An Awkward Commission

by David Donachie

  ‘And if they succeed?’

  The words that came out then were more bitter than the bile which had earlier half-filled his throat. ‘If the case is hopeless, I must strike our colours to prevent the useless loss of life.’

  With that he raised her hand and kissed it, before making his way back on deck. In doing so, he passed the huge bulk of Devenow, his face blackened from powder smoke. Just beyond him, he had a sudden thought, and turned to face him.

  ‘I have a special task for you, Devenow. My wife is in the cockpit aiding the surgeon.’

  ‘Then God bless her, your honour,’ Devenow replied, knuckling his narrow forehead.

  ‘We are about to take on odds of two to one and it is very likely that the enemy might try to board. If they do, and you can carry out this task, I want you to make your way to the cockpit and ensure that she is in no way molested. Will you do that?’

  If the deckbeams had allowed it, Devenow would have raised himself an inch above his real height. ‘I will, sir, even if I’d rather be at your shoulder.’

  ‘You will be rendering me a better service in this, Devenow.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  What Ralph Barclay had feared was coming to pass. Poulette would do everything to stay across his bows to keep him engaged while the Lutine, with him fully engaged, closed for the kill. He had one hope; that having withstood the broadsides on his approach to the enemy blocking his escape, he could put up his helm and deliver such a devastating rate of fire that he could blast him out of his way. That possibility depended on what damage he suffered before he could get into a range to make a his superior gunnery really tell.

  ‘Enemy shortening sail, your honour.’

  He would have to do the same soon, and it was not just a fear of fire that prompted the need to go down to topsails. His forecourse, maincourse and the inner and outer jibs would present a juicy target to his enemy, and if they were riddled with holes, which they surely would be if he left them set too long, they would be next to useless in a stern chase and he would be gifted no time to bend on replacements.

  ‘We will let him try the range before we do likewise.’

  It was as if the Poulette’s commander heard him, for the side of his ship erupted, billowing smoke, and from that, arcing high in the sky, everyone of Brilliant’s deck could watch the black balls as they sped towards their ship. It was a shot at long range, but the man knew he had the wind to aid him, knew that even if Ralph Barclay wanted to reply with his bow chasers, that same wind would reduce the range of his cannon. The sea in front of the prow boiled as one by one the balls dropped, great spouts of water coming up to be swept over the forecastle, soaking the gun crews crouched below the bulwarks.

  Glaister marked the slate and over a minute passed before the next salvo, which told the captain of the Brilliant nothing about the enemy rate of fire; with time to spare, and the range to close, his opposite number had no need to rush in reloading. Again the side of the French ship erupted, but this time all the shot did not fall into the sea. Elevation had been adjusted, the range had closed, and several balls hit the bows, which sent a shudder through the ship, to go with the noise of cracking wood as some of the flimsier parts of the timbers were rent asunder. There was a clang as the last to arrive struck the cathead and ricocheted into the anchor.

  ‘Everyone off the deck with no need to be present.’

  That order was slow to be obeyed, no one wanting to be seen as cowardly enough to rush, until Ralph Barclay repeated it as a snarl, leaving himself, his premier, the master, Mr Collins, the quartermaster and the two men on the wheel looking straight at what could well be perdition.

  ‘Mr Collins, time the enemy shot, Mr Glaister, try the larboard bow chaser.’

  That order was given, and the gun spoke, but the ball fell a good hundred yards short, which by Ralph Barclay’s calculations meant they would have to face at least three more salvoes before they could even hope to reply, and that with little, if any effect. They came, aimed not at the bows now, but high at the rigging, trying to knock out his topsails and render the ship useless. Turning, Ralph Barclay looked at Lutine coming up, not quite hand over fist, for the wind did not truly favour her, but fast enough to show that escape would be nothing short of a miracle. Yet he had to believe that a miracle was possible. The enemy before him was succouring that hope by firing high at a hard-to-hit target, the masts, no more than six feet across at the widest point, where they went through the deck. The Frenchman was damaging the sails, but what Ralph Barclay had feared most was that the deck would be the target, which would have been likely to dismount his cannon, taking away what little hope he had of demolishing the Frenchman’s own batteries.

