Jackass Frigate

by Alaric Bond

  Then came a second cry from forward. Almost unnoticed the enemy had spilled her wind, turned to larboard and backed sail. Now she sat almost dead in the water, broadside on, her battery run out to meet them; ready, poised to fire upon her fragile bow.

  Banks cursed inside; the Frenchman’s relative inaction had lulled him into a false feeling of security, now he had to act fast, or risk losing his ship. He open his mouth and let loose a stream of orders that would lay Pandora on the opposite tack, and take her away from the danger, but even as he spoke he knew inside that it was too late. From forward Dorsey’s voice could be heard once more, this time to urge the men at the braces to haul her round. The boy’s face was still red from his recent anger, although memory of the incident had already been forgotten by all. Suddenly being under fire did not seem funny any more.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  There was no time to secure the men; eight enemy guns spoke almost as one, and were well laid. Pandora, in the act of turning, was struck fair on her bow, creating a cloud of splinters, and a shock wave that carried throughout her fragile frame.

  King, moving forward from his position in the waist, roared out for axe men to cut away the shattered wreckage and torn shrouds that were still falling. The foremast had been hit, but still mercifully held, but the jib boom seemed strangely out of shape, hanging several degrees below its normal rake. Presumably the forestay had parted, taking the jib, which was now dragging to leeward. The boatswain led a team aloft; each had a length of coiled line across their shoulders, while more made their way forward; the foretopmast had been robbed of forward support, and would be vulnerable until they could replace the missing shroud.

  A sudden crack came from the foretop, and the forecourse yard began to creak alarmingly. King shouted for the sheets to be released, but it was too late, the yard parted and fell, dragging the sail with it in a mushroom of canvas that enveloped many of those working below. The sail missed Flint by inches and he, Dobson and Wright began to bundle the damp canvas into some sort of manageable lump, while the trapped men beneath struggled free.

  On the quarterdeck Banks surveyed the scene. Pandora was all but stationary, with those sails that were left flapping impotently out of control. He could tighten up what canvas he had and attempt to manoeuvre, but the boatswain’s party was still working to replace the shrouds: any movement might unsettle the foretopmast, besides slowing the men in their work. And all the time they were facing the enemy; exposing their vulnerable bow to a second broadside that could be expected within the next few minutes.

  He glanced up at the mizzen driver, still set for the turn. There should be just about enough leverage to move Pandora, despite the fact that without forward momentum the spar, and even the mast, may be weakened in the process. The boatswain was busy forward; it fell to Caulfield and Lewis to organise the sail, hauling the boom forward to catch the wind, and controlling the spar as it slowly wrenched the hull over.

  By the time the second broadside came they were almost round, the two hulls very nearly parallel, with Pandora’s shattered bow in line with the French frigate’s stern. The shots came high, killing three of the boatswain’s crew, and parting two further shrouds, but causing no other significant damage.

  Banks caught sight of King as he was helping to bundle the remains of the forecourse over the starboard side, and pointed significantly at the larboard battery. King nodded and left what he was doing to bellow for the gun crews to return to their pieces. Within thirty seconds the guns were run out once more, and King was looking for instructions.

  “Aim high, lads,” Banks bellowed at the line of waiting gun captains. “And reload with bar!”

  A broadside falling amongst the French in the act of loading would probably delay the next barrage, but it was more important to disable the ship. The gun captains crouched over their pieces, squinting along the crude sights, standing back and raising a hand when all was ready.

  Pandora’s guns spoke in a ripple of fire, the shots raining down on the enemy with remarkable accuracy, although there was no apparent damage, apart from a split sail and several parted stays.

  “Ready forward!” The voice of Peters, the boatswain, came from the foretop. Banks glanced up. The mast was reasonably secure now; they could reset the topsails, and possibly even risk another jib on their weakened bowsprit.

  Banks gave the orders and the ship gathered way once more, urged on as much by the sigh of relief that came from every member of the crew. The enemy were showing signs of coming back to the wind, their movements slow and ponderous; doubtless the extra men and stores they carried made any manoeuvre more awkward.

