On the Lee Shore, page 27
‘Marines! F... f... fix bayonets!’ he ordered. Why had his voice stuttered over such a simple command? The men moved as a single unit, the double click of thirty bayonets slotting home made one noise. He drew his sword rasping out, and looked down at it for a moment. The blade shook and waved before him like a silver reed, the tremble in his hand amplified by the length of steel. He looked back at the enemy ship, took a deep breath and forced his feet into motion.
‘F... follow me!’ he heard himself shout, and he clambered up onto the gunwale and jumped across towards the nearest gap ripped in the line of defenders by the blast of the aft most carronade. He almost lost his footing as he landed on the enemy deck. It was choked with fallen Frenchmen, some inert while others tried to writhe away, leaving the planking slick with blood. A sailor lunged at him from one side with a boarding pike. The man thrust the tip towards him like a spear, and his instincts took over. He parried the clumsy blow to one side, and then one of his marines drove his bayonet into the man’s side. He watched the sailor reel away backwards and drop his pike as he clutched at his stomach instead, and Macpherson looked around him. All across the deck was a melee of fighting men. A little farther down the ship he could see the huge figure of Evans as he swung his boarding axe about him in the centre of an open circle of reluctant enemies. Behind Evans he could see Blake as he cut and slashed with his sword at a well matched opponent. The young lieutenant thrust his hand deep into his coat pocket and a look of surprise crossed his face. Macpherson remembered the pistol that he had given to Preston because he wouldn’t need it. Then the Scotsman’s attention was drawn closer at hand as he saw a French soldier turn towards him, and he froze to the spot in terror.
For a moment he thought he must have closed his eyes, so similar was the vision to the one that haunted him. The man seemed to swing his musket around in slow motion and the sound of battle ebbed away. He was so close to Macpherson that he could see every detail of the soldier’s thin face, small and almost lost under the dark curve of his hat. The musket was pointing right at him now, the muzzle a black tunnel that seemed to pull him towards it. He saw the man close one eye and sight along the barrel, his head resting over at an angle. The soldier’s finger whitened with strain as he pulled the trigger. A spit of fire erupted from the lock and Macpherson waited an age for the shot to come. Nothing. He watched the soldier’s eyes swell with disbelief as both men realised that the musket had misfired. Macpherson recognised the same look of shock as he had seen on the face of the sailor who had lost his foot. Relief poured over him as it sunk in that he was unharmed. He took a few rapid strides across the deck and then he was upon the man. He knocked the musket aside with his left arm and ran him through with a cruel thrust from his right. The soldier fell backwards down onto the deck and Macpherson stood over him. His hat had fallen to one side, to reveal lank, greasy hair, a thin line of moustache and a scrawny neck that protruded tortoise-like from the circle of his tunic’s stiff collar. There is nothing to be afraid of here, thought the marine. He placed a foot on to the body, now heavy and lifeless, and pulled his sword free. He looked again at the long sharp blade, stained pink at the end. It was solid and motionless in his grasp. He flicked his eyes closed for a moment. No images turned towards him out of the dark. No musket spat fire and gushing smoke towards him. He opened his eyes again, and was once more in the centre of the struggle, but now his mind was calm.
He ignored the various fights that swirled around him on deck and looked for the centre of French resistance. That was where his duty lay, he reminded himself. He must find the point where his disciplined body of marines would have the most effect, where they could crush the enemy’s will to resist. The glitter of sunlight on braid drew his attention towards a crowd of men stood close to the ship’s wheel. He could see several officers who were barking noisy instructions, surrounded by a solid group of defenders.
‘Marines!’ he yelled, his voice firm. ‘Form a two deep line here.’ The men rushed up and spread into a solid block of scarlet across the strip of deck he had indicated. He pointed with his sword towards the group by the wheel, and the double line of muskets rose in a smooth wave up to their owner’s shoulders.
‘Single volley! Fire!’ he ordered. The muskets crashed out and several of the group by the wheel spun away, or collapsed to the ground.
