Midshipman Graham and the Battle of Abukir

by James Boschert

  Finally Danush said in a very low voice. “A woman, you say, Sir? I can only say how sorry I am that a woman from my respectable establishment could have done such a thing.”

  Le Guennet was uncomfortable. He was embarrassed and doubted he would have come at all, other than he had wanted to see the belly dancer. A crash from the kitchens and raised voices as the servants protested the intrusion from the rough police caused them both to turn their heads in that direction.

  “Stop that, back there!” Le Guennet bellowed. “No breaking things.” He turned back to Danush and said, “It is my turn to apologize, Monsieur. Some of my men are a little enthusiastic a times.”

  “I quite understand, Sir. Was there any identification offered by the victim?”

  “We are looking for a blonde woman who might be able to help us with our enquiries.”

  “A blonde woman? I fear your search will be in vain, Chief of Police. I have no blonde girls here. I wish I did, it would be good for business, but alas I do not! This is very embarrassing for everyone I am sure,” he offered. His tone was nothing if not solicitous.

  “Perhaps you would like to come upstairs and we can discuss this further? I do believe that the girls are upstairs at this time, and the beautiful Fatima will be there. Perhaps they can shed some light on the subject?”

  Le Guennet needed no further persuasion. The chance to see, even to speak to the vision he had seen on the stage was very enticing. His resolve to investigate this ‘blonde woman’ seeped away as they mounted the stairs.

  Danush ushered him into a room filled with young women in various states of undress, amongst whom was the ravishing Fatima. He had eyes for no one else, but Le Guennet decided to at least check to see if there was a blonde woman among the other girls.

  There was not a sign of a blonde anywhere, so he resigned himself to the fact that the officer had been too drunk to know what had happened and that it was time to leave.

  Danush bowed slightly. “Perhaps, oh Chief of Police, you might wish to avail yourself of the services of ...”

  He didn’t get any further. The building shook slightly as they all heard the sound of the guns coming from the direction of the harbor.

  Le Guennet shook his head with frustration, but duty was duty. He ground out, “Another time, perhaps. I bid you good night.” Then he rushed down the stairs to collect his men and head for the harbor to confront this far more pressing irritation. The Goddams were becoming a serious pain in the rear.

  Behind him, Danush took a deep quiet breath and nodded to the girls. “It seems that the British have a fine sense of timing,” he commented.

  *****

  “There’s nothing for it now, lads,” Williams called back to the huddled men. “See that ketch over there? We have to take her and get her out of here or we are all dead.” He began to run hard towards the gang plank of the boat in question.

  Out in the harbor the battle had become more lively. The English ship of war had driven past the batteries, which were still being pounded from out to sea by the bomb ships HMS Bulldog and the HMS Perseus, with HMS Tigre providing supporting fire. While they were preoccupying the batteries, boats from the Tigre and the Theseus were being rowed stealthily in among the cluster of shipping.

  Lt Bowles was charged with setting fire to as many ships as possible and creating a further distraction that would allow the Theseus to get close enough to attack one of the French men-of-war. Theseus was to cause enough damage to disable the ship permanently if possible, or at least cause extensive and costly damage.

  The boats succeeded in getting amongst the merchant ships, and men swarmed aboard one of the larger vessels carrying flammable items to enable a good fire. The crews of the merchantmen were for the most part ashore, having left only a couple of watchmen on each ship, who now abandoned their vessels with alacrity. They splashed into the water yelling the alarm, but it was too late.

  “Get the fires going, men. We need to make sure it’s big enough to distract the war ships from the Theseus.” Lt Bowles called out.

  The men went to work, pouring liquid tar everywhere and tossing flammable cotton waste steeped in turpentine into all the corners, and before long a fire started in the hold. To their delight they found barrels of tar, cases of liquor, and cotton bales aplenty to assist with a good burn.

  As soon as the fire was well started on one merchantman, Lt Bowles and his second officer Midshipman Standforth led the men back down into the longboat and made towards another cluster of ships. By now, however, the alarm had been raised that there were English in the harbor, and before the crewmen could board they came under fire.

