“Listen, men. You can’t be in action long because our ammunition is limited. So every shot must take effect. We have nothing to throw away. We can’t sink these floating timber yards but we can do two things. We can prevent the enemy from putting more men aboard them and we can hinder them in their efforts to put out each fire. Use round shot against any boat you see. Use grapeshot against the roofs or wherever you see smoke. The governor’s orders are to give them hell. So do just that!”
Richard restored his formation, line abreast, and signalled them to open fire in turn from the right. The “flagship” was then the third to fire, its twenty-four-pounder jarring the whole boat along the line of the keel. The smoke drifted forward concealing what effect, if any, had been gained. Glancing to starboard, Richard received a signal from his Number Two boat indicating a reduced elevation. When Number Four boat fired in turn, Richard watched the result and signalled a correction in his turn.
“Is this your system, Mr Delancey?” Curtis asked.
“Yes, sir. I hope you approve, sir. It’s impossible, in practice, to observe the fall of your own shot but we can observe for each other as long as we fire in order.”
“I can see that. But aren’t you slowing down the rate of fire?” “We should do that, sir, if there were more than five boats in line. With this number we reckon to improve the rate a little. Each boat must reload before its turn comes again. If any boat’s crew is slow the others notice it and make game of them afterwards. They hate the derision of their shipmates more than any reproof from me.”
“You have something there, Mr Delancey. Now show me how you cease fire.”
The cannon thundered once more, jarring the boat, and the coxswain, at a nod from Richard, held an oar upright with a black and white rag attached. The guns fired from boats Number Four and Five and then the firing stopped.
“A new target, Mr Delancey, on the port bow!” Richard cursed under his breath for there, sure enough, were two launches nearing the second of the floating batteries. If he had not been explaining his drill, he would have seen them a few seconds sooner. Grabbing the oar from the coxswain he swung it twice to his left and pointed. Then he held it vertically for a moment. As he brought it down again the gun boomed from Number One gunboat. The first three shots missed but Number Four scored a hit and so did Number Three at the second try. Both launches showed the white flag of surrender and Curtis ordered the division to advance. Within a few minutes the captured launches were on their way to Ragged Staff under escort of Number One.
Having learnt from the prisoners that there were some men still aboard one of the burning ships, Curtis sent Number Five to rescue them. As this was being done there came a deafening explosion from the far end of the enemy line. The fire had spread to the magazine of one of the battering ships. This suggested a new danger to Richard, quite apart from the fire of their own friends ashore, but Curtis was working off his earlier frustration. He was longing to capture one of the enemy ships by boarding and pushed on with that object in view. When he was nearly opposite the centre of the enemy line, however, there was another tremendous explosion. One of the centre ships had blown up with a noise like the crack of doom. The noise was so shattering that the gunboat officers did not immediately realise their danger. With the roof blown sky-high, the broken timbers, some of them burning, began to rain down over the vicinity of the disaster. Avoiding action was impossible for the fragments appeared from nowhere through the smoke to plunge, hissing, into the sea. These deadly missiles were falling everywhere in quick succession. Everyone waited and watched for what seemed an eternity. Then, with dreadful suddenness, a blazing beam fell like a meteorite, lanced through the bottom of gunboat Number Four and sank the vessel in a matter of seconds. Most of her crew were rescued by Number Two and Curtis directed Richard to steer for the same spot. A minute later the “flagship” (Number Three) was hit by another thunderbolt which crashed through the sternsheets. It so happened that Curtis and Richard had both moved to the bows, looking out for survivors from Number Four, but for which circumstance they would have perished. As it was, the coxswain was killed outright and the man at the stroke oar was badly wounded. The gunboat itself would have sunk but two seamen stuffed their jackets into the hole. With only two undamaged gunboats under command, Curtis signalled his flotilla out of action. They began a limping withdrawal towards the New Mole.
It was evening now, the smoke hastening the approach of darkness. The Spanish admiral might have hoped to withdraw at least some of his ships but they were all now alight, those least damaged having received the burning debris from those that had blown up. No one vessel had the means of making sail and few had so much as a mast standing. Worst of all, the light from those actually ablaze was illuminating the rest, making them perfect targets, brightly outlined against the darkness of the sea. Surprisingly enough, they were still under heavy fire from the shore batteries, which apparently had a new lease of life. It would seem that these astounding gunners were ready to continue the action indefinitely. They had been told to give the enemy hell and it was to hell that many of the Spanish were now consigned, left to choose whether they would burn or drown. Looking about him, Richard thought of battle paintings he had seen, pictures of men-of-war in strict formation under a blue sky with white smoke from their broadsides and cloud shadows on the green-grey sea. Real war, he realised, is not like that. This was the real thing: the glare and crackle of the flames, the debris in the sea, the screams of agony, the wrecked ships lit by those ablaze, the whole scene of chaos which no artist could ever record. One thing clear was that the victory had been won. There was no fight left in the floating batteries, no possibility that the attack would be renewed. They passed three ships in slow succession, each in flames and apparently abandoned. Coming near the fourth, Captain Curtis became aware that it was on fire but with part of the crew still on board. He led his surviving gunboats in that direction, telling his men to rescue as many survivors as they could.
