The sloops were soon under sail, and were cheered by spectators as they left the anchorage. Delancey gave the order to clear for action and hoped devoutly that their intervention would prove useful. Sloops ordinarily formed no part of a battle fleet and, while frigates were often present, they seldom took any part in an action. In the present instance the two sloops might be ignored by the enemy. As against that, either or both might be sunk before they were even identified. The wind was faint and the two craft moved slowly across the bay. What had been a distant rumble of gunfire became more deafening as they approached. Before them, as they diverged, the smoke lay across their bows like a belt of fog, occasionally lit from within by flashes of light. On her more northerly course the Merlin was approaching an area where two or three topgallant masts showed faintly above the smoke. From forward came the chanting of the leadsman. The ship was otherwise quiet save for Delancey’s orders to the quartermaster at the wheel.
“Steady as she goes,” he said, and then, to Stirling, “I don’t like the look of this. The shore batteries are playing merry hell and the wind has almost died away.”
“Let us hope, sir, that the Spanish artillerymen are new to their work.”
“Likely enough, but Linois will have sent a third of his men ashore to help them. He need only man the one broadside . . .”
To make himself heard, Delancey had now to shout. One or two spent shots passed overhead and one hit the water alongside, ricocheted and sank somewhere astern. The Merlin was all too vulnerable on this battlefield. But Dundas had been right. The two sloops had to do something if it was only to rescue a few men from the water. Delancey had often studied paintings of naval battles where a common feature was usually some wreckage in the foreground to which seamen were clinging. But for this device the foreground would be rather blank. Was it, however, as common in fact as in art? There had been such scenes, to be sure, during the siege of Gibraltar in the previous war, but that had not been an ordinary battle.
What about the present affair? He was soon to discover for himself what its foreground would look like. One thing already apparent was the smoke, more of it than any artist could represent without simply spoiling the canvas. Sailors all believed that gunfire tended to produce a flat calm. Whether generally true or not, the faint wind was certainly dying away on this occasion. Moving ever more slowly, the Merlin was now entering the acrid smoke of battle. Her bowsprit became indistinct and then her foretopsail, already torn by a stray shot.
Overwhelmingly now came the smell of expended gunpowder. It was sometimes said of a man “he has never smelt powder.” This could never be said now of anyone on board the Merlin, for the smoke was everywhere, making the eyes smart. There came a shout from the forecastle and Delancey snapped “Hard a-starboard,” hoping that his reaction was the right one. A ghostly ship’s boat slid past to larboard but seemed to be empty. Delancey corrected the sloop’s course, knowing little by now of his whereabouts save that he was or would soon be in the middle of a battle.
To judge from the tremendous noise there were two ships in action somewhere shoreward of the Merlin, each broadside shaking the sloop by mere concussion conveyed through the water. Delancey glimpsed one of them for a minute and saw the muzzle flash from her more distant opponent. He guessed that the British ship might be the Pompée.
Five minutes later some wreckage was sighted, a ship’s mizen-top with seven men clinging to it. The Merlin hove to as Delancey ordered and the men, Frenchmen from the Formidable, were rescued. They had gone overboard when the mast fell but could give no information save that the Formidable had cut her cable, probably with the idea of running ashore. Firing in that direction was now more distant but the sounds of battle to the northward were intensified.
A boat appeared from nowhere which Delancey recognised as a launch from the dockyard, pulling towards where he had last seen the Pompée. She had no sooner vanished than another but smaller boat appeared, evidently damaged and leaking. Her crew were taken on board the Merlin, explaining that they had come to help the squadron but had been hit by a stray shot. Delancey held north-westward, the sound of gunfire intensifying, and then the smoke was cleared by a freshening breeze and he could see the Hannibal on his larboard bow. The breeze did not hold for long but he could see what had happened.
The Hannibal had been heading south, attempting to pass between the French ships and the shore. She had gone too close to the land, however, and had run aground a quarter of a mile from the beach and immediately opposite the Santiago Battery. An attempt was being made to kedge her off but the launch with the anchor was under fire from some gunboats. To judge from the chart, the Hannibal must be in three fathoms or less, her attempted manoeuvre having been singularly ill advised.
Holding his course for another ten minutes while the breeze died away again, Delancey dropped anchor at a cable’s distance to seaward of the Hannibal, keeping her between him and the battery. Then he ordered Stirling to lower a boat.
Coming on board the Hannibal with Topley at his heels, Delancey found himself the witness of a scene in hell. Seamen were firing and reloading with top speed but several of the upper deck starboard guns, including Numbers One to Three had been dismounted. Those still in action were undermanned and the blood-stained deck was littered with the killed and wounded. As he hesitated at the entry port, more cannonballs tore between decks and crashed through the stern. She was being raked by a French ship somewhere on her bows. The ship’s hull shuddered under the impact but she was otherwise motionless, a sitting target. Taking a deep breath, he ran aft and gained the quarterdeck, where some of her guns were still in action. A wounded man was sobbing like a child, another was groaning. The only officer to be seen was a lieutenant whose right arm was bandaged.