  The shooting was sporadic but accurate enough to cause injuries and one death in Tigre’s other longboat. The calls of distress from the commander of that boat, Lt Merryweather, alerted Bowles to their peril. They were by now in between two large ships, and had been spotted by the ships’ lookouts. Voices were raised in cries of alarm and orders given, followed by the ominous sound of guns being run out.

  “Row, men!” Standforth yelled to the crew. “Row for your very lives!” His words were almost lost as one of the cannon was run out from the ship on their port side and fired almost immediately. The flash blinded the men and the noise deafened them, but to their astonishment the ball howled overhead and smashed into the side of the merchantman on the other side of the racing longboat.

  “Kerist!” muttered one of the crew, and pulled even harder.

  “Must have been too excited to aim, or inexperienced,” Lt Bowles muttered as they skimmed out of reach of the ship’s guns. However, they were not out of trouble yet.

  HMS Theseus was now close enough to the smaller of the French war ships, La Muiron, and loosed off a broadside at almost point-blank range. The French ship was unprepared for the assault, with most of the crew on shore leave, and the reply was sporadic.

  “They are lacking a full crew!” Standforth cried exultantly. “Pound them, Theseus!” he squeaked, as his voice broke. Meanwhile, the longboat and the following two boats found themselves heading to a place where they would be in a cross fire. Take us behind the Theseus!” Lt Bowles shouted to Bosun’s Mate Chauncey, who promptly hauled the tiller over just as a shot splashed into the water nearby, drenching everyone with the column of water it tossed high into the air. Where the shot had come from nobody knew, but it would be suicide to row between the two battle ships which were now trying to destroy one another.

  The noise of the guns and the hollow banging sound of shot hammering into the sides of the ships was deafening, but on the other side of the Theseus it was both darker and more calm. For a moment Lt Bowles thought of asking for a lift but then his eye was caught by some other activity on shore.

  By now the longboat was a few hundred yards from the entrance to the harbor where the bomb ketches were still busy. Flashes accompanied by booms and flaming debris were flung high into the night air as bombs landed in and around the forts.

  Standforth cocked his head; he could have sworn he heard a voice he knew. He become aware of activity on the pier. “Look, Sir! Over there! Seems to be a fight going on. By that small vessel.” He pointed.

  The could hear musket fire from the pier and saw figures running towards a ketch. Is that a woman I see running along the pier?“ Lt Bowles asked looking puzzled. But then some soldiers turned their attention towards the boat and bullets splashed into the water nearby.

  “Bugger! Pull away! Nothing to do with us! Their boat veered away from the new danger. Lt Bowles peered at the darkened pier, now more than sixty paces away. Row, boys, or we’ll be trapped.” His voice was almost drowned out by yet another broadside from the Theseus which was turning about, using its furiously rowing boats and an anchor to bring its bows round towards the harbor entrance.

  “Looks like we created a goodly burn over there, Sorr,” Chauncey remarked with satisfaction as he stared at the raging fire consuming the merchantmen. Then he focused on getting the boat to the entrance of the
harbor and out to the relative safety of the open sea. They could be destroyed any moment by just one ball from the forts if they were noticed. Thankfully the bomb ketches were keeping the forts busy and distracted. The flares and rockets lit up the sky in a display of pyrotechnics that would have otherwise been a spectacle to admire. Hopefully a couple of small boats would attract no attention.

  “I could swear I heard Graham’s voice earlier, and just now I am just as sure I saw a woman leading that pack of men!” Standforth muttered out loud as he continued to stare back over his shoulder at the turmoil within the boundaries of the harbor. He shook his young head. “Too many bangs for one night,” he reflected. “Wonder what on earth was going on?”

  *****

  Duncan, still clad as a woman, had overtaken and passed Williams, who had tripped on a rope lying across the pier and had tumbled to the ground. The released sailors swept Williams up and chased after the manic-looking creature in the flapping skirts who now led them in a wild screaming charge up to the ketch, along the gangplank and onto the deck of the small ship.