At this stage of his career Richard was a young man of merely average courage, braver on some days than others. He had so far done what he had to do and sometimes more than was strictly necessary. It cannot be said, however, that he would run into danger for the fun of it. And by this last order he was frankly appalled. These enemy ships were going to explode, one by one, just as soon as the flames reached their magazines. Any gunboat near them when this happened would be inevitably destroyed. His own leaking gunboat had been within an ace of destruction and could only be kept afloat by continual baling. All common sense suggested a prudent withdrawal but his luck was out. His commanding officer was a hero assigned for most of the day to an unheroic role. Given half a chance he had plunged into battle after the victory had been won. Still dissatisfied he had now to prove himself another Galahad. The trouble with Curtis, Richard told himself, was that the man wanted his knighthood before the war ended. He assumed that there would be no other war in his lifetime. What was the loss of three gunboats as compared with this last chance of distinction? Forgetting for the moment that his own confirmation as lieutenant might depend on this same throw of the dice, he raged inwardly at the risk he was having to take. It was, after all, the duty of a brigadier-general to command his brigade, not to play knight errant at the head of a mere detachment. Then he remembered his own priggish answer to Captain Gibson … Perhaps Curtis was right after all. He had certainly been the first to see those enemy launches. Damn and blast the whole situation! Why couldn’t he have been left to command his own division in his own way?
Curtis actually visited two enemy ships, the foremost of their line; and saved as many men as his gunboats could embark. A far greater number were unavoidably left to their fate. At this stage Curtis was hoping to save more when his other gun-boats returned. They did not reappear, however, and there was nothing more he could do. The overladen boats made a slow passage back to the New Mole. On the way Captain Curtis was suddenly communicative.
“Some people would say that
I was wrong to go with the gunboats, that I should have sent Gibson instead. For a whole lot of reasons that would have been a mistake. Some people again—and I think you might be among them—would question whether I should have stayed to rescue these wretched Spaniards. You won’t see it until you are older but that had to be done. Some other officer in my place would have thought it too great a risk but he would, I know, have been in error. It was, you see, a calculated risk—” (There was at that moment another tremendous explosion but the gunboats were clear by now of the danger area.) “Yes, we had time enough—not too much time, I grant you—but time enough. Our garrison will be here, you see, after the war is over. The Spanish are folk we shall have to live with. So their wounded are going to receive the best possible care. The Spaniards should find that we are good friends and neighbours but that we are the last people in the world to have as enemies.”
When Captain Curtis landed at the New Mole, with Delancey at his side, he was met on the quayside by Captain Gibson.
“In your absence, sir, I received a message from His Excellency directing that a hundred of our men should relieve the artillerymen on the batteries principally engaged. I sent them off under the command of Mr Trentham. When the gunboats returned with Mr Wallis and Mr Tibbenham I ordered them on the same service. I hope you will approve, sir. I have manned alternate guns in the Europa batteries and propose to relieve Mr Trentham’s detachment at midnight.”
“Your arrangements are approved, Captain Gibson. Mr Delancey, march your detachment back to camp. They can rest now but will be on duty again at midnight. The prisoners and wounded will remain here with Captain Gibson, who will dispose of them. You will be responsible, Mr Delancey, for sending all carpenters from the camp to repair the gunboats, which should be serviceable by daybreak. Boatswain, check the stores here and let me know what we shall need to replace damaged oars, sails and cordage. Gunner, see that the gunboats’ ammunition is replaced before daybreak. Surgeon, I shall want a report on the wounded as soon as they are in hospital. Master-at-Arms …”
Richard went off with his detachment, leaving the captain with a night’s work ahead of him. He had envied senior officers in the past but he was beginning to see that Curtis had to earn far more than he was ever likely to be paid. He had still to think and plan and organise even when completely exhausted. Perhaps he deserved that knighthood after all.
Richard was on duty again at midnight, as ordered, his detachment of seamen manning guns at Europa Point while those previously posted there were marched down to the King’s Bastion.
The firing of the shore batteries continued all night, punctuated at intervals by the explosion of the floating batteries. There were only two left at first light, both abandoned and neither worth repairing. It was only gradually, however, that the garrison came to realise that the siege was over, the battle won. The allied army remained in position and the blockade was to continue for months with a daily cannonade as if to preface some new assault. But the heart had gone out of the siege. What finally ended the Spanish dream of taking Gibraltar was the arrival of a convoy on 14 October. The garrison saw little of the masterly seamanship by which Lord Howe manoeuvred the allied fleet out of the way. They learnt about that afterwards. What concerned them at the time was the landing of provisions, powder and shot together with two more regiments of infantry under the command of Lord Mulgrave. As from that day the Duc de Crillon’s last chance had gone. Firing continued but many of the French tents were struck on the 20th. The combined fleet under Admiral Cordova never reappeared after its brush with Lord Howe and more supply ships entered without hindrance, bringing mail for the garrison and two letters for Richard Delancey.