  Salvo after salvo whistled through the upper works, round and chain shot, holing the sails, parting ropes and sending blocks falling into the overhead nettings rigged to catch them, with Ralph Barclay well aware that he would have to order the topmen aloft soon, sending them into what could be maelstrom of shot if Poulette chose to fire a salvo of grape. He had no choice; he must get his courses up before they suffered any more, and following on that, he would need the rest of the crew on deck to man the falls and bring the ship round broadside on. The other problem was simple; having done that he would have little way on the ship, and that would allow Lutine to close much more quickly.

  ‘Mr Collins, get the topmen ready at the head of the companionway. They are to go aloft as soon as the next salvo passes over, and tell them to be sharp, man. I do not want them up there for a second longer than is required.’

  ‘How do we fare, sir?’ asked Glaister

  He was looking at the deck of Lutine, now close enough to see the figures by the wheel. Once she got within range she would swing round and Brilliant would be at the mercy of two broadsides and only able to reply to one.

  The man was looking for reassurance, hoping that his commander had some notion of how to get out of this, but Ralph Barclay had no intention of lying to him. He had erred in his appreciation and actions, leaving the outcome in little doubt, for the French had outwitted him by setting Poulette well to the west, probably anchored behind the islands of Embiez in the next deep bay between Toulon and Marseilles, instead of just shielding the naval base. There would be no need for signals or lookouts; the booming sound of his cannon, as he trifled with Lutine, would do to alert her consort.

  ‘I fear we are in the steep tub, sir. I think, Mr Glaister, you may have cause to regret not learning more French.’

  ‘We will fight, sir?’

  ‘Most certainly. The Royal Navy does not haul down its colours without the enemy knowing they have been in a contest. Now please go to the main battery and inform Mr Bourne of what is happening, and what we need, which is the very best efforts of his gun crews.’

  ‘Another discharge due, sir,’ said Collins, his voice low and hoarse.

  The anticipated salvo screamed over their heads, one taking the top foremast yard full on and splitting it like a match ten feet from the end of the sail, only the chains holding it in place. That was followed by the yelling topmen, no doubt shouting to give themselves courage as they went aloft with the devil at their heels, up the bouncing shrouds, then stretching along the yard to haul up the main and forecourse. It was not done tidy, it did not need to be, it just had to be got out of the way. They took two salvoes while they were about their task, with one man losing his footrope to fall screaming to the deck, two others being blasted sideways to end up over the side.

  ‘Get that fellow off the deck. All hands to man the falls, then the guns, and get a couple of hatch covers over the side to those men in the water.’

  That was a forlorn hope, few sailors could swim, while the chance of landing something to keep them afloat, close enough to save them, was slim, and that was without knowing if they were wounded. Yet it was better to do what he had asked just to reassure those still on deck.

  ‘Quartermaster,’ Ralph Barclay shouted, over the sound of yet another salvo, and
as soon as the yards were freed. Slowly HMS Brilliant swung round, and while that was happening the already loaded guns were being loosed off, the gunports opened and the muzzles run out. ‘Steady lads, I want a broadside and damn the timbers. You are all to fire as one on my command.’

  It was an agony, waiting for HMS Brilliant to come round, the bowsprit swinging so slowly that Ralph Barclay feared it would never get there. He had his arm raised, this while every gun captain waited, standing well back from his piece with a long lanyard to the flintlock. He waited until the deck was level on the swell, but dropping, for what he was about to do would lift the whole ship slightly. His arm dropped and the side of the ship erupted, sending a shock wave through the timbers that the captain suspected would mightily strain the frame. It was worth the risk for the result was gratifying, as half the side of the Poulette, towards the stern, disintegrated. Over the water came the sound of clanging metal, that of guns dismounted and the screams that followed as the dislodged splinters did their work. Not that the men who had caused this mayhem paid any attention, they were too busy reloading, and in just over half a minute the first of Barclay’s cannon began to fire once more into the smoke of their own guns, a black cloud which was billowing over them.

