stood was manned by Polzeath, Tremar, Treninnick and three other Cornishmen, Olver, Dawe and Penhallurick. Burdett was moving from one gun to another, constantly computing angles and distances in his head.
‘Ready to give them a hot reception, Master Gunner?’
‘Aye, Sir Matthew. We’ve all the advantage in a chase – more and bigger guns in our sterns than they’ve got in their bows. And we can put our best gun crews to the task.’
‘Very well, then. So, George Polzeath and John Tremar, do you think you can shatter yonder Dutchman’s heads, so they have to shit over their ship’s rail?’
‘Reckon we can, Sir Matthew,’ said the minute Tremar. The huge, taciturn Polzeath grunted in agreement.
‘On your command, then, Mister Burdett.’
The gun crew went into their accustomed routine, the burly Dawe ramming home the cartridge, Treninnick the wadding, Olver the shot. Polzeath, as gun captain, stood ready, the lighted linstock in his hand.
‘Give fire!’ cried Burdett.
Both chasers, and those on the upper deck, fired simultaneously. The gun deck filled with smoke, but the Cornishmen were already controlling the recoil, Penhallurick already in position to swab. As the smoke began to clear, I went to the stern windows and looked out at the Dutch ship.
‘Well done, lads!’ I cried. ‘The heads are shattered, and plenty of the beakhead rigging too! Keep up that sort of fire, and they’ll soon be turning tail and running for their sea-gates!’
The chaser gun crews cheered, but they and I knew that it was a pyrrhic victory. Destroying one ship’s heads was not going to stop the Dutch fleet. Their superiority in numbers was overwhelming. Unless we could get back into the river by the end of the day, they would catch us and destroy us.
Scobey appeared, running along the deck, halting before me and offering a sketchy salute.
‘Beg pardon, Sir Matthew. Lieutenant Farrell’s compliments, and he thinks you will want to be back on the quarterdeck.’
I went back up onto the upper deck. To either side, the other ships of our rearguard were blazing away with their stern guns. The
Sceptre
’s deck shuddered as our own guns fired again. But the attention of the men on the deck was not fixed on the duel between us and the oncoming Dutch. Every man was looking southward.
One of the yachts on scout duty in the distance had loosed her sails and was firing a gun. Our lookout bawled something, but I could not make out his words. On the ships to windward of us, men could be seen pointing toward the south-west.
Scobey brought me my telescope. Kit, Hardy and I all peered hard into our eyepieces. There were tiny shapes on the horizon. White shapes. Sails. Many of them.
‘It’s a squadron, all right, if not an entire fleet,’ said Kit. ‘From the south-west. From the Channel.’
‘But which one?’ I said.
I squinted even harder, staring at each new hull in turn as it came up over the horizon. Staring at the masts. Trying to make out the mastheads, and an admiral’s ensign. If it was the white of the Bourbons , and thus the Duke of Beaufort’s French fleet – including my friend Roger d’Andelys and his
Foudroyant
– then we were undoubtedly doomed. They and the Dutch behind us would trap us in a vast pincer. They would wipe out our fleet, leaving England open to invasion and conquest. But on the other hand…
I caught sight of a tiny shape that could only be a flag. I steadied myself and focused intently on it, blotting out everything around me. For some time, perhaps entire minutes, it was invisible, as if the breeze had fallen away or it had become furled around the masthead. Then, at last, the wind caught it, and the colours streamed out.
Red, white and blue.
I lowered my telescope. ‘The Union at the main,’ I said. ‘It’s the prince.’
They were already cheering on the windward ships. This set off a vast echo across the waters, each crew joining in as they realised what was happening. Down
‘Ready to give them a hot reception, Master Gunner?’
‘Aye, Sir Matthew. We’ve all the advantage in a chase – more and bigger guns in our sterns than they’ve got in their bows. And we can put our best gun crews to the task.’
‘Very well, then. So, George Polzeath and John Tremar, do you think you can shatter yonder Dutchman’s heads, so they have to shit over their ship’s rail?’
‘Reckon we can, Sir Matthew,’ said the minute Tremar. The huge, taciturn Polzeath grunted in agreement.
‘On your command, then, Mister Burdett.’
The gun crew went into their accustomed routine, the burly Dawe ramming home the cartridge, Treninnick the wadding, Olver the shot. Polzeath, as gun captain, stood ready, the lighted linstock in his hand.
‘Give fire!’ cried Burdett.
Both chasers, and those on the upper deck, fired simultaneously. The gun deck filled with smoke, but the Cornishmen were already controlling the recoil, Penhallurick already in position to swab. As the smoke began to clear, I went to the stern windows and looked out at the Dutch ship.
‘Well done, lads!’ I cried. ‘The heads are shattered, and plenty of the beakhead rigging too! Keep up that sort of fire, and they’ll soon be turning tail and running for their sea-gates!’
The chaser gun crews cheered, but they and I knew that it was a pyrrhic victory. Destroying one ship’s heads was not going to stop the Dutch fleet. Their superiority in numbers was overwhelming. Unless we could get back into the river by the end of the day, they would catch us and destroy us.
Scobey appeared, running along the deck, halting before me and offering a sketchy salute.
‘Beg pardon, Sir Matthew. Lieutenant Farrell’s compliments, and he thinks you will want to be back on the quarterdeck.’
I went back up onto the upper deck. To either side, the other ships of our rearguard were blazing away with their stern guns. The
Sceptre
’s deck shuddered as our own guns fired again. But the attention of the men on the deck was not fixed on the duel between us and the oncoming Dutch. Every man was looking southward.
One of the yachts on scout duty in the distance had loosed her sails and was firing a gun. Our lookout bawled something, but I could not make out his words. On the ships to windward of us, men could be seen pointing toward the south-west.
Scobey brought me my telescope. Kit, Hardy and I all peered hard into our eyepieces. There were tiny shapes on the horizon. White shapes. Sails. Many of them.
‘It’s a squadron, all right, if not an entire fleet,’ said Kit. ‘From the south-west. From the Channel.’
‘But which one?’ I said.
I squinted even harder, staring at each new hull in turn as it came up over the horizon. Staring at the masts. Trying to make out the mastheads, and an admiral’s ensign. If it was the white of the Bourbons , and thus the Duke of Beaufort’s French fleet – including my friend Roger d’Andelys and his
Foudroyant
– then we were undoubtedly doomed. They and the Dutch behind us would trap us in a vast pincer. They would wipe out our fleet, leaving England open to invasion and conquest. But on the other hand…
I caught sight of a tiny shape that could only be a flag. I steadied myself and focused intently on it, blotting out everything around me. For some time, perhaps entire minutes, it was invisible, as if the breeze had fallen away or it had become furled around the masthead. Then, at last, the wind caught it, and the colours streamed out.
Red, white and blue.
I lowered my telescope. ‘The Union at the main,’ I said. ‘It’s the prince.’
They were already cheering on the windward ships. This set off a vast echo across the waters, each crew joining in as they realised what was happening. Down
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