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  Putting his face in his hands, Brooks rubbed his eyes and sighed before looking back up. He was painfully aware that his over-eagerness was going to have consequences, though whether he would face them or if it would be someone else, he did not know. Still, he mustered the fortitude to continue down this path. "I saw someone going through Hobbs' things."

  "Who?" Bryant persisted.

  Brooks looked around the deck and leant forward as he answered in a quiet voice. "Jefferies."

  "I might 'ave known it!" Murphy said.

  "Keep your voice down," said Bryant in warning. "Brooks, are you sure about this?"

  The boy just nodded, but Murphy had already been thinking along his own tangent.

  "Eh, 'ang about," he said. "If you knew about Jefferies, why didn't you say anythin' before?"

  Brooks shrugged. "It happened so fast. And Bryant, you always told me to keep my head down."

  Closing his eyes from a weariness that came from more than a simple lack of sleep, Bryant muttered. "Guess I did at that."

  The man from the opposite gun crew leaned back, considering this news. "Nah, doesn't make sense," he said. "Why go to all the trouble of stealin' a pipe, then givin' it to someone else?"

  "No, it makes perfect sense," said Bryant, sighing. "Hobbs' pipe was not the only thing stolen. Think about it. You steal a few coins and a pipe. The pipe isn't worth that much and is easily recognisable, so you bury it in someone else's kit and watch them get the flogging as you walk away with the money."

  "Oh, that's low," said Murphy.

  "Indeed," said Bryant. "You then just make a few veiled accusations, the midshipman gets involved and before you know it, Jessop is having his own belongings searched. Up turns the pipe, then comes the flogging. No defence against that."

  "An' no one questions it too deeply, as no one really likes Jessop," Murphy said.

  Bryant nodded ruefully. "That's right."

  "So what do we do?" Brooks asked, simultaneously a little afraid of what might happen to him and yet thrilled to be part of a conspiracy of sorts.

  "You don't do anything," said Bryant firmly as he swung himself out of the hammock. "Nor do the rest of you. I'm going to have a quiet word with the Bosun. What happens after that will be his business."

  The Whirlwind had endured a short storm as it crossed into southern waters, but the sprightly frigate had ridden the waves in a manner that had warmed Havelock's heart, even as he stood on the quarterdeck, getting drenched from the unrelenting heavy rain and waves crashing against the hull of the ship, while watching his crew expertly handle the rigging and constantly changing conditions with deft hands. His officers, too, had acquitted themselves admirably, matching the endurance of the men under their command as they stood through each watch, ensuring the crew acted quickly but not so fast as to put their shipmates' lives in jeopardy.

  The dispersing clouds and calming sea had marked the fourth day of the sixth week since the Whirlwind had departed Spithead, and driven on by the recent news imparted to them by the Portuguese merchant, the crew had steadily been building itself into a blind excitement. Many on the crew had learned how to handle the ship with steady hands, learning the ropes as it was called, but few were veterans of battle at sea. Havelock had made sure that his crew had constantly practiced with several gun drills every day since they left England and was now confident that any of his crews could keep to a constant rhythm of three shots every minute for as long as their ammunition lasted. In theory, that was enough to outshoot most French ships of war. However, gun drills were a far cry from having to do the same thing when there was an enemy vessel shooting back, cannon balls crashing through the decks, sending wood splinters flying with lethal force to maim your best friends as an officer stood behind you, shouting at you to reload once again and return fire.

  There were a small number on board who had seen action before but many were new to the trade and their real test was to come. That was where the planting of discipline within the crew would bear fruit and Havelock was anxious to see the results of his hard work. For now, however, the crew were growing in eagerness to see a French ship in hostile waters and earn their chance for prize money. That, at the end of the day, was what made the wheels of the King's Navy continue to turn.

  Even the loss of a shipmate, normally a source of ill omen and dire predictions, had been met without much negative reaction from the rest of the crew. Just two days previous, during the small hours of the mid-watch, a man known as Jefferies had plummeted from the mainmast into the sea. No one had noticed him missing until the end of the watch, by which time locating a man lost in the ocean might have proved impossible, even if Havelock was of a mind to turn the ship around.