“Delancey of the sloop Merlin, come to see if I can be of service. Are you the captain?”
“No, sir. The captain is below, having a wound dressed.” The man was in obvious pain and was trying hard to keep his voice under control.
“Can I help you lighten the ship? My men could push your guns overboard. She might float then and we could tow you off, stern foremost.”
At that instant the deserted wheel was smashed by a shot which went on to knock splinters out of the mizen, wounding another five men, one of them doubled in agony. The lieutenant winced and tried to focus on Delancey.
“I’ll tell the captain of your offer, sir, but I don’t think your plan will answer. If we cease fire we shall suffer worse and lack the men to help drag her off. We have lost over fifty killed already. Apart from that, the ship has been holed between wind and water.”
“But the shot holes have been plugged?”
“Oh, yes, sir. But with the water aboard she will be deeper than when we took the ground.”
“And the pumps?”
“Damaged, sir, and only one of ‘em working.”
A cannon-ball from the Fort shattered the gangway amidships and another, red hot, lodged in the break of the quarterdeck, where it was dowsed by a marine.
The lieutenant’s voice cracked but he remained steady. “Heated shot, sir; a trick they learnt from us in the last war. They are using explosive shells, too, but so far without effect.”
“If we can’t float her, you will have to haul down her colours. Can I help remove your crew?”
“Not without the captain’s order, sir.”
“My compliments to him, then, and tell him that I am standing by. I can relieve you a little by giving those gunboats something else to think about.”
“Thank you, sir. The captain will be obliged to you.”
The Hannibal was evidently in a bad way, too many of her officers fallen and her men shocked and dazed with bloodshed, noise and fatigue. As he went back to the entry port, calling Topley to follow him, another shot smashed through the ship’s side. He glanced in that direction to see what had happened. “There goes Number Seven Gun,” he said to himself as he scrambled into the boat. “She can’t last much longer.�
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Back on board the Merlin, Delancey used his telescope to survey the battlefield as a whole. Firing was less intense and a breeze had cleared the smoke away, revealing the full extent of the disaster. A mile to the south was the flagship, Caesar, flying the signal to discontinue the action. The Venerable and Audacious were obeying this signal, the Pompée, badly damaged, was being towed out by boats, and the Spencer, which had never come to close action, was under sail.
Looking shorewards, he could see that all three French ships were aground in the shallows, all damaged and none in action. The Hannibal apart, only the shore batteries were firing. Far to the south was the Calpé but heading towards the flagship with several boats in tow. The Spanish gunboats were in two groups, some to the south and others to the north of the Santiago Battery, all firing at the Hannibal.
The gunboats were undecked rowing craft, somewhat larger than a ship’s boat, each mounting a single cannon in the bows. A group of them, working together, could equal the fire of a warship but they were highly vulnerable and were used only close to the shore. Studying them through his telescope, Delancey made a quick decision and ordered Stirling to make sail. While the sloop gained way he had a hurried talk with Mather.
“We can’t save the Hannibal but we can drive off the gunboats. If I get the chance I shall try to capture one of them. So I want the launch ready to lower, with crew armed and Mr Northmore to command.”
The Merlin swept round the Hannibal’s bows and bore down on the near gunboat. For a fatal moment or two these continued to engage the Hannibal. Before they could shift to the new target, the Merlin had hove to with her port broadside bearing on them. “Fire!” shouted Delancey and his gunners, inspired by Stirling, produced a rapid and accurate fire, enough to sink one of the gunboats and send the rest pulling out of range with more haste than dignity.
Seeing that group in disarray, Delancey made sail again, circled to seaward of the Hannibal and bore down on the other group. “Heave to!” he shouted, and “Lower the launch!” The order, being expected, was quickly obeyed and the launch raced after the gunboat which had advanced most daringly. The boat, full of men, might have escaped but a shot from the Merlin smashed three of her oars.
Through his telescope, Delancey watched the longboat surge up to her opponent. Northmore was first aboard the enemy, cutlass in hand, and the Spanish were overwhelmed in a matter of minutes. Then the launch was on her way back with the captured gunboat in company.
All this time the guns of the Santiago Battery ignored the Merlin and continued to fire steadily at the Hannibal. The artillerymen had found the range and bearing of that target and were not to be tempted into engaging any other. Neither the French nor the Spanish had captured a British ship of the line for years. They saw in the Hannibal a ship that would have to surrender and they would not cease fire until she did. Their tired gunners were firing slowly but every shot found the target.
A few guns replied from the grounded ship and Delancey could see that Captain Solomon Ferris was on deck again and directing the fire. Delancey did not linger on the scene but made sail as soon as he had recovered his launch. Captain Ferris acknowledged his help with a wave of the hand. The Merlin was now headed seawards, lengthening her distance from the Hannibal.
“She is striking her colours, sir,” said Mather, and Delancey could see that this was true. Her ensign was rehoisted with union downwards and boats from the French flagship Formidable could be seen closing in on her. Half an hour later, while the Merlin was on her way back to Gibraltar, with the gunboat in tow, Delancey saw the Calpé nearing the Hannibal as if to offer help. There was nothing he could do and some gunfire followed as if the Calpé were in action. Then all was silent again and the battle was over.
