Death's Bright Angel

by Death's Bright Angel (retail) (epub)

  I knew what he was doing, and I knew why he was doing it. I lowered my telescope.

  ‘He’s tacking,’ I said. ‘Disobeying my orders. He wants her for himself.’

  The bows of the Association were coming round into the wind.

  ‘He’s giving the Frenchman the wind,’ said Delacourt. ‘He’s conceding the weather gage!’

  ‘Intends to thwart her hawse,’ I said. ‘Grapple onto her bows, and board. Take her prize before we can even get close. But it’s a dangerous manoeuvre, Mister Delacourt — desperately dangerous, even for a man as experienced as Captain Walton.’

  A rotund, bald figure came onto the quarterdeck, carrying my breastplate and my grandfather’s sword — the weapon with which Matthew Quinton, eighth Earl of Ravensden, had fought against the Spanish Armada. He looked out toward the other two ships, shook his head, and said, decisively, ‘Rebel fuckwit.’

  ‘Thank you, Musk,’ I said. ‘You know the opinion of the King and the Duke of York about the raising of past differences.’

  ‘Beg pardon, Sir Matthew. Plain, unvarnished fuckwit, then.’

  He began to buckle the breastplate onto me. Phineas Musk: long-time retainer to the Quinton family, steward of our London house, nominally my captain’s clerk. Very nominally.

  ‘Mister Delacourt,’ I said, ‘let us make one last attempt to bring Walton to his senses and his duty. Signal in accordance with the thirteenth instruction, if you please!’

  ‘Aye, aye, Sir Matthew!’

  A white flag was hoisted to our mizzen topmast head. If we had been in the fleet, and I an admiral, the signal would have been unambiguous: the thirteenth fighting instruction specified that the frigates in attendance on the great ships should come under the admiral’s stern for new orders. With no specific fighting instruction that fitted our particular circumstance, it was the only signal I could think of that would order Walton to break off his proposed course of action immediately. I could only hope that the captain of the Association would recognise my intent.

  Instead, we looked on with horror at the spectacle unfolding before us. I do not know whether Valentine Walton saw the signal, or recognised its purpose; but I suspect that he did, and deliberately ignored it. Walton was not only displaying utter contempt for me, the jumped-up young sprig of a Cavalier who had been a sea-captain for twenty years fewer than himself, yet who commanded the larger ship and was thus his senior; he was also deliberately ignoring the fighting instructions laid down by the Lord High Admiral of England, the Duke of York. If he survived, nothing was more certain than that I would accuse him at a court-martial. He would know that, but, doubtless believed that a famous victory would see him acquitted. Above all, though, Captain Valentine Walton was displaying scant regard for the fighting qualities of his French opponent. By tacking back toward the Jeanne d’Arc, he was not only giving the Frenchman the advantage of the wind: he was exposing his own bows to a raking broadside. Perhaps he assumed the French captain was too incompetent, or too cowardly, to react.

  The main and fore courses of the Jeanne d’Arc fell, and were sheeted home with immaculate speed and precision. As the ship gained momentum from the great new spread of canvas, she turned more northerly, taking her bows away from Walton’s intended attack.

  ‘Now we’ll see your measure, monsieur le capitaine,’ I murmured to myself.

  I knew exactly what I would do in the circumstances — or at least, what I would attempt to do. I watched the sand running through the nearest glass, judged the wind, estimated the effect of the flood tide, watched the relative positions of the Association and the Jeanne d’Arc, checked the glass again —

  Now.

  Just as though I had given the order myself, in that exact moment the mainmast sails of the French ship swung around, into the wind. With the sails backed, all the momentum abruptly came off the ship; came off it so that it was in the ideal position to rake the Association.

  The Jeanne d’Arc opened fire.

  We could not see the flames from the starboard broadside, but we could see the smoke rolling toward the Association. A moment later, we heard the thunder of the blast.

  I raised my telescope again. Slowly, the smoke cleared.

  ‘Dear God,’ I murmured. ‘Walton’s foreyard has gone. Looks like his bowsprit’s shattered, too.’

  Both the standing and running rigging in the forward part of the Association was largely torn to shreds. Braces, bowlines, foreclue garnets and all the rest flew free, dancing upon the breeze.

