The French Prize by James L. Nelson

Author:James L. Nelson
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781466847026
Publisher: St. Martin's Press

19

The Frenchman surged up in Abigail’s wake, and Jack Biddlecomb did not feel like screaming anymore. He did not want to open his mouth at all because he felt certain he would vomit if he did. The tension was unlike anything he had ever experienced, like the whole world was waiting on him. His word, spoken at the moment of his choosing, would unleash a nightmare of shrieking iron and choking smoke and spilled blood. Men might die—his men—because he spoke the word.

The Frenchman was a few hundred yards astern now. From his quarterdeck Jack could see the gun crews at the forward guns, the occasional glimpse of a blue uniform aft. He felt the words of command rise in this throat and he swallowed them down. He had heard of men, sentenced to be hanged, who had been allowed to give the order themselves that would see them hauled up to the yardarm; those men had been unable to speak the words, “Haul away.” He understood that now. He could not give the command. Indecision had never been part of his makeup, if it had, he would not be in command of a ship. But this was different.

He could feel the eyes on his back, thought he heard Frost make some small noise. The wind hummed in the rigging, the water made its rushing sound alongside, the tiller ropes squeaked a bit as Tucker made small adjustments to the wheel.

Then the Frenchman turned, swung through two points of the compass and her larboard bow chaser went off, the dull boom of the gun, the smoke, the scream of the shot all mixed into one terrible sound and Jack spun around and shouted, “Now! Now!” He had no idea he was going to do that; he gave the order with no decision aforethought. It was as if the shot had released him, the way a fuse releases the innards of a hand grenado, all the tension blown out of him, his mind sharp and ready.

Tucker spun the wheel and Jack leapt to the pin rail and took up the braces for the yards on the mainmast, belayed to a single pin, and held them all in his hands. Abigail heeled hard to starboard as she slewed around, turning ninety degrees to the Frenchman, presenting her larboard battery. Forward, the ridiculously small number of men designated as sail trimmers braced the yards around.

“Mr. Frost, quickly, if you please!” Jack called out. Frost was hunched over the aftermost gun, directing two of the men, who levered the carriage with handspikes, but there was not time enough to be so fastidious. Frost stepped back and brought his match down on the vent and the cannon roared out and flung back against the breeching, a familiar sound now, after so much gun drill. Jack was instantly engulfed in the smoke, the smell of the burned powder blotting out all other smells for the instant before it was gone to leeward.

Jack turned back to the Frenchman.

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