Back in the anchorage at Gibraltar, Delancey went over to the Calpé to ask what had happened.
He found Dundas in a smoke-blackened uniform, hatless and bloodstained, struggling to make good the damage aboard his sloop. He was a more convincing leader than Delancey had expected and his exhausted men were doing their best.
“Well,” said Dundas, “we had done what we could for the other ships, especially the Pompée. It was our boats and two from the dockyard which towed her out. We picked up a few Frenchmen from the water. Then, as the smoke cleared, I saw that the Hannibal was ashore. I guessed that she would have to strike her colours but thought it might be possible to remove some of her crew first. Her ensign was still flying but, with the wind as it was, I could not see it plainly. I only discovered afterwards that it had been hoisted union downwards.
“By then it was too late. I had sent two of my boats to her assistance. The result was that twenty-two of my men were taken prisoner. I was so furious about it that I fired a broadside or two at their gunboats, which had been beached. The Santiago Battery replied and we sustained damage enough to keep us busy for a week, with seven men wounded into the bargain. How did the Merlin fare?”
“We were a little more fortunate, sir. I was on board the Hannibal at an earlier hour, before she struck but after she was aground. I drove off the gunboats and captured one of them. We suffered no damage and only two men are slightly wounded.” Delancey felt that his report sounded rather smug. He tried to add the human touch: “We might have suffered more if the batteries had not been firing at you. We were lucky to escape as lightly as we did.”
“You did well, Delancey. The man I am sorry for is the Admiral, though. We must assume that the French will be claiming a victory and it will be Sir James’s task to explain away a defeat.”
“But was it a defeat, sir?”
“Well, Sir James had six ships against their three and came off badly damaged, leaving one of his ships in their hands. Men have been court-martialled for less.”
“But look, sir, you were the last in action. What did you see? All three French ships were aground and out of action, masts sprung, topmasts gone. Boats from the shore were taking away the wounded. What you could see, what I had seen a little earlier, was a beaten enemy, unfit to renew the engagement.”
“Very true, but it won’t read like that in the dispatch which Linois is writing. France has no excessive number of victorious admirals. Linois, you may depend upon it, is making the most of his opportunity. He has a British ship of the line with the tricolour hoisted above the blue ensign and he wants, above all, to place her out of our reach. She is the proof of his victory. Had I been in Ferris’s place I should have set her on fire.”
“With all his wounded on board?”
“No, you’re right. He couldn’t do that.”
“So Linois has his prize and means to keep her. What will he do next?”
“He will send a message overland to Cadiz, asking the Admiral there to come to his rescue. I should guess that the messenger is already on his way.”
“Then he must have his three ships—no, four, ready for sea by the time the squadron arrives. He will have to work fast.”
“And Sir James will have to work faster!”
“That’s true, by God. When Linois sails, Sir James has his last chance to recover the Hannibal. I thought of volunteering to burn her tonight but his better plan will be to recapture her.”
“From among all those Spanish three-deckers?”
“It will be his only chance, for all that. The work of repair should have begun by now.”
“It has begun so far as the dockyard is concerned, but the seamen are exhausted, unfit for work until tomorrow. Then they will have to work as never before. It is going to be a race against time.”
Chapter Ten
RACE AGAINST TIME
DELANCEY went aboard the Merlin again in thoughtful mood, considering all the problems that were likely to arise. The damaged ships of the line were already being warped into the harbour and he decided, on an impulse to visit the dockyard and discover, if he could, what the shortages would be.
With him he took young Stock with the idea of teaching the boy something of the shipwright’s work. T
he youngster had so far, he thought, been rather subdued. He had been useful on occasion and he had certainly kept out of trouble—more so, perhaps, than a high-spirited lad should have done—but Delancey rather wondered whether he had given the boy enough encouragement.
“My object in paying this visit is to discover what help I can offer,” he explained. “A sloop can play only a small part in a general engagement. But we may be able to help in some other way.”
They entered the dockyard gate and picked their way among stacks of timber and coils of rope. “Where is Mr Evesham?” asked Delancey and was directed to a small wooden hut round which some labourers were collected. Presently the men dispersed and the grey-haired senior shipwright turned to greet his visitors. “Good to see you again, Captain Delancey. What can I do for you?”
“I want to know about the damage sustained by the Pompée and Caesar. What state are they in?”
“Well, sir,” replied the shipwright, “a complete repair of those ships would take six weeks and maybe two months. We are told, however, that Sir James must put to sea in a matter of days; as soon, in effect, as the Spanish squadron arrives from Cadiz. This is a different undertaking altogether, an all but impossible task. We must patch them up somehow so that they won’t actually sink. I don’t pretend to like this sort of work, all hurry and bustle, with no time to plan or do things in order, but we are at war—as I have to tell my workmen—and we can’t ask the enemy to wait for us.”
“What material are you going to lack? Timber, plank, canvas or what?”
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