‘Very well, Mr Easton. Be so good as to keep a sharp watch on the commodore, particularly in this visibility.’
Easton bit his lip. ‘Aye, aye, sir.’
‘When will we be abeam the Gunfleet beacon?’
‘ ’Bout an hour, sir.’
‘Thank you.’
Easton turned away and Drinkwater looked over the ship. His earlier premonition had been correct. She had an immensely solid feel about her, despite her lack of overall size. Her massive scantlings gave her this, but she was also positive to handle and gave him a feeling of confident satisfaction as his first true command.
He looked astern at the remainder of the squadron. Terror, Sulphur, Zebra and Hecla, could just be made out. Discovery and the other two tenders, both Geordie colliers, were lost in the rain to the south westward. The remaining bomb, Volcano, was somewhere ahead of Explosion.
He saw one of the tenders emerge from the rain astern of Hecla. She was a barque rigged collier called the Anne Reed, requisitioned by the Ordnance Board and fitted up as an accommodation vessel for the Royal Artillery detachment, some eight officers and eighty men who, in addition to half a dozen ordnance carpenters from the Tower of London, would work the mortars when the time came. Lieutenant Tumilty was somewhere aboard her, no doubt engaged in furious and bucolic debate with his fellow ‘pyroballogists’, over the more abstruse aspects of fire-throwing.
Drinkwater smiled to himself, missing the man’s company. Doubtless there would be time for that later, when they reached Yarmouth and again when they entered the Baltic.
A stronger gust of wind dashed the spray of a breaking wave and whipped it over Virago’s quarter. A cold trickle wormed its way down Drinkwater’s neck, reminding him that he need not stand on deck all day. Already the Swin had opened to become the King’s Channel, now that too merged with the Barrow Deep. Easton lifted his glass and stared to the north. The rain would prevent them seeing the Naze and its tower. Drinkwater fumbled in his tail pocket and brought out his own glass. He scanned the same arc of the horizon, seeing it become indistinct, grey and blurred as yet another rain squall obscured it. He waited patiently for it to pass, then looked again. This time Easton beat him to it.
‘A point forrard of the beam, sir.’
Drinkwater hesitated. Then he saw it, a pole surmounted by a wooden cage over which he could just make out a faint, horizontal blur. The blur was, he knew, a huge wooden fish.
‘Very well, Mr Easton, a bearing if you please and note it in your log.’
A quarter of an hour later the Gunfleet beacon was obliterated astern by more rain and as night came on the wind increased.
By midnight the gale was at its height and the squadron scattered. Drinkwater had brought Virago to an anchor, veering away two full cables secured end to end. For although they were clear of the long shoals that run into the mouth of the Thames they had yet to negotiate the Gabbards and the Galloper and the Shipwash banks, out in the howling blackness to leeward.
The fatigue and anxiety of the night seemed heightened by his fever and he seemed possessed of a remarkable energy that he knew he would pay dearly for later, but he hounded his officers and took frequent casts of the lead to see whether their anchor was dragging. At six bells in the middle watch the atmosphere cleared and they were rewarded by a glimpse of the lights of the floating alarm vessel* at the Sunk. With relief he went below, collapsing across his cot in his wet boat cloak, his feet stuck out behind him still in their shoes. Only his hat rolled off his head and into a damp corner beneath a carronade slide.
Lieutenant Rogers relieved Mr Trussel at four in the morning.
‘Wind’s abating, sir,’ added Trussel after handing the deck over to the lieutenant.
‘Yes.’
‘And veering a touch. Captain said to call him if it veered, sir.’
‘Very well.’ Rogers wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and slipped the pewter mug that was now empty of coffee into the bottom shelf of the binnacle. He looked up at the dark streamer of the masthead pendant, then down at the oscillating compass. The wind was indeed veering.
‘Mr Q!’
‘Sir?’
‘Pass word to the Captain that the wind’s veering, north west a half west and easing a touch, I fancy.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
The cloud was clearing to windward and a few stars were visible. Rogers crossed the deck to look at the traverse board then hailed the masthead to see if anything was visible from there.
Drinkwater arrived on deck five minutes later. It had taken him a great effort to urge his aching and stiffened limbs to obey him.