  ‘Put on sail, Sir Matthew?’ asked Urquhart.

  ‘Of course,’ I said, angrily. ‘We must save Valentine Walton from himself — if the old fool still lives.’

  * * *

  The Jeanne d’Arc fired again. We were closing her larboard quarter now, and I could not see what the consequences were for the Association. But the long delay before her guns responded, and their raggedness when they did, told an eloquent story.

  ‘Mister Lovell!’ I cried. ‘Marines to the tops, if you please!’

  An eager, yellow-coated young man doffed his hat in salute.

  ‘Aye, aye, Sir Matthew!’

  He was impossibly young, this Ensign of the newly formed Lord Admiral’s Regiment, yet older than I had been when I, too, was an Ensign facing my first few tastes of battle. Lovell had been thrust into the command of the Marine detachment aboard the Royal Sceptre a few days earlier, during the St James’ Day fight, when his superior officer had been killed, and there had been no opportunity to appoint a new captain with more experience. But he and his Marines had proved their worth in that action, and I had faith in them now. On Lovell’s command, musketeers began to climb the shrouds to the tops. Others manned the starboard rail, taking their positions between the seamen on the swivel guns.

  We had the advantage of the wind, and edged toward the Frenchman’s larboard side. If the Association could still engage, we would be able to trap the Jeanne d’Arc between two broadsides. But I was not going to repeat the mistake of depending upon Valentine Walton.

  ‘Mister Burdett!’ The Master Gunner of the Royal Sceptre looked up at me from his place alongside one of the starboard demi-culverins. ‘Chain and bar from the bow chasers, if you please! Round for his quarter-gallery!’

  He knuckled his forehead. Burdett was a steady, quiet man, a veteran of the New Model Army’s mighty artillery train, and knew his business. In truth my order was superfluous, since Burdett had anticipated what needed to be done, and already had the necessary guns loaded with the relevant shot.

  Our first shots roared out. Glass shattered in the stern windows of the Jeanne d’Arc, and splinters of timber flew from her quarter-gallery. Mizzen shrouds tore and sprang free as our chain and bar shot severed them, and holes peppered the mizzen sail itself.

  My officers moved among the men, bawling encouragement as guns were hauled back, reloaded, and hauled into position to fire again. Delacourt was on the forecastle, waving his sword and showing no fear. Burdett took a final look around the guns in the waist, then went below to ready our main armament of thirty-two pound demi-cannon and eighteen pound culverins. Martin Lanherne, acting boatswain, blew his whistle and yelled fortifying words at the men on the yards. He had been with me nearly since the beginning of my time at sea, this veteran of both the King’s Army and Navy in the Civil Wars. Lanherne led the large, unruly Cornish following that I had inherited from my murdered predecessor as captain of the frigate Jupiter, four years before. For some reason I had never quite been able to fathom, the Cornishmen had attached themselves to me, following me from ship to ship ever since.

  The sternmost larboard guns of the Jeanne d’Arc opened fire. The hull of the Royal Sceptre shuddered as four, perhaps five heavy iron balls struck oak.

  ‘Not what I’d expect from the French,’ I said to Urquhart. ‘A mistake, or bad aiming?’

  ‘Neither,’ said the ship’s master in his Scots brogue. ‘Look, Sir Matthew, they’re adjusting some of their barrels even lower
. They’re going to fire for the hull. They’re going to fight it out English-fashion.’

  I shook my head. It was an article of faith among we English captains that our enemies in this war, the Dutch and French, fired high, on the uproll, trying to cripple the rigging and dismast our ships. If they succeeded, they could board, if they felt so inclined; if not, they could simply sail away. Whereas English ships, with heavier scantlings and heavier guns, mounted much closer to the waterline, fired low, aiming to shatter the enemy’s hull and, if possible, sink it.

  Our own forward guns fired again. I saw the flames, felt the deck shake beneath me, inhaled acrid gunsmoke. I saw our shot strike the hull of the French ship.

  A young midshipman, Stockting, ran onto the quarterdeck, knuckled his forehead, and reported the situation below.

