Read Online The Gathering Storm by Peter Smalley - Free Book Online
Authors: Peter Smalley
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Hayter, and Mr Mappin's contempt for
him, and now regretted that he had not taken James as
supernumerary, even if only to thwart the bloody glib-talking
little tailor's fop and his wretched requests. And
there the matter had rested until Admiral Hapgood gave
him permission to weigh and put to sea on Expedient 's brief
shaking-out run.
When the French coast was clearly in view, Rennie took the
con, and ordered that his ship be brought about, to run
before the wind on the return to Portsmouth. Boats must
be swung out and towed as part of the exercise. As the ship
heeled true on the new heading:
'Mr Tangible!'
'Sir?' Attending.
'We will beat to quarters, and clear the ship for action!'
The boatswain lifted his call, and the piercing tones echoed
across the deck. Immediate feverish activity. The rattle of
the marine's drum. The thudding of many feet. Curses. From
below, the crash and clatter of mallets as bulkheads were
struck and stowed, and cabin furniture. Lieutenants and
middies to their sections. Guncrews assembled. Powder and
shot to hand. And now:
'Silence on deck!' Tom Makepeace.
The creaking of rigging, of bolt ropes and canvas, of
timbers, and the sighing of the wind; the rinsing, rushing
wash of the sea; the cries of seabirds high over the trucktops.
'Cast loose your guns!'
Tackles loosened, sponge rammers and handspikes laid
ready.
'Level your guns!'
Quoins thrust in, and bedded.
'Out tompions!'
Red stoppers pulled out of muzzles, and dropped hanging
on lanyards.
'Run out your guns!'
Crews at the tackles, heaving. Breeching ropes hauled
through and bent.
'Prime!'
Priming wires thrust down vents and cartridges pierced.
Horns tipped by gun captains and fine grain poured. Pans
primed.
'Point your guns!'
Gun captains kneeling at flintlocks and sighting.
'Larboard battery – FIRE!'
BANG BANG-BANG-BOOM BANG-BOOM
BANG BANG .
The eighteen-pounders.
THUD THUD THUD THUD
The thirty-two-pound carronades.
Shuddering timbers. Whirling clouds of smoke and grit
along the deck, and ballooning from the ship's side.
Explosions of spray to the south as roundshot smashed heavy
into waves.
'Reload!'
'We are ragged, Mr Makepeace. Very ragged.' Captain
Rennie paced aft to the tafferel, turned and paced forrard
to the wheel, the great shadow of the mizzen and driver
falling on the deck as the ship heeled.
A few moments more. Frenzied activity. Shouts. A dropped
bucket of sand.
'Larboard battery ready, sir!'
'And slow.'
'Yes, sir – the guncrews have had very little practice as
yet.'
'Hm. I have disobeyed the port admiral in firing my great
guns, Mr Makepeace. But as a commander at sea I felt it my
duty to give the people a whiff of powder. Nothing like the
stink of powder to sharpen a crew. Sharpen us all. We will
not fire the great guns again, but we will continue to exercise
them, until we are fit to call ourselves a fighting ship.'
His hand to a back stay as the ship butted into a sudden
lifting wave. 'Pray proceed.'
'Very good, sir.' His hat off and on, and he faced forrard
to raise his speaking trumpet. Light flashing on silver. The
shadow of a rope striping his face.
'Silence on deck!'
*
As he came ashore in his boat at the Hard, Captain Rennie
saw a familiar tall figure emerge from the dockyard gates.
Jumping ashore, wetting his shoes: 'Langton!'
The figure hesitated, turned, and began walking rapidly
and diagonally away down the wide expanse, toward a boat
at the eastern end.
'Captain Langton!' Waving. The figure took no notice.
Rennie nodded to the midshipman in charge of his launch,
and hurried across the Hard in pursuit of the retreating
figure. He nearly tripped on a wheel rut, staggered, and
feeling a fool hurried on, raising a hand then lowering it
abruptly. Would not the fellow stop, good heaven?
'Langton!'
At last, puffing and sweating, Rennie did catch him up,
and an embarrassed Captain Langton was obliged to turn
and acknowledge his fellow officer.