  In truth, Havelock suspected foul play, especially as no one seemed to mind the mysterious disappearance of the man who was known to be sure-footed on the masts. It happened, from time to time, an unpopular crewman would have an accident and no one would mourn his loss. Having quizzed the Bosun about the incident, Havelock had received the distinct impression that some kind of sailor's justice had been enacted for a crime that, had it come to his attention, would have merited the death penalty anyway. Certainly, Mr Kennedy had been evasive in his answers, taking each question in turn with a look that strongly suggested that Havelock did not really want to become involved. Having sailed with Kennedy for several years in one capacity or another, Havelock had come to trust and rely upon his Bosun, and this seemed to be borne out by the quiet acceptance of the crew over the death of Jefferies. Maybe Havelock would hear the full story when they returned to port. But probably not.

  Though the sea had calmed over the past day, the wind remained strong, filling the Whirlwind's sails as it sailed down past the African coast which lay out of sight some distance over the eastern horizon. With his ship skimming through the sea at a fair rate of knots, Havelock enjoyed every small twist and turn transmitted through the hull to his feet on the quarterdeck, feeling the Whirlwind literally cut through the water, parting it to leave a long wake behind. He smiled. Calm seas, a stiff wind, an enemy nearby and a double watch of lookouts constantly scanning the horizon for sails. This, more than anything, was what it meant to be the captain of a frigate in His Majesty's Navy. The frigate was, after all, a hunter, able to roam the ocean in search of prey that would leave heavier and more powerful ships of war far behind.

  Havelock's musings were wrenched back to the here and now by a cry from the top of the mainmast.

  "Sail to starboard!"

  Looking up at the men on the mast, Havelock followed the line to where they were pointing, roughly thirty degrees off from the starboard bow. Raising his telescope, he scanned the horizon until he found a familiar arrangement of sails.

  "What do we have, Captain?" Corbin voice came from behind him.

  "Frigate, a big one. Two-decker, if my eyes are not mistaken," said Havelock. "Unmistakably French. Sailing across our path."

  "She is in our lee, Sir. The advantage is ours."

  "Indeed, Mr Corbin. I believe we have found our quarry. Pass the word - beat to quarters. Ready the larboard guns."

  Corbin turned back to the main deck and shouted triumphantly to the crew. "Beat to quarters! Jump to it! Run out the guns, to larboard!"

  He was answered with a cheer as crewmen leapt to their stations. Those on deck had heard the lookout report a sail on the horizon and the news flashed into the lower decks like wildfire. Along the length of the Whirlwind's hull, gun ports were opened and cannon loaded before being rolled out, ready to fire. Marines, under the command of their sergeant, lined up on the main deck, ready for the Captain's order to scale the masts for sniping positions or to otherwise line the forecastle.

  "Run up the colours!" cried Havelock over his shoulder, and the dual flags of British nationality were soon flying proudly, announcing the Whirlwind's intention to do battle with the French ship as she closed inexorably on its position.

  Lowering his telescope, Havelock gazed at the horizon,
where the enemy ship was just beginning to materialise out of the haze. Smiling grimly, he spoke quietly to himself.

  "We have her."

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Havelock's attention was riveted on the French ship, as were any crewman who had the luxury of standing idle as he awaited orders that would throw him into action. Though the French crew must have spotted the Whirlwind long ago, she made no effort to change course and the two ships sailed ever closer to one another for nearly an hour.

  During that time, the British crew had plenty of opportunities to think about the coming battle. For many, their previous anticipation gave way slowly to a creeping fear. Memories of crippled sailors leaving battered ships at port percolated in their thoughts, along with stories from the older and wiser hands on board that they had listened to just a few days past. The tales of hardship, of blood flowing across the deck and masts falling to crush sailors beneath did not seem so frivolous now as the Whirlwind inched towards its enemy. For many of the crew, the thought of their own mortality was only now just beginning to cross their minds. There was an inevitability about their fate that seemed irresistible.