  Pandora gathered speed, and was about to pass out of the field of fire when the enemy’s broadside rang out. This time part of a stanchion was knocked down and several marines fell. Splinters flew about the quarterdeck, the oak and pine shards more deadly than the hot iron that had caused them. Conroy fell, his leg ripped open, and the boy Rose was struck senseless by a tightly rolled hammock knocked free from the larboard rail. Caulfield felt the wind of something passing close by, and was surprised to see the sleeve of his right arm partially separate from the jacket.

  “Keep it at the spars, Mr King.” King raised his hand to the captain and passed the instruction to the gun captains.

  The British broadside rolled out again, and a hearty cheer followed this time that no one bothered to suppress. The French ship was in the act of turning, and was caught on her starboard quarter. The barshot flew about her rigging, peppering her mizzen and main, and after the briefest of pauses the mizzen topmast began to fall, taking most of the main topgallant with it.

  “Check, check, check!” Banks shouted unconsciously, then in more measured tones. “Back mizzen tops’l, lay her to.”

  Pandora hove to, with the enemy’s stern directly in front of her larboard broadside “Mr King, reload with round and alter your aim to the hull, if you please.”

  With the enemy temporarily disabled and seemingly at their mercy it was now time to strike the killing blow. Banks looked across to where the French seamen were rushing to clear the wreckage, as they themselves had done only minutes before. The first British gun captain was already signalling his piece ready. Closing his mind to the effect his actions would have, he nodded to the lieutenant, and another broadside rolled out.

  *****

  Below, Stuart and Manning were dealing with the first of the casualties. Though grisly, Manning found the work infinitely preferable to the waiting that had gone before. The waiting that Stuart had filled with long rambling reminiscences and frequent swigs from his bottle of Hollands. They had felt the concussion as the bows were struck, the shock had sent one of the loblolly boys tumbling onto the deck, and caused Stuart to break his indecipherable monologue to take an extra hefty swill. For a while nothing happened, the men on deck being too busy securing the ship to have time for their wounded colleagues. Then one of the gun crew from the larboard bow chaser had been brought down, his right arm hanging limp and an ugly bruise spreading across his shoulder, and from then on a veritable floodgate opened.

  Manning was currently working on a topman with a splinter to his chest. The slither of oak had hit him just below the armpit, and been deflected along the ribs until it sat, dark and swollen, just under the skin, and directly over the man’s heart.

  “All right, Adams, this will hurt for a couple of seconds, then you’ll feel a lot better.” Manning gently explored the wound, noticing how the man’s breathing was fast and shallow. Adams, besides being a lithe and able topman, was also a first class wrestler. Several times Manning had watched while he had unsettled bigger men, sending them spinning to the deck, only to be jumped on and locked in a grip that owned as much to experience as strength. In all his bouts Adams had never shown a flicker of fear and yet now, with the prospect of an operation in front of him, his eyes sought reassurance with a mixture of hope and terror.

  The splinter was wide but thin, and by its feel had been bent ro
und by the rib cage. Manning reached for a scalpel and held it well out of the man’s sight while Nairn, a loblolly boy, secured Adams’ hands behind his head. Adams’ chest was dirty with burnt powder and sweat; Manning looked for a wet swab to wipe it, and noticed Stuart’s bottle of Hollands, lying just where the surgeon could lay a hand to it whenever he had the mind. Manning reached for the bottle, and trickled some of the liquid onto the place where he would have to cut. Adams started, then breathed a sigh and seemed to relax.

  “Feel good?” asked Manning.

  “Cold,” Adams replied, nodding slightly.

  It was a point worth remembering, and as Manning made the first incision he noticed that there was very little response from the patient.

  He tied up the wound with horsehair, neatly spacing the stitches so as to make the best of a ragged cut. He reached for a piece of dry tow, and soaked it in more spirit, before wiping the wound. There was very little blood now, only the need for one layer of bandage. This Manning deftly wrapped about the chest, one arm supporting the topman’s body, before laying him back down on the midshipmen’s sea chests that formed his operating table.

