On the Lee Shore, page 7
‘Well I never,’ said Clay. ‘I daresay they do. And where is that wicked Black Stones Reef that I have heard about?’
‘We shall pass it soon on this course, sir,’ said the master. ‘If you look a point off the starboard bow, do you see a long line of troubled water? That is Black Stones. It is set down in the French, Pierres Noir on the chart. That can be a very nasty spot, sir, particularly at high water when most of the rocks are under the surface.’ Clay turned his glass to follow the line of the master’s arm.
‘A very long reef indeed,’ he said. ‘Why, it must be at least four, maybe five cables long. Are those fishing boats I can see, working right in amongst the rocks?’
‘Very likely, sir,’ said Warwick. ‘These reefs are full of lobster. In good weather the boats will be out checking their pots, whether we are present or not. They know that nobody makes war on fishermen.’
‘What did you just say, Mr Warwick?’ asked Clay, looking round at the master.
‘Eh, I believe I said that nobody makes war on fishermen,’ he repeated.
‘Yes, that is quite correct, they don’t,’ said Clay, his voice far away. He shut his telescope with a snap, and looked up at the commissioning pennant that flapped at the masthead. The wind was still blowing from the south.
‘The tide will be running out from the Goulet de Brest until about, what, eleven tonight, Mr Warwick?’ he asked.
‘Eleven twenty, sir,’ corrected the master.
‘Good, and the moon sets about an hour earlier,’ said Clay to himself. He looked once more towards the reef.
‘Tell me, is there any good holding ground near to the Pierres Noir where we might anchor till sunset? Somewhere close to those fishing boats?’ he asked.
‘Yes sir, the bottom on this side of the reef is of good firm sand. I would not want to anchor there in a blow, but in these conditions we should be quite safe.’
‘Capital, that will do passing well,’ said Clay. ‘Kindly sail the ship over there, if you please. Mr Taylor, we shall drop anchor where Mr Warwick directs, and then can you have the men exercised at the guns. We are still a long way from the three broadsides in two minutes I talked of when I first took command. Let Mr Morton take charge of the gun drill, and then you and Mr Warwick can join me in my cabin. All this talk of fishing has given me an idea.’
*****
The gun drill was over, and late afternoon was moving towards early evening. In the great cabin of the frigate, Clay sat at his dining table with Warwick’s damaged chart spread out on it, and the sheaf of notes he had put together in front of him. Grouped around the table were Taylor, Morton and Warwick.
‘Now, gentlemen, here is the plan,’ he began. ‘Just before sunset Mr Taylor in the pinnace and Mr Morton in the launch will row across to the Pierres Noir. You will each surprise and capture a fishing boat and return with it here to the ship. Timing is key, gentlemen. I want the sun setting in the west to blind any French observer on the Point St Mathieu to what we are about. It is essential that the French are unaware that we have taken possession of these boats.’
‘I understand the order, sir,’ said Morton. ‘But why are we to capture these fishing boats in the first place? I had understood that we were not to make war on fishermen?’
‘We are not capturing them, Mr Morton, only borrowing them,’ explained the captain. ‘The crews can stay confined on board till we have no further use for their vessels. They shall be sprats to catch us a mackerel. When we have them in our possession, we will fill each with a boarding party of thirty seamen and twenty marines, concealed below decks. Mr Taylor will take the first boat and Mr Morton the second.’
‘What is to be our target, sir?’ asked Taylor.
‘You will sail down the Iroise Channel, seemingly bound for Brest to land your catch,’ said Clay. ‘There will be plenty of moonlight for you to navigate by, and Mr Warwick will pilot the lead boat. When you reach the Goulet the tide will still be running against you, so it will be quite natural for you to wait in Bertheaume Bay. Right in amongst all the other shipping gathered there.’
‘But what will stop the French batteries that guard that bay from opening fire on us, sir? asked Warwick.
‘On French fishing boats waiting for the tide to turn?’ queried the captain. ‘I very much doubt that they will, Mr Warwick. As has been said repeatedly, nobody makes war on fishermen.’ Clay looked around the table in his cabin to see if there were any other questions. When there were none he continued.
