STO'B 10

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* CHAPTER TWO *

Philip awoke to violent shaking and the sound of a crash far forward. "Christ," he said, "stop shaking my cot, Mr Wilkins, I'm awake. Mutiny?" he asked as another crash reverberated forward, "Is it mutiny?"

"No sir, no." said the pale-faced midshipman, "Mr. Grey's compliments and there is firing on the port bow. Shall he beat to quarters?"

"Yes!" cried Philip, swinging out of his cot. "He has to ask?" The midshipman scurried out and Philip grabbed his breeches from the chair and hurriedly donned them, then opened the skylight and pulled himself through to the quarterdeck as the drum broke out an urgent call, followed immediately by several shouts and the thunder of rushing feet. A dull thump sounded somewhere, followed by another splintering crash as part of the port rail disintegrated into a shower of splinters, one of which knocked Philip down. It was nothing, he found, but as he stood up a spent cannonball ran crack against his ankle. An eighteen pound cannonball, he saw. Badger mounted only four pounders.

He peered into the darkness to port, and after a moment he made out a shape. "Mr Grey," he called his lieutenant over. The lieutenant was clearly angry about something, and opened his mouth to speak, but Philip cut him off. "Your glass, if you please." He grabbed the nearest set of shrouds and pulled himself up onto the rail, out of the way of the seaman who frantically splashed sand and water over the deck against the danger of spilled gunpowder, and leveled the telescope at the enemy. She was a brig, similar to his own, wearing French colors and ghosting toward them under topsails alone.

In the waist, coming to life with battle lanterns, the gun crews cast loose their charges, and Philip saw two hands heaving on crowbars to open their port lid. Two more sailors lay a damp fearnought screen over the hatchway to the magazine, where the gunner was no doubt filling cartridge from his deadly little kegs.

Another shot from the Frenchman, and a man fell, screaming, half of his abdomen ripped out. "Port guns, fire as you bear!" Philip cried, and guns one, three, and seven went off almost simultaneously with a brilliant flash that half-blinded him. Peering around the spots in his vision he climbed down from the rail, handed the lieutenant's telescope back, and found the master. "Bear up, Mr South."

The Badger's new course brought the rest of her broadside to bear on the enemy, and all of her port guns except three and seven, which were still reloading, and five, which hadn't yet managed to open its port lid, went off at once.

The Frenchman now bore up as well, and the two brigs ran, the Badger a little ahead, on parallel courses. The Frenchman fired again, two guns at once, one ball splashing into their wake, the other striking their hull with a dull crash.

Gun five's port was still jammed shut. Philip yelled to the gun's crew to fire - to blast open the lid with the shot - but he could not get their attention over the noise of the battle. "Sir, sir!" cried Emmet, the tallest and thinnest of his midshipmen, "Sir, I'll go!"

"Do!" cried Philip. He had to shout to be heard at all above the guns. The midshipman saluted, then scrambled down to the gun deck.

Philip turned back to the enemy, which to his surprise was not there and, indeed, he noticed the the guns had stopped firing. "Has she sunk?" he asked aloud. It could not be true.

It wasn't. A flash in the smoke aft revealed the enemy: he had fallen off and was crossing the Badger's stern, and now she would rake them. The first flash was followed by several more and a hail of iron struck the Badger, one ball smashing her rudder, the rest traveling the length of the brig, plowing through the men, decimating the crew.

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