On the Lee Shore, page 25
‘Open fire!’ roared the lieutenant.
‘Stand clear!’ warned Rosso. He stepped to one side out of the path of the recoil and dabbed the linstock down on the touchhole. It spluttered for a moment and then the gun leapt backwards and the French frigate disappeared as a curtain of thick smoke towered up over the ship. Now their long hours of training bore fruit in a swirl of well drilled movement around the smoking gun. The moment the cannon came to a halt with a groan of protest from the breaching, Evans thrust the wet sponge end of his rammer down the barrel. There was a hiss of steam as the few glowing fragments from the last round were extinguished. The moment the sponge was clear O’Malley thrust the bulky charge bag into the barrel, while Evans spun the rammer round and with the dry end drove the charge home. Ball followed charge and wad followed ball, each stage accompanied by Evans working the rammer to push the item home. The gun was run out again with a thump against the side and Rosso stepped forward with his metal spike. He pushed it down the touch hole till he felt the sharp barb at its end pierce the canvas of the charge bag. Then he pulled the spike free and pushed a quill of fine powder down the touch hole in its place.
‘Stand clear!’ he yelled, and a bare forty seconds after the first broadside they sent another huge ball into their helpless opponent.
*****
‘Glorious, simply glorious,’ spluttered Taylor as the second broadside smashed into the stern of the Immortalite. A brief gap in the wall of gun smoke revealed the back of the French frigate, the beautiful gilded figures smashed, the deep blue paintwork riddled with jagged holes. By some fluke one of the windows had survived intact. Of the other six, not a trace of glass remained. ‘Did you ever see such a raking?’ he continued. ‘I swear that every ball will have travelled down her entire length, and with not a shot in reply!’
‘Glorious indeed, Mr Taylor,’ said Clay, who was stood next to him. ‘She must have been so intent on her battle with the Indefatigable she cannot have seen our approach. A few more minutes of such rough handling and she is sure to strike her colours.’
He looked across at his opponent and noted that she still had a little fight left in her. Her large tricolour may have had a portion of its red fly ripped away, but it still flapped from her rigging. Along her side he could see the occasional orange flash in the smoke as the few of her cannon that were still firing continued to batter the commodore’s flagship. For their part, the crew of the Indefatigable seemed to have hit a second wind at the unexpected turn of events. They had abandoned the guns facing the Immortalite and were now concentrating on their other foe. A cliff of smoke and fire reared up on that side of the big frigate.
Next to him on the quarterdeck one of the big carronades shot back down its slide, grey smoke pouring from its gaping mouth. The hull of their opponent disappeared once more behind clouds of gun smoke, but he could still see the tops of her masts as they soared up proud of the reek. Then the silhouette began to shift. The central main mast moved a little to one side. The movement checked for a moment, still held up by the other masts, but then the fore topmast gave way too and with a rush the whole mass crashed down across the Indefatigable in a welter of torn canvas and broken spars. Another broadside roared out from the Titan. Clay noticed that the timing had become a little ragged as the quicker crews outpaced the slower, but the effect on their crippled opponent was much the same. When the smoke cleared a little Clay saw the French tricolour was making its jerky way down towards the quarterdeck. Clay glanced across at Taylor, who pulled out his whistle to order the ceasefire.
A storm of cheers erupted across the main deck of the Titan. Joy mingled freely with relief at the ease of their victory. Men slapped each other’s backs and leant across the smoking barrels of their guns to touch knuckles. Clay ignored the men and watched as the gentle wind tore at the banks of gun smoke and rolled them farther down the bay. Gradually the wrecks of the three frigates, all locked together under masses of fallen masts, emerged from the grey fog. Clay was about to order the Titan to bear down on the second French frigate when he realised that the firing there had ceased too. The cheers from his crew were being faintly echoed by the crew of the Indefatigable. Then the initial exuberance of the crew faded away as they contemplated the carnage before them.