‘Morning sir.’
‘Mornin’,’ Drinkwater grunted, ‘any sign of the commodore or the Sunk alarm vessel?’
‘No sign of the commodore but the Sunk’s still in sight. She’s held to her anchor.
‘Very well. Wind’s easing ain’t it?’
‘Aye, ’tis dropping all the time.’
‘Turn the hands up then, we’ll prepare to weigh.’
Drinkwater walked aft and placed his hands on the carved taffrail, drawing gulps of fresh air into his lungs and seeking in vain some invigoration from the dawn. Around him the ship came to life. The flog of topsails being cast loose and sheeted home, the dull thud of windlass bars being shipped. There was no fiddler aboard Virago and the men set up a low chant as they began to heave the barrels round to a clunking of pawls. The cable came in very slowly.
They had anchored north east of the Sunk, under the partial shelter of the Shipwash Sand and Virago rolled as her head was pulled round to her anchor. Already a faint lightening of the sky was perceptible to the east. Drinkwater shook the last of the sleep from him and turned forward.
‘Forrard there, how does she lead?’
‘Two points to larboard, sir, and coming to it.’ Matchett’s voice came back to him from the fo’c’s’le. Drinkwater drummed his fingers on the poop rail.
‘Up and down, sir.’
‘Anchor’s aweigh!’
‘Topsail halliards, away lively there . . . haul away larboard braces, lively now! Ease away that starboard mainbrace damn you . . .!’ The backed topsails filled with wind even before their yards had reached their proper elevation. Virago began to make a stern board.
‘Foretopmast staysail, aback to larboard Mr Matchett.’ The ship began to swing. ‘Helm a-lee!’
‘Hellum’s a-lee, zur.’
‘Larboard tack, Mr Rogers, course nor’ nor’ east.’
He left Rogers to haul the yards again and steady Virago on her new course. They would be safely anchored in Yarmouth Roads before another midnight had passed. Around him the noises of the ship, the clatter of blocks, the grind of the rudder, the flog of canvas and creak of parrels, told him Rogers was steadying Virago on her northward course. He wondered how the other members of the squadron had fared during the night and considered that ‘commodore’ Martin might be an anxious and exasperated man this morning. The thought amused him, although it was immediately countered by the image of Martin and the other ships sitting in Yarmouth Roads awaiting the arrival of Virago.
The ship heeled and beneath him the wake began to bubble out from under her stern as she gathered headway. Instinctively he threw his weight on one hip, then turned and began pacing the windward side of the poop. The afterguard padded aft and slackened the spanker brails, four men swigging the clew out to the end of the long boom by the double outhauls.
‘Course, nor’ nor’ east, sir.’
‘Very well, Sam. You have the deck, carry on.’
Rogers called Matchett to pipe up hammocks. The routine of Virago’s day had begun in earnest. Drinkwater walked forward again and halted by the larboard mizzen rigging at the break of the poop. He searched for a glimpse of Orfordness lighthouse but his attention was suddenly attracted by something else, an irregularity in the almost indistinguishable meeting of sea and sky to the north of them. He fished in his tail pocket for the Dollond glass.
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‘Mr Rogers!’
‘Sir?’
‘What d’you make of those sails,’ said Drinkwater without lowering his glass, ‘there, half a point on the larboard bow?’
Rogers lifted his own glass and was silent for a moment. ‘High peaks,’ he muttered, ‘could be bawleys out of Harwich, but not one of the squadron, if that’s what you’re thinking.’
‘That ain’t what I’m thinking Sam. Take another look, a good long look.’
Rogers whistled. One of the approaching sails had altered course, slightly more to the east and they were both growing larger by the second.
‘Luggers, by God!’
‘And if I’m not mistaken they’re in chase, Sam. French chasse-marees taking us for a fat wallowing merchantman. I’ll wager they’ve been lying under the Ness all night.’
‘They’ll eat the logline off this tub, God damn it, and be chock full of men.’ ‘And as handy as yachts’, added Drinkwater, remembering the two stern chasers in his cabin and his untried crew. He would be compelled to fight for he could not outrun such swift enemies.
