Flashman and the Emperor

by Robert Brightwell

  “And we are not?” I asked, trying to keep the disappointment out of my voice.

  “Of course not.” Cochrane grinned at me. “You know me better than that, Thomas.” He turned to Crosbie, “Send the following as a signal to the fleet: Brazil expects every man to do his duty.”

  “Isn’t that similar to the message Nelson sent at Trafalgar?” I asked as Crosbie went off to order the signal.

  “Yes,” agreed Cochrane, “and the British captains at least will guess what it means. I plan to cut the enemy line, just as Nelson did at Trafalgar.” He pointed and added, “Look, there is a gap opening up between the ninth and tenth ships in their line. We will cut in there and rake the ships on either side. The tenth ship is one of those transports and unless it is packed with men, we will take it easily. The captain and the crew will have had less experience of fighting at sea. If we are quick, we may get one or two of the ships behind too, before their admiral can get his fleet organised to respond.”

  I was relieved, for to a landsman like me, it seemed a sensible plan. I had been worried that Cochrane might attempt something far more ambitious. Little was I to know that nothing about the coming confrontation could be described as ‘sensible’. As we passed level with the Portuguese flagship, Cochrane ordered a change in course a few points to port. This would unobtrusively close the distance with the enemy fleet that now straggled out over a couple of miles. We all watched the gap that we now knew Cochrane was aiming for. The ninth ship in the line was a frigate and it continued to pull away from the ship behind. At last Cochrane judged that the time was right to make his move.

  “Signal the fleet to maintain station behind me,” he told Crosbie, before ordering the ship to turn forty-five degrees to port. As more of the sails caught the wind, then coming from our port quarter, we surged forward once more. Spray came up over the bows as we ploughed through the water. It was now clear to the Portuguese where in their line we were attacking and we needed to close with it as quickly as possible. We were all so busy watching for a reaction from the Portuguese admiral that we failed to notice what was happening in our own fleet. In the end, it was the masthead look-out who shouted the warning.

  “Deck there, the Liberal seems to be striking her colours!”

  Every head on the quarterdeck whirled around in astonishment. Sure enough, the Brazilian flag on the Liberal was being hauled down. Not only that, but a twist in the wake of the Piranga immediately behind us showed that while she had turned to follow the flagship, she was now veering back onto her original course. The Maria da Glória behind her was also failing to turn.

  “Christ on a stick, what the hell are they doing!” exclaimed Cochrane as he studied the Liberal through his glass. “The crew seems to be fighting among themselves on the quarterdeck.”

  “Piranga is signalling, sir,” shouted Crosbie. Then he swore softly to himself before announcing, “Piranga reports she is unable to comply with your order and the same signal has just broken out on the Maria da Glória.”

  I stared around me in disbelief. We were now halfway between the Portuguese fleet and the careering line of Brazilian vessels. The Emperor had been left on its own, launching an attack against thirteen enemy ships.

  “You cowardly bastards!” I roared at the ships behind while fervently wishing that I were on one of them, for I knew instinctively that Cochrane would not turn back. As the words died on my lips there was a dull rumble from ahead and first one and then a second Portuguese ship disappeared behind a bank of gun smoke. We were still at the limit for their cannon and as far as I know, not one of them hit us. But a dozen splashes in the water all around showed that it would not be long before they were striking home. “What is that signal the Nitherohy is flying?” I asked. “It is different to the rest.” The last of the Brazilian frigates had veered out of the line, not south to join the Emperor but north, taking her even further from the Portuguese ships.

  Crosbie stared at the line of flapping coloured flags for several seconds before he recounted, “Crew refuse to engage.” The flag captain glanced hesitantly at his admiral. He then spoke quietly. “We could abort the attack, sir, and regroup. Perhaps concentrate the reliable crew in fewer ships?”

  Cochrane took a deep breath as he stared first at the long line of Portuguese vessels and then behind at his own mutinous fleet. “No,” he said at last. “We need to make at least a token attack or the Portuguese will claim that they have beaten me. I know they call me the Devil. That fear is worth a ship or two. So now we have to live up to that reputation.”

