by Alaric Bond
“That’ll do, secure it.” Banks gave the order in a clear, measured tone as he swung from his perch, and began the descent.
“Very good, Mr Peters,” Banks shouted as he reached the deadeyes and dropped nimbly onto the deck. “Now slacken the main top and mizzen stays, weather side, and ease all braces to spill.” The boatswain was looking at the slackening shrouds with an air of disbelief and for a moment a look of rebellion flashed across the old man’s face. He turned to Caulfield in protest. “She can’t take a sail like that, sir. First extra stitch and all will be ahoo!”
“Make it so, Mr Peters.”
Lewis appeared, slightly dishevelled and obviously still half asleep. He looked about in amazement as the ship began a choppy roll.
“What’s about?” he whispered to Conroy, who gave a subtle shrug of his shoulders.
The fore topmast creaked alarmingly, while the main topmast was allowed to fall slightly to leeward; even in the dim light, their rig looked ungainly in the extreme.
Banks turned to one of the master’s mates. “Mr Conroy, I’d be obliged if you would have the deadlights removed from my cabin, and ask the carpenter to start the pumps to the weather side.”
Caulfield looked as if nothing would surprise him again as Conroy cautiously repeated the order. Exposing their damaged stern was pure lunacy, although quite in keeping with the captain’s previous orders. In the space of a few minutes they had gone from a well-found ship to one that would look as if it had been severely mauled in battle. The light was coming quickly now, in no time they would be in clear sight of the strange vessel; then realisation dawned. Caulfield caught the captain’s eye, and smiled.
Banks smiled back. “She’s an armed transport,” he said, simply. “Caught a sight of uniforms packed ’tween the gangways, and she’s stowing on the quarterdeck.”
“Soldiers, sir?”
“So I believe.”
“And the guns?”
Banks pursed his lips. “Hard to say. Chances are some will be quakers, but they’ll have a good few working, you can be sure of that.”
Caulfield mused to himself. If the captain was right the mystery ship wasn’t quite the threat she once appeared. Removing some guns would create extra space, but at the obvious cost of firepower. However her timbers would be every bit as strong and carrying maybe three, four hundred extra fighting men would settle matters very quickly if they allowed her close enough to board. The wind was off the starboard beam, putting both ships on opposing tacks; they would have to keep their distance; that meant turning, and as soon as possible. Then it would become a stern chase. The reduction in sail, together with the slackening of the shrouds that Banks had ordered would make Pandora considerably slower, even ignoring the time and space that would be wasted in bringing her about.
“She’s visible from the deck now.” King’s voice cut in to their thoughts, and sure enough Caulfield could just make out the ghostly outline of topsails becoming more solid as the ship emerged through the gloom of dawn. A murmur went about the men, instantly stifled by Guppy, the master at arms. But Caulfield sympathised entirely, the ship looked huge, far bigger than the normal British thirty-two or thirty-six. Her lines were sleek, with a broad beam counteracted by an unusually long hull, making her appear nearer in the growing light.
“Reckon she’ll carve us by three knots,” Conroy muttered. Lewis nodded; it would be at least that considering Pandora’s current state of rig, although Lewis guessed the Frenchman would be clumsy in stays, and possibly slower in an outright chase.
One of the carpenter’s crew came up from below and approached Caulfield, knuckling his forehead.
“Carpenter reports the well’s nigh on dry, sir.”
“Very good,” Banks interrupted. “Ask Mr Everit to start a couple of water barrels, and be sure the dales are working to windward. To windward, do you hear me?”
Despite the novelty of being addressed by his captain, the man hesitated before knuckling his forehead once more, and disappearing below. Starting the fresh water was common practice to add speed to a ship, but why did the captain insist the drained water be pumped to windward, when surely the enemy would be able to see?
“Colours, sir!” All turned as one on King’s report and, sure enough, the French national flag had broken out.
