“Hit her again!” Lewrie demanded, pounding a fist on the caprails. “Cut her bloody guts out! Skin the bastards!”
“By broadside … fire!”
“Steer North-Nor’west, Mister Westcott,” he ordered, his ears ringing despite the wax he’d crammed into them. “Fetch her up close!”
The Spanish captain must have realised that he could no longer fight an equal fight against those heavy 24-pounders and the “Smashers”, the heavy carronades. The frigate was suddenly swinging away to Due North with the range down to two hundred yards or less, appearing as if she’d put completely about, wearing to the opposite tack to flee for Almeria and the safety of its harbour and shore batteries.
“Put the wind fine on the larboard quarters, Mister Westcott!” Lewrie shouted. “Hands to the sheets and braces and ease her! If she keeps on turnin’, we might get a chance to rake her!”
Sapphire hauled her wind, sagging off the wind and plodding at her slow, sedate pace to follow the Spanish frigate, which was starting to wear, and show her stern!
“Make it count! Slow and steady … on the up-roll, as you bear … fire!”
No, it would not be a perfect right-angled rake, the sort that tore through the transom and stern windows and concentrated roundshot down the full length of an enemy’s decks like a blast from a fowling piece, over-turning guns and slaughtering sailors by the dozens.
Sapphire’s gunfire took the frigate on her larboard quarters, shattering the lighter wood of her quarter-galleries, grazing through the stern transom, shattering and tearing away glass and window sashes, destroying her taffrails and both night lanthorns, punching into her captain’s and her officers’ quarters, and dis-mounting or over-turning guns and carriages. The frigate’s mizen mast swayed to the impact of heavy shot that hit its thicker lower section below the quarterdeck. A section of the quarterdeck’s larboard bulwarks was turned into a cloud of arm-length splinters, scything away men of her After-Guard, helmsmen, and her officers. She ceased her turn and sagged to leeward, as if no longer under control, The spanker, boomed out over the quarterdeck, was shot full of holes, but her proud flag still flew from its after-most lift line, as did another from a signal halliard.
“Lay us alongside, Mister Westcott!” Lewrie shouted. “Ready a boarding party!”
“Sir! Sir!” Midshipman Fywell called from the poop deck. “The first frigate is back under way, and is coming up astern of us!”
Lewrie dashed up the ladderway to the poop deck for a look-see, and was astounded to see that the Spanish had managed to get her back into action, with jury-rigged jibs stretched from her foremast fighting top to her forecastle, jib boom, and her figurehead. She barely crawled, her gripe and cut-water parting the sea with hardly a ripple of a foam mustachio. She heeled to larboard a few degrees, even with the wind pressing her from the Sou’east. Her un-damaged starboard gun battery was run out, though.
“Still a mile off, and it’ll take her a quarter-hour ’til she comes up with us,” Lewrie decided aloud. “If her captain had any sense, he’d make off for repairs, or strike his colours.”
But, he won’t, Lewrie thought; He’s going to atone for Trafalgar and win some glory for the Spanish Navy, even if it kills him!
“’Vast the boarding party, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie called down to his quarterdeck. “That first frigate’s back in action, and is makin’ for us. Lay us abeam of this ’un,” he said, pointing to the nearest frigate, “and continue firing.”
He stayed on the poop deck to make some quick calculations and decisions. The nearest Spaniard was headed North by West, driven by the wind and most-likely with her steering tackle damaged or shot away and unable to change course ’til it was re-roved, which might take a few minutes. Sapphire was steering North-Nor’west with the wind fine on her larboard quarters, slowly separating from her unless she wore to take the wind fine on her starboard quarters, and sailing at about the same pace as the Spaniard, going no faster than the wind blew.
A mile or so off to the Sou’east, that first Spanish frigate was limping back into the fight, bound Nor’west as if she hoped to get onto Sapphire’s stern for at least one rake.
“By broadside … fire!”
