Dead Man's Island

by David McDine

  All down the line heavy netting had been rigged to be hoisted after dark to repel boarders, and loaded small arms and sharpened cutlasses were placed in racks, readily accessible at the first sign of an assault.

  But his ace card was the mooring system he had devised. Keels were moored with chains and – crucially – linked to one another so that individual vessels could not be cut out.

  The Rosbifs would not be aware of this. So the axes they would bring expecting to cut hempen cables would be useless. It would be like attempting to cut bone with a butter knife.

  He gave orders for a full alert to be mounted and the crews of boats anchored ahead of his cordon were instructed to fire off musket warnings at the first signs of the attack.

  It would be a busy night and the Rosbifs were in for a deadly welcome with no chance of success.

  *

  During the crossing there had at first been much ribbing among Striker’s crew, acting like schoolboys on an outing.

  But, towing in a line of other boats in the frigate’s wake, they had soon fallen silent, those yet to see action speculating as to what it would be like and every man-jack wondering if he would come through it unscathed.

  Anson himself had been able to think only of the chains that he believed now held the French defensive line together. Had Hoare informed Colonel Redfearn, or Nelson himself? If he had, how was it planned to break the links? And if the admiral did not know what awaited the attackers, would the raid be a complete disaster?

  On arrival off Boulogne, he had been concerned that his dark thoughts could be transmitting themselves to those around him, so forced himself to smile and say cheerily: ‘It would be good to have a song to give ourselves a lift, boys. Heart of Oak would be the very thing, but Lord Nelson might be trying to take a nap and wouldn’t thank us for giving him a wake-up call.’

  That had raised a nervous laugh.

  ‘But if we can’t sing, there’s nothing to stop us hearing a bit of Shakespeare …’

  ‘What, poetry, sir?’ asked Longstaff. ‘I can recite a poem about a young tart from Deal if y’like …’

  ‘Thankee Longstaff, and most entertaining it would be, I’m sure. But I had in mind something a little more inspiring. Can you all hear me?’

  Hoover ordered: ‘Silence fore and aft and listen up to Mister Anson!’

  Anson waited for silence. ‘This is from Shakespeare.’

  ‘Shake ’oo?’

  He ignored the joker. ‘It’s something he wrote in his play about King Henry the Fifth. I think it’s appropriate to the business we’re about.’

  Heads were turned to him.

  ‘His army was about to face the French at a place called Agincourt. His men were heavily outnumbered and this is what he said to inspire them.’ Anson cleared his throat:

  “From this day to the ending of the world,

  But we in it shall be remembered;

  We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;

  For he today that sheds his blood with me

  Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile

  This day shall gentle his condition;

  And gentlemen in England now a-bed

  Shall think themselves accurs’d they were not here,

  And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks

  That fought with us upon this day.”

  Anson had chosen to omit the mentions of Saint Crispin’s day in case some of the men got confused and thought he was talking about his – now late –predecessor.

  For a moment or two there was total silence as the words sunk in – until a voice piped up: ‘So what ’appened then? Did they beat the Frogs, sir?’

  Anson joined the laughter and confirmed: ‘Yes, after hearing words like that of course they beat the Frogs!’ But he dearly wished he could feel as confident as he hoped he sounded.

  But the mood had lifted and the joker Longstaff got to work. ‘Now we’ve been hinspired, like, ’ow about that poem of mine?’ he offered. ‘It’s about a young floozy from Deal, what’d do anyfink for a square meal …’

  But Hoover reined in the laugher. ‘Don’t forget, boys, the flagship’s nearby and the admiral’s got more on his plate than listenin’ to a bunch of schoolgals like you gigglin’ at silly rhymes.’

  They simmered down and Hoover whispered to Anson. ‘I didn’t mean your words, of course, sir. They were spot on.’

  ‘We can thank the Bard of Avon for them, not me.’

  ‘Yeah, but it’s knowing when to repeat them that counts.’