‘Marines will advance!’ shouted Macpherson and the block of scarlet stamped their way across the quarterdeck. Friend and foe cleared aside before the hedge of bayonets as they bore down on the group by the wheel. When they were within a few feet, an officer pushed his way out from behind his men and stood in front of them.
‘Marines halt!’ yelled the Scot, and the remorseless approach stopped. The officer came to attention with his head bowed over the sword he held in front of him, the hilt towards Macpherson. As if a spell had been broken, French defenders dropped their weapons to the deck in a clattering wave that spread out across the quarterdeck and forward through the ship. Macpherson pointed the French captain towards the figure of Clay, who accepted the sword.
‘Mr Preston, choose thirty men and take command of the prize, if you please,’ he ordered. ‘Mr Macpherson, you and your marines are to stay on board to help Mr Preston secure the prisoners. The rest of the men shall return to the Titan. We still have one more foe to defeat this day.’
‘You pardon, sir, but I am not sure that we do,’ replied Taylor. He pointed towards the north with the bloody sword he held in his hand. ‘I believe the last enemy may have seen enough.’
Clay followed where his first lieutenant pointed. The final French ship was making for the open sea with every sail set. She was already several miles away, with the Concord trailing along in her wake in a half-hearted attempt to pursue her. Clay looked at the Titan’s rigging with its many cut lines and sails full of shot holes.
‘Perhaps you are right,’ he conceded. ‘We could never match such a profusion of sail with so many wounds aloft. Let us secure this prize and deal with the dead and wounded.’ The older man held out his hand to his captain, and after a moment Clay took it.
‘Congratulations on this victory, sir,’ Taylor said. ‘The men fought like tigers. If I had not witnessed how you have transformed this ship and crew, I would not have believed it possible. It has been a privilege to see.’
*****
‘So what has it to say about us then, Rosie?’ asked O’Malley. He pushed the copy of the newspaper across the beer-stained table. A reverent hush descended amongst the illiterate sailors grouped in the corner of the tap room of the Globe Inn. The Globe was one of Plymouth’s less inviting taverns. The room was roofed with low, smoke-blackened beams that had already delivered a lusty blow to the head of the unwary Evans when he rose in haste to relieve himself earlier. The floor was spread with a thin covering of reeds that struggled to conceal the beaten earth it was made from, and only a trickle of daylight penetrated through the filthy glass of its few tiny windows. But the beer was cheap, the location convenient for most of the city’s brothels, and the dimness of the light at least served to make the serving wenches that worked there appear a little more comely.
Rosso angled the paper towards the glimmer of light that came from the tallow candle at the end of the table, but could still make little out.
‘It’s a mite too dark in here for me to read it out proper,’ he said, his words a little slurred. Trevan took his pipe out of his mouth at this and smiled at the others.
‘You mean you’ve had one mug of knock-me-down too many to be seeing quite straight, Rosie,’ he laughed. ‘You Bristol boys is all the same. If you was back home with me, you wouldn’t last beyond a quart of my uncle Amos’s cider.’
‘If you wasn’t filling the room with more smoke than a first rate’s broadside, maybe I could read it,’ he grumbled. ‘Here, Able. You’ve got the keenest eyes; see what you can make of it.’
‘Are you after reading now, Able lad?’ said O’Malley. ‘Thank Christ. We can stop having to go cap in hand to Rosie every time we wants a fecking letter written.’ Sedgwick took the newspaper and spread it out in front of him.
‘You may need to help me with some of it, Rosie, but I will try,’ he said.
‘Came in to Plymouth to refit this Tuesday last — His Britannic Majesty’s ships Indefatigable 44, Concord 36 and Titan 36…' He paused for a moment while the others growled as their ship was named. ‘… from Sir Edward Pellew’s Inshore squadron, in company with four captured French National ships – the Immortalite 40, the Bellone 36, the Loire 40, and the Embuscade 38 most handsomely captured by Sir Edward’s forces off the coast of Ireland whilst in the act of landing an invasion force.’ He looked up from the paper and reached across for his drink. An awkward pause followed.
‘Is that bleeding it?’ said Evans. ‘Nothing more about us than that?’