None of the three ships had more than one mast left standing. On the second French frigate some of the wreckage had caught fire. He could see members of her crew as they hacked away at the blazing mass, their axe blades points of silver that flashed in the watery sun. All of the ships’ hulls were blackened with gun smoke and had holes torn in them. The stern of the Immortalite had been beaten open into a cavern out of which drifted the cries of the French wounded.
The figure of the commodore appeared at the stern rail of the Indefatigable. His hat was missing, replaced by a swath of white cloth tied around his head, but he seemed otherwise unharmed. He leveled a speaking trumpet across the strip of water that separated the ships.
‘Captain Clay?’ he asked, with his distinctive Cornish accent.
‘Sir Edward,’ replied the Titan’s captain through his own speaking trumpet, ‘I give you joy of your victory.’ The figure of Pellew waved a dismissive hand.
‘We shall have plenty of time for crowing when the battle is truly over,’ he hailed. ‘What state is your ship in?’
‘Quite untouched, Sir Edward,’ replied Clay. ‘How does the Indefatigable fare?’
‘Sore wounded, I fear,’ he said. ‘Several guns dismounted, two foot of water in the well and rising, and until we can clear all this wreckage and set up some jury masts there is no prospect of us playing any further part in the action. I shall secure these two prizes here, but I will be able to contribute little further. You must tackle those other two frigates with what help you can obtain from Captain Warburton.’
‘Aye aye, sir,’ he replied. ‘Do you require any assistance? I could send across my boatswain with some hands.’
‘My thanks for that handsome offer, but we shall do very well,’ he replied. ‘Besides, I fancy you may need the services of every man before this day is done. Good luck to you, Clay.’
Chapter 17
Titan
Clay watched from the front of the quarterdeck as the excitement of the crew was replaced by the calm return of discipline. Just below him on the main deck Blake had called all the portside gun captains over and had them gathered in a ring around him.
‘Now pay attention, men,’ he said. ‘You have done well so far. I never witnessed eighteen pounders handled so brisk, but this battle is far from over. We have perhaps ten minutes before we shall be back in action, and we must use that time as profitably as we are able. Chiefly you must all reload your guns with care, for it will be passing strange if a step was not missed in the heat of the action. Then look over your crew’s equipment as if it were a fresh battle to see all is still as it should be.’
‘My gun’s rammer has sprung, sir,’ said one of the men. ‘I have lashed it together, but it has a crack as runs right down the side of it.’
‘Mr Butler!’ said Blake. ‘Go and find Mr Rudgewick. Give the gunner my compliments and can he issue you with a new rammer for number eleven gun.’
‘Aye aye, sir,’ said the midshipman, and he hurried off below.
‘Any other problems?’ asked the lieutenant, looking around him. ‘Good. Once that is done you can let your crews get a drink from the scuttle butts. Off back to your guns, now.’
‘Mr Blake starts to become a valuable officer, does he not, sir?’ said a voice from beside him.
‘Yes he does, Mr Taylor,’ agreed Clay. ‘I was just musing to myself how strange it is that I had not noticed his true character and abilities until after the mutiny.’
‘I had a similar thought in the wardroom a few days ago,’ replied the first lieutenant. ‘It was Mr Corbett who pointed out to me what had truly changed.’ Clay looked at him in surprise.
‘Really?’ he said. ‘What observations did the surgeon have to offer?’
‘That I should consider who was absent rather than present sir,’ said Taylor. ‘It is only with Mr Morton’s unfortunate departure that young Blake has been able to emerge from under his rather domineering shadow.’
‘Yes, I believe you may have the truth of it,’ said Clay. ‘What a sad thought. Still, let us not be distracted by any such philosophical diversions. For now it is enough for us to know that the command of the great guns is in sound hands. Let us consider how the next part of this battle will proceed.’
The Titan had pushed on into the heart of the bay now, with the mountainous green hills in a wide loop around them. Long fingers of gun smoke advanced across the water with her, driven by the same gentle breeze that pushed her on. Ahead of them, at the end of the bay, the two unengaged French warships still lay at anchor. He could see their boats were busy as they continued to ferry soldiers to the beach. Off to one side the fight between the Concord and her opponent was over. The French ship had struck her colours and looked to be in a similar battered state to the three ships behind them, while the British frigate had come through the fight with all her masts intact.