  *

  By early evening off Boulogne, all the remaining ships’ boats were hoisted out and dropped astern to join those already towing behind. And all boats were now fully prepared, with oar blades and throle pins muffled, grappling irons, axes and other assault equipment loaded.

  Finally, red-jacketed marines swarmed down into the boats to join the boarders already crouching in the thwarts.

  To mark friend from foe, seamen chosen for boarding parties put on white belts borrowed from the marines, and were issued with newly sharpened cutlasses, half pikes, tomahawks, and loaded pistols and muskets.

  By eleven o’clock the heavily laden boats of all four assault divisions were ranged astern of their commanders’ boats, loosely linked by ropes to keep them together lest the strong currents split them up, and looking like strings of ducklings following their mothers.

  Anson felt the familiar tension he had known before other raids, reminding him of St Valery-en-Caux in Normandy and the abortive cutting-out expedition from HMS Phryne which had led to his capture.

  The tightening in the gut was all too familiar, but this time it was somehow magnified. For the first time he was experiencing an almost overwhelming foreboding that this was going to end in defeat, despair – and death.

  It was a moonless night and he concentrated hard, staring through the gloom to where he had last glimpsed the flagship.

  Nelson had ordered six lighted lanterns to be hung over the side of Medusa as the signal to pull for shore and suddenly they appeared.

  Anson croaked: ‘There’s the signal, men!’ and Striker’s coxswain ordered: ‘Dip oars and give way!’

  The admiral, Anson knew, would be watching from the deck of his flagship and Anson was not alone in feeling that the great man was with them in spirit – had wished to be with them in the boats.

  Indeed, the challenge to be used if the boats became separated was ‘Nelson’ – the response ‘Bronte’, a reference to the dukedom the admiral had been awarded for his part in suppressing the revolt in Naples two years earlier.

  As the boats pulled away, aboard Medusa Captain John Gore’s log recorded the moment with a terse laconic line: “At 11.30 the boats proceeded to attack the enemy’s flotilla.”

  40

  Boulogne in Chains

  In pitch darkness, the variable currents swept the boats towards the French line.

  But some were swept faster than others and in Striker Anson had little idea where they were or where they were heading.

  It appeared that the assault force had been dispersed almost immediately, and to avoid collisions some boats had cast off the ropes that had held the divisions together.

  Striker’s coxswain Joe Hobbs shouted: ‘Do y’want me to cut loose, sir?’

  Anson hesitated. If they lost contact with Captain Parker in the lead boat there would be no chance of coordination – just chaos.

  Gun flashes were now lighting up the night sky and already the bark of cannon and carronade, accompanied by the roar of mortars and the sporadic crackle of musketry, was deafening. But at least the flashes gave him occasional glimpses of Parker’s boat.

  ‘Cut loose? No! Mark Captain Parker’s boat in the flashes and keep after him at all costs!’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir!’ The coxswain shouted at the oarsmen: ‘You ’eard what Mister Anson said. Row like buggery after the lead boat!’

  To watchers on board Medusa, gun flashes showed that the currents appeared to be
carrying both Somerville’s and Jones’s divisions past the enemy line. But as to being able to fathom out how the assault was progressing, Nelson and his officers might as well have been in the Outer Hebrides.

  The currents had favoured the second division and a particularly bright flash revealed an anchored brig directly ahead – the Etna – flying a commodore’s pendant and veiled in netting.

  Striker, now in close contact with Captain Parker’s flatboat which was still accompanied by a barge and cutter, was hailed by a lieutenant. ‘The captain requests you to attack the French ships at the northern end of the line to create a diversion while we board this brig.’ Anson could not help laughing. The navy could be absurdly polite, even at a time like this.

  He shouted: ‘Will do!’ and ordered his coxswain to steer to starboard, warning the boarders – some of his own fencibles and the embarked marines – to stand by.

  Looking back, Anson glimpsed Parker standing in the bows of his flatboat, sword drawn, at the head of his men. It was a heroic gesture – no more than he would have expected of Nelson’s favourite.

