The Fury of Cain

The Fury of Cain 

 

The mid-shipman stared long and hard into his telescope.  Eventually he lowered the instrument and turned to his captain.  “No doubt about it, sir, she’s one of ours:  Royal Navy.”

            The seaman’s commanding officer turned and strode briskly away upon hearing this report.  “That’s what I thought!” he called as he departed the scene.  Then he turned and barked out another instruction.  “Mr Hardy, you’re with me!”

            The Captain opened a small cabin near the foredeck and entered, quickly throwing a naval chart over the desk that lay in the centre of the cabin.  As he did so, the ship’s first officer joined him.  Both men were youthful for their rank, and were dressed in the regulation dark blue naval uniform of King George’s fleet.  They regarded each other with worried expressions.  “What the hell’s going on, Captain Nelson?” Hardy wanted to know.

            In reply the Captain produced a compass and began to plot a course on the chart in front of him.  “We are here…” he explained, “currently exactly halfway between Europe and the Americas.  Tell me, Hardy, which of our ships have been reported in this area lately?”

            “None recently,” replied Hardy.  “HMS Indomitable, I believe, was said to have been near here six months ago, but she headed south to harass Napoleon’s fleet near the Bay of Biscay.”

            “So what are you saying?” demanded Nelson with impatience. “You’re telling me that ship shouldn’t be there, is that what you’re saying?”

            “I’m saying I don’t know…” began Hardy, but Nelson had already stalked past him, back on to the deck of the Victory.  “Lookout!” he bellowed, raising his voice above the activities of the crew and roaring of the ocean, “I want the designation of that ship, sir!  And I want it double quick!”

            “Aye Cap’n!” the lookout replied, as he redoubled his efforts, perched high in the nest atop the main mast. 

--- 

Half a mile away, Rodriquez Cain, terror of the Spanish main, lowered his telescope and smiled, showing the gap in his rotting teeth as he did so. 

            “They have spotted us,” declared one of his followers.  “But they have not instituted any evasive manoeuvres.”

            Cain nodded expectantly.  He was a huge man, and his skin had been burnt red by the sun.  His one good eye glared hatred at the world.  The other eye was now little more than a ghastly socket.  “Of course they haven’t,” he said, his voice riddled with malice and triumph, “this is one big, happy Royal Navy.”  He looked sharply at the man to his left.  “Have the last of the original crew been put to death?”

            “They have,” answered another of his followers, “we just slit the throat of the last one that lived.”

            Cain smiled a hateful smile.  “Good…” he intoned, “good…”

            He put the telescope to his eye again.  “I am about to teach a lesson to His Majesty’s flagship, and her captain,” he declared, “and that lesson is that the penal colony has not been built that can hold Rodriquez Cain…

            He paused for a moment, taking in the view of the huge Man O’War that his hijacked vessel bore down upon.  “And you, Horatio,” he said, almost to himself, “Did you know there is an old, Russian proverb that says: ‘revenge is a dish best served cold’…

            “It is very cold in the North Atlantic…” 

--- 

Nelson stood amidships, flanked by Hardy and the mid-shipman, and gazed at the unidentified ship as it cut through the waves, drawing ever nearer.  As he looked on, the sun shone down, and was reflected upon its white sails.  And for a moment he saw those sails as gravestones, and he saw the oncoming vessel as an omen of death, come to send them to blackened depths of the ocean.  He shook his head to clear it, and looked again.

            “What’s that?” he asked upon seeing a series of repeated flashes that coruscated from the peak of the mysterious ship's mainsail.  “Are they trying to signal us?”

            The midshipman turned and called out in a harsh voice, “Higgins!  Get your arse over here lad!  Your skills are needed!”

            Almost immediately a young strip of a lad raced over to where they stood and leaned hard against the railings, oblivious the waves that crashed against it.  For a minute or so he concentrated intently upon the pattern of flashes as they continued to be broadcast from the approaching ship.  “They say there is a fault with their steering cap’n,” he reported, “They say they cannot turn from their course.”

            Nelson turned to his second-in-command.  “Mr Hardy, an analysis if you please,” he said in a formal voice.

            In response, Hardy clasped his hands behind his back and studied the other ship intently.  He began to reel off a series of facts and figures.

            “What we have here is an Elizabeth class frigate,” he told them, “forty-four guns, rated five, probably constructed at Southampton ship yard.

            “There was a design flaw with the Elizabeth type 1 which saw the rudder sometimes freeze in rough weather, and that did compromise steering; but that ship is the type 2, and the fault was corrected in these.

            “However,” he conceded, “it is not inconceivable that some of the type 2s do have it.”

            The midshipman turned to his superiors and scowled, “And this is why they are taking this aggressive line?” he asked skeptically.

            Nelson folded his arms and shook his head.  “This is peculiar,” he decided.  “This is damned peculiar…

            “Helmsman!” he called out, “turn her hard to port!  Let’s get out of her way at least!

“And you,” he said, turning on his midshipman, “get these sails filled with wind!  I want more speed!” 

--- 

The stolen ship plunged through the waves as it charged towards Nelson’s flagship.  One of Cain’s followers – the one who had flash signalled the Victory - looked down from his vantage point and reported to his master.  “We have aroused her suspicions,” he called, “and she quickens her speed, but she does not prepare her armaments.”

            Cain inhaled slowly.  This was the moment he had been waiting for.  His time had come.  “Prepare ours,” he ordered. 

--- 

The lookout gasped as he saw a precisely spaced series of black slits appear at the side of the oncoming frigate.  “They are bearing their guns!” he screamed, “They are bearing their guns!”

“What?” said Nelson.  He looked upwards at the crow’s nest, towards the man who had screamed such terrible news - Royal Navy ships bearing arms upon one another?  Impossible…

 ---

Cain grasped the side of his ship and bellowed out his next command.  “Take aim!” 

---    

For a split second Nelson hesitated, and he turned for one more look at the ship that so impossibly threatened them, even as pandemonium broke out around him.  He turned into the fearful gaze of Hardy, who met the look of his captain with an imploring stare.  “Sir – they’re locking canons.”

            Nelson had time to blink.