  “You’re done, now,” he smiled, grimly. “And there’ll be no duties for you for yet a while.”

  Adams nodded softly, and whispered a word of thanks that was completely buried under a deluge of oaths from Stuart, who had discovered his bottle of spirits to be missing.

  *****

  The French ship had taken three broadsides on her exposed stern. The first two had swept the quarterdeck clear of men and the third neatly removed most of her larboard quarter-gallery. The mizzen and main masts were now almost unsupported and the foremast leaned forward and to one side at a drunken angle. There was no question of her moving or fighting further, and Banks was keen to stop the slaughter that their shots must be causing deep within the hull. A small fire could be seen through the shattered stern windows, and Banks delayed the next broadside in the hope that she might strike. But the flames were soon extinguished, and the two stern chasers continued to return the British shots as deliberately as before. The temptation to close and finish it was strong but, battered though her hull may be, the enemy still outnumbered them in men, and a boarding action would see the French victorious.

  “At the yards!” Martin had noticed how several brave souls had made their way to the larboard topsail yard, and were feverishly trying to rig a stunsail in the hope of turning the ship. His marines took note, and soon volley after volley of musket balls rained about them. The range was long, but one man fell by the second salvo, and another after the fourth.

  Meanwhile the great guns continued as before and it was fifteen minutes later, when four more broadsides had raked her through the stern and a fifth was about to be fired, that she struck, the surrender being signalled by a young aspirant waving something white above the shattered taffrail. Caulfield ordered the ceasefire with some relief, although he made sure that every gun remained trained on the frigate, ready to open up once more should the situation demand it.

  “Mr King, you may have the honour,” Banks said, a slight smile cracking his smoke-stained face. “The starboard cutter is undamaged, I believe. Take a midshipman, Dorsey’s the most experienced, and a party of topmen with you. Mr Martin, you can spare your marines, I am sure? Mr Caulfield, would you select some men for Mr King?”

  Caulfield paused for a second. If what he suspected was true, the man Banks had just placed in charge of the prize might someday stand trial for murder. He glanced at King as he prepared to leave the ship; it was hard to think ill of him. Besides being a friend, he was an excellent officer, one that by nature would do what was right for the service. But he had to detail a prize crew without delay, and here was Everit, the carpenter, coming forward to report. All thoughts and implications were brushed aside as Caulfield allowed himself to become immersed in the running of the ship.

  King touched his hat to the captain, and went to supervise the launching of the cutter. He would be taking no more than twenty men with him, twenty men to quell an enemy of perhaps five, six hundred. But an enemy that had withstood raking fire was likely to have had the stuffing knocked out if him, and strangely it was not the thought of opposition that worried King as he took his seat in the sternsheets of the cutter and ordered it away.

  They drew close to the French frigate, approaching by the stern where the damage could be more clearly seen. Pandora’s shots had penetrated in several places, and King thought he could hear the sound of running water as it found its way into the shattered hull. The name Aiguille could still be made out across the counter. Dorsey, sitting next to him, was making some comment, but King had no mind for conversation.

  “Starboard side, Cox’n,” he grunted, his voice purposefully curt in an effort to hide his doubts. The elderly seaman turned the boat neatly, calling in the oars and brought her to rest against the French ship with hardly a bump.

  King stood up and straightened his dirk. There was no manrope rigged; he would have to make the difficult assent unaided. He reached up to the first of the wooden steps that ran down from the entry port. It was wet and sticky. He pulled his hand away and was momentarily sickened by the sight of fresh blood on his fingers. For an instant he hesitated, before reaching for the step once more and clambering up.

  On deck the first sight that met his eyes was a young man in a blue and white uniform not unlike his own. The officer took a pace towards him and bowed briefly.

  “My name is King,” he announced, awkwardly.