“Hoist ours, if you please, and prepare to wear ship.” The British ensign began to flap as the ship was taken about. Fraiser called out the orders without the aid of a speaking trumpet, the frustration evident in his voice as the ship came ponderously round, and gradually began to take up speed on the opposing course. Every man on board knew that the slack shrouds would make Pandora a very untidy sight as she presented her beam to the enemy.
“Set forecourse and jib, but take your time, lads. This isn’t a race, you know.” A small murmur of laughter could be heard from the topmen as they clambered aloft. By now every man in the crew was becoming accustomed to a powerful Frenchman bearing down on them; the captain’s strange sense of humour only served to add spice to the situation.
Banks caught the boatswain’s eye. “Mr Peters, we’ve shown how bad we can be. Tighten the shrouds up, but as quietly as possible.”
“Aye sir, an’ the braces?”
“Continue to spill, if you please.”
Partially mollified, the boatswain went to attend to his limp shrouds while, muttering under his breath, the quartermaster and three helmsmen struggled to hold course as the wind played havoc with the poorly set sails.
“She’s drawing on us fast.” Caulfield was talking to Fraiser, but loud enough for the captain to hear; as strong a hint as was possible.
“Very good, Mr Caulfield.” Banks smiled. “You may clear for action and stand to quarters, but please leave the guns inboard for the present.”
The men moved with a purpose, in many cases thankful of having a positive duty, rather than simply watching as the enemy drew closer. Already the gilded beakhead could be made out, and they could expect fire from the bow chasers at any moment.
“Ship’s cleared for action, sir,” Caulfield reported, as the activity around them died down. Banks nodded, smiling, and stepped forward to the break of the quarterdeck. He cleared his throat, conscious that he had the ear of most of the men, and that those who could not hear would be informed of his words within minutes. He paused; this was important, probably the most important speech he had ever made. It was vital that he put his idea over to the men - men who had worked together for just a short time and had failed to impress on the only occasion it had been asked of them. If they could grasp his intention they might come through this, and may even take the enemy ship; otherwise it would be disaster and defeat.
*****
“Rum deal, an’ that’s a fact!” Wright scratched his head as he and Dobson prepared to put the captain’s plans into action. The men at the great guns to either side of them had already moved across to the larboard side, leaving their pieces run in and unmanned. Four men, including Dobson and Wright, would be needed to run their nine-pounder out, the others of the gun crew were already preparing the larboard battery, seemingly the side that would not see action immediately.
“Trimmers to the braces!” The boatswain’s voice cut through the general murmur, and there was silence as the afterguard took up their positions. “Take up there, let’s see some tight canvas!” The relief in the boatswain’s voice was obvious, and the ship began to pick up speed and even healed slightly as the braces tightened.
“Prepare to wear ship!” The increase in speed, together with the tightened shrouds would make this a far more professional manoeuvre than before. The splash of a round shotl took them by surprise as it skipped by on their starboard beam. A dull thud followed shortly afterwards. The French were trying the range and presumably they were well within it.
“Wear ship!”
Once more Pandora turned, although this time it was towards the enemy.
“Starboard battery, run out!” The captain’s v
oice was cool and measured as seven of her main armament were heaved into the firing position, leaving as many lying idle, their muzzles still secured above the open ports.
“There’s a fine sight, an’ no mistake!” Dobson muttered sarcastically as the ragged line of nine-pounders faced the enemy. “Bet the Frenchies are fair shakin’ in their boots, seein’ that lot!”
Certainly Pandora did not look the part of an efficient fighting ship, but she was still turning, and by the time the enemy was close enough for an effective broadside, she would be heading almost straight for her.
“Do you think she’ll wear?” Dobson asked. Wright shook his head. “Hard to say. If she don’t we’ll meet her beakhead to beakhead, an’ that’ll be a right to do. If she does, she’ll spend her first broadside.”
Dobson nodded. “Maybe that’s what the cap’ has in mind. Seeing this lot,” he indicated the ragged battery, “the way we been handlin’ and the damage, they’ll think we got no fight left in us.”