  ‘One upper-deck demi-culverin dismounted, Sir Matthew,’ he said. ‘One man wounded. The Scot, Macferran.’

  ‘Badly?’

  ‘Splinter gash in his side. Taken below to the surgeon in the orlop.’

  Rage surged through my blood. An unreasonable amount of rage for the wounding of one man; a wound that he might well survive, if the surgeon did his business properly. But Macferran was part of my following-within-a-following, the curious gaggle of ill-sorted creatures that seemed to consider it their principal duty in life to protect mine. When I had first encountered him, having been ordered to the west coast of Scotland by the King on what proved to be a desperate and bloody business, Macferran had been nothing but a poacher-cum-fisherman. Now, he was an able seaman and a credit to the Navy. More than that, he was part of my strange, surrogate, seaborne family.

  I drew my sword, went to the quarterdeck rail, and bellowed as loudly as I could.

  ‘Sceptres! Time to show the Frogs the quality of English hearts and English blood! For God, Saint George, and King Charles!’

  I brought my blade sharply downwards, and the Royal Sceptre’s full broadside opened fire.

  * * *

  ‘Give fire!’

  On my command, the Sceptre fired again. The quarterdeck demi-culverins spat flame, a near-deafening blast thundered across the waters, and smoke billowed across the deck. And once again, almost as though they were responding to my own order, the guncrews of the Jeanne d’Arc responded. The two ships were so close that neither of us could miss. I felt iron balls strike our hull, low down, and felt the hull shake beneath my feet. Men screamed.

  A youth of no more than eighteen ran up and knuckled his forehead in salute. I recognised him as one of the carpenter’s crew.

  ‘Word from Mister Richardson, Sir Matthew. A second hole below the waterline. Bad one, just forward of the mainmast step.’

  I glanced at Urquhart and Francis Gale. We all knew what that meant. Even the arch-lubber Phineas Musk, standing nearby and firing off pistols at the Frenchman’s quarterdeck, frowned, for he knew, too.

  ‘Mister Lanherne!’ I cried. The boatswain, down in the ship’s waist ordering men to repairs of shattered rigging, looked up. ‘Look to the pumps! Every fourth quarter to man them!’

  ‘Aye, aye, Sir Matthew!’

  Such bad damage below the waterline was sure to force us out of the engagement, and sooner rather than later, especially as the Association, out of sight on the starboard, leeward side of the Frenchman, had been entirely silent for an hour or more. If we were going to win, rather than withdrawing in dishonour, we would have to do so in short order. Very short order.

  All along the starboard side, gun crews were cleaning, loading, ramming, ready to run out the guns for our next broadside. And all the while, the relentless popping and puffs of smoke from the firing of pistols and muskets. Until now, our quarterdeck had received relatively little attention; the Frenchmen in their tops seemed intent principally on exchanging fire with Lovell’s Marines in ours. Suddenly, though, a volley of lead balls struck all around us. Baines, a master’s mate, fell to the deck, clutching his thigh. Francis Gale went to him, offered him words of Godly consolation, then set about the more worldly task of bandaging the wound.

  I put down my sword, drew out my two pistols from my belt, and fired them in the general direction of the enemy. From a deck that was pitching and rolling in the swell, and with the target doing exactly the same, I found it impossible to be more accurate than that. But Musk, alongside me, steadied himself, took lengthy aim, and fired. We saw the head of a Frenchman shatter, a good two hundred yards away.

  ‘Bravo, Musk!’ I cried.

  He shrugged.

  ‘Bit of weight, Sir Matthew. What the uncharitable call “fat”. Makes a man steadier for the aim.’

  But that was not all, and we both knew it; Musk’s youth, a dark age over which he drew an impenetrable veil, had seemingly embraced activities that bestowed all kinds of unlikely, but generally violent, skills upon him.

  I went to the quarterdeck rail, and waiting for the signals from the gun captains and the Master Gunner. Wait for the downroll…

  ‘Give fire!’

