“Catch Mr Dunnett if he falls, please, and get him below.”
Bosomtwi silently nodded, shifted across the quarterdeck to a position close behind the clerk.
A reverend of some denomination appeared and began to pray over the condemned pair while a detail of labourers brought out a pair of open coffins and placed them below the scaffold. The gaolers gripped their arms to hold them bolt upright, staring into the boxes at their feet, an ancient ceremony almost wholly fallen into disuse at executions in England.
“Rather cruel, Mr Vereker.”
“That bastard’s enjoying it, sir!”
Ten minutes of devotions and the pair were manhandled up the ladder and onto the gallows platform. They were held as the irons were removed and their hands were tied behind them. The nooses were placed over their necks and pulled tight and they were then blindfolded, all in slow motion.
A delay of two or three minutes for no obvious purpose and then the bolts were snatched out from the traps and the two fell. Their necks could be heard to snap in the silence.
“At least he set the knots to kill them quickly, Mr Vereker.”
“Very proud of his skill in that, sir!”
The men dispersed, the messes sitting down together to their delayed cocoa and skilly and quietly discussing the performance. Most of them agreed that it was not half as good as the big one at Poole a few years before when a half-dozen of smugglers, including a boy, had all been topped together, kicked off to dangle. These new traps weren’t half as entertaining.
“Had you met the Provost Lieutenant before, Mr Vereker? You seemed to have taken him in some aversion.”
“He is my cousin, sir, my father’s elder sister’s son; older than me by some fifteen years but known to me since childhood as a clod.”
There was nothing to say to that.
They sailed down the island chain, finding the French islands to be barren of seaborne traffic; their first excursion through these waters had taught the merchants that their good times were gone.
There was activity in Scarborough when they passed, a pair of small Revenue cutters tied up at the wharf. It seemed that government had returned to Tobago.
The coast of Venezuela was almost deserted, small fishing villages, presumably of Indian tribesmen, all that was to be seen. It could be assumed that the Spanish had found little profit in the tangled rain-forests and high hills of the area.
“Why argue over borders if this is all that is to be found? It makes little sense.”
“Honour and El Dorado, sir,” Murray replied.
“El Dorado? The mythical city of gold?”
“Not mythical, sir, ‘undiscovered’. El Dorado is known to exist but has never been found.”
“I am not entirely certain that makes sense, Captain Murray. If it has never been found, then how can one be sure that it exists?”
“Belief without evidence, sir. The Spanish are very good at that. Their whole history is permeated by the effects of wilful belief in unprovable propositions.”
Frederick was not entirely certain that he understood Murray’s meaning, but he was afraid that he would explain if he admitted his ignorance, and his chance of understanding a detailed exposition was even less.
“Very good, Mr Murray. They know that El Dorado exists, they merely have no basis for this knowledge.”
“Quite, sir, and if it exists then they merely have not found it yet, so it must be in unexplored parts, such as the hills and forests of Guiana and Venezuela.”
“Ah, of course. So, although the country is utterly worthless to any rational point of view, they insist that it is theirs and are prepared to go to war for it. Once having made their declaration of ownership then Honour prevents them from withdrawing, so they must commit more and more to taking it. Have they a harbour on this coast?”
“The charts name Mabaruma, sir. I have consulted Mr Nias and he knows no more than the name; nor do I. I made enquiry in Antigua and could discover very few who knew as much as me and none who had more knowledge.”
“Not one of the world’s great ports then. Let us go there and discover what is to be found.”
Book Six: The Duty and Destiny Series
Chapter Three
Mabaruma transpired to be a fishing village on a slightly wider estuary than most, almost a cable across at the mouth, and with a European-style wooden wharf. There were perhaps a hundred small huts and two European houses, one of them large.
“A Governor’s residence, sir, or a deputy at least. How big is that wharf, sir, what size ship could use it?”