‘When the moon sets at ten thirty, that will be your chance,’ he said. ‘Attack and capture what you can. If that big brig Mr Taylor and I saw earlier is to hand, make that your chief object. The wind is in the south, which will serve for you to bring her out. Once you have your prize or prizes you can return the fishing boats to their owners.’
‘I suppose we are to do all this as stealthily as possible, sir,’ asked Morton, ‘so as not to alert the batteries?’
‘Certainly on your way into the bay, Mr Morton,’ said his captain, ‘but once the action starts you must do quite the reverse. Plenty of noise in the dark, if you please. You must let the French know there is a fox among the hens. I want you to panic the other vessels into flight. That will cover your escape, for the French batteries will have no idea which ships to fire upon. You can pose as another startled vessel making your escape, and in all the confusion it would be strange if you will not be able to slip away.’
‘Which only leaves us the challenge of sailing any prize back up the Iroise Channel in the dark, sir’ said Taylor.
‘The Titan will remain at anchor here, displaying three red lights in a row from the masthead. That will give you a good reliable mark to steer by, Mr Taylor.’
*****
‘For the love of God, will you move your fat arse up, Sam,’ moaned the voice of O’Malley from somewhere in the dark of the fishing boat’s hold. ‘I am right on the fecking edge.’
‘I can’t make any more room, Sean,’ protested Evans. ‘I got Adam’s cutlass sticking in me bleeding leg.’
‘It ain’t my cutlass, Sam, said Trevan’s voice from the other side of the boat. ‘I am over here.’
‘It might be mine, mate,’ said the voice of Rosso, apparently from somewhere under Evans’ arm. ‘Sorry.’
‘Christ, I hate the smell of fish,’ muttered the big Londoner. ‘It’s like Billingsgate in August down here.’
Just above their heads the hatchway of the fishing boat slid open and a stream of moonlight silvered the upturned faces of the forty-odd sailors and marines that packed the hold. The shape of Midshipman Butler loomed over them, his bulky frame silhouetted by stars.
‘Hold your noise down there,’ he hissed. ‘We are about to pass one of the French gun batteries. Absolute silence, you men.’
‘Aye aye, sir,’ replied Evans. ‘Any chance you can leave that there hatch open? We’re all fit to pass out down here.’
Butler disappeared, leaving the hatch ajar. A little cool night breeze came through it to help disperse the worst of the smell of fish.
‘Absolute silence, is it? Easy for him to fecking say,’ muttered O’Malley, giving Evans a savage dig in the ribs. ‘He ain’t the one with one buttock being torn from the other.’ He wiped at some of the glitter of fish scales that sparkled on his arm and settled down as comfortably as he could on the little slither of upturned fish box that was not occupied by Rosso or the huge Londoner.
‘Qui va la?’ came a challenge from some distance away. Someone on deck gave a reply, and the boat sailed on.
‘Who was that talking in Frog?’ whispered Evans.
‘That’s Duplain, foretop man,’ muttered one of the marines. ‘He’s from Jersey, and can jabber like a proper Frenchy.’
More hails came down through the open hatch to the men who waited in the hold. Some seemed distant, others frighteningly close from either left or right as the boat crept deeper into the bay, and each time Duplain replied. They felt the boat swing up into the wind and then a rattling roar sounded from forward as the anchor was dropped. Evans rose to his feet and extended himself upwards till his head emerged proud of the deck. From his six foot six inch frame he peeped around him.
‘Get out of sight, Evans,’ hissed Lieutenant Taylor’s voice, and the Londoner ducked back down into the hold.
‘What did you see, Sam?’ asked O’Malley, now settled in place on the fish box.
‘Bay is right full of boats and ships,’ replied Evans, looking around for somewhere to sit. ‘There must be at least twenty, including a proper big one that we are moored close to.’
‘That will be the brig Pipe was after us capturing,’ said O’Malley. The others all looked at him in surprise. ‘What you all staring at?’
‘How do you know what the bleeding captain wants us to do?’ asked Evans.
