On the Lee Shore, page 24
Down below the drummer’s feet the officers in the wardroom were busy with their own preparations for battle.
‘Has anyone laid eyes on my pistol?’ shouted Preston, poking his head out of his cabin door.
‘How can you mislay a pistol in such a tiny space, Edward?’ asked Macpherson, checking the priming on his own weapon, then thrusting it into the red marine officer’s sash that was wound around his waist.
‘It should be in the top draw of my desk, but Dray must have moved it,’ explained the lieutenant. ‘And he will be busy bringing up the first charge to number eight gun now. My, you do look quite the buccaneer, Tom,’ he added, indicating where the butt of the marine’s pistol stuck out from the sash.
‘Here, take mine,’ said Blake, passing it across on his way out of the cabin. ‘I doubt I shall have occasion to need one down on the main deck with the guns. Good luck to you all.’
‘You too, John,’ said Preston, placing the pistol in his coat pocket and buckling on his sword. On the other side of the wardroom table Macpherson was doing the same with his.
‘Is that what they call a claymore, Tom?’ he asked, pointing to the unusual brass basket guard that surrounded the hilt.
‘Aye, that’s right,’ said the marine, drawing the glittering blade a few inches from its scabbard. ‘It’s a wee bit too long to be handy onboard ship, but it has an edge like a razor. It’s been used in my family for generations.’
‘Has it now?’ smiled Preston. ‘I will not ask you in whose cause they bore it.’
‘Best not,’ grinned Macpherson. He took the hand that the teenage lieutenant held out to him.
‘You look after yourself now, laddie,’ he said. Preston glanced down at the marine’s hand in surprise.
‘Are you unwell, Tom,’ he asked. ‘Your hand, it’s trembling quite violently.’
‘Oh, ‘tis nothing,’ replied the Scotsman. He pulled his hand back and gripping it with the other. ‘I often feel nervous excitement before action. Now away with you.’
Preston looked at the marine and noticed for the first time how pale he was. Beads of sweat lay in tiny pearls on his forehead.
‘No really, you do look quite ill,’ he said. ‘Can I not get you something for your present relief? A tot of rum perhaps? I have some in my sea chest.’ He disappeared back into his cabin, and the sound of rummaging came from inside. Macpherson closed his eyes for a moment. In an instant the image was back in his mind’s eye again. The fury and roar of battle all around him. The French soldier who swung his musket around, knee deep in gun smoke as if he were wading through water. The barrel foreshortened till it became a black hole pointing straight at him. The endless pause as he waited for the shot, and all the time the dreadful figure swelling till he filled his whole vision. Then came the release, the gush of smoke followed a fraction of a heartbeat later by the impact of the bullet, and after that only cold, black night.
‘Here, drink this, Tom,’ said Preston as he returned and placed a glass into the marine’s hand. Macpherson took the drink. Droplets of rum dripped from it as his unsteady hand approached his mouth. He drank deeply and then choked and spluttered as the fiery spirit snatched at his throat.
‘My thanks, Edward,’ he coughed. ‘I shall be fine now.’ He returned the glass to his fellow officer and noticed the concern on his young face. ‘It is just a stupid wee thing that has come on to trouble me of late. It started the other day when Faulkner was telling Warwick that damned story about me and the book. I found myself dwelling again on that time I was shot in St Lucia last year, saving your skin as I recall.’
‘But surely you were only lightly wounded that day?’ said Preston.
‘Oh aye, so I was,’ said the marine, rolling his eyes. ‘That most amusing of tales which has made its way around the service. The marine saved by the intervention of a romantic novel. I sometimes wish the ball had struck me fairly, as happened to the captain. Perhaps it might then have been easier for me now.’
‘Tom, I am not sure I follow you at all,’ said the young lieutenant. ‘How can you wish to have been injured? The captain almost died of his wound.’
‘Because the anguish in the mind is the same!’ said Macpherson. ‘To my brother officers it is just an amusing tale, but for me it is different. I was certain that I would die that day, book or no book. I still retain the vision of the moment before the bullet struck. I can feel the horror of it even now.’ He twisted away from Preston. ‘Oh, the shame of it!’