The range to their opponent, though slowly opening, was about a hundred yards, and it was simply devastating. They were close enough to hear the frigate’s hull scream in parroty squawks as her scantlings were shot clean through. Her gun deck was so ravaged that it was impossible to count her original number of gun-ports. Her response, when it came, was a meagre six or seven guns before her damaged mizen mast gave way to another hit or two, and it slowly toppled forward, swivelling, wrenching up deck timbers and planking through which it pierced, crashing against her main mast and taking down sails, yards, and running rigging, and spilling sailors and naval infantry from the tops to the decks. Both of the flags were dragged down with it, and it was a long minute before Lewrie could see an officer digging through her smashed-open flag lockers for another. At the same time, another officer came up from below with a bed sheet, and the two men began to argue as to which should be displayed! They tugged each others’ flags, swung fists, and one of them pulled a pistol on his fellow!
“Speaking-trumpet, Mister Westcott!” Lewrie demanded, and one of the Mids stationed on the quarterdeck ran it up to him.
“Hey!” Lewrie shouted across. “Hola! Make up your bloody minds what you’re going t’do! Strike, or fight? Uh, rendición, or … combato?” he yelled, not knowing if those were even Spanish words. “What is ‘broadside’ in Spanish? Anybody?” he called down his officers.
“Try andanada, sir,” Captain Pomfret offered, looking as if he found amusement in Lewrie’s flummoxing in a foreign language.
“Andanada, muchos andanada, comprend?” Lewrie shouted over to the Spanish frigate, wondering if “comprend” was French. He pointed at the side of his ship and the two re-loaded and run-out gun batteries.
The two Spaniards had themselves a short palaver, then the one with the large national flag went to the stern and draped it over the shattered stern. The one with the bed sheet gave his to a sailor who went up the mainmast shrouds to the ravaged fighting top to bind it to the after-most stay.
“We … yield to you, señor!” a young Aspirante, the Spanish equivalent of a Midshipman, shouted back. “We strike!”
“Now, you can form a boarding party, Mister Westcott, and take possession of her,” Lewrie said, whooping in triumph. He looked aft to see how close the other Spanish frigate was, and caught sight of her as she began a slow turn alee. She was breaking off, now that her consort had surrendered. Whatever her captain had intended in bringing his ship back into action despite her parlous condition, it was evident that he’d seen the light, and recognised the futility of the gesture. She continued turning, performing a sloppy wear cross the eye of the wind, and began to limp Nor’east, possibly for Almeria.
“Should we go after her, too, sir?” Westcott asked from the foot of the starboard poop deck ladderway.
“Wish we could, but…” Lewrie said with a grimace. “Better we deal with the bird in hand. Fetch-to, sir, and fetch up the boats from astern. Somebody who knows the language tell our Spaniards to fetch-to, as well.”
Captain Pomfret shouted that over to the frigate, then frowned over the reply. “They say their steering’s gone, Captain Lewrie, and are unable. They…” He paused to listen to further shouts. “They say they will take in all sail, but they will need assistance to set things back in order.”
“Very well,” Lewrie said with a weary sigh, “I’ll have the Carpenter and his crew, the Bosun and his Mate, the Sailmaker and his Mate, and a working-party of topmen, with some strong-backed Landsmen, board her, along with two files of Marines.”
“Aye, sir,” Westcott said, “I’ll see it organised, directly.”
“Best include Mister Snelling and his Surgeon’s Mates, too, if they can be spared from tending our own wounded,” Lewrie added. “How many of ours ar
e down?”
“Ehm, seven dead and nineteen wounded, sir,” Westcott grimly toted up. “Amazing, really.”
Lewrie leaned far out over the poop deck bulwarks to survey the engaged side of his ship, noting the shot holes, the places where enemy roundshot had lodged when they failed to penetrate, and the dents in the stout oak scantlings where balls had struck but bounced off. The order for Secure From Quarters had been piped, and the muzzles of the guns were jerking back in-board, and those ports that had survived were being lowered. He was amazed, and grateful, that all those hits that should have filled his gun decks with swarms of splinters had not scythed down dozens more of his men!
“Put Mister Harcourt and Mister Elmes to our own repairs, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie ordered, then shambled loose-hipped down the ladderway to the quarterdeck, strongly desiring a sit-down, perhaps even a lie-down, and a pint of small-beer. His throat was parched and raspy from shouting orders, his leg, which he had thought completely healed, was faintly aching, and he was suddenly bone-weary and drooping in the lassitude which always seemed to overtake him after a long, hard fight. His head was nodding, and it was hard for him to keep his eyes open.
