A King's Cutter by Richard Woodman

were attentive, drawing aside as he approached, muttering ‘good lucks’ amongst themselves and assuring him they knew what to do. As he walked aft again a new mood swept over him. He no longer envied White. He was in a goodly company, knew these men well now, had been accepted by them as their leader. A tremendous feeling of exhilaration coursed through him so strongly that for a moment he remained staring aft, picking out the pale streak of their wake while he recovered himself. Then he thought of Elizabeth, her kiss and parting remark: ‘Be careful, my love
    ‘ So like Griffiths’s and tonight so enormously relevant. He was on the verge of breaking that old promise of circumspection and giving way to recklessness. Then, unhidden, a fragment of long past conversation rose like flotsam on the whirlpool of his brain. ‘I have heard it said, ‘Appleby had averred, ‘that a man who fails to feel fear when going into action is usually wounded
    as though some nervous defence is destroyed by reckless passion which in itself presages misfortune
    ‘
    Drinkwater swallowed hard and walked forward. Mindful of his sword and the loaded pistols in his belt, he began to slowly ascend the rigging, staring ahead for a sight of the enemy.
    ‘Make ready! Make ready there!’ The word was passed in sibilantly urgent whispers. ‘Aft there, steer two points to larboard! Larboard guns train as far forrard as you can!’
    And then the need for silence was gone as, a mile west of them a ragged line of fire erupted into the night where one of the frigates loosed off her broadside. The rolling thunder of her discharge came downwind to them.
    Drinkwater could see the lugger clearly now. He stood on the rail, one hand round the huge running backstay. She was beating up to cover a barque, presumably one of the storeships. He ordered the course altered a little more and noted where the sheets were trimmed.
    At three hundred yards the lugger opened fire, revealing herself as a well-served chasse marée of about ten guns. Drinkwater held his fire.
    ‘When your guns bear, open fire.’ Men tensed in the darkness as he said: ‘Luff her!’
    Kestrel’s sails shivered as she turned into the wind. The crash and recoiling rumble of the guns exploded down her larboard side. Forward a bosun’s mate had the jib backed, forcing the cutter on to her former tack. As she closed the chasse marée Drinkwater studied his opponent for damage, wondering if the specially prepared broadside had done anything.
    It was impossible to say for certain but he heard shouts and screams and already his own gun captains were reporting themselves ready. He waited for Jessup commanding the battery. ‘All ready Mr Drinkwater!’
    ‘Luff her!’
    A hundred yards range now and a flash and crash, a scream and a flurry of bodies where the Frenchman’s broadside struck, then Kestrel fired back and steadied for the final assault on the enemy. As the last few yards were eaten up Drinkwater was aware of a furious exchange of fire where Arethusa and the brig-corvette engaged; then he snapped: ‘Boarders!’
    The cutter was gathering way, heading straight for the lugger. The French commander was no sluggard and sought to rake her. A storm of shot swept Kestrel’s deck. Grape and langridge forced Drinkwater’s eyes tight shut as the whine and wind of its passing whistled about him. Thumps, shouts and screams forced his eyes open again. Soon they must run on board of the lugger
    would the distance never lessen?
    He could hear shouts of alarm coming from the Frenchman then he felt the deck tremble under his feet as Kestrel’s bowsprit went over the lugger’s rail with a twanging of the bobstay. Then the deck heeled as a rending crash told where her stem bit into the enemy’s chains and Kestrel slewed round. The guns fired again as they bore and the two hulls jarred together.
    ‘Boarders away!’
    The noise that came from forward was of a different tenor now as the Kestrels left