The Torrid Zone (The Fighting Sail Series) Read Online Free PDF Page B

topgallants were added, Scylla soon began to move with more purpose. At first Banks wondered if the extra canvas might even be too much, but the wind that had been a constant companion for so long was now showing signs of being eaten by a rarely seen sun, that was growing in strength as it rose into the sky.
    “Do you consider us to be at war, sir?” Caulfield almost whispered, although Banks heard every syllable.
    “Frankly I have no idea,” he replied, equally guarded; Hatcher was still standing close by, and he had no wish to involve him in the conversation. “If not, then matters have certainly moved fast, although I should not like to discount it.”
    In fact he had been concerned since Pitt's resignation; a government led by Addington was bound to look more favourably on peace with France, and so it had proved. They even seemed keen; during his brief visit to London, Banks had run into a former naval officer who now worked in the City. It seemed to be common knowledge in such circles that preliminary discussions with Otto, Bonaparte's commissary, were proving far too slow and time-consuming. Anthony Merry had been sent to France to speak directly with the French government, with the first announcement of an eventual cessation at any time. And all that had been considerably more than two months ago; Britain and France might well not be at war by now, although that would hardly explain why three French warships had been despatched to the South Atlantic, apparently bent on trouble.
    Then Banks considered the matter more carefully. Even if proposals had been signed the day after he left Spithead, there would be no definite action taken for some while; plenty of time for the French to raid several East India convoys and probably harvest a fortune. In addition, considering the time news of such an event would take to reach England, their actions would have little effect on the final rounds of peace talks.
    Fraiser had joined them, and was consulting his notes as the change of course was marked off on the traverse board. They were still heading south but only to a limited extent, and many degrees from the course that he and Banks would have preferred to set. The sun was climbing steadily and, though there were remnants of storm in the air, the decks had started to grow warm, and some were even steaming. Banks found himself staring, fascinated, at the images of the pursuing ships, each gaining clarity as the light rose above them. Neither flew an ensign, although the lighter colour of their sailcloth and the typical over-sparring of the frigate was as good an indication of nationality as any flag.
    Scylla seemed to be maintaining her lead, and it was large enough to keep them safely out of range, but every seaman on board was aware of the current state of their tophamper. Were a spar to carry away a mast spring, or even an important stay part, speed would be lost. Then the enemy would gain and, inevitably, overtake them. Thompson had appeared with hot coffee some while previously and Banks found himself gripping the pewter mug with such force that the pain in his hand reminded him of the drink's existence.
    “What do you see there?” he called, before gulping deeply. The liquid was almost stone cold; they must have been standing on the quarterdeck for some considerable while.
    “No change, sir,” Jackson replied. “The third sighting is still indistinct, though I think the other two might be gaining slightly.”
    Banks grunted, and handed the half-empty mug to Chapman. That might well be the case, but it would take a goodly time for them to make up Scylla 's lead. With luck he could keep the French at bay until nightfall, but still the fact that they were being diverted irritated. And the crew's morale, already dented by two broken promises of home, would hardly be improved by a day-long chase from a superior enemy.
    “Forgive me, Captain, but might I ask the position?” Sir Terrance's voice, so close, so loud and so