By the Knife

by Steve Partridge

  A musket was fired from the boat astern of them, taking him in the shoulder. Midshipman St. George fell forward and was grabbed by his lieutenant who, dragging the boy into his lap, took the tiller in his left hand.

  ‘Pull, men,’ Michael shouted. ‘Pull for your lives.’ More shots came from the French boat, striking an oar and grazing the arm of a seaman.

  With the air of a man who has all the time in the world a marine stood and took careful aim with his musket. He fired, hitting the bow oarsman in the French boat. The marine was passed another musket and in the same calm manner shot a second Frenchman. When the lieutenant commanding the French boat stood to shout orders to his men the marine shot him in the chest and the French crew stopped rowing. Michael could not believe his luck.

  ‘Well done, man,’ he said. ‘That was wonderful shooting.’

  The marine corporal grinned at him. ‘Regimental champion three years running, sir,’ he said proudly. ‘How is Mr. St. George?’

  They lay the boy down between the oarsmen. He was unconscious and bleeding quite heavily.

  They removed Mr. St. George’s coat and tore a strip from his shirt to make a bandage, managing to reduce the bleeding. All the time the men kept rowing, getting as far into the delta as possible in case of further pursuit.

  Lieutenant Michael kept moving for the rest of the day, only stopping when darkness fell.

  Midshipman St. George was then lifted out of the boat and laid in some grass on his coat. Two of the men gave up their shirts to make more bandages and, having washed the angry-looking wound, they wrapped the boy’s shoulder in a web of linen and all bleeding stopped.

  Seeing the boy’s eyes open Michael sat beside him and said, ‘Francis, you’re alright; it’s just a shoulder wound, you will be fine.’

  For the next two days they could only try to keep him comfortable and encourage him to drink plenty of water whilst they travelled back to the ship. By the time they arrived the midshipman had a raging fever.

  The ship’s surgeon, Mr. Woods, was not too hopeful. ‘Two days,’ he said. ‘In this heat with the wound wrapped up in dirty shirts, the shoulder must fester. I should not try to remove the ball until his fever breaks, but by then he will be very weak. The only chance is to cut into him now.’

  David cursed his luck. The boy’s mother’s face kept coming into his mind as he watched Woods sharpen his knives. How he would face the woman if the boy died he did not know.

  What a fool he had been to let himself become involved. When would he learn to control his urges?

  It seemed Francis was popular; as the other boats returned all the midshipmen gathered round the boy. When the operation began the young officers all held him on the table, pushing Woods’ helpers to one side. Deep in his fever, St. George screamed and struggled as the surgeon cut and then mercifully he fell silent. Holding up the flattened ball Woods remarked that it had missed the collar bone but had hit something solid. They poured brandy from David’s stock into the wound, in the hope that it was of better quality than the ship’s rum, and then bandaged the shoulder with clean linen.

  ‘That’s all we can do,’ Woods announced. ‘Now it’s up to him.’ The midshipmen carried the boy back to their mess. They would stay with him until he regained his senses.

  Now David could think clearly about what Michael had discovered. ‘You did not see a base?’ he asked. ‘No huts or sign of people living ashore?’

  ‘I did not, sir,’ the lieutenant replied, ‘but in truth we had very little time to see anything.’

  ‘This is something else,’ David mused. ‘Not a privateer base. To our knowledge there are two warships in this area, a frigate and now this sloop.’ Spreading the chart and pointing, he said, ‘The sloop was here. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Michael confirmed.

  ‘Would Paris send two warships to protect privateers? I think not,’ David answered his own question. ‘The whole point of privateers is to release real warships for other duties. So what other duties would warships find here? Also, gentlemen,’ David looked at his officers who were gathered round his cabin desk, ‘how many warships are here? We have seen one, heard of another; for all we know there could be a dozen navy ships here.

  Bring Biondi here; we will question him further.’

  Some little time later a marine put his head round the door to tell them that Biondi had gone.

  ‘Gone,’ David said, rising from his chair. ‘Gone where?’

  The marine shrugged his shoulders. ‘Sorry, sir,’ he said. ‘Just gone, ’opped it, dun a runner.’

  David sat down again. ‘Just Biondi?’ he asked.

  ‘Three of his mates as well, sir.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘It must have been sometime this morning, sir. They were all working, banging and things, but when you wanted Biondi, they weren’t there.’

  David stared at the marine for some moments. ‘Bring the rest of the French on board,’ he ordered. ‘Shackle them in the hold.

  How could Biondi hope to escape in this delta? Where will he go?’

  David looked at Chaney who had just come in to report that the other prisoners were safely locked away.

  ‘Perhaps he has friends amongst the natives, sir. There were a couple in a canoe around last night,’ Chaney suggested. For the last week or so they had noticed more local activity; so far the natives had not come close.

  ‘I think you might be right, Chaney. In any case I think our Lieutenant Biondi knew a lot more than he let on.’

  ‘Let me ask one or two of the others, sir. I’ll get it out of them.’

  ‘Perhaps later, Chaney. For the moment please ask Jameel to come aft.’ As the door closed David smiled to himself; it seemed Chaney was back on speaking terms with him.