  That was the point at which Lutine joined the contest, not yet with her full armament, but enough of her forward cannon to do damage, and this time they were aimed at deck level. Now it was the turn of HMS Brilliant to suffer from smashed bulwarks, that while the higher shot screamed across the deck at body height, cutting a pair of hands in half as it blasted apart the fire engine. Poulette was still firing, but not with the same venom, and once the smoke had cleared Ralph Barclay could see that the enemy quarterdeck was empty, with the wheel smashed, and not only the bulwark on their beam gone, but that on the other side as well.

  ‘They cannot manoeuvre,’ he shouted, pointing to the absence of a wheel. ‘Mr Collins get some damned way on this ship.’ Then to his premier. ‘We must get broadside on to Lutine as well, otherwise she will destroy us.’

  The proof of that statement came with the next salvo from that quarter, which did to Brilliant something similar to that which she had done to the Poulette, though it was the forecastle which was swept and not the quarterdeck. Two cannon forward were dismounted, their crews pulped either by the shot or their own weapon, one of which had been blasted on to its side, while the other was hanging on to its lashing by a single rope.

  ‘Secure those cannon, get those wounded men below. Gunners below, reload and fire as you bear.’

  Now it was Lutine on the receiving end once more, but that left Brilliant bows on again to what was left of Poulette’s main battery. There was no coordination, but the two French vessels were firing at intervals that meant the British deck was repeatedly swept, half the time by grapeshot. The trio of ships were now so close that musket fire was pouring in, not aimed, for that was impossible on a swell, but just as deadly if the man firing got lucky.

  It was one of those that did for Ralph Barclay, a small ball of lead that seared across his brow, hitting enough bone to stun him. He dropped to his knees as Glaister rushed to him, the voice asking about his state like an echo in a distant chamber, as were the words to get the captain below. Two sailors, one of them Devenow, carried him to a now full cockpit, where Lutyens and his wife were working flat out to stem the flow of blood from wounds, or to stifle the cries of badly wounded men with doses of laudanum and rum. Already the tub by the surgeon’s table had in it cut-off limbs.

  Devenow called that the captain needed attention, and he ignored the head-shake from Lutyens, busy sawing off a man’s leg. The bully sat Ralph Barclay on the edge of the operating table and insisted that he be attended to, all of this heard by the patient, but in a way that made him feel as if he was not present. There was blood in his eyes and on his tongue, and even his own voice sounded ethereal as he said, ‘I must return to the deck.’

  Lutyens’ loblolly boy forced back his captain’s head and poured neat rum down his throat, which made him gag. He was unaware of his own wife as she threw a thin strip of bandage round his head and pulled it tight, in an attempt to stem the bleeding, this while her partially recovered spouse was trying to get to his feet.

  ‘Stay still husband, stay still!’

  That voice penetrated, and he stood swaying while the bandage was applied and secured. His head felt like a ton weight, but he knew he must get back on deck, for a decision had to be made, one which fell to him as long as he could think straight, whether to strike his colours or keep fighting.

  ‘Devenow, get me up there, even if you have to carry me.’

  A strong arm was under his, and that aided him in walking, or rather staggering towards the companionway. Devenow had to practically lift him to get him up the two sets of stairways to the quarterdeck, but he did manage, and they emerged to a maelstrom of noise, death and destruction. Even through hard-to-focus eyes, Ralph Barclay could see his ship was in desperate straits, with half his guns dismounted or slewed away from the ports, bodies everywhere, the ghostly ships closing to board through the dense smoke.