‘I am afraid not, Sam,’ said Sedgwick, turning the paper over and scanning the other articles.
‘Most handsomely fecking captured,’ spluttered O’Malley. ‘How can that be all! Didn’t we have two of them fecking ships strike to us? And all done with a butcher’s bill of less than thirty killed and wounded for the Titan, and half of them will serve again. Handsomely captured, for feck sake!’
‘Calm yourself, Sean,’ said Rosso. ‘We have only returned to port a few days ago. I am sure there will be plenty more in the papers once the commodore has made his proper report to the Admiralty.’
‘What about us saving Ireland from being fecking overrun with Frogs?’ continued O’Malley. ‘According to Hart half the troops and most of the stores was still on board the ships we captured. Them soldiers as was landed surrendered easy to the militia. Meek as lambs, so they were. Is Ireland remaining part of the fecking country covered by your man’s “handsomely captured” too then?’
‘Hang on, Sean,’ said Evans. ‘I thought you bleeding hated the English?’
‘And so I do,’ replied the Irishman. ‘Present company excused, mind. But I hate the Frogs a damn sight more.’
‘Cheer up, my beauties,’ said Trevan. ‘Who gives a damn about what is in the papers? I’ve never been able to read them anyways. We all knows that whenever our battle gets covered proper, it’ll still be the Grunters as will have all of the honour from the action, not us as did the fighting, like. But what we will be getting is a right nice fat bit of prize money from them frigates, and at least four month of shore leave while the old Titan has all that battle damaged fixed.’
‘Too fecking right!’ said O’Malley. ‘Ahoy! More of that ale over here!’ One of the serving women came over with a large foaming jug of beer, and bent forward to place it down on the centre of the table. The Irishman took the opportunity to smack her on the bottom. Instead of rounding on him in fury she held her position and favoured him with a smile. Several of her teeth were absent, and those that remained were large, stained and crooked.
‘Like to meet me round the back, my lover?’ she purred. ‘We got a right snug alley that barely gets no rain at all.’ Her face drew close to his now, her breath foul.
‘Ah, sorry, my dear,’ muttered O’Malley, avoiding her knowing stare. ‘I was after thinking you was someone else.’ His friends all roared with laughter, while the women drew herself back up, shrugged her shoulders and sashayed away across the room.
‘Oh dear me,’ sighed Rosso, wiping a tear from his eye, and patting O’Malley on the shoulder. ‘She was older than my mother!’
‘Well, it’s so fecking dark in here,’ he muttered, pulling at his drink.
‘What will you be doing with your leave then, Adam?’ asked Sedgwick, once they had all stopped laughing. ‘Are you going back home?’
‘That I shall, Able,’ said the Cornishman. ‘It will be right strange without the little nipper an’ all, but I can’t wait to see my Molly. Perhaps we may be blessed again, in time.’
‘How about you, Sean?’ asked Evans. ‘You heading back home too, if you can drag yourself away from the wenches here at the Globe, that is?’ O’Malley waited for the chuckles to subside before replying.
‘I will be going home, yes,’ he said. ‘It will be awful queer; I have been away that fecking long. But seeing those green hills on the Kerry coast has reminded me of what I have been a missing. Besides, you never know. I may have a colleen myself back there as has missed me too.’ He exchanged glances with Trevan, who smiled in encouragement back at him.
‘Don’t you go and slap her arse as soon as you lay eyes on her, will you?’ said Rosso, to further laughter.
‘That does all sounds fine,’ sighed Evans. ‘At least you boys can go home. I thought of trying to go back to London, but it will still be too hot for me. Do you know that bastard Sexton knew who I was? He threatened to tell the traps where I was to be found. No, Rosie and I will find a nice boarding house here in Plymouth and lay low together.’
‘That’s right,’ said Rosso sadly. ‘There’s no prospect of my returning to Bristol any time soon.’
‘Why is that, Rosie?’ asked Sedgwick. ‘Is it what you started to tell me about? When we were reading that pamphlet on slavery?’