  Duncan jumped down onto the deck just in time to surprise a crewman emerging from below carrying a short sword. The shock of seeing this wild female apparition, screaming like a banshee as it landed on his deck brandishing a sword and a pistol, was a horror he was unprepared for.

  “Ah, Mon Dieu! Merde, une couchemar!” he exclaimed, but his hesitation cost him his life. Duncan did not hesitate. His shout of, “Bollocks!” was drowned out by the loud bang of his pistol. His victim fell back down the hatchway without a another sound.

  By this time the rest of the men had pounded onto the deck and were rummaging about looking for weapons, anything to use on the crew of the ketch if they were brave enough to fight. Belaying pins and pikes were ready to hand and the men snatched them up.

  “‘Cast off from those bitts! Dump the gangplank and cut the ropes if you have to,” Duncan shouted, automatically taking charge.

  “Aye aye, Sorr,” Master Hotchkins responded, bellowed an order that the men nearest him ran to comply.

  “Hurry, I can see soldiers along the quay and they’re coming this way,” Williams called, as he tentatively opened the doorway that led down below. He leapt away as a ball smashed into the side of the doorframe, followed by some swearing in French.

  “Bastards want a fight it seems,” he said, as he sidled back towards the doorway. “You take care of the sailing, Graham. I’ll keep their heads down.” He fired his pistol into the darkness below him.

  Duncan was frantically trying to reload his pistol, acutely aware that they were very limited with regard to weaponry.

  Master Hotchkins was also aware of the danger. “You two men,” he called to the sailors with the muskets, “get into the afterdeck and keep the Froggy heads down when they come within range. Don’t waste your ammunition or you’ll answer to me!”

  He turned to Duncan who had finished his re-loading and said, “Orders, Sir?” The expression on his face was wooden.

  Duncan took note of the wind and said, “Sails up, quick as you can, all of them, including the jibs. We have an offshore wind but not for long. There’s a storm coming in from the southwest.”

  Within minutes the main sail and the huge lugsail on the aftermast were being hauled up the masts. The sails flapped, caught the wind and bellied, and at last they were in motion. Some sailors had found long poles lying on deck and used these to push the vessel away from the pier. It seemed to Graham as though everything on board was going in slow motion, while the soldiers who were running towards them were moving far too fast. He had no appetite for a clash with those long bayonets, but the green-clad soldiers would shortly be swarming over the side of the boat if he couldn’t delay them.

  He stood on the afterdeck, hanging onto the huge tiller bar, with Hotchkins standing nearby. The two men with the muskets were crouched at the stern board with their guns cradled firmly sighting at the French.

  Gauging the distance and the risk of allowing the enemy to get any closer he made a decision. “Fire now,” he ordered.

  There was a short pause as the men aimed, then the muskets were fired within seconds of each other. The balls ploughed into the ranks of the soldiers, who scattered for cover, leaving one of their number lying on the stones.

  Duncan sighed with relief. It had arrested their headlong charge. “Good shooting, men. Reload as fast as you can and give them another. Goddam, I wish we had access to the powder for those two pop guns,” he muttered, as he looked at the two small cannons on either side of the ship. By this time the soldiers had recovered. There were shouted commands and they fired a volley at the ship. Bullets zipped overhead, punching holes in the recently hoisted sail, while several smashed into the transom, sending splinters to hum through the air. Hotchkins gasped, staggered sideways and then fell on one knee to the deck clutching his arm.

  “Hit, Sorr,” he groaned.

  Duncan shouted to one of the men who were working the sails. “Get over here and help Hotchkins, he’s hit. Hang on. We’ll get you taken care of,” he reassured the fallen man although he had no idea as to how to help him.

  Hotchkins nodded his head, wincing at he pain. He was bleeding heavily. A sailor ran up and immediately set about binding off the arm. “Don’t fret, Hotchy. I’ve got yer,” he said. “‘e'll be awl right, Sorr.”