*****
It was what Banks had planned, and the fact that the lower deck men were broadly in favour of his tactics may well have gladdened him, were it not for the doubts that still haunted his racing mind. Standing on the quarterdeck he held his glass to the enemy ship, now less than a mile from them as Pandora continued to turn. There was possibly just the slightest movement from her foremast braces, although even now might be too late for what he was intending.
“She’s comin’ about!” Caulfield’s voice confirmed his suspicions, and sure enough the ship began to turn, presenting a full row of broadside guns to Pandora’s irregular battery.
“Penny to a pound more’n half of them are quakers!” Conroy muttered to Lewis. When guns were removed to save space and weight it was customary to substitute actual weapons for painted wooden half barrels that looked the same from a distance. Just how many would have been replaced in this way was still impossible to say, despite Conroy’s odds.
Now Pandora was ninety degrees from her original course, and running before the wind. With the enemy ship turning, this would be the point that they should let off their feeble broadside.
“Keep her going there!” Caulfield had noted that the quartermaster was instinctively correcting the wheel. The ship continued to turn, just as the enemy became committed to her new course.
“Larboard battery prepare to run out.” The guns were double shotted, and would need to be relatively close if they were to cause any real damage.
“She’s opened fire!” King again, and all turned to look as the smoke billowed from the French ship’s side.
“I make it eight,” Banks said calmly. Eight out of a possible broadside of twenty heavy guns, plus carronades. They could not tell what the French would be mounting, but it was bound to be bigger than Pandora’s little nine-pounders. Probably eighteens, possibly even twenty-fours.
It took barely a moment, and yet the time hung, ending finally in a collective sigh that seemed to come from the ship herself. The broadside was poorly aimed and fell short, only one shot struck the hull and that, after skipping off the water, did not penetrate. Caulfield looked across at Banks, their eyes met, but neither spoke.
“Larboard battery, run out!” They were still turning and now the bow was pointing straight at the enemy. If the French captain had guessed their manoeuvre this would have been a far better time to loose off his broadside. King was looking up from his position in the waist. They were closing fast, and at any time the expected order would come. “Very good, Mr King. Ripple fire on my word.”
King nodded, and drew his dirk from its scabbard. They had almost finished their turn now, and the trimmers were hauling in on the braces, pulling the wind back into their sails forcing the hull over. The gun captains were compensating for the heel by adjusting the wooden quoins under the breach of each barrel, although the range was closing fast, and in no time they would be within pistol shot of the enemy.
“Open fire.” King’s raised dirk came down almost simultaneously with the discharge of the first gun, and for the next fifteen seconds the air was rent with the concussion of the slow, rolling, broadside. It was a sharper note than the deep boom of the enemy’s guns, but as King raised himself up against the main chains and peered through the smoke he saw that their shots were far more effective, hitting the hull in several places, and bringing forth screams from the tightly packed Frenchman that could be heard long after the guns had ceased.
Banks had little time to admire his handiwork; Pandora was passing the enemy at quite a rate, and would soon be in range of her starboard broadside. He looked down at the men on the larboard battery, now reloading their pieces; it would be several minutes before they would be able to fire again. The men on the starboard battery had been joined by the trimmers. They had cleared all the guns and were now standing ready.
“Larboard trimmers man the braces; prepare to tack!”
Given time and the chance to consider his move, he may have chosen differently, but the French captain had already shown himself to be a slow thinker, and Banks had learned that in a single ship action, it paid to take the initiative.
“Bring her about!” Fraiser was at the conn, the speaking trumpet now to his lips as he commanded the ship with calm assurance. Her head came into the wind, the sails flapped, and for a moment it looked as if the enemy would yaw to fire, but instead a flurry of movement aloft showed that she was making more sail in an effort to be rid of Pandora.
“Got her on the run!” Dobson said with obvious pleasure as the enemy’s maincourse was set and their intention became obvious. “Reckon they’ve tasted a touch too much of our iron for their likin’s.”