‘Wear ship, Sam, upon the instant. Don’t be silly man, we’re no match for two Dunkirkers, we’ll make the tail of the bank and beat up for Harwich.’
Rogers shut his gaping mouth and turned to bawl abusively at the hands milling in the waist as they carried the hammocks up and stowed them in the nettings. The first lieutenant scattered them like a fox among chickens.
Drinkwater considered his situation. To stand on would invite being out-manoeuvred, while by running he would not only have his longest range guns bearing on the enemy, but might entice the luggers close enough to pound them with his carronades. If he could outrun them long enough to make up for the Sunk and Harwich they might abandon the chase, privateers were unwilling to fight if the odds were too great and there was a guardship in Harwich harbour.
The spanker was brailed up again as Virago’s stern passed through the wind. Drinkwater tried to conceal the trembling of his hand, which was as much due to his fever as his apprehension, while he tried to hold the images of the approaching luggers in the circle of the glass. Thanks to the twilight they had been close enough when first spotted. They were scarcely a mile distant as Rogers shrieked at topmen too tardily loosing the topgallants for his liking.
‘Look lively you damned scabs, you’ve a French hulk awaiting you if you don’t stop frigging about . . .’
‘Beg pardon, sir.’
Drinkwater bumped into a crouching seaman scattering sand on the deck. He abandoned a further study of the enemy and looked to the trim of the sails. Easton was at the con now, still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.
‘We’ll make up for Harwich as soon as we’re clear of the Shipwash sand, Mr Easton. Do you attend to the bearing of the alarm vessel.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
Daylight was increasing by the minute and Drinkwater looked astern again. He could see the long, low hulls, the oddly raked masts and the huge spread of canvas set by the luggers. He was by no means confident of the outcome, and both of the pursuing sea-wolves were coming up fast.
Drinkwater walked forward again. Rogers reported the ship cleared for action.
‘Very well. Mr Rogers, you are to command the two chasers in the cabin. We will do what damage we can before they close on us. They will likely take a quarter each and try to board.’ Rogers and Easton nodded.
‘Mr Easton, you have the con. From time to time I may desire you to ease away a little or to luff half a point to enable Mr Rogers to point better.’
‘Aye, sir, I understand.’
‘Mr Mason the larboard battery, Mr Q the starboard. Rapid fire as soon as you’ve loosed your first broadside. For that await the command. Mr Rogers you may fire at will.’
‘And the sooner the better.’
Drinkwater ignored Rogers’s interruption. ‘Is that clear gentlemen?’
There was a succession of ‘ayes’ and nods and nervous grins.
Drinkwater stood at the break of the low poop. The waisters were grouped amidships, the gun crews kneeling at their carronades. They all looked expectantly aft. They had had little practice at gunnery since leaving Chatham and Drinkwater was acutely conscious of their unpreparedness. He looked now at the experienced men to do their best.
‘My lads there are two French privateers coming up astern hand over fist. They’ve the heels of us. Give ’em as much iron as they can stomach before they close us. A Frog with a bellyful of iron can’t jump a ditch . . .’ He paused and was gratified by a dutiful ripple of nervous laughter at the poor jest. ‘But if they do board I want to see you busy with those pikes and cutlasses . . .’ He broke off and gave them what he thought was a confident, bloodthirsty grin. He was again relieved to see a few leers and hear the beginnings of a feeble cheer.
He nodded. ‘Do your duty, lads.’ He turned to the officers, ‘Take post gentlemen.’
It suddenly occurred to him that he was unarmed. ‘Tregembo, my sword and pistols from the cabin if you please.’
He looked aft and with a sudden shock saw the two luggers were very much closer. The nearer was making for Virago’s lee quarter, the larboard.
‘God’s bones,’ muttered Drinkwater to himself, trying to fend off a violent spasm of shivering that he did not want to be taken for fear.
‘Here zur,’ Tregembo held out the battered French hanger and Drinkwater unhooked the boat cloak from his throat and draped it over Tregembo’s outstretched arm. He buckled on the sword then took the pistols.
‘I’ve looked to the priming, zur, and put a new flint in that ‘un, zur.’
‘Thank you, Tregembo. And good luck.’
‘Aye, zur.’ The man hurred away with the cloak and reappeared on deck at the tiller almost at once.