“Not a lot more than a sloop, Captain Murray,” Nias answered for him. “But, if you look out in the river there,” he pointed, “there are buoys floating on heavy cables, well anchored I would imagine. Possibly sufficient for a seventy-four to moor on.”
Vereker agreed – he had been tied up to similar buoys in a seventy-four, he said, in the last war when Ceylon was taken.
“No warehouse for stores, but it would be possible to water a long way up the river, by boat. They would want to take fresh, far from tidal contamination and clear of the villagers.”
The heavy rain forest came down to both shores of the river, broken in places by small clearings, presumably garden land. Other patches showed secondary growth, gardens returned to fallow. There was no sign of the organised rows of trees of a plantation, no indicator of tracks leading out to mines or more fertile areas in the interior. A lack of warehouses suggested no inland trade. All the evidence concluded that this was a fishing village slightly enlarged to provide a minor naval base to protect a remote frontier.
There were no signs of a battery, nor of a barracks. They presumed the smaller house contained all that there might be of a guard detachment.
“There is no point to bombarding this poor little place, gentlemen. We could land and burn down the Residency, but I can see very little gain to so doing. We shall continue our patrol.”
They passed Georgetown, Guiana, in the night, intentionally, having no wish to exchange compliments with the Governor of the British colony, who might have demands to make on them. If they saw no action then they would call in on their return up coast, when there was no constraint upon them.
The dawn brought Speedy closing under all sail.
“I suspect we are open for business, gentlemen. Mr Rogers?”
“Flags streaming away from us, sir. Unreadable.” The signals midshipman was unhappy with his admission – it was not his fault, but it was his duty to inform the captain of all messages sent.
“Topgallant flying free, sir. Three sheets in the wind.”
The old signal for ‘Enemy in Sight’ – one sail released to trail flapping in the wind, secured by a single sheet.
“Well done, McPherson! Remind me to commend him for that, Mr Vereker. All hands! Clear for action! Mr Rogers, signal the squadron to clear. Not that there will be any need – I can see the chain lifts going up in Arnheim already, Mr Cheek.”
Arnheim’s boatswain was at least two minutes ahead of Trident, to One Hand Dick’s raging, roaring fury. He looked astern, was relieved to see that Wallsend at least was slower.
They waited impatiently for more information. Frederick hoped to take the wind gage, but until he knew the exact location of the enemy, and its nature, he could give no course orders. He would probably want to close on the unknown, but not if it was a squadron of seventy-fours.
Speedy came up into the wind, presumably believing she was at a safe distance from the enemy. Rogers began to call out the flags.
“Enemy in sight. Enemy is a line-of-battle ship. Course East North East. Enemy is, Alphabetical, T-A-C-K-I-N-G. Enemy is Spanish. Enemy is of 90 guns.”
“We have the gage, I believe, Mr Nias.”
“Wind is set in the north-west, sir, though I suspect it may strengthen during the day. There is a south trending current hereabouts, sir, two knots or so, which we must allow for.”
“Ninety guns, Spanish – probably
one of their big two-deckers rather than a three – which means she may handle like a seventy-four. Their three-deckers tend to be slow to tack or wear, but the smaller ships of the line can be very agile. Mr Rogers, what has she in company?”
Five minutes later Speedy confirmed that the Spaniard was alone.
“Why? A liner without frigates, or sloops at least, to act as her eyes makes no sense. She cannot have been sent for a particular purpose. Mr Nias, your opinion?”
“On passage, sir, from perhaps Buenos Aires to any of the Spanish harbours of the Caribbean. Her course is too far to the west for her to be returning to Spain.”
Frederick thought for a moment, then swore, shaking his head fatalistically.
“There is no choice, gentlemen. We must make an attempt upon her.”
Murray seemed puzzled.
“We, between us, carry much the same broadside weight of metal as her, Mr Murray, but Arnheim, of course, packs all of her punch in carronades which should best be used at half a cable, while the Spaniard will carry long guns only. Weight for weight, we must fight, sir!”
Frederick turned to Rogers.