  The thought then was not of his ship but of his wife; if a fight started on this deck who knew where it would end, who knew what kind of undisciplined fellow would get to the cockpit first? Ralph Barclay staggered across the deck to where Glaister stood, hatless, his face blackened, and one arm hanging loose with blood dripping from his fingers, his sword in the other. The way his premier looked at him showed some appreciation of the horror he had witnessed; there was no thirst for glory in those pale eyes now, just as there was no one on what remained of the wheel. Aloft the rigging was in tatters, his topsails ragged while the mainmast above the cap was leaning, only kept in place by the backstays. The situation was hopeless, even if those gunners that could reload and fire where still doing so, the means of escape in both men and canvas was diminishing by the second.

  ‘Strike the colours, Mr Glaister. Collins, the sack with the private signal book over the side, if you please.’

  Glaister stared at him without moving, until Ralph Barclay took the sword from his hand, passed it to Devenow, and ordered him on to the poop to cut the colours down from the mizzen mast. Collins was on the side furthest from the Frenchman, dropping the weighted canvas sack into the sea.

  ‘Cease firing,’ Ralph Barclay yelled, an act which sent a searing pain through his head.

  It was a feeble imitation of the sound he was normally wont to make, so feeble that it had an effect only on those closest to him. It was more the cheering from the enemy decks which told his crew that the fight was over and lost, that and the way their fire slackened. Then, apart from that cheering, there was relative silence; no more deadly balls or grapeshot, no more musket fire, and as the smoke was blown clear Ralph Barclay could see that he had acted just in time, for the deck of the Lutine, not more than ten feet from his own, was crowded with armed men just waiting for the ships to collide so they could board.

  They did come together, the Frenchman having braced his yards round to make it possible, and the enemy crowded over, led by a fellow in a sky blue coat, but the command to cease fire had taken effect, and no one sought to challenge him. Making his way to the quarterdeck, he approached Ralph Barclay and bowed, as Devenow returned the sword to his captain’s hand.

  ‘Capitaine de Frégate Hypolite Monceau, a votre service.’

  His opposite number touched the bloodstained bandage round his head. ‘Captain Ralph Barclay, of His Britannic Majesties’ frigate, Brilliant.’

  ‘Parlez-vous Français, Capitane?’

  ‘Non.’

  ‘Malheureusement, je ne parle pas anglais.’

  ‘Someone fetch Mrs Barclay.’

  The two men, as well as the two crews, stood eyeing each other while they waited, the Frenchman’s eyes lifting as Emily emerged onto the deck, her apron and hands covered in blood.

  ‘Please, my dear, tell this fellow who I am, the name of the ship, and that I
am surrendering my sword to avoid further bloodshed.’

  As Emily spoke he held the weapon out, secretly pleased that it was Glaister’s, and not his own.

  The whole French fleet cheered as the trio of frigates sailed into Toulon, HMS Brilliant between her captors, the tricolour above the blue pennant that denoted the rank of the commanding admiral under which she sailed. The Poulette was in a sorrier state than her capture, being steered by relieving tackles and commanded by sous-officers, its wheel and most commissioned members of the company having been swept away. If they noticed that the damage to all three was great it did nothing to temper their joy. That might have happened had they been able to see below, where they would have found that all three maindecks were now extended sickbays, that is where they were not occupied by those already dead.

  Captain Monceau had been all courtesy, and it transpired he had been an officer in the old Marine Royale, though a lieutenant, not a captain. While he had insisted that the captured crew must remain below, with musket-bearing guards on the companionways, he had, before returning to his own quarterdeck, leaving a lieutenant in charge, ordered that the main cabin be put back into some semblance of order so that both Ralph Barclay and his wife could, once the wounded were treated, wash, change their clothes and make themselves presentable in some privacy. Prior to carrying out her own toilette, Emily cleaned and redressed her husband’s wound, where a chunk of flesh had been removed from his brow just below the line of his hair.

  The wardroom likewise had been restored, and in that lay Glaister with an arm broken by a musket ball and a couple of wounded midshipmen and master’s mates. The cook was allowed to light his coppers so the men could be fed, and the Frenchman had shown no desire to interfere with the dispensation of their rum ration. Naturally he asked for the ship’s papers, but showed neither surprise nor a hint of anger when he was informed that the private signals had been disposed of; that was a captain’s duty in any navy.