‘No, Tom, not shame,’ urged the lieutenant. ‘We all have our fears, you know. Think how bravely you dealt with the mutineers.’
‘Aye, I did,’ he conceded. ‘I was fine then, and I will doubtless make a passing imitation of a brave man today too,’ he said. ‘But what if that does not happen? What if today I should fail in my duty? What if I let down my men? How will I ever face all those past generations of Macphersons, highland warriors to a man, as they shake their heads at me and look away?’
‘Come, Tom, we must put aside such melancholy thoughts,’ said Preston. ‘You and I should have been at our posts long ago now. I know you, Thomas, and I have every confidence that you will do your duty this day. You may not know it yet, but I do.’ He embraced the marine officer, and after a moment he felt the pressure returned. ‘Do you have all you need? I could fetch Blake’s sketch book if required, for you to place within your tunic?’ Macpherson broke off to smile at this.
‘Get away with you, puppy,’ he replied. ‘Truly you have my thanks, Edward. I shall be fine now.’
*****
The Titan had left Dingle Bay and was once more out in the Atlantic, sailing north parallel with the coast that lay a mile off her starboard beam. The landscape that slid past them was dramatic in its rocky splendour. The sea cliffs here were even taller. They rose straight up out of the water and soared to the height of the ship’s topmasts before they softened into a sloped wall of grass and scree that rose higher still towards a mountainous summit. The Atlantic thundered against the base of the cliffs, the sound counterpointed by the deep roar of heavy guns being fired somewhere close at hand.
‘I beg your pardon, Mr Warwick,’ said Clay. ‘Would you say that again?’ He moved closer to the ship’s master.
‘I said that yonder peak is named Mount Brandon on the chart, sir,’ he repeated. ‘The bay that Murphy spoke of is on the far side of this peninsular. We should be able to round the point that lies ahead there and enter it shortly.’
‘Thank you, Mr Warwick,’ said Clay. ‘Any navigational hazards I should be aware of?’
‘None marked on the chart, sir,’ he replied. ‘The water is plenty deep enough for us, with good holding ground should we need to anchor. There is a beach at the bottom of the bay and a little settlement named Cloghane, if that is the proper manner to pronounce it.’
‘Let us hope we shall arrive in time to make some difference,’ said the captain.
‘What do you believe we shall find, sir?’ asked Warwick. Clay smiled at the older man.
‘I expect to find five enemy frigates attempting to land troops and supplies, and the Indefatigable and the Concord doing their damnedest to thwart them. I hope that we may arrive in time to aid them in their endeavour. My fear is that they will have been overwhelmed by the numbers that oppose them, and that we shall be too late.’
‘The ship is cleared for action, sir,’ reported Taylor as he appeared on his other side. He touched his hat to his captain, and Clay returned the compliment.
‘Thank you, Mr Taylor,’ he said. He looked around the crowded quarterdeck as if noticing the change that had occurred there for the first time. The space was now packed with humanity. The quarterdeck thirty-two pounder carronades were all manned. They had short but very broad barrels which gave them an odd, squat appearance when compared with the more elegant cannon with their eight feet of gently tapered barrel on the main deck. Between the gun crews stood groups of scarlet coated marines, muskets by their sides, while clustered around the wheel were his officers. The first lieutenant and master had been joined by young Preston and Macpherson, looking pale but determined as he stared towards the land.
‘Does it remind you of home, Tom?’ asked Clay.
‘Aye, sir,’ replied the marine. ‘It does a wee bit. But you would need to add a coat of rich purple heather to the mountainside if you truly wished to compete with the majesty of the glens.’
‘And perhaps some mist and rain to mask the view?’ added his captain.
‘That too, sir,’ agreed Macpherson with a brief smile.
‘We can make our turn about the headland now, sir,’ said the ship’s master.
‘Take us around it then, Mr Warwick,’ ordered Clay. ‘Once we have made the turn reduce our sail to fighting trim.’
‘Aye aye, sir,’ he replied. Clay picked up his telescope and turned towards the first lieutenant.
‘Mr Taylor, would you accompany me to the forecastle?’ he said. ‘Let us see what manner of battle is raging beyond the headland.’ The two officers walked forward up the gangway towards the bow. The sound of gun fire was loud now, and wisps of powder smoke trailed across the water. Taylor began to hurry, conscious that the ship was already beginning to turn around the point and into the bay.
