by Alaric Bond
"Carry on, Mr Fraiser," Banks was still regarding the sailing master in a strange, almost impartial, manner that was totally lost on the Scot, who had greater matters to consider, and merely touched his hat formally in reply.
"Very good, sir," he said, and began to give the orders.
* * * * *
From Venerable, Monarch’s course was plainly visible, and Duncan was also studying his junior’s reactions intently, although in his case the vice admiral was a good distance away and deeply immersed in the mayhem of battle.
"Onslow does well to hold his fire," he said, as once more the British liner was enveloped in a hail of shot. "Monarch was a fine ship when I had her, and she is so now."
"Indeed, sir," Fairfax, Duncan’s flag captain was also watching. His ship was heading for the Dutch line and at roughly the same angle as Monarch’s approach, in fact the scenario playing out before them would be almost exactly what Venerable would be experiencing within a few minutes.
"Breaking the enemy line is all important, William," Duncan continued in a softer tone.
"Radical tactics, sir."
"Perchance, but then Sir Charles Douglas did the same at The Saints."
"That was Rodney, for sure?"
Duncan smiled. "Rodney’s victory, aye, but t’were Sir Charles who ordered the line broke, and secured it for him. Besides, that fellow Clerk has been theorising about it for years, but even if it were not for any of them, there is no option for us now." He looked to the van of the Dutch line, and the coast beyond. "They have their home port barely hours ahead; if we do not stop them they will shortly make the shallows where we cannot follow, and then be back, safe in their lair, while we wait outside once more."
"Yes sir," Fairfax agreed, although his tone was flat. "But there is little order; I am concerned we might create nothing but confusion."
"There is not the time for planning, but my officers know what needs to be done, and my lads too; have no doubt of that."
Veteran, Adamant and Agincourt were following Onslow in, although it appeared that Agincourt was lagging behind slightly. Still, even if Onslow was unable to force his way through at the first attempt, the enemy’s line would be halted. Duncan peered ahead, where their own target was becoming clearer.
"Mr Patterson, take us between the two flags, if you please." Venerable’s sailing master stepped forward at the mention of his name and followed the admiral as he pointed forward to the fifth and sixth ships in the line, each of which were flying admiral’s pennants as well as the Batavian flag. "With luck one should be de Winter’s."
"Very good, sir," Patterson replied, but made no move and gave no orders. Duncan turned to him.
"Beggin’ your pardon, sir; in truth them Dutchmen are packed together closer than fish in a basket. An’ if you rightly mean us to pass through the line, well there are shallows beyond; dangerous shallows: we might be aground afore we knows it."
Duncan smiled. "There is no doubt in my mind, Mr Patterson. I am determined to fight them, and will do so on land, if not at sea."
Monarch was closing with the Dutch line now, and would have to suffer one last broadside before she was in a position to reply. The officers in Venerable watched in silence as yet again Onslow’s flagship was all but hidden in a cloud of smoke and flame, finally emerging once more, now less than eighty feet from the battle line.
"There is another ship yonder," Fairfax commented. Sure enough a Dutch heavy frigate was coming up to starboard of their line, clearly intending to block Monarch’s passage. Then the British ship’s bowsprit found a gap, and within seconds the seventy-four was scraping between the bowsprit of one enemy and the stern of another. Monarch’s guns had been double shotted, and both broadsides were despatched almost simultaneously, raking each enemy with devastating fire.
"Do you wish to adjourn to the poop, sir?" Fairfax asked, looking back to the deck above. "’t’would give a better vantage point."
Duncan shook his head. "No, William, better to stay next the wheel, and where we may be reached if need be."
"Very good, sir," the captain replied. "We should be in range at any moment."
Duncan switched his attention to the Dutch ships they were aiming for, that were indeed very close now.
"The guns are ready?"
"As you ordered, sir—canister on round."
"Then there is little left for us to do," he looked about him at the men, his lads, who were about to fight the most desperate battle of their lives. "Gentlemen, you see a severe Winter approaching," he said, his eyes suddenly bright and with a spark that could even be called wicked. "I advise you all to keep up a good fire!"