  When Jameel came into the cabin David told him to take off his robe; seeing the startled look on the man’s face David quickly told him that he was not going to get whipped.

  ‘I want you to wear these,’ he said, holding out a pair of britches and a shirt.

  Turning to Chaney he said, ‘We will let the French on deck to eat this evening. Jameel, I want you to sit somewhere close to them and without making it obvious listen to their conversation. Chaney, you will question them in a group; I don’t know how much English they understand, but tell them Biondi will die in the delta. Tell them the man was stupid to run off to his death. Then walk away. With any luck they will talk amongst themselves, thinking nobody understands their language.’ He turned and looked at Jameel, who was now dressed in shirt and britches. ‘I don’t think they have seen you in anything but your robe and you usually have the hood up. Let’s see if we can learn something without hurting anybody.’

  ‘I’ve got a big hat like the men wear in the sun,’ a voice from the pantry door said. ‘You could put that on.’ David turned and looked at Jones. His eye, nose and lip were all swollen and a dirty yellow colour.

  ‘Why, Jones,’ David said, ‘I do believe you’re better-looking.’ Jones managed a painful smile and held out the hat, which Jameel clamped on his head.

  Later that evening Jameel came into the cabin with a great smile on his face. ‘It worked, Captain,’ he said. ‘They talked for some time about how stupid the English marine was and the fact that Biondi knew the local chief and had bought slaves from him. They are convinced this chief will get Biondi across the delta and that a French warship will come.’

  ‘They are probably correct,’ David mused. ‘Well done, Jameel,’ he said. ‘That was good work. So now the French will know that the brig is lost and that we are sitting here. How would you attack this position, Jameel?’

  The Arab smiled. ‘By land, Captain,’ he said. ‘Through the trees.’

  The following morning everybody was working at first light. David stood on the quarterdeck instructing his officers.

  ‘An attacking ship could only come from the west; to the east the water is too shallow. In the French commander’s place I would send my marines
to attack overland from the other side of the island whilst bringing my ship in from the west, thereby catching us from two directions. I think they will use the sloop; there’s not much room for a frigate to operate and we don’t even know if the frigate is here. However, we must prepare for the worst.

  ‘Mr. Martin, you will take your full force of marines and hide them in the jungle. I want the French to come unmolested to our position. Mr. Clark, you will sway up the bow chasers and land them on the other side of the creek to the west of our position. They should be far enough away to allow the French sloop to pass them as they come round the island. I will then have lines taken to the trees opposite us and haul the Challenger athwart the creek. When this sloop turns round the end of the island I want her to find herself looking at our larboard broadside with two guns behind her and no room to manoeuvre.

  ‘Mr. Martin, you will deploy your men in such a position as to be able to attack the French forces from the rear on my command. If we have time we will position one of the cannon from the starboard battery on the poop deck in order to cover the beach; we can then fire canister in support of you. Let’s now post sentries on the other side of the island to warn us of the French approach. Our advantage is that the French think we are unaware. Dig the shore guns in carefully and position them well. There is not room to tack a sloop in this creek, which means only her chasers will bear on the Challenger.

  ‘Her starboard battery will train on the beach, but she cannot use it without hitting her own marines. Our longboats will be kept under our lee and when the time comes I will lead the starboard gun crews in boarding the enemy vessel should it be necessary. If you have no questions, gentlemen, we will need to hurry.’

  Lieutenant Clark asked, ‘When do you think they will come?’

  ‘They have no choice,’ David told him. ‘To get here they need the land breeze. It will be any evening from tonight onwards.’

  The preparations went on apace; by the time the sun began to sink into the horizon they were almost ready. Still seamen dug in the dark soil to throw up earthworks for the two guns ashore and still men laboured with the poop deck gun. The marines had disappeared into the undergrowth and the Challenger lay athwart the river with her guns loaded and run out.

  Two of the Challenger’s seamen sat in trees on the far side of the island whilst below two marines waited to carry word back, first, to Lieutenant Martin and then to the ship when the French were sighted. As the night settled in, the breeze began to wane.

  ‘I don’t think it will be tonight,’ David told Clark, ‘but keep the men sharp. Set extra watchmen and feed the men at their stations.’

  Morning came as a silent, hot, humid day. The tension of the night had given way to boredom.

  Midshipman Smyth crossed the quarterdeck and touching his hat said, ‘Good morning, sir.’

  ‘Good morning, Mr. Smyth. How is Mr. St. George?’ David asked.

  ‘Not well, sir.’ Smyth frowned. ‘The surgeon has twice been to tend him, but he is still delirious.’

  ‘I will come and see him presently,’ David told him.

  ‘Sir, I was thinking, would not the French send a reconnaissance force before attacking or an agent of some kind?’

  ‘They might well,’ David allowed.

  ‘Could it not be some friendly natives such as those over there?’ The midshipman pointed to the east and turning, David saw three canoes, each with several natives on board, standing motionless some four cables away.

  ‘That is a very good thought, Mr. Smyth. Please find Jameel for me; we will see what these natives intend.’ When Jameel arrived David asked whether he would be able to converse with the natives in this area.