Flint nodded, although in his mind he could see the heavy frigate’s decks, packed tight with men, men trapped by stores and equipment, men who were in the main unable to fight back. Pandora’s broadside had hit them hard, and he guessed that panic would not be very far away, and impossible to control if ever it took hold.
Her head had passed through the wind now, and the ship was creeping round onto the opposite tack. Powered by her extra canvas, the French ship was pulling away, and already stood several cables off. Pandora picked up speed once more as the wind found and filled her sails. Her bow came round further until the gun captains of the starboard battery were signalling their pieces ready and sighted. Banks nodded at King, and the broadside rolled out.
This was longer range, but the French ship was neatly straddled, with several shots clearly hitting her stern. An indignant blast from her two chasers roared back, but no shot fell near Pandora, as she continued to turn in pursuit.
Now she was pointing directly at the enemy. For a moment they held the same course, and Banks had a chance to gauge their relative speeds.
“Keep her as she is,” Banks told Fraiser, who was preparing to turn her deep enough for the larboard battery to open fire. Banks had a suspicion that the enemy would turn to larboard.
Sure enough the braces on the French ship began to swing the yards round, as the rudder kicked over. Banks opened his mouth, but Fraiser had also noticed and was ordering the change of course.
“Forecourse, and stays’ls if you please, Mr Caulfield.” This was the time for Pandora to show what she could do, and the devil to caution. The frigate heeled under the fresh spread of canvas and the wind shrieked in the lines as she began to tear through the water.
Caulfield felt the deck lift under him as her speed increased. He glanced across at the captain, and was surprised to see him grinning like a child. “Sails pretty under a bowline, think you not?” His face was clear of worry as if this was nothing more sinister than a pleasure cruise.
“We’re closing on her,” Fraiser muttered, peering under the roach of the forecourse.
Banks glanced across the deck. “Mr Lewis, the come up glass, if you please.”
Lewis touched his hat, and made for the binnacle. The come up glass had a split element that gave a clear indication of the state of a chase. Lewis sighted the ene
my and adjusted the element to form one whole image. There was a pause of no more than ten seconds before he looked back at the expectant group of officers.
“Aye, we’re closing. Sure as a gun!”
Pandora was doing well, although the heavy frigate was carrying a disadvantage in the extra men that even her additional main course could not counteract.
“She won’t stay on this heading for long, not once she learns we’re closing,” Banks said, and sure enough the yards soon began to move once more, and the enemy turned to starboard. Again Banks opened his mouth to speak, and again Fraiser unconsciously anticipated the order, bringing the ship round with a smooth, polished ease that lost very little of the lead they were steadily winning back. The ship’s bell rang for the end of the watch and brought no change; every hand was at their action station, and it was doubtful that any would have stood down, even if they had been allowed.
“Nine-and-a-half, sir.” Rose, who had taken over from Dorsey, reported to Caulfield before noting the speed down on the freshly wiped traverse board. Nine-and-a-half knots, the French could hardly be doing more than eight, which meant they would be in effective range in less than fifteen minutes. Martin, the marine lieutenant, had his men formed up, although Banks had no intention of straying too close to an enemy so well served with soldiers.
Banks nodded to his second in command. “Ask the gunner to begin with the bow chasers.” Caulfield touched his hat and relayed the order. It was still long range but better to be doing something than nothing, besides they could expect the French to open fire with their stern mounted guns at any moment.
Exactly on cue a shout from the forward lookout, followed by a sharp crack, told where an eighteen-pound ball had hit them, smashing into the warrant officers’ round house, and blowing the fragile shelter apart. There came a couple of ribald comments from the men, followed by a general roar of laughter.
“Silence, silence there!” Dorsey shouted, his adolescent voice cracking in anger. The men might find it amusing, but they hadn’t just watched their only place of privacy blown into a thousand splinters. The officers on the quarterdeck were grinning also, although neither spoke, for fear of undermining the young man’s authority.