By the Knife

by Steve Partridge

  ‘As of this morning, sir, we have lost thirty-two men and have seven unfit for duty; Mr. Martin has twenty-two fit marines.

  Mr. St. George seems much improved, but he is a source of concern to me, sir. I do not understand what has happened to him.’

  ‘He is fighting his demons in his own way, Stephen; we must watch him very carefully.’

  ‘What did those bastards do to him, sir?’

  ‘I don’t know and at the moment he is not prepared to tell us; keep him on light duty.’

  ‘He stabbed that pirate, didn’t he, sir?’

  ‘I think so, but for the moment we will let it rest.

  Fill all the water casks and try to supplement our stores as much as possible; the men will enjoy some hunting. Try to feed them on fresh meat whilst we are here; perhaps they can also find some fresh fruit ashore. I intend to sail for Gibraltar in three days’ time and from there to Portsmouth.’

  Later that day David and Mr. Woods the surgeon boarded the merchantman and inspected her cargo. Fully loaded with goods from the far side of the world she was a very rich prize indeed.

  Davis was cleaning the aft cabin, which showed the muddy footprints and general disorder that always seemed to go with pirates.

  ‘How do you find her, Mr. Davis?’ David asked.

  ‘Well used, sir, but solid; she’ll go home well enough,’ the man replied.

  ‘Good, ask Mr. Peterson for anything you might need.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’ Davis knuckled his forehead.

  As they were rowed back to the Challenger Woods said, ‘Why don’t we send the French prisoners with Jameel, sir? It would save us feeding them.’

  David turned to face him.

  ‘Our prisoners are honourable men fighting for their country, Mr. Woods. Jameel would sell them to the highest bidder without a second thought.’

  Woods looked surprised. ‘Really, sir? I thought he was quite a nice young man.’

  ‘I’m sure he is, surgeon, but he lives in a different world to us. A world we are only just beginning to understand.’

  As the sun began to rise, three days later, the heavily laden merchantman moved slowly out of the bay. The jungle was beginning to wake with the squawking of birds, which always heralded a new day. David Fletcher watched her slow departure; the breeze being light she barely had steerage way as she clawed clear of the land.

  ‘You may follow when ready, Mr. Peterson,’ David ordered his first lieutenant. Peterson touched his forelock and called lay to Mr. Michael, who set the men at the windlass in motion.

  Samuel had his top men aloft and as the anchor broke clear called, ‘Let fall.’ The sails filled to the gentle breeze and the Challenger began a slow turn towards the island that guarded the entrance of the bay.

  As he watched the land slowly recede David reflected on the colours of this land; the sand of the beach almost white contrasting with the dark green of the jungle, which became almost blue in the distance. Beyond the jungle, mountains loomed in the far distance.

  Peterson joined him at the rail. ‘There is much to learn about this land, Stephen,’ David told him.

  ‘I’m sure you are correct, sir, but at the moment I would rather look at Portsmouth dockyard.’ Peterson grinned.

  The hands had just finished their midday meal when the masthead lookout reported cannon fire in the distance. Acting Lieutenant Smyth climbed aloft with a spy glass and called down that he could see the spars of a ship on the horizon.

  ‘Order Mr. Davis to reduce sail. The Indian Queen must keep well astern of us,’ David called. He turned to Mr. Samuel. ‘Set all the sail you can,’ and then to Peterson, ‘Bring the ship to quarters and lock the French below.’

  The breeze was still light and the afternoon was almost run when Smyth reported that he could see two ships, which looked like frigates, alongside each other at a distance of three miles.

  The cannon fire had stopped. ‘Prepare to board,’ David ordered. ‘One of those ships will be English. Mr. Samuel, get us alongside.’ From the deck they could now see that the two ships were badly matched, a large French frigate fought a much smaller English ship. The Englishman looked like a frigate of around twenty-six guns. ‘Get alongside the Frenchman,’ David ordered, ‘as fast as you can.’ The fight on the French ship was fierce and it was not until the Challenger was within pistol range that anybody noticed her approach. As she ground alongside, David led his crew onto the enemy deck.

