The wording of his orders began “You are hereby required and directed . . .” Should the sentence have ended “to go ashore and stay there”? He pictured himself an old man in St Peter Port, still mumbling about the Battle of Algeciras. . . . He had been gazing absently at the Merlin but he now focused and took in the detail—the slim spars, the neat rigging, the fresh paintwork and the ship’s reflection in the still waters of the harbour. He had made her a crack ship. She had come to be noticed and known. Now she would be laid up and so would he.
“Ah, here we are, sir,” said the flag-lieutenant, “here is an order from the Adjutant at the Queen’s Barracks. It lists the men, with rank and unit. This is your authority for giving them a passage . . .”
Other formalities followed, with receipts signed and lists initialled, and then he found himself in the street. Pausing to look over the harbour again, he saw the Dove under sail, having put in from Tangier the night before. She was too far distant for him to see the men on board but there was something amiss about the way she was handled. He could picture Sam Carter’s exasperation with his scratch crew, with men unable even to understand what he wanted. She was actually in irons for a minute, then slowly paid off and headed for the Atlantic.
How hard it was to know where one’s duty lay! With the war all but over, his last chance of action centred upon a single passage from Gibraltar to Plymouth. How far dared he diverge from the known track on the chart? He could go to the rescue of a British merchantman in distress—and the Dove could be described, at a pinch, as a merchantman. He could capture any French ships he encountered but might not go far out of his way in search of them. But how far was too far? As he watched, the Dove was fading into the distance and was now no more than a speck on the ocean. In the last resort, rather than take a King’s ship into needless danger, he might have to take the most difficult decision of all and leave Sam to his fate. Back on board the Merlin, Delancey gave orders for receiving the convalescent men, ordering young Mr Stock to take charge of them. With the ship to sail next day, as ordered, there was work for everyone. He nevertheless took the opportunity to invite his officers to dinner that day, midshipmen and all, being able to provide a better meal for them while the ship was in port.
Looking round the table, Delancey realised how fortunate he had been. There was Mather, so competent and dependable, the ideal first lieutenant who knew the capabilities (and limitations) of every man on board. There was Stirling, almost as competent but with some special gifts of his own, one being that extra ferocity on occasion, that actual love of battle.
Langford, the master’s mate, was almost ready for promotion to commissioned rank. He had done very well, showing great resolution and disregard of danger, though he had only a moderate intelligence. He contrasted in appearance and character with Northmore, who was tall and fair while Langford was short and dark. Where Northmore could fail was in the routine work, the day-to-day drill in which Langford excelled. Where Langford was deficient was in initiative.
Left on his own in a difficult situation, Northmore, by contrast, came into his own. He had done well on board the San-Felipe, prize, in a situation which would have been beyond many another youngster. He was a promising young officer with a possibly distinguished career ahead of him. In his leisure hours Northmore was trying to play the flute but the mournful sounds he produced were unpopular with the others and especially with Langford.
As for Topley, he had come on well under Mather’s tuition. He was still a little wild and still uncertain of his navigation but he had some budding gift for leadership. Topley was the humorist and could be quite amusing, as when he imitated Stirling’s Scottish accent and persisted in his belief that Stirling had fought as a Jacobite at the Battle of Culloden.
David Stock, a mere child at first, was immersed in seamanship, in studying the sails and tying knots, but was responding to his new responsibilities as officer in charge of supernumerary seamen. Stock was sometimes invited to play chess with Mather, by whom he was always defeated, and would sometimes console himself by playing against Helliwell, the gunner, who could never win. They were all good friends and no one of them was useless or idle. As for their work, there was no smarter ship in harbour, of that he was certain.
After the loyal toast, Delancey proposed a toast to the Merlin, thinking that the commission was nearly over and that she might soon be laid up in ordinary. He could see that the others felt about her as he did and quickly added a word of consolation:
“We are not yet on the beach, gentlemen, and who knows what adventure we may have between here and Plymouth? There is time yet to make a name or make a fortune.”