‘Steady there, George,’ muttered Clay out of the side of his mouth. ‘The people are watching us.’ Taylor glanced down onto the main deck. A sea of faces looked back at him, grouped in clusters around each gun, while little wisps of smoke rose like steam from the gun captain’s linstocks.
On the forecastle it was a little less crowded than the quarterdeck. The boatswain stood at the head of a party of the Titan’s more competent seamen, ready to deal with any shot damage his precious rigging might suffer. He lifted his hat to the officers, revealing his thick grey hair scraped into its usual pigtail.
‘Good day to you, Mr Hutchinson,’ said Clay.
‘It will be, sir, once we get to grips with them Frogs,’ he replied. The crews of the forecastle’s pair of thirty-two pounder carronades growled at this, and their captain smiled in response before he continued forward to the rail and opened his telescope.
The frigate was turning quickly now, swinging around the rocky headland with increased speed as the wind settled onto her quarter. The point of the cape slipped away behind them, and a moment later the whole battle was laid out before them. Perhaps a little over a mile away was a blazing volcano of fire and thick gun smoke that swirled up in a column above a cluster of three ships. Clay looked here first. He settled the disc of his telescope on the heart of the inferno, where he could read the gold letters that spelt out Indefatigable across the stern of the centre ship. Pellew was locked in battle with a French frigate on each side effectively sandwiching his ship between them. Tongues of flame spat out from the big British frigate in both directions, while the French ships thundered away at their opponent.
A little farther on, in the centre of the bay was the smaller Concord. She was closely engaged by a single French opponent. This battle seemed to be going Warburton’s way. The French ship had lost its mizzen mast and much of its main one too. The wreck of spars and canvas that drooped down across her stern had pulled the French frigate around so that most of her guns could to no longer bear on the Concord.
‘I only count three French frigates,’ said Clay.
‘The other two are anchored at the end of the bay, sir,’ replied Taylor. ‘They carry no sail, which makes them harder to observe. Just off that beach that lies beyond the Concord. They seem to be unloading troops with their boats. See, there are more soldiers assembled ashore.’ Clay looked in the direction his first lieutenant had indicated and saw the two black and white hulls. They swung at anchor with their bare spars blending against the hills behind them. The wind that was blowing the Titan on into the bay had pushed them around till they were bow on to him.
‘Yes I have them now,’ he said. As he watched a fresh boat left the side of one of them, packed with men. It made its insect-like progress towards the shore where he could just see some blocks of soldiers formed up on the sand alongside piles of supplies.
‘I wish the French would wear scarlet like our troops,’ he grumbled. ‘Till you drew my attention to them I had quite lost their dark blue coats against the green of the land.’
‘That might make for a deal of confusion when the armies come to fight each other, sir,’ commented the first lieutenant.
‘Perhaps you are right, Mr Taylor,’ grunted Clay, and then closed his telescope. ‘So what do you make of what you see?’ The older man looked at the scene ahead of him and rubbed a hand over his chin.
‘I should say that the French were busy unloading their men when the commodore rounded the headland, much as we did, sir,’ he said. ‘He tried to intervene, but those two ships he is engaging stood out to head him off.’ Clay nodded at him.
‘I agree,’ he said. ‘Then Captain Warburton would have been ordered to skirt around that fight to try and stop the landings, but was intercepted in his turn. Meanwhile the other two French ships are continuing to land their men.’
‘So what should we do, sir?’ asked Taylor. Clay took a final look at the scene.
‘Those two French frigates will join the fight as soon as they have completed what they are about,’ he said. ‘That will turn matters decisively in the enemy's favour. What we must do is ensure that we have defeated the other three before that can happen. The Concord has her opponent almost beat. Let us come to the aid of the Indefatigable.’
*****
‘I reckon they likes the look of your green hills almost as much as what you does, Sean,’ said Trevan, indicating the captain and first lieutenant as they walked back along the gangway above his head towards the quarterdeck once more. ‘They’ve been staring out at the bay for ages, like.’
‘I can’t see what needs so much puzzling over,’ grumbled Evans. He peered forward through the open gun port and pointed. ‘It’s bleeding obvious. Them two Frog ships ahead are giving the old Indy a right seeing too. Let’s get stuck into them.’