  The arrival of a second English crew settled the outcome of the battle. Even so the French fought on, showing great bravery, and it was almost another hour before they threw down their arms. As he climbed over the rail David saw that the English frigate’s crew were trying to fight their way to the quarterdeck, whilst the French were forcing them to fight on two fronts, attacking from the bow and holding the aft deck. He shouted for his men to follow and charged into the larger body of the enemy in an attempt to join with the other English crew.

  A seaman with a boarding pike thrust at his stomach. David turned to one side and deflected the pike with his sword. At the same time Chaney drove his bayonet into the man’s side. David leapt over the fallen man and engaged an officer who was shouting at his men to fight harder; the man stumbled and David took him in the neck. Steadily the Challenger’s crew forced their way across the deck. The fighting became more intense as the French realized the battle was slipping away from them. A swivel gun cut a swathe through the struggling bodies and David saw his bos’un hack into the gunner with an axe.

  At last the French had to admit that all was lost and began to throw down their arms.

  A short, slightly fat post captain walked over to David. ‘Well met, Fletcher,’ he said. ‘You are Fletcher, are you not?’

  ‘I am, sir,’ David told him.

  ‘Good. I am on route to the Indian colonies and have orders to contact you and order you home. Charles Garratt of His Majesty’s twenty-six-gun frigate Poseidon,’ he introduced himself. ‘Your arrival was timely.’

  They walked across to where the French captain lay on the deck. A man wearing a bloody apron knelt beside him. ‘Sword thrust to the chest,’ Garratt muttered ‘my work.’

  The man looked up at them. ‘You are the captain of that English sloop?’ he asked.

  ‘I am, sir,’ David replied.

  ‘You have been of some problem to me. You are a very lucky man; I should have killed you at our last meeting.’ The French captain coughed and blood showed at the corner of his mouth. ‘Instead it seems you have killed me.’

  ‘You are not dead yet, sir,’ David told him.

  ‘You have met this ship before?’ Garratt asked as they walked away.

  ‘I did, sir, although I have only just realized it,’ David told him.

  ‘Well, Captain Fletcher, you can have the honour of taking our prize into Gibraltar on your way home. I will continue on to India.’

  ‘I am short of crew, sir; if I meet another enemy I will be hard put to fight my ship and man two prizes.’

  Garratt smiled at him. ‘Nonetheless, Captain, you will manage. I must be about my repairs.’

  As David watched the other captain walk away, he cursed under his breath.

  ‘Mr. Peterson,’ he called. ‘We will lock the French prisoners below and then see to this ship’s damage.’

  Peterson turned to him. ‘Chaney is down, Captain,’ he said.

  The marine was lying with his head in Jones’ lap near the frigate’s main mast. He was holding forth with some of the worst language David had ever heard. Blood flowed freely from his upper leg. Taking his neck cloth David attempted to stem the flow. Another marine knelt down beside him and tied a line round his leg, tightening it with the handle of a knife. The blood slowed. David was in shock. Chaney was indestructible; this should not be happening.

  ‘Get the surgeon,’ he ordered and then realizing the stupidity of his order said, ‘No, wait, take Chaney to the surgeon.’ Woods would be busy today. As the marine was carried awa
y he said, ‘Jones, stay with him; let me know how he is.’

  The list of wounded was long, although not as bad as David had feared; the swivel gun had killed as many French as English. Late into the night the survivors worked trying to bring comfort to French and English alike.

  Twice David visited the crowded lower deck, speaking to the injured and trying not to make Chaney too much of a favourite. Jones sat with him all night.

  Mr. Woods told David that the ball had hit the bone. ‘I’ve removed it and stitched the wound, but what damage has been done I’m not at all sure. He might yet lose the leg.’ With this hard news David returned to his cabin to sleep for a couple of hours.

  The following morning, works were started on putting the Poseidon back in order; she had taken heavy punishment from the French eighteen-pounders. On board the Tonnante the repairs were minimal, just enough to get her underway.