“Arnheim to take position two cables off Trident, on the starboard quarter, closing within hail in process.”
Rogers acknowledged the order, thought for a few seconds then gave instructions to his yeoman, sending the message as two separate commands.
“Bright lad, that one, Mr Nias. He can wear a lieutenant’s coat when the need arises.”
“Easily, sir – and that is as well, because my remaining mate is not suited for command. He will become a very competent master, sir, but a cocked hat is not for him.”
Frederick nodded, the information tucked away, not to be forgotten even in the clamour of instant response needed when tidying after an action.
Arnheim dropped neatly onto Trident’s bow and Frederick ran forward to shout to Jackman.
“We shall try the same tactics as Pellew used when he destroyed Droits De L’Homme, Captain Jackman. Close under topsails alone, as if to seek a hammering match – not impossible for a pair of heavy frigates, she may believe it. Use the chasers, double-shotting as soon as practicable. Cross her bows as close as you can and then bear off to starboard and downwind as soon as you are at a mile and seek to cross her stern. Trident will hold off and batter her with a broadside or two from the long guns before crossing her bows. If it doesn’t work – a mast lost or whatever, then use your own initiative, Mr Jackman. If she runs then harry her stern while you may. Good hunting, sir!”
The advantage of such a conversation was that it could be heard by the whole crew of each ship – they would all know what was expected of them, whether an immediate boarding or a protracted gunnery engagement. The destruction of the French line-of-battle ship early in the previous war had taken place in coastal waters, but it had demonstrated that a pair of heavy frigates could, if well handled, slowly break down a larger, clumsier ship. Between them, the two frigates probably carried a heavier weight of broadside, but the two-decker was more powerfully built, able to soak up damage; done properly, and taking a degree of risk, the fight was not impossible.
“Captain Murray, would you be so good as to join Marc and Jean again? Your initiative during our last action was of great value to us.”
Murray had used his intelligence to pick out the most profitable targets for the sharpshooters, had collected a number of useful scalps.
“Mr Akers,” the Fourth had command of the chasers and forecastle carronades. “High on the forecastle, if you would be so good. The foremast would be very useful to us but in any case you will shower splinters through the gun crews. Double shot when inside a cable – very carefully indeed, sir!”
The pair of thirty-two pound long guns, well handled, could make a vital contribution by damaging the foremast and making it almost impossible for the Spaniard to tack.
“Mr Duff, Mr Corsham, keep your divisions well together, if you please. Quoins in, gentlemen!”
The Third and new Second Lieutenant had half of the broadside twenty-four pounders each and would ensure that they aimed high in the enemy’s hull, ideally again to shower splinters through the gun decks.
“Carronades!”
Fox and the gun captains of the four carronades on either beam of the quarterdeck raised hands to their foreheads in acknowledgement. The man in the captain’s cabin poked his head up on deck in response to a whistle from a mate.
“When I give the word I want two rounds apiece onto her quarterdeck – not a man left standing there! After that, Mr Fox, pick your targets – spend a couple of seconds to see where you can do most good!”
There were muttered acknowledgements – the carronade captains were selected for their ability to think, to use their murderous great shotguns to best effect.
“I shall try to cross her stern – if I do then it’s grapeshot down the gun decks!”
They grinned and nodded. The long guns would open up the stern timbers for them and then, if they shot straight, they would send more than a thousand grapeshot the length of the ship. In other ships and other fights that had served to kill or wound more than a half of a crew and bring immediate surrender.
Lieutenant Quinlan had his Marines in their ranks on the quarterdeck, Sergeant Benson inspecting them, rebuking the occasional fleck of dirt on white pipeclayed belts, reduced to screaming rage at the sight of a speck of rust on a musket barrel.
The problem was ‘idleness’ it seemed, for Benson had so far referred to four idle crossbelts and the single idle musket. Names were being written into his little notebook, so, he told them, that if he fell the corporals would be able to deal appropriately with the idle men.
