Authors: Patrick O'Brian
Peter, moved by some strange impulse—which was shared by all the rest, he noted, although not a word had been said—darted below for his best uniform. With the drum still thundering in his ears he took his place on the quarter-deck. Colours came with the rising sun, and gold and blue the Commodore stood at the windward rail: gold and blue, Mr Saumarez stood at the lee with the second and fifth lieutenants beside him: plain blue the master, conning the ship behind the wheel: red the officers of the Marines. Peter, Keppel and Preston were on the quarter-deck. The other officers were in their stations about the ship: the surgeon in the cockpit, ready: Ransome and Bailey with Mr Norris and Mr Stapleton in the gun-deck, ready; Mr Smith of the
Gloucester
and Hill on the fo’c’sle (he had replaced Peter at the guns by seniority); Balthasar and Mr Hughes in the waist, ready; Mr Wood of the
Tryal
at the quarter-guns.
Far, far over the sea she came, the familiar shape that Peter had seen so often in that distant Mexican bay by night. He knew every line but one, a dark cross like a royal, and yet not a royal, high above the white sails. ‘It is the crucifix,’ he
realised, with a strange thrill in his heart. ‘The cross that the Spaniards sail under in enemy seas.’
‘She is clewing up her topgallants,’ he said to himself. ‘She holds to her course, bearing down. She means to engage.’ And he found that the noise that he heard was his heart. He glanced quickly at the impassive faces to see if anyone else had noticed it too.
‘Quite the size of a first-rate,’ he said, continuing his interior monologue. ‘We shall have the weather-gage in ten minutes, if she holds on her course. Then she cannot escape.’
‘Mr Saumarez,’ said the Commodore, ‘we will hale on the wind half a point.’
‘One league,’ said Peter, as the swift patter of feet died away. Everything had been long foreseen: there was nothing to do but to wait. His duty was to wait through the increasing tension: he was there, like the others on the quarter-deck, to second the Commodore at an instant’s notice—to be there for any emergency.
‘She is bringing-to,’ said Peter as the galleon began the movement. She lay there, a beautiful ship, brought-to under topsails, with her head to the north: and as her fore-topsail spilled the wind the royal standard of Spain broke out at the main-topgallant mast-head, a puff of smoke appeared in her side, and a little later the deep cry of the challenging gun reached the
Centurion
.
Between them a squall of rain drifted and turned. Peter saw the Spanish sails shiver, and then she was lost. A few warm drops fell on his cheek. The squall passed: and there she lay still, waiting for them; and her gun-ports were open.
‘I think we may show them our colours,’ observed the Commodore, looking at his watch. Keppel and the signal-yeoman sprang into motion. The ensign, the broad pennant, the Union flag appeared on the instant.
‘They have not cleared yet,’ continued Peter. Something was going over the side of the galleon. Might he look with his glass? Would it be proper? No. He could see now, anyway. It was a cow or a bullock. Another. They were throwing their stores overboard to clear the guns.
‘Pass the word for the gunner,’ said the Commodore. ‘Mr Randall, can you fetch her with the chasers?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Make it so, Mr Gunner. The chasers alone. You will lay them yourself, Mr Gunner: no other gun will fire until the order is given. You will disturb her people at their work, Mr Gunner.’
‘Aye-aye, sir.’
Boom, went the larboard chaser, and Peter strained for the pitch of the shot. Splash, splash again, and the third bounce must have struck her abaft the mizzen shrouds. A hoarse murmur ran through the ship, drowned by the crash of the starboard gun. That wetted them, thought Peter: and at the same minute he saw smoke from the galleon’s stern. Three plumes of water appeared ahead of the ship on either bow, and a spent Spanish ball made a hollow thud somewhere forward.
‘In topgallantsails,’ said the Commodore, just raising his voice above the sighing of the wind in the rigging. The upper-yard men raced silently aloft, and at the halliards and clewlines the hands worked in perfect co-operation, without a word: for the first time in his sea-career Peter heard the weather-clew and its block slap up against the lowered yard, a hundred and fifty feet above his head.
‘Fore and maincourse,’ said the Commodore, after a pause in which the starboard bow-chaser fired again—the fall of the shot unseen. He meant to close under topsails and mizzen alone, with the
Centurion
’s decks clear fore and aft. She still had a great deal of way upon her, and the gun-crews below could hear the gurgling run of the water racing along her side just under the sills of their open ports.