The one with the Admiralty seal conveyed the news that his promotion had been confirmed. The mere superscription conveyed the essential fact, reading “Richard A. Delancey, Esquire.” He had officially become a lieutenant in the Royal Navy, something far above his early expectations. He was at the same time posted to the Brilliant, under the command of Sir Roger Curtis. The frigate had been refloated by this time but Richard had no illusions about his future. There were rumours of peace and he knew that the Brilliant would be paid off and that he would never be offered another berth until another war began. He was lucky to have his commission. He would not have had that after the preliminaries of peace had been signed. He would now have his half-pay but would nevertheless have his living to seek.
The other letter came from Gabriel Andros, a cousin he could barely remember, and was dated from Guernsey on 18 July 1782:
Dear Richard,
It is with the greatest regret that I have to acquaint you with the death of your mother who dyed last month of a fever. She had been ailing ever since your father’s death last year and her neighbours thought that she had no great inclination to survive after the loss of two sons and after hearing the rumour, mercifully false, that you too had perished in America. As you know, she saw little of her relatives from the time of her marriage which some thought ill-advised but several of them attended her funeral with every sign of respect and grief. She left no will and testament but there is no doubt that you are her only male heir standing to inherit half of what property she left, the remainder going to yr sister, Rachel. Her fortune was inconsiderable, as you can well understand, but there is a summ left for you with her advocate amounting to rather less than a hundred pounds sterling (I spare you the livres tournois which you have most likely forgotten the value of ). I have also to inform you that I have heard from my cousin, Edmund. You will recall that the outbreak of war came when you were going to join his father’s counting-house in Liverpool. The trade prospects were then poor indeed for a firm dealing largely in America and the Mediterranean but the comming of peace should renew the prosperity of Messrs Preston, Steere & Andros. It would not appear from his letter that Edmund is himself very active in the business but he tells me of another partner, Mr Carslake, who has great plans for the Barbarie trade. Wishing to see the family still represented in the firm’s transactions, Edmund would consider bringing you into the business as clerk or agent and begs that you write to him at the firm’s address in Dale Street, Liverpool. I trust you will see this as an opening which it would be foolish to ignore. I must not end this letter without assuring you of the continued prosperity and health of your sister, Mrs Sedley, who now resides in a verie respectable part of Bristol where she is bringing up several of your nephews and nieces. I remain with great truth your sincere friend and cousin,
Gabriel Andros
Richard had not even heard of his father’s death so that this letter came as a double shock. He wondered whether he had written as often as he should and whether it was for want of a letter that his mother had died. Hers had been a sad life, though, and his father’s perhaps still more so except for that brief period of prosperity which had just sufficed to place his one remaining son on the quarterdeck. Their little tragedy was over now, nothing left but two nameless graves in a churchyard. As for his own career, it seemed that the closing of one door had led to the opening of another. Without deciding anything now, he would certainly write to his cousin when the time came. Why not? He knew that there were possibilities in the Barbary trade and the coast of Barbary was fairly in sight from Gibraltar itself. He could see it, indeed, from where he stood, much as Sark can be seen from St Peter Port. He might even return to Gibraltar in time of peace … Such possibilities would have to wait, however, for there was work to do and the gunboats were still active, rowing guard, and were sometimes even in action.
There were a few casualties in one skirmish and Richard was careful to visit the hospital afterwards. He said what he could to cheer his men up and was leaving by the main entrance when an orderly ran after him, begging him to return. The chief clerk of the hospital asked the favour of a word with him. Somewhat mystified, Richard walked back to the entrance hall where the chief clerk, Mr Garston, was waiting.
“I beg pardon, Mr Delancey,” said that official, “but I am g
lad you chanced to call. It’s about old Captain Bradshaw …”
“Yes, I heard that he had been killed. What a shame it was that the hospital should be accidentally hit. I suppose he might have recovered?”
“No, sir. He was dying and he knew it. That is why he told me how to dispose of his few belongings. He had drawn up a will years ago which covered his property in Hampshire. He had only his sea-chest here, with his uniform and suchlike, and he directed that all should be sold and the money given to the hospital staff who had looked after him. That has been done but the sale was not to include his sword. He said before me and two other witnesses that his sword was to go to the young man in whose examination he had assisted. We said ‘Yes, yes’ the way we do with men who are very ill but we had no idea what he meant. I have inquired around for weeks past and then I had the wit to ask the senior surgeon, Mr Forbes, who has been here throughout the siege. He was none too certain—he has had work enough since, as you can imagine, with all those poor Spaniards—but he remembered that Captain Curtis, Sir Roger as he is now, had asked permission to visit the old captain with two other officers. He had agreed, none too readily I should guess. He told me, however, that Sir Roger had gone back to London with despatches but that one of the other officers might still be there. This led me to Captain Gibson who told me the whole story.”
The Guernseyman Page 18