon that were run out, and about to fire on Scylla 's own, vulnerable, bows.
    Caulfield was muttering something unintelligible, and Fraiser had thoughtfully positioned himself behind the trunk of the main mast, but Banks found he could do nothing other than stare fascinated at the sight of a powerful enemy ship: so close by and so very deadly.
    When it came, the broadside hit them on their larboard bow, and was not a total rake. The shots were also delivered at a measured ripple, rather than the spasmodic but considered fire that Scylla had dealt out upon her sister. But, despite the inferior angle, the enemy's ball did their business well enough, and shrieks of wounded men soon began to compete with the wind's monotonous scream.
    “Damage report, Mr Middleton!” Banks shouted down at the midshipman on the deck below, but a ship's boy was already scampering back along the gangway.
    “Mr King s-sent me, sir,” the youngster – a third class volunteer whose normal duty was to carry powder to the guns – touched his forehead in a hurried salute. During the last five minutes he had heard Scylla 's guns fired in anger for the first time, been the target of an enemy broadside, and was now delivering an important message to his captain.
    “The larboard forechains is weakened, and won't take no pressure. Wants us to reduce sail, so he does – and says to be quick about it, if you plan on seeing your mother again.”
    The boy started as he realised what King had actually meant, but Banks' brain was already at work.
    “Port the helm – prepare to wear ship. Larboard battery fire as you are served!”
    The ship heaved further to starboard, and Scylla was thrown round, rough and clumsy until the wind passed over her taffrail. With the foremast effectively out of use on the larboard tack to take the wind to starboard was his only option. It would mean they should have the chance of paying back their tormentor, but such a sudden move was potentially dangerous to his ship, especially as her tophamper had already proved vulnerable.
    Scylla groaned at the apparent mishandling, but her larboard guns fired as she bore round, and soon she had settled on the starboard tack, heading away from the frigate that had shown herself to be so deadly and into the darkness of the storm. King himself approached, just as a fresh deluge of heavy rain began to fall.
    “We've taken two direct hits to the fore channel and its mounting, sir.” he said, almost inches away from his captain's ear. “Long as we stay on the starboard tack all should be well, but if we have to take the wind to larboard I doubt the mast will hold for very long.”
    “Can anything be done?”
    “Carpenter's looking at it now, sir, but I would say it will not be a quick repair. We shall need daylight, and fine weather.”
    Banks stared back into the storm that currently hid both French ships. As long as they remained so, there was nothing he need fear; the storm was concealing Scylla well enough and he had several hours in which to truly lose them. “Daylight, and fine weather.” The lieutenant’s words seemed to reverberate about his brain: were there Frenchman about when King got his wish, Scylla would be easy pickings.
    “Very well. There is no other damage?”
    “Nothing substantial, sir; I'd say we got off remarkably lightly, though it is a dark night for target practice. Several men have been wounded, including the governor, or so I believe.”
    “Sir Terrance?” A sudden gust of wind made Banks snatch at his hat and it was with effort that he avoided swearing out loud. With a superior enemy to windward, and a ship that could not sail east, he now had to worry about an old man who was unable to keep himself out of danger. “How badly?”
    “I couldn't