The
Centurion
was ranging up alongside the galleon, approaching her larboard quarter to run up under her lee, so that she might not fall off before the wind and escape. The Spaniard’s immense poop and her broad, gilded stern-gallery could now be seen plainly, and the faces of men. The range was closing fast.
‘The sprits’l yard fore and aft, if you please, Mr Saumarez.
Tops, there. You may fire with the first gun. Mr Brett, the guns may fire as they bear,’ said the Commodore, looking at his watch again and noting time and position on a slate. A hole appeared in the foretop-sail and the Spanish stern-chasers barked out again.
Spaniards were busy on their spritsail yard. ‘And they are doing the same,’ said Peter, ‘as if they meant to board
us
. Damn their impertinence. Spirited, though.’
Now the broad sea between them was a lane, a lane that narrowed with each heart-beat. Nearer and nearer the Spaniard was just keeping steerage-way, keeping the wind on her starboard quarter, waiting for the
Centurion
. The two ships were almost on parallel courses now: the
Centurion
had already crossed the galleon’s wake diagonally, and she was racing up with the white water tearing at her stem.
Closer still, and closer fast. ‘Hands to the braces,’ cried Mr Saumarez a second before the
Centurion
’s bowsprit ran under the galleon’s lee. The rest of his order was lost: as the
Centurion
’s bows passed the galleon’s stern-ports the Spanish broadside thundered out. But already the topsails were backed, and the way came off the ship.
They were side by side within close pistol-range, moving, but without any appearance of movement, for they moved together. Between them lay a dense night of smoke, pierced with innumerable scarlet-orange jets and shaken by the hellish roaring, the metallic bellowing of guns. The
Centurion
fired continuously: the galleon in broadsides, slow, measured, all-embracing thunderbursts of sound and smoke and fire.
One, that had swept the bowsprit and head. Two, on the roll and too high. ‘This is it,’ said Peter in a whisper. Three. The whole smoke-bank lit up with a roar like the falling sky, and an enormous jarring blow struck the
Centurion
full.
The Commodore was shouting: the first lieutenant vanished: the main-topsail yard came round a trifle. Glancing up Peter saw the flashing of the muskets and swivel-guns in the tops; but he heard nothing.
Four. The fourth broadside. He had been waiting for it. Mr
Blew was down. In the waist a gun was over and its crew struggling madly. The Commodore was beckoning. ‘My compliments to Mr Norris and we are going to run up. For’ard guns to be traversed.’
‘Aye-aye, sir.’
Peter dashed by the sentry at the hatch, raced along the gundeck, gave his message, shouting through the heavy swathes of inward smoke; dashed back. Mr Anson was standing with his hands clasped behind him, with his back to the galleon, looking keenly up into the sails. Mr Blew was gone. There was blood on Preston’s cheek.
Five. And between Keppel’s head and Peter’s passed a great hum and a hot blast of air. Keppel said something inaudible and winked: Peter blew his nose.
A gust of wind rolled the smoke slanting across the deck, starboard quarter to larboard bow. He saw the Spanish quarter-deck on his right hand, high, and the officers standing there: he could see their faces, dark, unmoved—swords, laced uniforms, long wigs. A young fellow was looking straight into his face. Clear in an instant’s lull between the
Centurion
’s guns came a snapping volley from the tops: the young Spaniard fell, disappearing behind the rail.
Now the
Centurion
was ranging up along the Spaniard’s side. The sixth broadside. And seven. A ball struck the quarter-deck. Where it had touched there was a deep furrow. Eight. Something rang on metal and he was down, staring at his foot. A six-inch splinter quivered in the heel of his shoe, which lay in the lee-scuppers—his foot untouched. ‘Dear me,’ he thought. As he wrenched the splinter and the heel away he had a moment’s glimpse of Sean carrying a man below.
Nine was coming. Wait for it, he said. Then nine. There was a terrible screaming somewhere forward, and a block with a great serpent of rope fell on the quarter-deck. ‘Preston. Palafox. Attend to that.’
For the tenth and eleventh broadsides they were in the mizzen rigging, knotting and making fast. He saw the Spanish deck, aswarm with men, and the officer who gave the signal
for the guns. The Spanish tops, almost empty except for a few in the maintop. One of them fired at him as the
Centurion
’s mizzen came abreast of him. On the Spanish quarter-deck there were not many officers now. Their ensign had gone; but it had been scorched by gunfire, not struck.