  ‘I don’t know, Captain. I might be able to; there are many dialects,’ the Arab told him.

  ‘Very well, I would like you to try. Take the gig with Mr. Smyth and approach those natives.

  Make no hostile move. You can take them presents of some kind if we have something they would like.’

  ‘I’ll take them an axe and a couple of knives,’ Jameel told him. ‘They always like that.’

  As the gig moved slowly towards the native canoes, David called to a master’s mate. ‘Have we any reports of movement?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing, sir, all quiet,’ the man replied.

  At the gig’s approach the canoes gathered round and David saw Jameel stand and begin talking to the natives; all seemed friendly. After some time three of the locals climbed into the gig, which began to return. The canoes remained where they were.

  Jameel came through the rail first with a handsome young native dressed in a dark loincloth. The boy was tall, a good three inches taller than Jameel, and well muscled; his dark skin shone with health. As he came through the entry port he looked around with obvious interest. Finally, Smyth climbed on board with two huge black men armed with flat-bladed spears.

  ‘This is Zuri, Captain,’ Jameel announced. ‘He is the son of a local chief and wants to sell us slaves. His father is already supplying another white captain on this side of the delta.’

  David smiled. ‘Tell him he is welcome on board my ship. He must tell us of this other white captain, but for the moment ask him what he knows of the French on the far side of the delta.’

  Jameel spoke at some length to the boy, who seemed very much at ease in his surroundings. This other captain must have spent quite some time in these parts, David mused. Jameel turned back to David.

  ‘He says that there are three kings in the delta and his father seems to be at war with the other two. He also says they are very bad men and we should have nothing to do with them.’

  ‘The French, Jameel, ask him about the French.’

  ‘I have, sir, but he does not know the difference between French and English; to him it’s just white people.’

  ‘Very well, ask him if he knows where the white people on the far side of the delta have their base.’ Once again there was a long conversation in this strange-sounding language. Jameel asked for a chart and the two sat under an awning, pointing and talking. Finally, Jameel stood and came over to David.

  ‘He claims to have been to this base, sir. We have marked it on the chart.’

  ‘That’s good work, Jameel.

  I want to keep a friendly relationship with this king. Tell Zuri that we might well buy slaves, but first we must destroy these other white men.

  Ask him if they can tell us when these white men approach; we will pay him well for this information. For now give the three of them an axe each or something.’ After listening to Jameel for a few moments Zuri gave a big, white-toothed smile and spoke quickly in reply.

  Jameel turned to David and said, ‘He says that’s easy, sir; they are coming now.’

  The French sloop had crossed the delta the previous evening and was now lying two islands away. It would take her only a few minutes to sweep round the island once the evening breeze gave her power. David sent word to Peterson at the shore guns and then to the marines ashore. Zuri seemed very excited by the coming action and was in no hurry to leave. He told Jameel that his father would have started a fire on the island opposite so that when the breeze came the smoke would hide the Challenger until the enemy was very close.

  David immediately sent men to do just that. Just after noon a report came that French troops were landing on the far side of the island; around forty had been counted.

  ‘Not too large a force,’ the sailing master commented.

  ‘No,’ David said. ‘Biondi did not do his work very well; they think we have a normal sloop’s company.’

  As evening approached the breeze began to rise and the fire was lit. The smoke soon obscured the west end of the island and everybody tensed at their positions. On a treetop ashore a flag was raised; this was the signal that the marines were now behind the French.

  ‘The shore attack will come first,’ David told his men. ‘They will expect us to be unprepared and lying close to the beach with most of the men ashore. Be ready with t
he aft gun. Once we are engaged the sloop will come round the island and try to run alongside. She will come slowly with this breeze, straight into our broadsides with only her chasers to reply with and Mr. Peterson hammering at her stern with his two guns.’

  A great shout announced the arrival of the French. They charged out of the jungle and surrounded the huts where they believed the crew to be. Finding them empty they turned towards the beach and the aft gun opened fire with canister, cutting a channel of death through the crowd.

  As the gun reloaded, the marines, hidden in the jungle, fired volley after volley until the gun fired again.

  Within minutes half the French were down and the gun ceased firing as the marines charged out of the jungle with fixed bayonets.

  David watched as the sloop’s bowsprit came through the smoke. The Challenger’s gunners had had all day to train their guns on the spot where the sloop must come and now they fired with deadly effect. Not one gun missed its target. The men screamed abuse as they reloaded and fired again. This was what they had trained for. All the hours at drills, producing a fire rate of three broadsides in two minutes, now sent a hail of iron into the French sloop’s bow.

  Her commander was no coward. He kept his head and put his helm down in an attempt to bring his broadside to bear. The breeze was not enough; the sloop came half round and then began to drift slowly down on to the Challenger, soaking up more and more of her fire.

  He then dropped an anchor, bringing her round, and for a short while the two ships exchanged broadside for broadside, but slowly the enemy sloop swung to face the breeze, giving her stern as a target for David’s guns. As his transom was smashed to match wood, the French captain accepted the inevitable and lowered his flag.