“Allow me to suggest, sir,” said Mather, “that you have made a name already? This is a sloop which fought in the Battle of Algeciras!”
“Not the only sloop, as we have to admit—” added Stirling.
“But who,” asked Topley, “will remember a sloop with a silly name like Calpé?”
It was a pleasant occasion but with work to follow for the ship had to be made ready for sea. As the activity and bustle died away at sunset Delancey looked fixedly at the evening sky. Tattered clouds had been swept away and there was a pale orange light which picked out the Merlin’s spars and rigging. Studying the sky, Delancey remarked to Stirling that the west wind was likely to stiffen before morning. As he fell asleep the Merlin was rocking gently at her mooring. They were plainly going to have a rough passage.
It was blowing a stiff breeze when the Merlin put to sea and the sloop shuddered under the impact of the waves.
“Away aloft!” shouted Mather and the seamen raced up the shrouds. “Lay out!” was the next order and the topmen spread out along the swaying yards. “Man the topsail sheets!” was the prelude to “Let fall—sheet home!” The lower canvas filled and the ship heeled over, the spray flying over the forecastle as the stem crashed through the waves. The water foamed and bubbled alongside as the ship gathered speed. “Man the topsail halliards—haul taut!” was followed by “Hoist topsails!” Mather was about to call “Man topgallant sheets and halliards” but looked first towards Delancey, who answered his unspoken query by shaking his head. The sloop was carrying canvas enough and there was dirt to windward. It would be blowing half a gale by midday. Gibraltar slowly fell astern and was soon blotted out by a rain cloud. The Merlin was alone on a waste of tumbling water.
Delancey went below to consult Le Petit Neptune Français or French Coasting Pilot. He had a difficult decision to make. With this wind his proper course, on a passage to Plymouth, would be well to the westward, but that would minimise his chance of intercepting any French merchantman. Then there was the Dove, a possible source of intelligence and certain to be near the French coast. Sam Carter had mentioned a place called Marennes as his port of shipment and Delancey began a more careful study of the chart. He found, first of all, a passage called the Pertuis Maumusson, which leads into the strait behind the Ile d’Oleron. Soundings within this passage ran to ten or fifteen feet at low water, which would be just enough, presumably, for the Dove. The passage was split by the Barat shoal and there were further sandbanks, behind which was the village of Marennes. Turning to the sailing directions, Delancey read as follows:
To go to Seudre, or to pass through Maumusson it is necessary to have the country pilot; for these channels are not very steady and particularly that of Maumusson. They change very often, and are besides very winding and narrow, with a multitude of banks and rocks, which cannot well be described.
There was little comfort in that description but it was clear from the chart that Marennes could be reached by an alternative route, the Pertuis d’Antioche. This was complex too but better sheltered, the drawback being that it led into the French fleet anchorage off the Ile d’Aix. Studying the chart, Delancey did not like what he saw. For him to go anywhere near Marennes would bring the Merlin all too near Matelier shoal. The wind, admittedly, might die away over the next few days. But would it? Autumn seemed to be early
this year with a hint of cold even now in September. He must not risk his ship among the sandbanks, least of all on a lee shore, whether for Sam or anyone else.
In fact the breeze almost died away off Finistere, then freshened a little as the Merlin crossed the Bay of Biscay. There was only a moderate south-westerly breeze when he first glimpsed the French coast. Keeping well clear of the Matcher shoal, the Merlin came in before the wind, aiming in daylight at a point just north of the Point de la Coubre. In late afternoon he was off Point d’Alvert and hoping to catch sight of the Dove. There was no sign of her and he concluded that she was either still at Marennes or had loaded her cargo there and gone.
