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The smoke cleared at last, and there was the Jemmapes stern-on, running fast, apparently unhurt apart from a small green fire blazing on her poop, running close-hauled for Lorient, shocked and appalled by these new secret weapons – she was already packing on more sail.
The guns were run out again. At three degrees of elevation he gave her another broadside, a raking broadside at her defenceless stern, a broadside delivered with a fierce, savage cheer. But though several shots struck her hull they did not check her speed; nor did the now-normal flash of the Worcester’s fire induce her to lie to; and by the time Jack called ‘Hard a-starboard’ to go in chase she had gained a quarter of a mile, while fools were capering on the forecastle, cheering, bawling out, ‘She runs, she runs! We’ve beat her!’
The Worcester hauled her wind, the sail-trimmers leapt to the braces and flew aloft to set the upper staysails, but she could not lie as close to her quarry by nearly a whole point, nor, without her mainsail, could she run on a bowline so fast by two knots and more. When the Jemmapes was so far ahead that the bow-chaser could hardly reach her, Jack yawned, gave her one last deliberate, sullen broadside at extreme range, and said, ‘House your guns. Mr Gill, course south-south-west: all plain sail.’ He realized that it was day, that the sun was rising over Lorient, and added, ‘Dowse the battle-lanterns.’ As he spoke he saw Pullings’ face and the cruel disappointment on it: had they held their opening fire another five minutes the Jemmapes could never have reached Lorient. With the wind, the Ile de Groix, its reefs, and the shore all lying just so, a close action could have been forced whether the Jemmapes held her course or no: five minutes longer and Pullings would either have been a commander or a corpse. For a successful, evenly-matched action was certain promotion for a surviving first lieutenant: Pullings’ only possible chance of promotion from the long and overcrowded lieutenants’ list, since he had no pull, no interest or influence of any kind, no hope apart from his patron’s luck or superior ability; and Jack Aubrey had misjudged the situation, one that might never arise again in Tom Pullings’ whole career. Jack felt a sadness rise, far greater than his usual depression after a real battle, and looking at the dangling maintack he said in a hard voice, ‘What are our casualties, Mr Pullings?’
‘No dead, sir. Three splinter wounds and a crushed foot, no more. And number seven, lower deck, dismounted. But I am sorry to tell you, sir, I am very sorry to tell you, the Doctor has copped it.’
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