  Not everyone on board had such dark thoughts, of course. On every ship of war there would be those who simply did not believe they could ever die while so young, while others took the idea of the invincibility of the King's Navy and their own national superiority to heart.

  For his part, Havelock was enjoying a moment of supreme calmness, as he often did before battle. He knew the French vessel enjoyed certain advantages over his ship but he was also aware of the odds in his own favour. The Elita would have heavier guns that could out range his own, but this would be countered by their fast closing speed. He guessed the French would have, at best, the opportunity to fire two salvoes at range before he could respond and he did not intend to present an easy target when they opened up on the Whirlwind. It was true, too, that the French had many more guns than he possessed, lined up on two decks. However, Havelock had yet to meet a French crew that could fire as efficiently as well disciplined British sailors and the biggest cannon in the world would do them no good at all if his men could fire two or even three times while they struggled to reload.

  He was painfully aware that the Elita's crew greatly outnumbered his by perhaps as much as three to one but Havelock trusted in his own ability not to be caught off guard by a sudden manoeuvre that would send the French frigate crashing into his own before her crew swept over the railings. A dozen different scenarios played through his mind during the long wait as the Whirlwind closed the distance with the Elita, imagining stroke and counterstroke as he tried to place himself in the French captain's position and predict just what might be his first move.

  The French frigate began to loom high before him and Havelock raised his telescope once more, this time sighting individual crew running about the deck of the Elita, following their captain's orders. On the quarterdeck of the ship, he saw the unmistakable uniform of a French captain, also looking at his enemy through a telescope. Havelock resisted the temptation for a cheerful salute and instead contented himself with the thought that while the French crew stirred on their ship, his were standing at attention, calm and collected. What a sight it must have been to that French captain!

  Of course, it was equally possible that the French captain was arrogant enough to think the coming battle was a foregone conclusion, given that he had the larger ship. That was something Havelock intended to disabuse him of very quickly.

  "Sergeant!" Havelock called, and the red-coated commander of the Whirlwind's marines stepped up behind him.

  "Sir!"

  "Get your men up into the masts," said Havelock. "As high as you can go without falling off. Their own marines are likely to have a height advantage over you, so make sure your men shoot well."

  "Yes, Sir! We'll send them Frogs packin'!" The sergeant stomped off, bellowing orders at the two lines of marines who had stood at attention on the quarterdeck with their muskets held steady in front of their chests since the Elita had first been sighted. Jumping to obey, they split into three groups, each heading to one of the tall masts of the Whirlwind. Slinging their weapons across their backs and climbing up the rigging, they began to take positions high above the deck, where they would be able to snipe choice targets on the deck of the French ship.

  "He has still made no change in course, Sir," said Corbin who, after having performed one last tour of the ship to see all was in order, had returned to his captain's side.

  "He will, Mr Corbin, you can be sure of that," said Havelock. "On our present course, we'll sail right behind him and unload a salvo into his stern. He won't chance us crippling him like that. No, he'll make a move, just watch out for it."

  The two officers, satisfied that their crew and ship was ready to fight, kept their eyes glued on the Elita, straining to see the first hint of a move by the French captain. They did not have to wait for long.

  "Sir, movement among the sails," said Corbin.

  "I see it - she's coming about!" Havelock said. He called down to the crew on the main deck below him. "Steady, men, she'll get a hurried shot or two at us - and then she'll be ours!"

  He almost did not notice the cheer a few of his men gave as he watched the Elita begin a steady turn towards his ship. The two light coloured bandings that ran the length of the ship's hull were obvious to his eyes now, each line marking the position of one gun deck. The ship had its larboard side to them but he quickly noticed its gun ports were closed.

  "She is going to cut across us!" Havelock said. "Helm, steady as she goes. Aim straight for her until I give the word, then hard to starboard!"

  "You see their plan, Sir?" Corbin asked.

  "Aye, I do. They are going to try steal the wind advantage from us by reversing their course and coming past us. A fine gambit but easily countered."