‘Oh, that’s easy enough,’ said the Irishman. ‘Isn’t Hart one of my mates, and wasn’t he serving the fecking coffee in the cabin earlier when Pipe was telling the Grunters the plan?’ O’Malley taped his moonlit nose with a single silver finger. ‘If yous wants to know what is going on aboard, share your baccy with the captain’s steward once in a while, fellers.’
A few minutes later it went dark again at the hatch as the shadow of Lieutenant Taylor loomed over them.
‘Only another half hour or so till the moon sets, lads, then we will get you all up on deck,’ he said. ‘Haven’t you got anywhere to sit, Evans?’
‘Eh, not any more, sir,’ replied the Londoner, glaring down at O’Malley.
‘Oh, just make yourself as comfortable as you are able,’ continued Taylor. ‘When the order comes to deploy I shall require the marines to go to the stern with Lieutenant Macpherson; the rest of you will be with me in the waist. Till then hold tight, and keep the noise down.’
‘Isn’t that Grunters all over?’ asked a gruff voice opposite O’Malley. ‘We are required to suffer down here while they lord it up on deck.’ The man leant forward into the moonlight and first hawked and then spat onto the floor of the hold. He was a tall man, with arms that were heavy with tattoos. Once he had cleared the phlegm from his mouth he held out his hand to the Irishman.
‘Richard Sexton,’ he said. ‘Formally captain of the afterguard, now just an able seaman.’
‘Sean O’Malley, forecastle man,’ said the Irishman, taking his hand. ‘That’s tough on you, feller. I heard it was the last captain as had you disrated. Drunkenness, wasn’t it?’
‘That’s right,’ said Sexton, ‘but I got the old bastard back good an’ proper, don’t you worry on that score.’ A number of the seaman around him rumbled their approval.
‘Tell me, Sean,’ he continued. ‘Are you one of the lads that volunteered to join the ship?’
‘Sure I was, along with Evans and Rosso here, and Trevan over there. We been with Pipe a while, and always done fine in the matter of fecking prize money, like.’
‘That’s good,’ said Sexton. ‘Cause Sheridan was such a useless arse we never got a sniff of any lucre. So you having been with Pipe an’ all, have you shipped with the new Grunter in charge of the Lobsters? This Macpherson bloke?’
‘Sure I have,’ said the Irishman. ‘He was in charge of the Lobsters on our last barky – the old Rush.’
‘Is he any good?’
‘Is Macpherson any good?’ exclaimed O’Malley. ‘I doubt if there’s a better Grunter in the whole fecking Royal Marines. He saved our lives when we was on shore in St Lucia last year. We were serving these guns trying to batter down a fortress wall when all manner of Frog soldiers came sneaking out. I am telling you there was hundreds of them. We were up to our shanks in shite till Macpherson showed up and saw the feckers off with a bare forty of his Lobsters. He is as game as they come, that one.’
‘Is that right?’ said a thoughtful Sexton. ‘That is very reassuring, my friend. Thank you for that, Sean.’
*****
It was dark now in Bertheaume Bay. The moon had set behind the sea cliffs and hills of Brittany and left the night sky to those stars that were not veiled behind wisps of cloud. From the dark bowl of the shore around them the occasional light from croft or cottage winked in the night, while at the southern end of the bay light spilt out across the water from the fishing village of Camaret. On either side of the entrance of the bay, where the dark shore touched the star-filled sky, were two blocks of something more solid. The stone walls and straight lines of the twin shore batteries that guarded the entrance.
Lieutenant Taylor looked away from the batteries and back into the boat. Running his way back through the cross fire of those guns was a problem for the future. First he had to capture the brig. She was just beside the fishing boat, perhaps sixty yards downwind of them. Her twin masts towered up above the other vessels in the bay. They lay dotted across the water, perhaps twenty or thirty little coasters and luggers. All of them swung and bobbed at anchor, waiting for the tide to turn. He returned his attention to the brig, the main prize tonight. He could tell that her crew were alert. The sound of their noisy talk drifted across the water to him. Alert, but perhaps not expecting any attack, he decided as a burst of laughter rang out. He looked down on to the deck of the fishing boat. The marines and sailors lay in a packed line along the portside gunwale, out of sight but ready. Lieutenant Taylor looked over the side and tried to gauge the state of the tide. He spat onto the surface of the sea and watched the globule of saliva. It lay still on the surface. Good, he thought, it is slack water at last.