‘Mr Russell,’ he said. ‘Can you send this signal to the Concord if you please. “Am engaging the remaining enemy. Are you able to assist?”
‘Aye aye, sir,’ said the midshipman. He wrote down the signal on his slate, his tongue pink and prominent in the corner of his mouth as he concentrated. Clay watched Warburton’s ship, looking for signs that she was making sail to join him. A long stream of coloured signal flags rose up her mizzen mast in response.
‘That is strange,’ said Taylor. ‘I was expecting a simple “yes”.’
‘Signal from Concord to Titan sir. “Am repairing damage and securing prize. Will assist when able”,’ translated Russell.
‘Fat bloody use that is, sir,’ grumbled the first lieutenant. ‘How long will all that take him?’
‘Her rigging may be cut up worse than is apparent at this range, Mr Taylor,’ said Clay. ‘Meanwhile let us see how we may best engage those two ahead of us. We shall at least have the weather gauge whilst this wind continues to blow from us towards them.’
‘One of the Frogs is signalling, sir,’ said Preston. Clay turned his attention back to the two ships ahead. The frigate on the right had a line of what looked like bunting flying from her, the flags barely visible with the wind blowing them away from him. He turned his attention to the other ship. A lone flag rose up from her quarterdeck in response from her consort.
‘So the bigger one on the right is in command, sir,’ said Taylor. ‘A month’s pay says that signal was an order to get underway, and the single flag is an acknowledgement.’
‘No takers, Mr Taylor,’ said his captain. ‘The real question is whether they mean to come out and fight us, or will they try to cut and run?’
‘Right hand one is making sail now, sir,’ said Preston.
The two enemy ships were still bow on to them. On board the leader the clean lines of her shrouds thickened as a rush of men poured up them and made their way out along the yards, spaced like beads on a string. From beneath the topsail yard a slip of white appeared, swelling as the canvas sail was unfurled, till it dropped like a curtain into a large square of white against the green fields behind.
‘Ship on the right is in a perishing hurry, sir,’ said Taylor. ‘Did you see that splash? They have cut their anchor loose rather than pull it home. The other ship has not even sent anyone aloft yet.’
Freed of its anchor, the larger French frigate swung around and the shape of the bow lengthened into her long hull. The other two masts appeared from behind the foremast, with topsails set on them too, all braced around as she beat against the wind. She gathered speed and began to claw her way out towards the Titan.
‘I think I recognise that frigate, sir,’ said Preston. ‘See how the main mast is stepped a little aft of where one might expect? Is it not the one that was stationed in Bertheaume Bay after we cut out the brig?’
‘Yes, perhaps you are right,’ said Clay, moving his glass from one ship to the other. ‘One of Mr Blake’s eels. He is certainly eager to come at us. The other ship is only now starting to make sail. Any sign of the Concord coming to our aid, Mr Preston?’ The young lieutenant strode over to the rear of the quarterdeck and looked across the growing length of water between them and Captain Warburton’s ship. He returned to join the others.
‘Still locked yard arm to yard arm with her prize, sir,’ he reported. ‘I can’t imagine what will be taking them so long.’
‘Can’t you, Mr Preston?’ asked Taylor, one eye brow raised.
‘No matter, gentlemen,’ said Clay. ‘We shall do very well, even if we have to shift for ourselves.’
‘Against two untouched frigates, sir?’ queried Taylor. ‘One of which is much superior to us in size?’
‘The Indefatigable has just defeated two such opponents,’ said Preston.
‘The Indefatigable is much larger than us and has the advantage of twenty-four pounders on her main deck, Mr Preston,’ said Taylor.
‘We have already defeated one Frenchman today,’ said the young lieutenant. The older man raised both of his eye brows at this.
