Napoleon's Run: an epic naval adventure of espionage and action by Jonathan Spencer

Author:Jonathan Spencer
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Canelo Digital Publishing Ltd
Published: 2021-11-15T00:00:00+00:00

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A mountainous swell heaved around Esperanza as the tramontane howled across the sea. Hazzard burst out of the aft hatchway to find two men grappling with the wheel, the hands hauling the starboard braces tighter on the port tack, their shouts snatched from their lips as the air was sucked away in a tidal vacuum. Hazzard gasped for breath in the plummeting pressure and half fell towards the binnacle, groping for a handhold, the compass spinning wild.

McGovern and Handley appeared next to him, each fighting for a purchase on the tilting deck as Esperanza lifted and crashed, spray bursting from windward. ‘We’ve got to strike sail or we’ll be took abeam and capsize!’ called McGovern. ‘On the tack this wind will have ’er over, sir!’

‘Can we not brace the gaffsail to hold her?’

Handley shouted, ‘Mr McGovern’s right, sir – we haven’t the draft or keel to hold her trim!’

‘Very well!’ called Hazzard above the wind. ‘Douse sail but keep her helm true to wind’ard to meet the swell head-on – we’ll come about to nor’-nor’west on the starboard tack if we get the chance!’

‘Aye, sir!’ McGovern went forward and called to the foremast hands, ‘Douse yer sail! Let go yer braces, sheets and halyards, Mr Hopkins!’

Regardless of their efforts the wind struck them with the violence of a broadside. Esperanza swung about, the foremast courser collapsing just in time before she was taken aback and shoved sternmost into the sea, the skies a blistering purple, the sea erupting into heaving cliffs of granite. The large gaff broke free and lashed like a monstrous tail, two men lifted from the deck by its braces and McGovern knocked down by a loose line.

‘Douse the mainsail!’ called Hazzard. ‘Or she’ll have us over! Let go your mainmast halyard!’

The gaff topyard dropped, two men thrown against the mast as the sail collapsed, other hands diving on it to make it fast. Three others on the wheel, they lashed rope round the horns to hold the brig steady.

Hazzard fell against the midships rail, Wayland suddenly at his side, clinging to the shrouds for a hold. ‘Sir! We’re taking water below!’

‘We must keep the sailing hands on deck! Marines to rotate by section working the pumps, Mr Wayland!’

‘Aye, sir!’

The bows rose and smashed into the towering waves, the bowsprit and yard snapped away like so much matchwood, the mist and spray blinding, loose lines snapping like whipcord, an unseen coach-driver flogging madly at the waves. In the foremast tops a seaman was calling, his arm waving to the starboard bow.

‘Sail ho!’

Hazzard clambered to his feet and Handley gave him a telescope as they threw themselves at the rigging and climbed the flexing ratlines, the sea plunging at sickening angles as they ascended.

‘Man o’war, sir!’ cried the lookout and Handley put an arm out eastwards for Hazzard.

He raised the scope. The world had gone mad, waves breaking upon waves, spray spinning into whirlwinds, rampaging peaks of black iron rising and crashing beneath the dull glowing grey heavens.

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