  Towards evening the swell began to pick up from the southeast. ‘Is this normal in this area?’ Captain Garratt asked.

  ‘No, sir,’ David told him.

  ‘I’ll transfer all the seriously wounded on board the French frigate,’ the post captain told him, ‘and then we had better cast off. You might as well get underway.’

  As the ships separated and raised sail the wind backed to the south and strengthened. From the quarterdeck on board the Challenger, David gave the signal for his three ships to set off to the North West.

  Once clear of the Spanish islands he hoped to set course for Gibraltar. The weather quickly worsened, however, and by first light the next day all three ships were hove to in a South Westerly gale. The weather lasted for two days before calming as quickly as it had risen. David now calculated that he was inshore of his course to pass west of the Spanish islands and he decided to risk an easterly route between the islands and the main land.

  The Challenger now had only fifty-eight men in crew with twenty on board the Tonnante and nine on the merchantman. Lieutenant Peterson had ten Frenchmen working with his crew in the French frigate; a dangerous percentage. Mr. Woods was on board the Tonnante, tending the wounded with the French surgeon. Mr. Michael now found himself acting first lieutenant, acting Lieutenant Smyth was second and Midshipman Carpenter was acting third lieutenant.

  All held their breaths as the islands passed only sixteen miles to the west, but no ships were sighted and a westerly wind sent them on their way to the straits of Gibraltar.

  As the three ships neared the entrance to the straits the breeze fell away and then returned light and hot from the desert. At a snail’s pace the flotilla tried to enter the Mediterranean only to be set back by the outgoing tide. David tried to cross to the northern shore to carry the in-flowing current, but the breeze fell away completely and he was forced to wait as the ships slowly drifted away from the land.

  First light saw them fifteen miles west of the straits and it was not until almost noon that a breeze from the southwest sent them on their way.

  As the ships anchored under the rock, a longboat came alongside the Challenger. In the stern sat a flag lieutenant who instructed David to attend the admiral on board his flagship without delay.

  Admiral Paterson had been replaced by Admiral Morrison as officer commanding Gibraltar. A hard-looking man with a sharp, abrupt manner, Morrison came straight to the point.

  ‘You are ordered back to Portsmouth with all dispatch, Fletcher,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what you have been up to in Africa, but now it’s time to go home. You will leave the French frigate here. How many prisoners are there on board?’

  ‘Twelve officers and eighty-two men, sir,’ David told him. ‘Twenty-six of whom are wounded.’

  ‘Very well, my flag lieutenant will take charge of them. I want you away from here as soon as possible; you will take the merchantman back with you.’

  The wounded were moved ashore, Chaney amongst them. The marine’s condition was unchanged; he seemed to be barely awake. Mr. Michael came back from the hospital and told David that the building was an old Moorish fort and that the surgeon was a lieutenant from the infantry. Mr. Woods was adamant that he had a better chance ashore.

  ‘The army knows about musket wounds,’ he assured David.

  As soon as he could leave the ship David climbed up to the hospital and wound his way through the lines of wounded, some sitting against walls, others lying on the bare floor, until he found Chaney in one corner of a small side room.

  The marine lay on a cot with a dark-haired man, wearing a blood-stained apron, kneeling beside him. The man looked up.

  ‘You must be Captain Fletcher,’ he said. ‘I’m Lieutenant Clarkson seventy-three foot.’ The two men shook hands.

  ‘How is he, Doctor?’ David asked.

  Looking back at Chaney, Clarkson said, ‘Your surgeon did a good job of removing the ball and the wound looks clean; he has a fair chance.’

  ‘I’m alright,’ Chaney mumbled. ‘They are going to send me home on a troop ship; it will be a holiday.’

  David knelt down beside him. ‘I’m sure it will,’ he said. ‘When you get back we can spend our prize money on dirty women and French wine.’ Chaney gave a feeble smile. Standing, David pulled the doctor to one side. ‘Will he lose the leg?’ he asked.

  ‘I can’t tell at the moment,’ the man whispered. ‘He has an even chance and only time will tell.’