On the whole, he suspected that Sam was still there, hampered by his inexperienced crew. He decided to remain off Point d’Alvert during the night, hoping that news of his presence would reach Marennes and that the Dove would appear in the morning. Next day, soon after daybreak, a small fishing boat came out from the Pertuis Maumusson and headed straight for the Merlin. When first sighted the boat was being rowed but she hoisted a sail when clear of the channel, dropping it again as she came alongside. There were four men aboard, evidently local fishermen, and the eldest of them brought a letter addressed to Captain Delancey, Royal Navy. It read as follows:
I am here with the Dove at Marennes and five of my crew have deserted, gone ashore. I don’t have men enough or goods enough to make the Pertuis Maumusson, which is impossible anyway in a westerly wind. For the Pertuis d’Antioche at night I should need a local pilot and there is none dare offer. It is dangerous here because news of the Dove may reach the French Navy. Could you lend me some hands to bring the Dove out? Sorry to give trouble. Sam
Delancey’s response was to bring two of the fishermen aboard and give them some brandy. The elder, who owned the boat, was the skipper; the other spoke a French which was easier to understand. They were far from successful, between them, in describing the Dove’s predicament. It seemed to Delancey that Sam Carter, who could persuade these fishermen to deliver his message, might as easily have persuaded them to man the Dove for her passage through the Pertuis Maumusson. The difficulty was in making the fishermen understand his question. So far as he could make out, they were afraid of someone called Delmotte of Brouage, but it never emerged who he was, whether a local official or a rival fisherman.
The conversation ground to a standstill and Delancey had to make up his mind. Providing his guests with some more brandy, he went on deck to check the wind direction. As he had rather expected, the wind was veering westwards and freshening. This decided him finally against giving Sam the help he wanted. It would have been a question anyway, whether he should risk half a dozen men in as dubious a cause, but the wind clinched the matter. The Dove could neither stay where she was (apparently) nor come out by the Pertuis Maumusson.
So it was the Pertuis d’Antioche or nothing and for this Sam needed a pilot, whom Delancey could not supply. His instinct was to join Sam, using the fishing boat, and tell him to hold a pilot at pistol-point. But that was against all regulations and would leave the Merlin without her proper commander. He was no more entitled to risk a lieutenant in this service. Dare he, in fact, send anyone? He considered and rejected Langford and Northmore. David Stock was hardly more than a child.
What about Topley? He was growing up but was a little too frivolous, a little too inclined to see the funny side of things. Would such a mission as this make a man of him? Or would it break him? Delancey made a final decision and shouted “Pass the word for Mr Topley.” When the youngster arrived, Delancey told him the situation and showed him the route by which the Dove must escape. Then he turned from the chart and gave his orders:
“These fishermen will take you to a lugger called the Dove, at anchor off Marennes. Her master has valuable information for us about the French fleet. He cannot come out by the Pertuis Maumusson, not with the wind in this quarter. He cannot attempt the Pertuis d’Antioche without a pilot. He has asked me for a party of seamen to help bring his lugger out. I have to refuse that request. All I can spare him is one man—you.
“This is a dangerous mission, Mr Topley, and you will be risking your life. This is what we all have to do while we are in the King’s service. Your task is to help bring the Dove out and assure Mr Carter that I shall meet him outside the Pertuis d’Antioche and do what I can to baffle the pursuit. You will go well armed, with at least two loaded pistols. You will be as ruthless as necessary and you will assist Mr Carter as far as St Peter Port, Guernsey, where this ship will call to pick you up. Is all that clear? Very well then. You will leave in five minutes’ time, taking this bottle of brandy with you to inspire your boat’s crew. I wish you luck!”
Turning away, Delancey shouted “Pass the word for Mr Mather!” and told that officer that he was losing the services of Mr Topley and would have Mr Stock as replacement. They watched as the fishing boat headed back for the land. “A boy today,” said Delancey, “and a man tomorrow—or possibly dead. . . . What do you think of the weather?”
“There will be half a gale by morning, sir.”