‘Fecking right,’ agreed O’Malley, crouching down so he could see too. ‘Look! She’s just after losing her foretopmast. Mind, she’s dishing out plenty with them fecking great twenty-four pounders.’ He rubbed his hands at the prospect of action. ‘Come on! Let it be our side of the ship that faces towards the enemy.’
‘Amen to that,’ said Rosso. He gave the linstock he carried a fierce whirl above his head till the end glowed angry red in the rushing air. ‘Remember the scrap with that Couraguese when we was back on the Agrius, and all the fighting was happening on the other side of the ship?’
‘God, yes,’ said Evans. ‘We had nought to bleeding well do for hours, except get picked off one by one like pigs at the slaughter house. Remember poor old Drinkwater?’ The others fell quiet at the recollection of their former gun captain. He had been crouched over the barrel of their gun fussing away one moment and killed in an instant by a cannon ball the next.
‘Larboard side!’ yelled Lieutenant Blake from his place beside the main mast. ‘Run out the guns!’
‘That’s us!’ crowed Rosso. ‘Man the tackles there, lads. Run out!’ The deck vibrated beneath the men’s bare feet as they strained to send the huge canon rumbling forward till the brick red gun carriage thumped against the ship’s side.
‘Gun captains! Have your quoins fully in!’ ordered the lieutenant. Rosso stepped to one side and looked down at the wedge under the back of the barrel to check that it was in place, holding the gun level at minimum elevation.
‘No messing around with fancy shooting at range, then,’ said O’Malley, rubbing his hands together once more. ‘Wade straight into the middle of the fecking brawl, lads, that’s the way.’
The frigate sailed onwards, and as she did the roar of the battle between the three ships ahead became ever louder. Evans tried to crane his neck to peer forward but could see nothing but lapping water and distant mountains out of the square gun port. On and on the Titan came. The thunder of heavy guns had grown to be almost deafening now. Trevan pulled his bandana on a little more securely. Evans was passing the gun’s rammer from one hand to the other. O’Malley went to spit on his hands, only to find that his mouth was too dry.
‘Fecking hell,’ he muttered to himself. Rosso stood upright and sniffed the air, his nose held high.
‘Can you smell that?’ he asked. The others tested the air too.
‘Oh aye, Rosie,’ said Trevan. ‘That’s gun smoke, or I ain’t never smelt it. We must be close.’
‘I always think it smells of eggs as have gone off,’ added Evans.
‘Back home Father O’Connell used to tell us that the Devil smelt that way,’ said O’Malley. ‘And how we would all find the truth of it firsthand unless we confessed our sins regular like.’
‘Bloody Hell, Sean!’ exclaimed Evans. ‘Just how long had this O’Connell bloke got? It would take at least a week for you to confess all your fights, two more for fornication, three for drunkenness and God knows how bleeding long for foul language!’ The others were still laughing at this when a volley of orders was shouted from behind them and the ship began to turn. The figure of Clay appeared at the quarterdeck rail behind them.
‘You may open fire as your guns bear, Mr Blake,’ he shouted down. ‘Then keep hammering away as fast as ever you can.’
The friends crouched back down around their cannon. Rosso held one arm aloft to show that they were ready to fire. He glanced along the sweep of the deck and saw a line of other raised hands. He knocked the ash from the slow match of his linstock and blew hard on the glowing end. Then he returned his attention to the square of sea in front of him. He could see tendrils of smoke that clung to the water as they passed through them. Then the colour of the sea changed as a dark shadow fell across it and finally the back of a frigate appeared not thirty yards away. It was painted in bright blue with beautiful gilded decorations swirling across it. Sunlight light sparkled back at him from the gold leaf. On each side of the stern was a large carved figure of bulging muscles and draped cloth that seemed to be straining to hold up the rail that ran across the back of the ship. Right in front of him was a curved line of seven glass window lights, beneath which was painted the name of the ship in capital letters. The Titan drifted to a halt, giving him plenty of time to see the name. Immortalite. Rosso read the name out loud for the benefit of the others. He had just time to think how beautiful their opponent looked when Blake shouted the order.