The men at the nearest guns laughed politely, but Midshipman Neale, standing next to his signal’s locker, looked mildly confused.
"An admiral’s joke, son," Duncan told him kindly. "Not known for their humour, so be glad that they are rare."
"Yes, sir." The young man’s face cleared, and suddenly was all concern. "’though it was really very good indeed," he said.
Then the Dutch opened fire and order was suspended, as Venerable’s decks became a mass of raining shot and tearing splinters.
* * * * *
In Vrijheid, van Leiden saw them come. His signals section had been unusually busy throughout the morning but now that the admiraal had their ships packed tight, in a credible line, and sailing on a course that would see them home and safe by the evening, once more he was idle. From further forward came the regular shout of a man taking soundings; they were in good depth; most casts were more than seventeen meters, although the sea shelved steadily and they were as close as they dared come to the coastline, less than five miles off their starboard beam.
They had expected the British to form a line of battle: the time taken for this would have brought them nearer to the truly treacherous shallows at the approach to Texel island, but the admiraal seemed content with their position. Certainly if the British were foolish enough to try and burst through their line, they would find little water for their deeper hulls; there would be limited room to manoeuvre: some would be sure to fall foul of the shoals becoming stranded and an ideal target for the frigates to rake at leisure.
It was a British admiral’s ship that was approaching, probably Duncan’s, and she was clearly intending to come between them and the Staten-Generaal immediately to their stern. He heard movement from behind and turned to see de Winter and van Rossen moving towards the poop. They were probably going to speak with Admiraal Storey in the Staten-Generaal; the ship was close enough for his signals to be of little use. Probably they would be ordering them to close up further; although there was the smallest of gaps between the hulls. Besides, both Dutch ships were seventy fours. Duncan, if it were Duncan, must face tremendous fire from the combined broadsides and would be unlikely to even reach them, let alone penetrate their line.
Van Leiden looked again at the British ship; she was old, that was obvious. Her bows were of a style the Dutch had abandoned more than twenty years ago, and she was in urgent need of some paint. There was not one ship in their navy that appeared anything like as disreputable, and she belonged to an admiraal! He thought briefly of Thomas, and Pandora, the frigate he had visited twice; she was in far better order, but then that was to be expected: it was easier to build frigates than proper warships. The entire British fleet was in sight now, and he knew it likely that Pandora, and Thomas, would be amongst them. But he hoped not.
Now the kapitein had returned to the quarterdeck and was striding towards the eerste luitenant. There was a brief discussion; both men touched their hats and, strangely, shook hands quite formally. Then the luitenant moved away and faced down the length of the ship.
"Open fire on my order!" He had very good lungs and was fond of using them, but on this occasion the bellow must have carried to most of the other ships nearby. The men at the nearby guns had certainly heard him well enough and a ragged cheer went up as the kapiteins of each piece began to lay their weapons on the
approaching ship.
"Ready!" the luitenant raised his hand and an eerie silence hung until every kanon kapitein had his hand up ready. Then, with a savage downward sweep: "Fire!"
The ship heeled slightly as the broadside erupted, with both gun decks despatching their charges within a second of the order. The smoke blew back across the deck, momentarily blinding van Leiden, but he stumbled towards the side to peer out, as the gun crews began to reload their weapons. The shots had found their mark, he was sure there were actual pieces falling from the British ship’s rigging, and the bows themselves were showing signs of damage. Sails flapped wildly, but were soon taken under control, and the enemy flagship continued towards them, just as another broadside was despatched by the Staten-Generaal.
