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Chapter 771: The Hunt

Immediately, an orderly rushed back and forth across the deck, loudly relaying the captain's orders: "British fleet spotted at two o'clock, 2 nautical miles out! Five merchant ships, two cruisers, and two frigates!"

Madeno's heart clenched.

Cruisers were fifth-rate warships, typically armed with 44 cannons.

On their side, they had only three frigates: the Far Sight, the Seagull's Wing, and the Great Tide. Each was equipped with only 21 guns.

If a battle broke out, their side had no chance of winning.

Logically, the captain should have immediately ordered them to avoid combat. But their squadron's course was clearly heading straight for the British fleet.

He let out a long sigh in his heart: 'Good heavens, I just barely escaped the English Channel. Please don't let me die in the Mediterranean Sea like this...'

Half a minute later, urgent drumbeats resounded across the Far Sight. It was the battle stations alarm.

Evidently, the enemy ships had also spotted the French warships, and slowly began turning west, presenting their port side to the Far Sight. A westerly wind was blowing across the sea, a classic tactic for gaining the weather gauge.

"Increase boiler pressure!"

The captain's voice came through the speaking tube, and immediately the petty officer in the engine room echoed the command: "Increase boiler pressure! Stoke the fires!"

Thick black smoke billowed from the funnels of the three French steam frigates, and their speed instantly surged, as if they were in the wind-swept Atlantic, not the calm Mediterranean Sea.

The British warships were visibly astonished. All in a fluster, they hastened their formation adjustments.

The two oared frigates among them moved to the easternmost flank, intending to screen the merchant ships.

The Seagull's Wing hoisted a series of signal flags—it was the squadron's flagship, tasked with commanding the other two ships in battle.

The three steam warships immediately began to turn, and a tremendous clatter erupted from their boilers, clearly operating at full capacity.

Their sterns trailed long, narrow white wakes as they circled with unimaginable speed towards the easternmost flank of the British formation.

The British warships immediately mirrored their movement, heading southeast, remaining in a continuous line, bow to stern, their broadsides bristling with main cannons aimed at the French frigates.

Although the British fleet commander was somewhat surprised by the enemy's speed, he remained outwardly calm.

He was well aware of the combat capability of those small frigates. As soon as they entered his cannons' range, the battle would conclude within fifteen minutes—typically, a single 44-gun cruiser was enough to sink two frigates, and could hold its own against three.

And he had two cruisers, with two frigates assisting.

What he couldn't comprehend was that the Frenchmen were rushing forward like madmen, practically begging for a fight!

He even began to suspect that a large French fleet might be lying in ambush nearby.

But then he let out a self-deprecating laugh.

The main force of the French Mediterranean Fleet was blockaded in Toulon harbor by Lord Hood. What ambush could there possibly be?

The first officer beside him turned and said, "Major Hicks, the enemy ships are still 800 yards from us."

According to British naval regulations, 350 yards was considered optimal firing range.

At the French ships' current high speed, even if they turned immediately, they would still sail headlong into his battle line's firing range.

He calmly raised his hand: "Prepare to fire."

"Yes, Commander!"

The gunport lids on the British ships all sprang open, and black muzzles poked out from within.

Major Hicks had already raised his hand to cover his ears—the first volley was usually deafening, but it would get better once his ears went numb.

However, his eyes, fixed out of the porthole, suddenly widened.

He saw the French ships, only a little over 600 yards away, abruptly veer hard to starboard, with an utterly unimaginable turning efficiency, flinging his battle line to their port side.

The three smoke-belching ships, having turned so sharply, heeled over severely, reaching an angle of almost 60 degrees with the sea surface!

At this point, the French bows pointed southwest, partially sailing against the wind, yet they still maintained a remarkably high speed.

Leveraging his extensive naval combat experience, Hicks immediately calculated that, at this rate, in a few minutes, the French frigates would sweep past the tail end of his battle line.

And once they rounded his line, they would be directly confronting the merchant ships...

His eye twitched, and he hastily barked out orders: "Turn port, quickly! Turn port 1.5 compass points! Forget formation! Fire, fire immediately!"

At this moment, the two sides were about 550 yards apart. Although within the cannons' maximum range, the accuracy would certainly be poor.

"Yes, Commander!"

Major Hicks stared intently at the French ships steadily moving to his left rear, muttering to himself: 'God, please let us land a few hits!'

The British cruisers groaned as they struggled to turn sharply, but their speed was still far inferior to the French ships.

The two oared frigates, however, had already turned, and the 18-pounder cannons on their port side began to emit a barrage of roars, the surrounding sea instantly enveloped in dense white smoke.

Huge plumes of spray erupted around the French warships, but at such a distance, and against such fast-moving targets, a direct hit would truly require divine intervention.

The French ships did not return fire, but plowed ahead, intent on their course. By the time the British cruisers aimed their broadsides at them, the trailing Far Sight had just passed the westernmost end of the British formation, presenting its stern to the British.

The British cruisers' 32-pounder heavy cannons roared, but their cannonballs landed harmlessly in the sea dozens of yards from the French ships.

Hicks frantically raised his telescope, looking south. His own merchant ships had only sailed a little over 1 nautical mile.

At the incredible speed of those French ships, they would catch up to them in ten minutes at most.

He turned and shouted at his first officer: "Tell the Beacon and the Dragonfly to pursue them! You absolutely must engage the French!"

The two British oared frigates immediately turned around. The oarsmen in the lower deck, spurred on by the whips of the overseers, rowed with all their might.

Finally, after several minutes of acceleration, they barely managed to match the speed of the French ships.

Madeno gripped the mast tightly, his gaze fixed on the approaching British merchant ships, then he glanced back at the distant British warships, feeling a sudden sense of being a free-soaring seabird.

The fish were ahead, waiting to be caught, and all the storms had been left far behind.

Free, relaxed, enjoying the moment.

The British merchant ships also realized something was wrong and began scattering in different directions to avoid being rounded up all at once.

Seven or eight minutes later, the Far Sight caught up to a merchant ship with "Long-tailed Ray" painted on its bow, and soon pulled alongside it.

A dull thudding sound emanated from beneath Madeno's feet, as if cannon wheels were rolling below.

The next moment, violent flashes of light erupted sequentially from the gunports, from bow to stern.

The merchant ship, 200 yards away, immediately shuddered, and large splinters burst from its midsection and sterncastle, flying everywhere.