'Ah. It's you, Rennie. I thought
him, and now regretted that he had not taken James as
supernumerary, even if only to thwart the bloody glib-talking
little tailor's fop and his wretched requests. And
there the matter had rested until Admiral Hapgood gave
him permission to weigh and put to sea on Expedient 's brief
shaking-out run.
When the French coast was clearly in view, Rennie took the
con, and ordered that his ship be brought about, to run
before the wind on the return to Portsmouth. Boats must
be swung out and towed as part of the exercise. As the ship
heeled true on the new heading:
'Mr Tangible!'
'Sir?' Attending.
'We will beat to quarters, and clear the ship for action!'
The boatswain lifted his call, and the piercing tones echoed
across the deck. Immediate feverish activity. The rattle of
the marine's drum. The thudding of many feet. Curses. From
below, the crash and clatter of mallets as bulkheads were
struck and stowed, and cabin furniture. Lieutenants and
middies to their sections. Guncrews assembled. Powder and
shot to hand. And now:
'Silence on deck!' Tom Makepeace.
The creaking of rigging, of bolt ropes and canvas, of
timbers, and the sighing of the wind; the rinsing, rushing
wash of the sea; the cries of seabirds high over the trucktops.
'Cast loose your guns!'
Tackles loosened, sponge rammers and handspikes laid
ready.
'Level your guns!'
Quoins thrust in, and bedded.
'Out tompions!'
Red stoppers pulled out of muzzles, and dropped hanging
on lanyards.
'Run out your guns!'
Crews at the tackles, heaving. Breeching ropes hauled
through and bent.
'Prime!'
Priming wires thrust down vents and cartridges pierced.
Horns tipped by gun captains and fine grain poured. Pans
primed.
'Point your guns!'
Gun captains kneeling at flintlocks and sighting.
'Larboard battery – FIRE!'
BANG BANG-BANG-BOOM BANG-BOOM
BANG BANG .
The eighteen-pounders.
THUD THUD THUD THUD
The thirty-two-pound carronades.
Shuddering timbers. Whirling clouds of smoke and grit
along the deck, and ballooning from the ship's side.
Explosions of spray to the south as roundshot smashed heavy
into waves.
'Reload!'
'We are ragged, Mr Makepeace. Very ragged.' Captain
Rennie paced aft to the tafferel, turned and paced forrard
to the wheel, the great shadow of the mizzen and driver
falling on the deck as the ship heeled.
A few moments more. Frenzied activity. Shouts. A dropped
bucket of sand.
'Larboard battery ready, sir!'
'And slow.'
'Yes, sir – the guncrews have had very little practice as
yet.'
'Hm. I have disobeyed the port admiral in firing my great
guns, Mr Makepeace. But as a commander at sea I felt it my
duty to give the people a whiff of powder. Nothing like the
stink of powder to sharpen a crew. Sharpen us all. We will
not fire the great guns again, but we will continue to exercise
them, until we are fit to call ourselves a fighting ship.'
His hand to a back stay as the ship butted into a sudden
lifting wave. 'Pray proceed.'
'Very good, sir.' His hat off and on, and he faced forrard
to raise his speaking trumpet. Light flashing on silver. The
shadow of a rope striping his face.
'Silence on deck!'
*
As he came ashore in his boat at the Hard, Captain Rennie
saw a familiar tall figure emerge from the dockyard gates.
Jumping ashore, wetting his shoes: 'Langton!'
The figure hesitated, turned, and began walking rapidly
and diagonally away down the wide expanse, toward a boat
at the eastern end.
'Captain Langton!' Waving. The figure took no notice.
Rennie nodded to the midshipman in charge of his launch,
and hurried across the Hard in pursuit of the retreating
figure. He nearly tripped on a wheel rut, staggered, and
feeling a fool hurried on, raising a hand then lowering it
abruptly. Would not the fellow stop, good heaven?
'Langton!'
At last, puffing and sweating, Rennie did catch him up,
and an embarrassed Captain Langton was obliged to turn
and acknowledge his fellow officer.
'Ah. It's you, Rennie. I thought
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