  “But sir,” whispered Crosbie, so quietly that only those closest could hear him. “We cannot be sure of our own crew either. What if they refuse to fight?”

  Cochrane looked at me. “Flashman, get your marines stationed on each gun deck. Give them orders from me – they can kick in the balls and beat anyone who disobeys an order to attack.” Then he turned to Crosbie and in a loud clear voice he called, “Get the guns loaded and run out.”

  I called Lieutenant Moreira and told him to station some marines on every deck. Those that did not have the wooden swords were to have belaying pins or any other club they could find, but no bladed weapons or firearms. There was already a tumult of shouting. The squeal of wheels on the gun trucks from the main deck indicated that Cochrane’s order was being obeyed, at least for now. There was another rumble of gunfire from ahead and I turned to see that the frigate in front of the gap we were aiming for had opened fire. This time there was a tearing sound from above as a hole appeared in our main topsail, while another ball splashed into the water just yards from the hull.

  “They are getting their aim in,” observed Cochrane calmly as he surveyed his own gun crews. I stared down after him. You could almost determine the loyalty of the men from the way they were working. There was a calm professionalism in the British and American sailors, who had now largely completed the loading of their guns, while the Brazilians were working with a mixture of excitement and fear. I guessed that unlike the British and Americans, few if any had been in a naval battle before. They kept glancing anxiously ahead at the Portuguese fleet and ducked down when another of their ships opened fire. The Portuguese crews were noticeably slower and doing everything reluctantly. I watched one gun captain who was waiting for a powder charge. He waved away a powder boy holding a wooden canister that we were now using to bring the powder from the magazine. He seemed content to load his gun last. While the Portuguese often stared over the bulwark at the Portuguese fleet, they also looked behind them regularly at Cochrane, with glares of undisguised hostility. I was glad when I saw Moreira appear through the hatch. He had a squad of some thirty marines behind him, who sat on the central grating so that they would be out of the way of the guns. They glared about them, slapping their wooden weapons into the palm of their hands with more than a hint of menace.

  “Their flagship is changing course, sir,” called out Crosbie.

  “I’m surprised it has taken him this long,” replied Cochrane. “He must have been worried that the division of our fleet was some ruse.” We all stared at the Portuguese seventy-four-gun ship, which was turning to reverse its earlier course and run down on us before the wind. Already a white bow wave was visible as it picked up speed. The next ship in the line was also beginning to turn and it was clear that soon we would have most of the Portuguese fleet bearing down on us.

  We were no more than a quarter of a mile away from the gap in their line now. We would get there well before the flagship, but it was clear that we would not have long before the enemy fleet closed in around us. There was another rumble of fire from a ship further up the line, but it was out of effective range and their balls fell well short of us. Only the ships on either side of the gap we were aiming for were close enough to do any damage. The transport ship was solidly maintaining station despite the Emperor bearing down on it. It had not opened fire, perhaps its weapons were only carronades, useful for just short-range fighting. But now the frigate on the ot
her side of the gap fired its broadside again. This time there were two thuds from below as balls struck home and a scream of either pain or panic from below. Two more holes appeared in the sails and there was a clatter as a rope snapped and a rigging block fell against the mainmast.

  I was staring about me and weighing up the speed of ships and their position. I still did not see any great need to be concerned. We would be able to rake both the frigate and the transport as we passed through their line; the firepower from our seventy-four-gun ship at such close range would be devastating. I imagined masts falling and the ships being battered to a virtual standstill. If the rest of the fleet was in support then we could easily have carried one away with us. But without them, and with the rest of the Portuguese fleet bearing down on us, there would be no alternative but for Cochrane to make his escape. He would at least be able to claim a partial victory, having damaged two of the enemy ships with little damage to his own. The rest of the Brazilian fleet was still fleeing east, with the first ship starting to veer to the south. They were clearly planning to pass behind the Portuguese and then head south down the coast, back in the direction we had come.