  He could see the flatboat bumping alongside the Frenchman and immediately Parker and his men attempted to board, but the strong netting, triced up to her lower yards, baffled them.

  And as they continued their attack a blast of grapeshot and musketry cut through them and Parker and many of his men were thrown on their backs in the boat, all either killed or wounded.

  Anson watched, impotent, as Parker’s surviving men scrambled up the ship’s side only to be enmeshed in the netting. It was an uneven struggle, painful to watch.

  French infantrymen were crowded on the brig’s gunwhale, firing their muskets and then stabbing the British sailors and marines struggling at the nets with their bayonets and pikes.

  Those attackers who grabbed the bulwarks to heave themselves aboard had their hands axed with tomahawks.

  Anson cried out in frustration as he saw one brave soul run through with the French captain’s sword as he clambered over the top of the netting. But as the Frenchman seized the boarder by the hair and dragged him to the deck he, himself, was stabbed in the shoulder by the dying man.

  Parker’s boat drifted away, full of dead and wounded. But Striker and several other boats from his division had by now managed to reform to attack further up the line.

  The night sky was lit up like some malicious, death-dealing firework inferno, and Nelson’s grand plan was meaningless now to the men in the boats. Their world had shrunk to their own boat, the thirty or so men who inhabited it, and whichever enemy vessel they struck first.

  Only the detonations and gun flashes were universal. And the smoke – it was everywhere.

  Striker closed on a dark shape, lit spasmodically by the gun flashes, looming up directly ahead.

  Anson yelled: ‘Keep low boys! But his voice was drowned by the deafening, reverberating cacophony of dozens of great guns, carronades and mortars, and the accompanying angry crackle of musketry.

  A volley of musket balls buzzed overhead and there was now no need to urge the men to keep down. The instinct to survive had seen to that. The oarsmen rowed with lowered heads and the boarders crouched even lower in the thwarts.

  Miraculously, it seemed, no-one had yet been hit and at last they bumped alongside the boats already attacking the French ship – another brig.

  Already the other crews were attempting to board, but they were being forced back by the determined defenders. Anson knew he had to make an instant decision. He could join the others struggling to board the brig, in which case his men would have to wait their turn to get close enough, or he could seek another target.

  He chose the latter and ordered the coxswain to make for the next ship in the French line.

  Gun flashes lit the sky like lightning strikes and through the dark and drifting clouds of smoke another vessel loomed up ahead. Anson stood up, waved his sword, and shouted: ‘This one’s ours men! Get alongside!’

  The rowers pulled with increased power and closed on what Anson took to be another brig lying side on to the harbour entrance.

  There were shouts aboard the French vessel as the coming danger was spotted and a few blue-jacketed figures could be seen peering at them through a heavy screen of netting, waiting to shoot or bayonet boarders.

  Hoover had seen the danger. They would be sitting ducks once enough Frenchmen had lined the deck above them. He shouted into Sampson Marsh’s ear: ‘Elevate the gun now, for pity’s sake!’

  Marsh nodded and worked the pivot just as Striker smacked against the side of the Frenchman and slewed to starboard so that, more by luck than judgement, the carronade was pointing up and along the deck.

  Hoover yelled: ‘Fire!’ and Marsh touched the slow-match he had been cradling in a leather bucket to the powder and there was a deafening bang accompanied by screams from above.

  He had loaded grapeshot.

  Anson wiped the sweat from his eyes with the back of his hand and peered at the deck above. The Frenchmen who had been waiting to do execution had disappeared and the thick rope netting was in tatters. The grapeshot had done its work.

  He shouted: ‘Stand by to board!’ Grappling hooks were flung up, some catching what remained of the netting, and Anson clamped his sword blade between his teeth and grabbed the nearest rope.

  Hoover was beside him and several of the marines and fencibles detailed as boarders and armed with pikes and tomahawks were already clambering aboard the Frenchman.