The wind was rising and the Merlin had begun to pitch. Dark clouds were gathering to the westward and, in the other direction, a fishing boat was racing into the Pertuis Maumusson under a scrap of canvas. It began to rain as Delancey went to breakfast and he thought that Mather had understated the case. In his own opinion it was going to blow a gale.
During the rest of that day the Merlin was heading, close-hauled, into the Atlantic. With each hour she encountered a stronger wind and a heavier sea. Under shortened canvas, the ship pitched and rolled. Topgallant masts and stunsail booms had been sent down, staysails furled and topsails reefed. Below decks everything had been lashed into place with double breechings on the guns and every chest or table secured to a ring-bolt. Merely to move about the ship was an effort in itself, and there were a few minor mishaps resulting in cuts and bruises.
Dinner was served with difficulty and without the pea-soup there should have been. Delancey decided to wear ship before dark, while the men could still see what they were doing. With careful timing the ship was brought on her new course. There was an awful moment when it looked as if she might be caught by a wave on the beam but she paid off in time and now had the wind on the starboard quarter. Canvas was still further reduced before nightfall and then the watch below turned in. For those on deck there were moments when a crescent moon could be glimpsed between tattered, racing clouds. Every part of the ship was creaking and groaning with the strain of her pitching and rolling. The noise of the wind through the rigging was a constant moan rising to a shriek when a harder gust than usual tried, as it seemed, to tear the ship apart.
On deck, Delancey looked back on mounting rollers in sinister pursuit and thought of the constant care that had been spent on the rigging, none of it too slack or too taut. The ship and her crew were being tested now and it was in such weather as this that a past mistake or instance of neglect could turn into present disaster. All was so far well but he knew that the worst was still to come.
And what would happen to the Dove? She would be driving now through the Pertuis d’Antioche, with sandbanks on either side and somewhere ahead a French squadron riding at anchor in the Aix Roads. Sam Carter would have this advantage that the anchor watch on each man-of-war would have something else to think about. But the channel was narrow and all must depend on somebody knowing each twist and turn. How was Topley shaping up to the situation? Sam would have thought the boy a poor reinforcement but his presence would give his skipper another officer, another man on whose loyalty he could count. It might make all the difference and Delancey believed that it probably would.
At first light the French coast was a dark line ahead of them, seen through clouds of spray. Studying the land, Delancey could see that his navigation had not been at fault. The Merlin had Les Sables d’Olonne on her starboard bow. He took Stirling into his day-cabin to study the chart. They had both to hold on to the table as they talke
d.
“If all has gone well, we should sight the Dove within the next hour. We shall soon afterwards sight a frigate coming through the Pertuis Breton.”
“May I ask, sir, why you think that?”
“Well, Mr Stirling, the enemy must do something. If the Dove went through the Basque Roads during the small hours, there might have been gunfire, there should at least have been a report. So the French Admiral will order a pursuit.”
“But in what direction? How is he to know?”
“He won’t know. That is why he will send out two frigates, one through the Pertuis d’Antioche with orders to patrol as far as the Gironde estuary; the other through the Pertuis Breton with orders to patrol as far as the Ile d’Yeu.”
The ship lurched heavily and both officers clung to the table. A book which Delancey had been reading slid across the deck and rapped against the ship’s side. The lantern swung violently and there came sound, from the steward’s pantry, of broken crockery. It was now blowing a full gale and men were already exhausted by the mere effort of holding on.
“Do you think the Dove will be taken, sir?”
“It will depend upon whether she was damaged during the night. If she is not crippled, Sam Carter will take her into shoal water where a frigate cannot follow.”
Delancey’s prediction was, as Stirling thought, uncannily accurate. As it grew light Les Sables d’Olonne were on the Merlin’s starboard beam. The look-outs then reported, almost at the same time, a sail to the south, which would be the French frigate, and a tiny scrap of sail to the north, evidently the Dove. Delancey’s telescope swept a waste of stormy water under a leaden sky. The gale was blowing now from the southwest. There were these two patches of canvas and no other sail to be seen.
Touch and Go Page 21