  “Open fire with the bow-chasers,” ordered Cochrane. “It will be good for our men to see us shooting back.” A few moments later there were two booms as both forward-facing guns in the bows fired. One ball smashed into the sea just short of the transport, but the other missed badly, splashing into the empty water halfway between the enemy ships. “Christ, they will have to do better than that at laying the gun,” remarked Cochrane. He leaned over the rail. “Grenfell!” he shouted down at the officer. “Get some experienced gunners to oversee the laying of guns by the less experienced crews. We cannot afford misses like that.” The young officer ran off and could be seen swapping men from the more seasoned crews with others.

  I stared ahead; the gap we had been aiming for was shrinking. Every time the frigate fired it turned into the wind to bring its guns to bear, which slowed it down. We were now heading due south while the two Portuguese ships were still tacking slowly against the easterly wind. They could see our intentions and now the frigate settled on a north-easterly course while the transport behind turned south-east. By doing so, both ships directed their guns across the gap we would have to sail through.

  “It looks like we will have to brave their crossfire,” I said to Cochrane, feeling a growing anxiety. We were only three hundred yards off and closing fast.

  “Don’t worry,” replied Cochrane, grinning. “I have a surprise in store yet.” He went to the rail again and pointed at one of my marines. “You there,” he shouted. “Find Mr Grenfell – he’ll be on one of the lower gun decks – and tell him we will engage with the port battery first.” The man ran off to do his bidding, while Cochrane took one final glance about him at the ships in front and then at a wind pennant flying from the masthead. Then he turned to his flag captain. “Now!” he shouted.

  Crosbie had obviously been waiting for the signal and immediately yelled, “Wheel hard over to starboard, haul on those braces there!” The ship heeled so violently as men pulled on the brace ropes that held the yardarms round to catch more of the wind, that I was nearly thrown off my feet. We were sheering away from the original gap and with just yards to spare would be passing the stern of the transport ship. The frigate had been holding its fire until we were at point-blank range, but now there were puffs of smoke as some of their guns were discharged. It was then I appreciated how cunning Cochrane had been, for the frigate dared not attempt a full broadside as some balls would be bound to hit the transport.

  Our ship was at least a deck higher so I could look down on the quarterdeck of the transport ship. One of the officers was staring in horror at the three banks of cannon muzzles that were now swinging around in his direction. His captain was yelling orders and pointing, but there was nothing that could save them now.

  Chapter 16

  “Fire as your guns bear,” yelled Cochrane. Our heaviest guns were on the lower deck, big, ship-killing, thirty-six-pounders. As the first of these roared out, the stern windows of the transport dissolved into a storm of glass and splinters. I could only imagine the carnage caused as the great lump of iron smashed its way through the interior of the ship. The next two balls missed, which I thought was odd, given the range – the ship’s cat should have been able to aim a ball at that distance. Then the transport disappeared behind a bank of smoke as the rest of our guns fired. There was the sound of splintering wood and I noticed that the mizzen top mast of the little ship was slowly tipping down onto the deck, taking the topsail with it. But, curiously, I then saw two big water spouts fifty yards off the enemy hull. At first I thought that another ship must be firing, but that was not the case. The frigate was now on the other side of the transport and the enemy flagship was still half a mile away. Next in line behind the transport was a small corvette. That was now changing course to the south to keep away from us.

  “Some of those bastards are deliberately firing wide,” snarled Cochrane as he reached the same conclusion I was coming to.

  “It won’t matter,” I told him. “That transport must have been gutted by the balls that did strike home.” We both stared through the thinning smoke, expecting to see a floating ruin. But the veil of war was blown away to reveal a relatively intact ship. Two masts still stood and while the sails were peppered with holes, it was still underway. Two of its cannon at the front of the ship were even able to fire with at least one hitting our hull with a dull thud.