‘Down with your helm. Brace up sharp. Forestays’l,’ cried the Commodore. One more broadside, a deep and wounding broadside, fired at the bottom of the roll into the
Centurion
’s gun-deck, and then the
Centurion
had forged ahead, out of the galleon’s lee, to lie on her larboard bow, with every gun traversed in the wide ports and bearing, while the Spaniard’s broadside thundered into the empty air.
On the galleon’s side a red glow showed amid the smoke. Then it was a sheet of flame blazing and racing all along. The mats in her boarding-netting were on fire. Her guns slackened. High Spanish voices could be heard. ‘If we fall aboard her,’ thought Peter, ‘that will be very bad.’ He glanced along the hammocks in their own netting. They were soaked, of course. The sanded deck was running with water, and the pumps were rimmed with full buckets. But the cordage was dry. And there was powder in the open magazines.
‘Fending poles,’ ordered the Commodore. ‘Stuns’l booms. There. Stand by.’ But before the order could be carried out the flaming mass went by the board, hissing in the sea.
It was a different note from the galleon now. Not a full broadside any more, but the crack of the chasers alone and the few fo’c’sle guns that could bear. The
Centurion
was firing her whole starboard double tier in an unending thunder, and the sound of cheers ran through the din. And once again Peter could distinguish the crackle of the muskets in the tops.
He could see the frightful damage in the galleon. The wind tore the smoke, and there were officers running between the guns. Four ports forward had gone. Amidships two guns lay asprawl. Only four men held the quarter-deck, and as he looked one sank to his hands and knees. The
Centurion
was firing grape, and the murderous hail swept the galleon’s deck: the unceasing deadly fire from the tops rained down.
‘But he’s no fool,’ said Peter, seeing the galleon’s yards brace round.
‘Ball,’ cried the Commodore, touching Peter’s arm.
Peter tore limping with one heel below. As he passed on the order the roar of the Spanish lower tier swallowed up his words. He pointed to the twenty-four pound balls by the nearest gun. ‘Hot work,’ said the lieutenant, grinning savagely out at the smoke-blackened galleon’s side through the shattered port of number 51—dismounted, but efficiently secured.
Going on deck Peter was stopped by men carried down to the cockpit, then by the racing stream of powder-boys. He reached the deck exactly in time of the galleon’s fire, the broadside once again. Then he was on his back and his mouth was full of blood. He could not see—only a redness before his eyes. But it is nothing, he said, shaking his head and crawling up. A splinter had hit his mouth and forehead, but only flatwise. He mopped away the blood and took his place on the quarter-deck. Preston was no longer there. It was bloody underfoot.
‘All right?’ cried Mr Saumarez, peering into his face. Peter nodded.
‘Graze,’ he shouted.
Now the galleon had come up and turned to the wind. They were side by side again, and although the Spaniard’s upper guns fired slow and few, her lower tier gave a crushing broadside yet, steady and determined.
‘Edge her closer,’ said Mr Anson to the wheel.
Yard-arm to yard-arm now: and the sky sent back the roaring of the guns. The galleon’s main-deck had men running. Peter could see a scuffle in the hatchway: an officer pistolled a man.
The freshening wind tore the smoke fast away, and where three midship ports were knocked into a gaping hole he could see into her lower-deck. An officer was there beating at the gun-crew with his sword.
Forward three of the galleon’s guns fired together: then a
pause, a long pause. Two more guns, and three: all went home. Gordon of the Marines threw up his arms, moved two jerking steps and fell across the rail. A longer pause from the Spaniard: then two more guns, lonely, fore and amidships.
Now it was the
Centurion
alone, firing without cease, the jetting flame and smoke and iron. ‘Tops there. Tops,’ hailed the Commodore in a tremendous voice above it all. ‘Tops. ’Vast firing.’
On the galleon’s deserted main-deck, darting, dodging for cover among the shattered boats and spars and guns, leaping over the piled-up dead, a single figure raced for the windward rigging. He reached the maintop.
At the main-topgallant mast-head the royal colours of Spain jerked, poised again for an instant, streaming in the wind, and then ran down, faster and faster, down in a dizzying flight down, struck down to the empty deck.
‘Mr Saumarez,’ said the Commodore in the uncanny silence. ‘You will pull across in the longboat, if you please, and take possession of the galleon.’