  But on board the brig the surviving fusiliers and sailors had recovered, reformed and were preparing to fire at their attackers.

  Anson let go of the rope and rolled onto the deck to find a French fusilier standing over him, musket in hand, preparing to bayonet him. His sword fell from his teeth, cutting the side of his mouth. And the absurd thought struck him: ‘First blood to me!’

  As the Frenchman arched to plunge his weapon down, Anson pulled the sea service pistol from his belt and shot his adversary in the gut.

  He stooped to pick up his sword but as he rose another Frenchman rushed at him clearly intent on bayoneting this Rosbif officer. He stepped back to avoid the wicked steel and before the Frenchman could strike again a pike whacked his musket aside.

  Anson glanced sideways. It was Hoover, now in the act of clouting the defender round the head with the flat of his pike.

  As the man crumpled, Anson nodded his thanks and the American grinned, his teeth startlingly white against his cork-blackened face, and moved on.

  Stumbling over a wounded defender, Anson made for a cluster of Frenchmen who were in the act of reloading their muskets.

  Another boat had bumped alongside and now the boarders were beginning to outnumber the surviving Frenchmen.

  He was conscious that Hoover was still beside him, pike in hand, and together they pushed forward shouting encouragement as more of the marines and fencibles clambered aboard.

  Anson hoped the oarsmen had obeyed orders and stayed in the boat. They would be needed for towing out this prize – or escaping when it became necessary to withdraw.

  A ragged line of French soldiers had formed amidships and fired a volley which brought down two of the marines from Striker and at least one of the fencibles – Anson could not see who.

  Hoover had discarded the pike and picked up the musket dropped by one of the fallen marines. He took aim and shot down one of the defenders, and several other boarders were also kneeling and firing.

  Two more boats had banged alongside and more boarders were joining by the minute. He saw the unmistakable figure of Bosun Fagg wearing his tall, black-lacquered hat and waving a cutlass.

  In the chaos, Stinger had been cut off from the rest of Parker’s division and while manoeuvring to find a target Fagg had chanced upon Striker and ordered his coxswain to row to support their Seagate comrades.

  Anson shouted: ‘Where’s Mister Coney?’

  ‘Wounded, sir. I’m in charge now!’

  ‘Good to see you, bosun
– we need you!’

  Judging that there were now enough boarders, Anson, blood streaming down his jaw from his accidentally self-inflicted wound, waved his sword shouting: ‘Up and at ’em, men!’ and charged at the remaining Frenchmen.

  Several more of the enemy fell and the rest threw down their weapons and raised their hands.

  The attackers gave a ragged cheer. The vessel was theirs.

  Anson shouted to Fagg: ‘Get the axes – and Clay and his mate!’

  The bosun nodded and bellowed down to the boats. ‘Look lively and ’and up the axes. And get a bleedin’ move on – we ain’t got all blurry night!’

  The axes appeared and willing hands grabbed them.

  ‘Locate the mooring cables – and the ones to the ships astern and ahead!’

  The men did not need telling twice and it did not take long to locate them thanks to the gun flashes, incoming and outgoing, that were now almost continuous.

  But, as Anson had feared, the shout went up: ‘Chains! The Frogs have used chains!’

  Nevertheless, axes were swung and sparks flew as the men tried severing the moorings, cursing loudly as they did so.

  ‘Mister Clay!’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘You’ve got your tools? Good, then get to it and break these damned chains!’

  Clay and his mate hurried aft and Anson passed his hand over his eyes which were stinging from the thick powder smoke.

  Fagg appeared at his elbow. ‘Even with Clay’s tools they ain’t goin’ to be able to break them chains. If we’d got all the time in the world, maybe, but we ain’t got a cat’s chance wiv all this going on.’

  As he spoke, musket fire crackled from the ships moored end to end with the brig now that the French realised it had been taken.

  Anson had only seconds to decide what to do. It would not be long before the superior forces either side of them would sweep the brig’s deck with musketry – or, worse, with grapeshot from their cannons.