‘Mr Butler,’ he hissed, ‘signal to the other boat to attack.’
‘Aye aye, sir,’ replied the midshipman.
‘Let slip the anchor in the bow there,’ he whispered.
He heard a splash from the front of the fishing boat, and they began to drift with the wind down towards the brig. Looking across at the other fishing boat he could see that Morton too was now adrift. Closer and closer they came, the boat starting to rotate like a top on the calm water as her bow turned towards the southerly breeze.
‘Mr Butler, take a couple of hands and get some oars deployed on the starboard side,’ he ordered. ‘I want us to strike her broadside on.’
‘Aye, aye, sir,’ replied Butler. Taylor resumed his watch on the growing dark mass ahead. When they had drifted half of the way towards their target, the noise of the crew’s conversation stopped. There was a pause, and then a hail was shouted out into the night.
‘Make a suitable reply, Duplain,’ he said. The Jersey man started to talk, but his flow was interrupted by an angry shout, followed by the flash and bang as a musket was fired from the brig. A bullet whined past Taylor’s head.
‘They have guessed what we are about, sir,’ replied the foretop man, a little unnecessarily.
From all around Taylor came cries of alarm as the crews on the other boats realised something was amiss in the anchorage. He tried to ignore the commotion and just concentrate on the large ship that was their target. From onboard he heard the blast of a whistle and the stamp and rush of the crew being summoned to man her side. A little later came the sound of someone clanging the brig’s bell continuously in warning. Two further muskets flashed in the night.
‘Mr Macpherson!’ he shouted. ‘Kindly ready your men to give the French a volley just before we board.’
‘Aye aye, sir,’ came the Scotsman’s reply, his voice harsh and tense. ‘On your feet, men, and form a two deep line there.’
‘Come on,’ urged Taylor, as the gap between the fishing boat and the ship’s side inched narrower. He glanced across at the second fishing boat, to check that it too was approaching the brig. More muskets flashed in the night, and one of the marines gave a cry as he crashed down.
‘Close up there!’ said the voice of Macpherson. ‘Marines, fix bayonets!’
Another musket flashed orange, and in the brief moment of light Taylor saw the side of the brig, lined with the faces of her crew and the glint of the weapons they held. She was close enough now, he decided.
‘On your feet, men!’ he barked. ‘Now with the grappling irons!’ From the each end of the fishing boat two lines flew out through the air. They caught high in the rigging, and as they were hauled inboard the strip of water between the gunwale of the fishing boat and the side of the ship vanished.
‘Marines, take aim!’ yelled Macpherson, drawing his sword in a flash of silver under the stars. ‘Fire!’ The crash of the volley and the bang as the boat struck home came almost together.
‘Up and at them, lads!’ yelled Taylor, drawing his own sword and jumping up into the main chains of the brig. With a ragged cheer the other sailors and marines followed him up the side, and they were soon locked in a struggle with the French defenders. Cutlasses clashed and sparked as they struck together, pistols and muskets banged out, and the marines thrust with their needle-sharp bayonets to clear the way onto the deck. A second thump and cheer from near to the stern of the brig announced the arrival of the other boat.
In the bow of the fishing boat Evans had finished hauling in on the grappling line and now looked about him for somewhere to make it fast. His fighting lust was up, and he longed to join the battle. He ran his hand along the unfamiliar gunwale of the boat until he felt the rounded end of a cleat in the dark. He secured the line around it, reached down to pick up his boarding axe and turned towards the fight. Another musket went off in the dark, and the flash of light froze the scene in front of him. It highlighted the struggling mass of sailors and marines he expected to see, slowly forcing themselves onto the deck of the French ship against the fierce resistance of its crew, but he also saw something unexpected. In that moment he saw that he was not the only man left on board the fishing boat. In the waist of the vessel he could make out the figure of Richard Sexton, crouched down behind the boat’s winch. One arm was held out like a finger sign as he took aim with his pistol. The gun was pointing at Lieutenant Macpherson’s back as he led on his marines.