  This time, our shot seemed to have more of an effect. There was a noticeably longer interval before the Frenchman replied, and when he did, his broadside was more ragged. A part of me wanted nothing more than to close and board. It was what my grandfather would have done, but the science of naval warfare had moved on since the time of the great Elizabeth’s sea-dogs. Boarding was a deeply unpredictable business, especially against large and determined crews, as that of the Jeanne d’Arc clearly was. There were great holes in the enemy’s larboard side, and his rigging was in tatters. No doubt ours appeared in a similar state, when viewed from the Frenchman’s quarterdeck; but we were more heavily built, and could take more punishment. Above all, we had a greatly superior weight of broadside to the Frenchman, together with a more practised crew possessing substantial recent experience of battle, which was certainly not true of our opponent. In the end those considerations were bound to tell: bound to, that is, as long as we stayed afloat long enough for them to do so.

  There was a sudden, colossal roar –

  ‘The Association!’ I cried. ‘Dear God, she’s rallied!’

  Why had our companion been silent for so long? I had wondered more than once whether Walton, or whichever officer had succeeded him if he was dead, had surrendered. What had enabled her to rejoin the battle now? But this was not the moment for speculation. It was time to strike.

  ‘Faster, Mister Burdett!’ I called to the Master Gunner. ‘One more effort! One more broadside! Come on, men! A double ration of wine, at my expense! One more broadside for England, the King’s prick, and your doxies!’

  All over the deck, exhausted gun crews redoubled their efforts. I had no doubt that the same was happening on the lower gundecks. There is nothing on earth more determined than an Englishman who scents victory.

  The Jeanne d’Arc had not replied to the Association. And she did not reply now, as the broadside of the Royal Sceptre thundered for one final time. Moments later, the tattered white fleur-de-lis ensign came down. A ragged cheer broke out in the waist, and was echoed by the men below decks. Phineas Musk punched the air, while Francis Gale offered up prayers of thanksgiving and for magnanimity in victory. I fell to my knees, leaned heavily on my sword, breathed deeply, and joined in Francis’ prayer.

  ‘The Lord hath appeared for us; the Lord hath covered our heads, and made us to stand in the day of battle. The Lord hath appeared for us; the Lord hath overthrown our enemies, and dashed in pieces those that rose up against us. Therefore not unto us, O Lord, not unto us: but unto thy name be given the Glory.’

  Perhaps it was the influence – or the ghost – of my French Catholic grandmother, or even of Shakespeare’s King Hal, but I found myself mouthing the last part of the prayer in Latin.

  Non nobis, domine.

  Chapter Two

  ‘God willing we can keep her afloat,’ said Richardson, the carpenter of the Royal Sceptre, ‘but we can hope for little better than that, Sir Matthew. The ship has to be docked, and as s
oon as possible.’

  I stood alongside him – or rather, crouched alongside him, for I was nearly doubled over – by the starboard side of the ship’s hold, well below the waterline. The stench from the bilges was overwhelming. Two members of Richardson’s crew were hammering a makeshift fix of timber and canvas over one of the three holes in the lower part of the hull. There was a distant sound of hammering above, too, as the great gashes in our starboard side were repaired.

  I climbed back up to the orlop deck, where Lanherne awaited me.

  ‘The pumps are coping?’ I asked.

  ‘Barely, Sir Matthew. But it’s better now than it was, as long as the carpenter’s repairs hold. More a case of if the men can cope.’

  ‘They’ll cope. Tell the cook to be generous with the beer – I know stocks are low, but I doubt if we’ll be needing to keep the sea to wait for the victualling ships.’

  ‘Aye, aye, Sir Matthew.’

  I went astern, to that part of the orlop reserved for the surgeon. Rowan, who held that post on the Royal Sceptre, was a venerable fellow who claimed to have stitched up a gash in the arm of the Duke of Buckingham during the La Rochelle expedition in the year Twenty-Seven. But he was still nimble and steady, and his patients trusted him.

  Two of the patients were well known to me. Macferran tried to sit up as I approached, but I raised a hand.

  ‘Not yet your turn to stand before Saint Peter, then, Macferran?’

  ‘Seems not, Sir Matthew.’

  ‘Painful?’

  ‘As if I’ve been ripped open, sir.’

  ‘You have been. Be thankful that Master Rowan, there, knows what he’s doing. There’s not a few sawbones in the fleet whose attentions would have seen you slipping beneath the waves in weighted canvas long before now.’