A fountain of water sprung up alongside them, another rose ahead.
‘In range, sir’ said Easton beside him, ‘they’ll be good long nines, then.’
‘Yes,’ said Drinkwater shortly, aware that his tenure of command might be very short indeed, his investment in Virago a wasted one. An uncomfortable vision of the fortresses of Verdun and Bitche rose unbidden into his mind’s eye. He swore again softly, cursing his luck, his fever and the waiting.
Beneath his feet he felt a faint rumble as Rogers had the chaser crews run the 6-pounders through the stern ports. He thought briefly of the two portraits hanging on the forward bulkhead and then forgot all about them as the roar of Virago’s cannon rang in his ears.
He missed the fall of shot, and that of the second gun. At least Samuel Rogers would do his utmost, of that Drinkwater was certain.
At the fourth shot a hole appeared in the nearer lugger’s mizen. Beside Drinkwater Easton ground his right fist into the palm of his left hand with satisfaction.
‘Mind you attend to the con, Mr Easton,’ Drinkwater said and caught the crest-fallen look as Easton turned to swear at the helmsmen.
The nearer lugger was overhauling them rapidly, her relative bearing opening out broader on the quarter with perceptible speed. ‘Luff her a point Mr Easton!’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
Virago’s heel eased a little and Rogers’s two guns fired in quick succession.
Drinkwater watched intently. He fancied he saw a shower of splinters somewhere amidships on the Frenchman then Mason was alongside him.
‘Beg pardon sir, but I can get the aftermost larboard guns to bear on that fellow, sir.’ The enemy opened fire at that very moment and a buzz filled the air together with a whooshing noise as double shotted ball and canister scoured Virago’s deck. Drinkwater heard cries of agony and the bright gout of blood appeared as his eye sought out the damage to his ship.
‘Very well, Mr Mason . . .’ But Mason was gone, he lay on the deck silently kicking, his face contorted with pain.
‘You there! Get Mr Mason below. Pass word to Mr Q to open fire with both batteries. Independent fire . . .’
His last words were lost in a crack fro
m aloft and the roar of gunfire from the enemy. The mainyard had been shot through and was sprung, whipping like a broomstick.
‘Mains’l Mr Easton! And get the tops’l off her at once . . .’ Men were already starting the tacks and sheets. Matchett’s rattan rose and fell as he shoved the waisters towards the clew and buntlines, pouring out a rich and expressive stream of abuse. Even as the carronades opened fire Virago slowed and suddenly the leeward lugger was upon them.
Lining her rail a hedge of pikes and sword blades appeared.
‘Boarders!’ Drinkwater roared as the two vessels ground together. A grapnel struck the rail and Drinkwater drew his hanger and sliced the line attached to it.
He saw the men carrying Mason drop him half way down the poop ladder as they raced for cutlasses.
‘God’s bones!’ Drinkwater screamed with sudden fury as the Frenchmen poured over the rail. His hanger slashed left and right and he seemed to have half a dozen enemies in his front. He pulled out a pistol and shot one through the forehead, then he was only aware of the swish of blades hacking perilously close to his face and the bite and jar in his mangled arm muscles as steel met steel.
The breath rasped in his throat and the fever fogged him with the first red madness of bloodlust longer than was usual. The cool fighting clarity that came out of some chilling primeval past revived him at last. The long fearful wait for action was over and the realisation that he was unscathed in those first dreadful seconds left him with a detachment that seemed divorced from the grim realities of hand to hand fighting. He was filled with an extraordinary nervous energy that could only have owed its origins to his fevered state. He seemed wonderfully possessed of demonic powers, the sword blade sang in his hand and he felt an overwhelming and savagely furious joy in his butchery.
He was not aware of Tregembo and Easton rallying on him. He was oblivious to James Quilhampton a deck below still pouring shot after shot into the French lugger’s hull at point blank range with two 24-pounder carronades. Neither did he see Rogers emerge on deck with the starboard gun crews who had succeeded in dismasting the other lugger at a sufficient distance, nor that Quilhampton had so persistently hulled their closer adversary that her commander realised he had caught a Tartar and decided to withdraw.
The Bomb Vessel Page 7