“A splendid victory, if I may say so, Captain Lewrie,” Pomfret congratulated. “Not that I know much of naval battles. Even taking a spectator’s part in one still leaves me full of questions.”
“Splendid?” Lewrie responded, shrugging. “I’ll have t’take your word for that, Captain Pomfret.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Lewrie had ordered his collapsible wood-and-canvas deck chair fetched up to the poop deck, and had taken himself a long, restoring nap, oblivious for the better part of an hour to the thuds, bangs, and screechings of saws as Sapphire’s damage was seen to sufficient for a safe return to Gibraltar. He was wakened by a wet nose, then a wet tongue, and some wee, tentative “wakey-wakey” woofs from Bisquit, who had gotten over his terror of loud gunfire and was seeking comfort and attention to acknowledge him, and give him pets.
He cossetted the dog for a few minutes, then got to his feet, a bit stiff and sore, but well-rested, had several dips of water from the nearest scuttle-butt, and returned to duty.
“Mister Snelling and the Spanish Surgeon and their Mates have had their hands full, sir,” Lt. Westcott reported, shuffling through a sheaf of notes he’d made. “There were nigh three hundred men in San Pedro’s crew, and we’ve found nearly ninety of them dead, with over an hundred men wounded.” That drew an amazed whistle from Lewrie. “Her captain and two of her other officers are among the slain. Half her larboard guns are dis-mounted, carriages shattered, and one burst. That explains the flash and smoke we saw, sir. We’ve rigged a spare spanker to the stump of her mizen, and cut away and jettisoned everything that got shot off … they had plenty of spare spars, so we can get tops’ls up, and we can replace her fore course and main course. All in all, she can be got under way by dusk. Her jib boom’s dicey-looking, but it’ll take a foresail or two, for balance on the helm, which we’ve re-roved, so she’ll steer … after a fashion.”
“Want her, Geoffrey?” Lewrie asked. “If only for a time?”
“They don’t award Fifth Rates to Lieutenants, or Commanders,” Westcott laughed off. “Better you assign Harcourt the chore, again. If the Gibraltar dockyards can set her right, and she’s off for home, let him take the chance of re-assignment.”
“But, if Admiralty makes him a Commander, not you … sooner or later, you must be promoted,” Lewrie protested. “You’ve more than earned it.”
“Still trying to get rid of me?” Westcott scoffed. “That hurts!”
“You’d rather stay and be amused by my foolishness?” Lewrie asked with a brow up.
“Oh, something like that,” Westcott replied, with a grin and a shrug. “By the by, the other frigate is the San Pablo, and they were sister ships, and have always worked together since they were put in commission two years ago, sir. Saints Peter and Paul? She’s still in sight, off to the Nor’east, about six or seven miles away, barely making steerage way.”
“Hmm, let’s go after her, and make it a clean sweep,” Lewrie decided of a sudden. “God knows we could use the prize money, whenever that comes due. Our prisoners aboard the San Pedro are well in hand?”
“All Spanish arms, even personal knives, are secured, and the spirits stores are well-guarded,” Westcott told him. “Those still on their feet we’ve herded round the mainmast, now the heavy work’s done, so I should assume so. We’ve three files of Marines aboard her, to boot, under Lieutenant Roe.”
“We’ll gamble, then, and go after the other,” Lewrie ordered. “Get us under way to the Nor’east, Mister Westcott.”
“Aye aye, sir!” was the eager, hungry reply.
* * *
HMS Sapphire had hardly begun to sail after the San Pablo when urgent cries came from the lookouts aloft. “Th’ Chase is rollin’ on her beam ends! Deck, there! Th’ Chase looks t’be sinkin’!”
“Clap on sail, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie snapped.
Lewrie went up to the poop deck and raised his telescope. It was a much better vantage point than his old practice of scaling the mainmast shrouds almost to the cat-harpings, and even suited his lazy nature!