  The Frenchman bowed again, and muttered a name that King did not catch. He then reached for his sword, and drew it. King controlled the instinct to take a step back as the man quickly reversed the weapon and offered it to him, hilt first, the blade resting across his left forearm. King accepted the sword and gave a shallow bow, before returning it to the officer. The Frenchman looked hard into his eyes, as if trying to read his mind. He nodded briefly, and a faint smile spread across his face as the sword shot back into its scabbard.

  King was conscious of Dorsey and the rest of his party clambering up the ship’s side, and it was with some relief that he turned to see the marines forming up, and fixing bayonets. He looked about the quarterdeck that was almost empty, then turned forward and glanced down to the waist.

  This was crowded with the blue, red and white of soldiers’ uniforms with the occasional less regulated dress of the seamen dotted about amongst them. Some were wounded, and more than a few dead. The bodies lay, unattended, amid groups of squatting men who appeared sullen, and did not look up to meet his stare. A scuffle from his left caused King to turn, and he looked straight into the eyes of a soldier rushing at him with a pike. King ducked down and to one side, avoiding the thrust but putting himself off balance at the same time. His hand reached down for the deck to steady himself while the soldier, who had all but passed him in his rush, now swung round for a second try. The Morris brothers, two burly British seamen, moved in without a word. Working as a team the younger plucked the pike from the Frenchman’s grasp while the other swung a heavy left fist up and onto the man’s chin. The blow lifted him slightly and, suddenly unsupported, his body seemed to flop down to the deck in an untidy heap.

  “There’ll be no more from that one, sir.” Pug Morris, the man who had thrown the punch, looked about the rest of the crew as if eager for another opportunity, as one the Frenchmen shrank back from his stare and it was clear they had little fight left in them.

  King recovered himself and looked back to the marines.

  “Corporal, arrange your men along the gangways; at the first sign of trouble, I want you to blow a whistle. There will be no firing unless I, or Mr Dorsey order it, do you understand?”

  A loaded weapon retained its threat, whereas the marines could be overwhelmed in seconds as soon as they had fired their muskets.

  “You there, Smith, and Dobson.” The two sailors had been looking about the stricken ship with an air of disbelief on their faces; they j
erked back to reality as he spoke. “I want a swivel loaded with canister and trained on the waist, can you see to that?”

  They both nodded. Dobson spoke. “We could rig two, beggin’ you pardon, sir. That ways we’d cover both ends.”

  “Make it so.” He turned back to the French officer. “You captain?” he asked in a loud voice. The Frenchman shook his head.

  “Capatian es mort,” he said briefly. “Toutes officers dessous; dessour, s’il vous plait.”

  King hesitated, guessing at the young man’s meaning. To go below would be a risk. The ship was still packed with men, most of whom had every reason to want him dead. He glanced across at Pandora, still riding hove to, with her guns run out. The cutter was just returning, and a further party of marines would soon be joining them. “Very well,” he said, and ignoring the questioning eyes of the midshipman, King allowed the French officer to lead him to the companionway.

  He descended to the next deck just forward of what was presumably the captain’s quarters, although as he looked back and through the shattered stern windows there was little sign of opulence. To one side a heavy gun had been overturned, and a man still lay beneath, moaning gently while his comrades tried to lever the metal beast off him. King turned away to see more injured and dying men, the majority left unattended. He caught sight of the French officer, his face was working slightly, although it became suddenly wooden when he noticed King was looking at him.

  “I will get help,” King said briefly. “I will order medical assistance.”

  The Frenchman nodded and his expression softened once more.

  Down to the next deck, the berth deck in a British ship, the scene changed. They were level with the waterline, and in the half-light there was very little actual damage. Although the deck was crowded, being surrounded by shattered limbs, bodies and, in two cases, minds made it no less horrific. King was led to where a middle-aged man lay under a single sheet. His head was almost bald, and he seemed peacefully asleep. The Frenchman reached for a lantern and held it above, and the eyes opened revealing a man of intelligence and possible culture. The two exchanged words that King could not comprehend, then the wounded man spoke in clear English.