  More balls hummed by, snapping through the sails or thudding into the hull. The two musketeers fired and frantically reloaded, trying to keep the enemy at bay. Duncan looked about desperately, but there was nothing they could do to speed the ship’s passage. He wished the wind would pick up. The light breeze coming offshore was driving them steadily towards the entrance. It was slow going, but at least the small vessel was well clear of the pier.

  He noticed something else. The hatch near to where Hotchkins and the sailor were situated opened a crack. A face appeared that peered fearfully out at them. Duncan shouted a warning and then in French, “Rendez-vous. Surrender or I will shoot.”

  The man regarded him with wide eyes. “Please. Do not shoot,” he called back.

  “Come on out, all of you, now!” Duncan shouted, pointing his pistol at the fearful sailor. He ducked as a stray ball whipped close overhead. “Bugger that,” he muttered, “We should be out of range by now!”

  The man lifted the hatch and climbed out, followed by another.

  “Only two of you?” Duncan demanded.

  “Oui. There are only two of us. Some swine shot our comrade and everyone else is ashore.”

  “Ye’d better not be lyin’,” Duncan snapped in English, as he covered the two apprehensive-looking men with his pistol.

  All three ducked as another round slammed into the mast nearby. “Those infantry men have a rifled musket. I hope they kill this crazy woman,” one of the men muttered to his companion.

  “They’ll kill us too if we don’t take cover!” the other told him. “Are you really a woman?” he demanded of Duncan. “If so you are very ugly.”

  “No! I’m an officer in the British Navy!” he snapped back.

  The two men snickered with disbelief. “So the British dress up like the women to go to battle these days? Ooer, I am so terrified!” the bolder one said. He sported a massive mustache and sneered, quavering his hands with imaginary fear. “If you came for me you would trip over your skirts and I would pique you in the titties!” he laughed at his own wit.

  “Ye fockin’ will be terrified if I have to let go of this bar to deal with ye. I’ll cut yer damned balls off!” Duncan snarled. His Scottish accent always became thicker when annoyed. They of course could not understand him, but the tone of his voice and the ferocious glare silenced them.

  “You two just shut up!” Duncan growled at them in French. He brandished the pistol while clinging to the tiller with his left hand.

  “Keep your heads down, men, we are almost out of range,” he called to the sailors, who needed no persuasion.

  Williams hurried over igno
ring the flying balls. “So they’ve surrendered, have they?” He nodded with satisfaction at the two prisoners.

  “Just you two men?” he demanded aggressively in French. “Put your hands in the air where I can see them.”

  They held their hands high in the air with a look of wooden resignation on their faces. To their surprise Williams pointed overboard. “I hope you can swim. Go!” he said sharply.

  With surprised and wary backward glances the two men took him at his word and clambered over the side to drop into the water and began to paddle towards the pier, which was now about a hundred paces away.

  The spy slapped his hands together as though washing them. “That’s one less problem to worry about,” he stated.

  The two swimmers were dragged out of the stinking harbor water by the Infantrie soldiers on the pier.

  “Who are those men? Are they the English?” Sergeant Émile asked the two bedraggled crewmen when they were safely sitting in a puddle of water on the edge of the pier, looking out at the departing ketch.

  “All my possessions! Those bastards took everything I own!” exclaimed one of the men, wringing his hands.

  “I asked you a question!” Émile snapped.

  “Yes, they are the fucking Goddams.” the other man sighed, running his fingers through his sodden hair.

  “One of them a woman?” Émile demanded.

  “No, yes. Er, no, she… he is an officer in the British navy,” they told him. “At least, that is what he told us.”

  The men around the two crewmen gaped. “So now they dress up as women to fight? I have never been so insulted!” Phillip exclaimed, pretending to be mortally offended, and joined in the laughter.

  Émile slapped his thigh with the flat of his hand. “I thought so!” he turned to his men. “I told you, didn’t I? You all thought I was soft in the head! I never forget a face. That damned boy we saw on the beach was disguised, but it takes more than a disguise like that to fool Émile, eh?” He sounded delighted with himself.