“Damme, she’s goin’!” he muttered.
The frigate’s masts were canted far over to larboard, and she looked very low in the water, with the sea breaking mildly just under her line of gun-ports though he could see the coppering tacked to her stern, as if she was also down by the head with her stern cocked up. Looking closer, he could make out weak streams of water gushing from her, as if her sailors were flailing away madly at her pumps, but it seemed a losing fight.
“Cast of the log!” he demanded.
“Seven and a half knots, sir!” Midshipman Griffin shouted back after a long minute to let the log-line run and be pinched after the sand ran out of a minute glass.
We’ll be too late, Lewrie thought; Those poor buggers.
Time out of mind, since Tudor days, England and Spain had detested each other, and it was natural to loathe the Dons. When engaged at war with them, in the heat of battle at close broadsides or teeth-to-teeth with crossed blades, killing them any way possible without a thought and exulting in their slaughter bothered good Englishmen no more than piling up dead rabbits, or a terrier’s kills in a rat pit.
Helpless sailors of any nation, though … men who risked the sea and its perils, and who were suffering a fate that could befall any British sailor, if his luck ran out, that was another matter.
It would take Sapphire the better part of an hour to reach the stricken frigate, and she would slip beneath the waves long before, no matter what frantic efforts the Spanish could do to prolong the inevitable.
Six miles off, and Lewrie could see what was left of her upperworks falling free over her larboard side as her sailors chopped, cut, and axed away everything standing above her fighting tops to ease the weight that was dragging her over. For a short, hopeful moment, she did come a bit more upright, but those shot holes that had been blown into her a little below the waterline continued to flood her innards.
Four miles off, and quarterdeck and forecastle guns were cast overside, but that made little difference. The San Pablo had borne her ship’s boats on the boat-tier beams that spanned the waist, and they had been turned to scrap wood, but they were freed and shoved by human force to the larboard side, where great sections of the bulwarks that remained were hacked down, and the boats put over, though not a one of them floated.
Three miles off, and Lewrie could see the tangle of ropes that bound spare sails that had been fothered over the shot holes, and the fothering patches seeming to breathe as air compressed in her orlop and bilges pressed out, and the sea dimpled them inward.
Two miles off, and the San Pablo’s bows were submerged up to the forecastle, and she suddenly roiled onto her larboard side and began to go down in a foaming welter of great air bubbles and flying spray shot out of her hull.
Her masts slid under, ’til only the mizen stood above the sea, and a hint of her taffrails and her captain’s cabin windows, the red-gold-red flag of Spain still flying, and then even that was gone in a boiling froth of foam as she gave up her last exhale and headed for the bottom.
“Fetch-to, close as you can, Mister Westcott, and man all the boats,” Lewrie ordered, chiding himself for not going after her sooner. Even with aid so close, the long minutes required to bring up to the winds and bring the boats up from astern, then man them and get them off, was too long for many of the Spanish sailors. Some survivors clung to broken yards or the shattered ship’s boats, some hung on to floating hatch gratings, and some of the frigate’s walking wounded lay atop them. But Lewrie could see many bodies floating face-down and drowned, and what had become of her badly wounded who could not be moved from her belowdecks surgery did not bear thinking about. Many men who’d managed to escape her had gotten entangled in the confused masses of standing and running rigging and had drowned, unable to claw their way to the surface, and … it appeared that it was not only the majority of British sailors that could not swim, but it was the same case with the Spanish. Spanish sailors were thrashing in panic, flailing the water and slipping under even as he watched!
All he could do was pace the poop deck, head down so he didn’t have to watch any longer, with his hands clasped in the small of his back, trying to shut out the terrified shouts, screams, and prayers and play stern and stoic, and wait for the final report.
“Ah, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie said at last as his First Officer came to the poop deck after the last boat had been recovered. “What’s the count?”
“We only managed to save fifty-nine of them, sir,” Westcott said, lifting his hat in formal salute. “None of her officers or her Mids. Her captain … he was determined to go down with his ship, and those in command who’d survived the fight swore they’d do the same. Damned if they didn’t gather in his cabins for a last drink before she went. I’ve never heard the like!”
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