Lieutenant Quinlan was above such matters, stood with his hands clasped behind his straight back, his entire six feet two inches displayed proudly while he conversed gravely with his ensign. Both were in full dress, wearing swords and pistols and intending to do nothing other than stand as exemplars to the rank and file, unless and until it came to a boarding when they would charge at the very front of the foremost rank, first men to reach the enemy’s deck.
Frederick said nothing to them – it would be an impertinence; they knew their duty and would fulfil it without any intervention from a mere sea-officer.
The foremast lookout hailed him.
“On deck, three points on the port bow, topgallant masts. A ship, sir.”
“Mr Nias?”
“Hold our course, sir, until we discover what tack she is on.”
“Do that, sir. Mr Vereker, what can you tell me of Wallsend?”
“She has shortened sail, sir, but is continuing in our wake, dropping back. Speedy is closing her, as is Nimble, sir.”
“Very good. Have you ever served in a bomb, Mr Vereker?”
“No, sir.”
Unsurprising, rich lieutenants did not generally lower themselves to vulgar bombs.
“On deck, chase is tacking towards, sir.”
“Excellent, Mr Vereker! In my experience and from all I have heard tell, the Spanish come in two sorts – ferociously aggressive and seeking battle at all costs, or the exact opposite, quite remarkably shy and saving their skins determinedly. No sensible middle course for them! We have one of the fighting persuasion, it would seem. A two-decker will have taller masts than us and must have seen us some minutes ago, so he has made his plan and is now carrying it out. What will he expect of a pair of large frigates?”
“Close action, sir,” Vereker suggested. “He will believe us to be as arrogant as he is. His honour demands out and out battle, no holds barred, as it were, and he will expect the same of us, despite the odds. ‘The greater the opponent, the more the honour’, after all. I understand that the Spanish grandees have the mentality of the ‘preux chevalier’, sir.”
Frederick raised an eyebrow.
“Du Guesclin and all that, sir?”
“I suspect I have not read the right books, Mr Vereker.”
Vereker retired, reb
uking himself – lieutenants ambitious for promotion did not impute ignorance to their captains.
Nias was busy with his telescope and sextant, calculating range.
“Four miles, sir, closing at twelve knots, I calculate.”
Less than twenty minutes to wait; still a long time for men with no occupation. Frederick looked along the deck, saw that the brighter gun captains had their men busy chipping rust from the twenty-four pound balls so that they would fly truer.
“What depth of water, Mr Nias?”
“The chart suggests tidal scour, sir, fifty fathoms or more this far offshore. No banks or reefs recorded and these waters are within reason well-known, sir.”
That was one worry that he need not have; he would not be forced into an undesirable change of course.
“What do the Spanish normally carry by way of chasers, Mr Nias?”
“Varies, sir, often according to the whim of the captain. The Spanish foundries are of limited quality and output; they commonly purchase their great guns from overseas, the captains sometimes in a private capacity. In recent years they will have relied on the Republic of Venice or France; the possibility is of anything from brass long twelves – which can be devilishly accurate, sir – to long twenty-fours. I did hear of one that carried a coastal forty-two pounder, but it was so long in the barrel and inconvenient that they managed only one round from it in the whole engagement.”
“So, they are unlikely to come off best in the opening minutes. What of the broadside of a ninety gun ship?”
“Thirty-two or thirty-six pounders on the lower deck, if she is modern; twenty-four or eighteen on the upper. Again, sir, it depends on what was available in the arsenal when she was fitting out. No carronades, the Dons don’t make them. She could have a thousand men aboard, sir, depending again on what was available when she commissioned. If we are right in the assumption that she sailed from Buenos Aires then she could be precious short of seamen, sir, the bulk made up of scrapings from the gutter. It is very common for them to press at random from the streets in the hours before sailing and then to make almost no attempt to train their men. There will be gun crews who have never fired a cannon, if she has been out of Spain for more than a year, that is.”
Sugar and Spice (The Duty and Destiny Series, Book 6) Page 7