Leeward by Katie Daysh

Author:Katie Daysh
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Canelo
Published: 2023-06-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-One: The Midnight Bell

25 July 1800

Nightingale had hoped for stars but in the blackness, he was glad for the challenge. Clouds veiled the crescent moon and blotted the lights of the heavens. He looked to his side and could barely see Kieran Attrill, a foot away from him. The man was shrouded in dark clothing, fair pigtail tucked up inside his blackened sennit hat; not a scrap of light material could be made out. It was only when he sensed Nightingale’s eyes on him that he turned and there was a flash of his pale face. Nightingale put a finger to his own lips.

The muffled, soft kiss of the oars rippled through the waters, driving the crew further into the darkness. Nightingale, with his hand on the tiller, hardly wanted to breathe and disturb their concentration. Everything had conformed to his scheme so far. He had planned it meticulously, but he was not a fool; weather and error and nature could never be truly accounted for. Three boats moved on this, the starboard side, and three boats, under Courtney, to larboard. The oars of the leftmost launch grew quieter as it pulled around to the ship’s stern. Soon, the boat to his right would divert further towards the bows whilst his own aimed for the waist.

Nightingale felt instinctively for the flintlock in his belt and the cutlass strapped to his side. To his surprise, his palm came away wet with perspiration. He wiped it on his cloak.

The vessel’s shadow rose high above the black waters. For a moment, a sliver of moonlight scythed downward and caressed her topmasts. Without her sails set, she looked eerily desolate, but looks could deceive; she still had fire in her belly without her canvas. As if to prove him right, the lunar illumination glinted off a waiting carronade. Chills ran down Nightingale’s spine: the awe which never went away, even after twenty-eight years at sea.

Rylance, near the boat’s waist, mistimed a stroke and the oar sounded deafening. ‘Easy,’ Nightingale whispered to a hissed, ‘Sorry, Captain.’

The ship’s starboard battery roared into life. A flash, blindingly bright in the darkness, and a searing whistle split the silence. In the light, Nightingale saw his division duck. The water splashed fifty or so yards behind him, swiftly followed by another scream as the next cannon fired. Closer. In the barrage, ten pairs of terrified eyes turned back to him.

‘What are you looking at me for?’ he shouted, no need for quietness now. ‘Pull!’

The red coats of the marines shone as they hurried to the ship’s waist. Nightingale’s boatmen gripped their oars and doubled their urgency, straining with each stroke. The pop of muskets echoed above their heads. Nightingale stared at the looming gunwales, alight with bursting fireworks. He tried to see – tried to hear – if the larboard side faced the same display but could not decipher anything in the flashing lights.

To the stern, the leftmost boat thumped against the hull.

Smythe shouted, ‘Up, men! Climb, climb!

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