'We'll soon see if we win more than a barrel of guineas in prize money,' Binney said significantly.
This drew Poynter's immediate interest. 'How so — sir?'
'Why, if the frigate sacrifices himself for the merchantman we'll know he's worth taking. And if that's so, we may well have a Spaniard on his way to the mines with mercury. I don't have to tell you, that means millions ...'
His words flew along the gundeck, and soon the gunports were full of men peering ahead, chattering excitedly about their prospects. Another gun sounded above, but a stern chase would be a long one especially as Achilles had no chase guns that would bear so far forward, and with the French coast and safety lying ahead the Spaniard would take his chances.
The Spanish frigate tacked about; the combined effect of the run downwind and her own working to windward towards them had brought her close - this tack would see her in a position to interpose herself between Achilles and her prey.
'Stand to your guns!' bawled Binney. Kydd pulled back from the bright daylight into the sombre shades of the gundeck. All was in order, and he nodded slowly in satisfaction as he saw gun-captains yet again checking carefully the contents of their pouches, the quill tubes to ignite the main charge from the gunlock atop the breech, the spring-loaded powder horn for the priming.
Kydd had been in ships that had sailed into batde to the sound of stirring tunes from fife and drum, but
Achilles went into action in a lethal quiet, every order clear and easy to understand.
His stomach contracted - as much from his delayed breakfast as anything. From his position on the centreline he could see everything that happened inboard, but nothing of the wider sea scene.
But he could imagine: Achilles crowding after the merchantman, the frigate coming across between them, and in the best possible position for her — cutting across the bows of the ship-of-the-line and thereby avoiding her crushing broadside, and at the same time her own broadside would be ready to crash into Achilles's bow and rampage down the full length of the bigger ship.
A cooler appreciation told him that this was not something that an experienced captain would allow, and Dwyer was nothing if not experienced. Going large, the wind astern, there was the greatest scope for manoeuvrability, and at the right moment he would haul his wind - wheel around closer to the westerly — to bring his whole broadside to bear on the hapless frigate. They would lose ground on their chase, but. . .
'Starb'd first, then to larb'd,' Binney relayed. On the quarterdeck the captain had his plan complete: it was seldom that a ship fought both sides at once, and here they would be able to have the unengaged side gun-crews cross the deck to reinforce those in action. 'Mr Kydd, I want the best gun-captains to starb'd, if you please.'
Kydd felt the ship turn, the sudden heel making the deck sway before she steadied. He tensed. There was a muffled shout from the main-hatchway, and Binney roared, 'Stand by!'
Kydd braced himself, but these were only twenty-four-pounders; he had served great thirty-twos before now. At the gun closest to him he saw one of the new hands. His eyes were wild and his legs visibly shaking.
The distant shout again, and instandy Binney barked, 'Fire!'
The crash of their broadside with its deadly gunflashes playing through the smoke dinned on his ears, the smoke in great quantities filling the air. Up and down the invisible gundeck he heard the bellow of gun-captains as they whipped raw gun-crews into motion.
They had got in their broadside first. Such a brutal assault from two whole decks of guns would utterly shatter the frigate - if they had aimed true. Kydd felt Achilles's stately sway as she resumed her course; this she would not be doing if they had failed.
'Larb'd guns!' Having blasted the frigate to a standstill they would cross her bows and in turn deliver a ruinous raking broadside, while at the same time be resuming their pursuit.
He folded his arms and smiled. There was little for him to do. Poynter and the other quarter-gunners could be relied on to keep up the fire: his duty was for the graver part of an action — if it was hot work, with casualties and damage, Kydd would need a cool mind acting as deputy to the lieutenant of the gundeck, to see through carnage and destruction to deploying men to continue the fight. But there was no chance of that now.
Reload complete, the crews crossed to larboard and took position. 'Stand by!' Gun-captains crouched down, the handspikes went to work, the guns steadied and the gunlocks were held to the lanyard. Kydd pitied the helpless frigate somewhere out there on the bright morning sea, knowing what must be coming next. A cry from aft, and then Binney's 'Fire!’ The broadside smashed out — but a louder, flatter concussion overlaid the sound of the guns. Kydd's half-raised sleeve was rudely tugged away, sending him spinning to the deck. Then, the tearing screams and cries began.