  “Goddammit,” Cochrane swore. “At least half of them must have fired high or wide.” He turned to Crosbie. “Take us round to port so that our guns continue to bear.” The ship started to heel round again to something close to its earlier southerly heading. As the transport appeared through the gun ports again some of the guns began to fire but nothing like a full broadside. It was instead a hesitant, stuttering rate of fire. “What in heaven’s name is the matter now?” shouted Cochrane at the gun deck.

  “Powder, sir,” shouted one of the gunners. “We have no charges.” As I looked down it was immediately apparent what the problem was. Normally, the deck would be alive with men running about in battle. Many of those would be young powder boys bringing the charges up from the magazine. Only a single charge or two would be kept on deck by each gun to avoid the risk of explosion from enemy fire. But there was not a single powder boy to be seen. The gunners on the port battery were taking any charges they could find from the starboard guns to maintain some degree of fire.

  “Flashman, go below and find out what is going on. Be quick, because that frigate is swinging round to give us a taste of our own medicine and the flagship will be up with us in a minute or two.”

  I did not need telling twice. The Portuguese frigates were faster than a seventy-four. Once they realised that we could not fire, they would close in like sharks around a wounded whale. I raced down the steps to the main deck. As I got to the hatch leading to the gun deck below, I shouted at the squad of marines on the grating to follow me down. There was no time to allow my eyes to adjust to the gloom below decks as I stumbled down the ladder to the next gun deck. Hardly any guns were firing now and the air was filled with men demanding powder. Several gunners were on the steps trying to get their own charges and I pushed them to one side and carried on down to the bottom gun deck. It was then that I heard shooting from the deck below.

  The magazine was on the lowest deck, under the waterline, to prevent it being hit in battle. It lay between the two main ladders to the upper decks and so could be approached from both ends of the ship. Normally, charges would be collected through both doorways, which were covered in damp felt curtains to prevent any sparks. There would be a stream of boys running in and out. But now as I stared into the dark passageway that was dimly lit by two shuttered lanterns, I saw that it was almost deserted. I crouched at the bottom of the ladder and looked about to get my bearings while the first of the marines waited on the steps behind me. The black wal
ls of the magazine were just ten yards away along another length of thick felt that had been soaked in water. It was suspiciously quiet. But then I heard a low groan from nearby. Squinting into the gloom I saw a dark shadow lying against one of the ribs of the ship.

  “Who’s that?” I whispered.

  “I’ve been shot,” came the reply. It was the voice of a young boy, one of the powder carriers.

  “What’s going on here?” I asked.

  “Some Portuguese have taken over the magazine. They are holding the boys hostage and threatening to blow up the ship.” There was the sound of a stifled sob before he added again, “They shot me.”

  “Don’t worry, lad, we will get you sorted in a minute.” As I spoke there was movement at the curtained doorway to the magazine. A face briefly appeared and then there was a flash and a simultaneous bang of a pistol shot. The sound reverberated around the confined space and while I instinctively ducked, I had no idea where the ball went.

  “Keep back!” shouted the man in the doorway. “Or we will blow you all to hell.”

  Before I could reply, another familiar voice called out. This time from further away and I realised he was shouting from the other side of the magazine. “Who’s there? Hold your fire, for God’s sake.”

  “Grenfell, it is me, Flashman,” I shouted back. “I am not the one doing the shooting.”

  “Flashman, be careful. One of the boys has escaped this side and says there is spilled powder all over the magazine. There are two of them inside; one spark from a pistol or a sword striking metal and we’re done for.”

  I had seen a ship blown up after its magazine caught fire. Hell, I had been aboard it until moments before. I remembered all too well the shattered timbers and burned corpses floating in the water afterwards. The thought sent a shudder down my spine. The crack of a ball hitting the side of the hull quickly reminded me of the situation we were facing on the upper deck. The Portuguese ships, realising that we were no longer able to fire our cannon, would be closing in. They would blast us from all sides and if Grenfell was right, it would be a miracle if the magazine did not explode at some point during the battle.