‘That’s right, Able,’ he replied. ‘I thieved from the shipping office I used to be clerk at, and then ran away to sea. Not my proudest moment. I never got a farthing from the crime. I did it to save my fool of a father from the debtor’s prison, else my family would have been turned out into the street, but that don’t signify any. If I should be caught I will still either swing for it or get transported to Botany Bay. No, it’s best if Sam and me stay put here till the barky is fixed.’
‘What about you, Able?’ asked Trevan. ‘How do you reckon on spending your leave?’
‘He will be going off to one of them fecking universities,’ said O’Malley. ‘Now he’s after reading newspapers.’
‘Perhaps later, Sean,’ smiled the coxswain. ‘No, I shall follow the captain back home to his strange little village. He tells me we have much to arrange in these next few weeks.’
Chapter 18
Tying the Knot
The flagship of the Channel Fleet, the Royal George, had a crew that was a few score short of nine hundred men. They filled the main deck of the first rate in solid blocks of humanity, line upon line of them. The white and blue that they predominantly wore made a pleasing contrast with the red and white of the marine company that stood formed up at the back of the quarterdeck. At the front of that deck was a line of officers, both those who served aboard and visitors who had been invited to witness the event. Here were the captains who had sat as judges at the court marshal, together with a few others interested in the outcome. They looked down on the corridor of marine guards along which the condemned man would be led.
With the waywardness of an English summer the fine sunshine of the previous week had given way to low grey cloud and the threat of rain in the air. The waters of Plymouth harbour were green and choppy enough to make even the enormous hull of the three decker roll and snub against her mooring cables. The motion of the ship made the lines of seamen sway in time together like corn in a breeze. It also forced the party of boatswains’ mates that stood gathered under the main yard arm to keep a firm grip on the rope that dropped down from above so that it would not swing across the deck. A chill breeze blew in from the open sea. It flapped at the officers’ coat tails and made the large plain yellow flag stream and crack at the Royal George’s masthead.
The weather may have been dull for those on deck, but for Richard Sexton, who had spent the last two days deep in the bowels of the flagship, it was dazzling and bright. He paused as he emerged from the gloom under the quarterdeck and tried to raise one of his tattooed arms up to shield his eyes. The gesture was awkward and angular because his wrists were bound together. As the prisoner came into sight, a marine corporal who stood nearby at attention made a slight motion of his head, and the drummers began to beat out the broken rhythm of the Rogue’s March.
Sexton was given time to look around him by the two burly marine sergeants that formed his escort as he was moved along the corridor of guards. His eyes grew more accustomed to the light as he advanced. He turned around to take it all in, the masses of rigging over his head, the lines of indifferent faces among the waiting crew, and the officers who stood at the quarterdeck rail.
‘All these men here, just for me,’ he said with satisfaction.
‘What?’ muttered one of the sergeants. ‘Are you pissed, mate? How much choice do you think we had?’
‘But you know who I am?’ he said. ‘You know I am a famous mutineer?’
‘If you says so,’ said the other sergeant. ‘Keep him moving, Tom.’ But Sexton shrugged off his hand and pushed back against his guards. He was staring at one of the officers who stood a little apart from the others. The man was dressed in the uniform of a post captain, and there was something familiar about his florid face and dark, angry eyes.
‘Sheridan?’ he asked. His voice gained power as he became certain of what he saw. ‘Sheridan, you murdering bastard! It’s you they should hang, not me!’
‘Come on, you,’ hissed the first guard. ‘Don’t make a bleeding scene.’ Sexton struggled against the remorseless pressure, looking back at his former captain and shouting abuse. Sheridan smiled and made a slight gesture with his right hand, as if to wave good bye. Then the other guard struck a swift concealed blow under the ribs that winded the prisoner for a moment, and they were able to hustle him forward until he stood in the centre of the party of men gathered around the dangling rope.
The drumming stopped and the Master at Arms stepped forward. He was a large, grim-faced man who spoke in a steady bellow.
‘Richard Sexton, you have been found guilty by court martial of the murder of Lieutenant Edmund Morton in violation of article twenty-seven of the Articles of War, and have been sentenced in accordance with the custom of the sea. The said article states that all murders committed by any person in the fleet, shall be punished with death.’