  As the Elita continued its turn, prow pointing briefly at the Whirlwind before continuing to move on, its starboard side was revealed. Everyone on deck could see the two layers of gun ports being thrown open before cannon were rolled out. For the next few seconds, time seemed to slow down for Havelock as he watched the guns of the Elita slowly line up on the prow of his ship. Then the French ship disappeared in a roiling cloud of thick white smoke.

  Havelock heard a couple of popping sounds as cannonballs penetrated the sails above his head but the rest of the shot went speeding past the Whirlwind to raise large spouts of water in its wake. This was enough to cause Midshipman Rawlinson to duck. Corbin turned round instinctively to admonish him.

  "On your feet, Mr Rawlinson! Where do you think you are?"

  Extending his telescope, Havelock made a quick calculation as he watched the French canon being rolled back into their gun ports for reloading.

  "We are going too fast, they won't get another chance to fire - Helm, hard to starboard, now! Bring us in line with that ship!"

  With a deft twist, the Whirlwind responded instantly to the wheel, the crew on the main deck automatically adjusting the spread of the sails to match the command. With less than a hundred yards separating the two ships, they sailed in parallel, each racing the other in an attempt to steal a lead and either take or retain the advantage of being on the windward side of the duel.

  "Mr Corbin, if you would be so good as to teach these Frenchmen how an Englishman shoots..." said Havelock.

  "Aye, Sir. Gun crews, fire!" shouted Corbin, whose order was immediately relayed by Wynton to the gun deck. The entire ship shook and rolled as the eleven larboard guns fired simultaneously, instantly obscuring the Elita with a thick bank of smoke. Havelock caught a glimpse of bright light flashing from the French ship before it disappeared but before he could shout an order to his crew to hold them steady, the Whirlwind shuddered as it was impacted by the Elita's broadside.

  The cry of men was pierced by flying splinters as heavy shot smacked into the side of the ship. Overhead sails ripped and Havelock saw one man fall from the mainmast into the sea. He sensed i
mmediately that the damage was light, the French crew having aimed high by waiting until their ship had rolled to one side, as was typical for their captains when trying to de-mast an enemy.

  "We'll win the race to reload, Mr Corbin," he shouted. "Doubleshot the guns. Let's see if we can counter some of their heavier firepower!"

  "Aye, Sir. Doubleshot the guns!"

  Sailing onwards, the two ships sped forward from their shroud of gun smoke and Havelock was gratified to see his regular gun drills had paid off in terms of accuracy. The entire starboard side of the Elita was blackened and pitted, and three large, ragged holes in the hull marked the areas where cannon had been blasted by incoming fire, rendering them useless. Even so, Havelock could not help but marvel at the size of the French frigate, its quarterdeck towering over his own position and the two gun decks appearing even more intimidating at this range. All the more so as, while the two ships raced side by side, it was painfully obvious that she was every bit as fast as the Whirlwind.

  "Fire at your discretion, Mr Corbin," Havelock said, preferring to leave the cycling of the guns to his lieutenants while he watched, hawk-like, for the slightest twitch from the Elita that would reveal its captain's intentions. He did not have to wait for more than a few seconds before the guns of the Whirlwind roared again, blanketing the area with smoke. Still, Havelock's ears were becoming re-accustomed to the noise of battle and he heard the distinctive crack and splintering of shot smashing into a wooden hull, even as he heard the cries below deck to reload. He smiled as he saw the damage revealed by the clearing smoke. More French cannons had been put out of commission, and several jagged holes very low on the Elita's hull would see it taking on water in hard turns.

  Watching the French crew work to recycle their own guns, Havelock saw them roll out their cannon even as the order to do so was relayed on his own ship. He realised then that the French crew, while no match for his in a straight race, were certainly more competent than others he had faced in the past. Wincing in preparation of the assault, Havelock realised that the Whirlwind was to receive the full weight of the French two deck broadside an instant before his own guns could respond. He heard the cry to fire from the Elita before it once again disappeared in smoke and he was knocked to the deck by a jarring impact that left him breathless.