‘Mr Preston,’ he protested. ‘We despatched a badly damaged opponent who was unable to fire back! It was done ably, I grant you, but that is hardly the same as...’
‘Gentlemen, please,’ said Clay lowering his telescope. ‘Diverting as all this is, can you kindly attend to what our enemy is about?’ The two lieutenants muttered an apology, reopened their telescopes and focussed them back towards the approaching ships.
‘The lead ship is still coming on very bold, sir,’ said Preston. ‘Look at that. A tricolour flying from every mast. Fair spoiling for a fight, I should say.’
‘Her consort seems a little more shy, sir,’ reported Taylor. ‘She means to recover her anchor properly before coming against us. Do you suppose her captain might be a distant relative of Captain Warburton?’ Clay snorted back a laugh, before looking with care around the bay.
‘So how shall we fashion a victory from the elements of this messy battle, gentlemen?’ asked Clay. He pointed back towards where the stricken Indefatigable still lay between the two prizes. A haze of dispersing gun smoke masked the cluster of damaged ships. ‘The commodore we can ignore. Even at this distance we can see that they have made little progress with cutting themselves free.’ The two officers nodded at this.
‘What about the Concord, sir?’ asked Preston. Taylor snorted at this.
‘Still drifting around hopelessly locked to her opponent,’ he said. ‘We shall have precious little help from that quarter.’
‘Agreed, so we must shape to fight this battle alone,’ said the captain, returning his attention to their opponents. ‘We have at least forced them to abandon their troop landings.’
‘That bold leader is close now, sir,’ said Preston. ‘Why, the other has yet to raise her anchor. Look at the gap that has opened up between them now.’
‘So it has,’ said Clay. ‘That gap will serve us very handsomely. Mr Taylor is right. Two opponents together will be too hot for us. So we shall take our fences one after the other. Let us close with and defeat the first ship before then turning on her consort.’
‘How long do you suppose we have to achieve that, sir?’ said Taylor, eyeing the two ships.
‘The second is only now winning her anchor, sir,’ said Preston. ‘Then she must cover the distance between us, all against the wind. Twenty minutes for sure, perhaps more.’
‘More like fifteen, I should say,’ said Taylor.
‘Fifteen minutes, you think?’ repeated Clay. He snapped shut his telescope. ‘The way the men have been shooting today, that is time for twenty broadsides. It will be tight, gentlemen, but it shall answer well enough. Mr Taylor!’
‘Sir!’ answered the first lieutenant.
‘Lay us on a course to intercept the first of those Frenchmen,’ he ordered. ‘Take us in good and close, broadside to broadside if you please. We have no leisure for fancy manoeuvres today.’
‘Aye aye, sir,’ he replied. He touched his hat in salute and bustled away to lay the ship on the right course.
Clay walked forward to the quarterdeck rail and glanced down onto the packed main deck. A feeling of déjà vu made him pause. He looked around him, trying to place what had triggered it. For a moment the lines of the ship about him seemed more familiar to him than normal. He looked to his left at the solid column of the main mast, and then to the right at the line of halliards belayed onto the rail and soaring upwards in straight lines. Then he realised that he was standing in the exact same spot as he had been on that grey, cold morning in Plymouth, when he first took over the mutinous ship. Still the same beautiful lines of geometry in the rigging, but none to be seen amongst the men. They were clustered around their guns, fussing to have everything just right for the coming battle, or hauling the yards around in response to the ship’s change in course. He looked over them and took in the calm unhurried efficiency with which they worked. Then faces began to turn to look back up at him. Individuals nudged their neighbours and pointed. Little by little all activity came to a halt and it dawned on Clay that they expected him to say something. He shifted from one foot to the other. He had nothing prepared. The moment stretched on, the French frigate loomed closer but still no words of inspiration came to him. He realised now that he had waited there too long, and he had to say something. For the umpteenth time in his career he wished again that he had the easy familiarity with speeches that so many other captains seemed to have. He closed his eyes for a moment, took a deep breath, and decided to just say what was in his heart.