  David took a purse from his pocket. ‘Will you make sure he gets this?’

  ‘I will, Captain, don’t worry.’ The doctor put the money in his pocket.

  David turned back to the marine. ‘You have no personal weapon, Chaney,’ he said and slipped the knife under the wounded man’s belt. ‘When you return to England, come to Mistley; you have a home there.’

  Standing, Captain Fletcher walked to the door. ‘Have a safe voyage, Captain,’ Lieutenant Clarkson called to him.

  Once Mr. Peterson and his men returned from the French frigate, David began the preparations for departure. What fresh stores could be had were loaded and the water casks topped up. The gunner requested powder and shot, but was told these were not available. In the town David learned of the new ships being built by the French navy, sixty-fours and seventy-fours he was told; powerful ships designed to challenge the English rite of passage. After a stay of four days the two ships sailed with an easterly wind and set course for home. David had been advised to stand well clear of the land and so stood thirty miles west of Cape St. Vincent and set his course to pass fifty miles clear of Cape Finisterre.

  After eight days of good sailing they entered the English Channel and a day and a half later anchored at Spithead. To David’s surprise he was immediately ordered to bring the Challenger into Portsmouth dockyard.

  CHAPTER 29

  Once all was secure alongside the dock, a young lieutenant came on board and instructed David to report to the admiral’s office.

  As he walked round the dock David reflected on the lack of shipping; compared to when they had left, the dockyard was almost empty.

  The weather, however, was as before, with a cold North Easterly wind and light drizzle of rain.

  Admiral Collins stood behind a cluttered desk and shuffled papers, much as he had before. In fact, nothing had changed in the nineteen months David had been gone.

  ‘You are to report to London, Fletcher.’ The admiral did not look at David when he spoke. ‘Take your kit; you will not be returning to the Challenger.’

  ‘May I ask why, sir?’

  Collins did not answer the question. ‘Report to Admiral Brookes; I am very busy, Fletcher. You may go.’

  Back on board the Challenger David informed Peterson that he was leaving the ship. The officer looked confused.

  ‘Have we done something wrong, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘I have no idea, Stephen; perhaps Brookes will explain. Now would you please send for a carriage? I must take Mr. St. George to his home. I have some business to sort out with his mother.’

  David called for Jones. ‘Pack my sea chest for when
I return,’ he ordered.

  ‘Will I be coming with you, sir?’ Jones asked.

  David turned towards him, surprised by the question and saw a look of fear on the boy’s face.

  He thought for a moment and then said, ‘Very well, pack your bag; there is a coach for London first thing in the morning. We must be ready.’

  ‘What will you tell my mother, sir?’ Midshipman St. George gazed into David’s eyes from the other side of the swaying coach.

  ‘I will tell her that you have been an excellent officer and have suffered grave injuries,’ David told him. ‘You should be proud of your service.’

  The boy looked at the coach floor and blurted out, ‘I stabbed that pirate, sir. He and his brother took turns at me; they hurt me and I was a coward.’

  ‘Stop.’ David reached over and gripped the thirteen-year-old boy’s shoulders as he began to cry. ‘

  You were no coward, Francis; everybody would have acted in the same way.

  Now dry your tears and think no more about it; you are a brave officer of His Majesty’s navy returning home to his family. Be proud.’ David’s stomach turned. What could he say? The lad would probably be scarred for life. He watched the boy struggle to regain his composure as they approached the St. George mansion.

  There were many coaches outside the house and liveried footmen ran up as they stopped at the front door. Mrs. St. George looked momentarily startled when she saw them enter the room, which was full of well-dressed people holding tall glasses.

  ‘Captain Fletcher, Francis, I was not told of your return.’ She hesitated for a moment and then said, ‘Come, let me introduce you to my husband. Francis, this is your stepfather.’

  A short, bald man, running to fat, turned and looked at them with a look of slight distaste. ‘Captain,’ he said with a slight inclination of the head and then looked at Midshipman St. George. ‘So you’re Francis. We shall get to know each other, I’m sure.’ He turned back to his guests.