This time he had a far better view, with no smoke to confuse the issue. The British ship visibly staggered under the weight. Her starboard bow and side were peppered with shot that landed at almost point blank range, smashing ragged holes into the dried timbers and putting up such a cloud of dust that she might already be on fire. There would be time for three, maybe four such salvoes and on each occasion the enemy would be closer, and could be expected to be slowed, if not completely halted. The British were brave, but foolhardy; it was impossible to think that they could get near enough to cause real damage, let alone break the Dutch line. The battle would be over within an hour, two at the most, and there was Texel, not fifteen miles off, where they would shortly tow their prizes and find shelter for their own ships. Tomorrow night he might conceivably be dining once more at home with Anna and Joseph, and maybe even Thomas King. On a day when many would fall it was pleasant to have such a prospect; something positive to hope for; an agreeable meal in a better world, a meeting of friends who should in fact be enemies. Yes, he told himself, it was a good thought to have. And a prospect, he knew, that Juliana would like also.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
ONSLOW’S Monarch was steadily pressing her hull between the two Dutch ships although the heavy frigate, previously spotted by Fairfax, was coming up to starboard of the enemy line and threatening any further progress. Having already despatched both broadsides into the liners to either side, the British ship would have to manoeuvre past the annoying forty-four that was attempting to lie athwart her prow. Onslow was not unduly worried however, the frigate would be dealt with in due course; it was more important that he had broken the enemy line. Now all he had to do was hold his position and the Dutch would be stopped. The deck heaved as a second broadside rolled out, the guns almost touching their targets, and smoke could be seen filtering up from the starboard Dutchman’s lower deck where a small fire had started. Monarch edged forward, her bowsprit threatening that of the frigate.
"Take her a point to larboard, Edward, if you please," the admiral pointed forward and Monarch’s captain touched his hat. "The angle should allow for our for’ard pieces to cover our new friend," Onslow glanced about. "Whilst the others can be sure not to neglect the old."
O’Brien bellowed the order, and his ship continued with her last ounces of momentum. They were well placed; it would all be down to the gunners now, and who could fire the fastest, and continue to do so for long enough to secure victory. The captain took a sidelong glance at Onslow as he stood solid amidst the confusion of battle, apparently as comfortable as one spending a day at the races, and smiled inwardly at the man for whom two targets were not enough.
* * * * *
Meanwhile Pandora had closed considerably on the after part of the Dutch line; King, squinting through a larboard gunport, calculated they would be in accurate range in less than three minutes.
"Captain intends to rake her stern," he told Cobb, the teenager who would take his place in charge of Pandora’s main armament should he fall. "Don’t expect much in reply until we have passed; the Dutchman will be too intent on beating off our liners. But once we are clear and are forereaching on their starboard beam we might get a measure of attention."
"Aye, an’ then some."
King noticed that the youngster’s grin was quite dispassionate. They were expecting to face at least one broadside from a two-decker, and yet to judge from his expression it might as well be about to happen to someone else.
"How are you loaded, Mr King?" The captain’s voice came down from the quarterdeck.
"Double round, sir! Both batteries."
"Very good; change to single round after the first discharge."
"Single round, aye aye sir. Would you have the guns drawn?"
"No, just reload with single."
King touched his hat and Cobb began to pass the message along the line of gunners. It was strange, Pandora was about to take on a much larger ship; he would expect to continue with double shot; they were well within range, after all. He glanced again at the enemy, she was closer now, and noticed two heavy stern chasers that might do them a deal of damage. The ships of Onslow’s squadron could also be seen, with Monarch still struggling to be free of the frigate that was locking on to her bows. Montague and Russell were on Pandora’s larboard beam, and advancing upon the Dutch line. Both had piled on an inordinate amount of canvas in an effort to reduce the time they would spend taking enemy fire. He looked particularly at Montague, the nearest to him, and a seventy-four. She was powerful enough, but hardly the fastest of sailers. Her captain was clearly aiming to come between the penultimate ship in the line and the last: Pandora’s target, although it seemed likely that she would not have sufficient speed. In which case…
No, it did not do to speculate. The captain had surprised him in the past, and there was every reason why he should do so again. The only thing King had to worry about was his guns; that they fired effectively and often: anything further was beyond his responsibility and concern.
* * * * *
Pandora was a fast ship and had speed in hand. Banks had shortened sail down to topsails, reefed topgallants and staysails, and she was still keeping ahead of Montague, currently on her larboard quarter with all plain sail set.
"I’d like to pass close enough for a broadside, Mr Fraiser." Banks said deliberately. "We’re double shotted, so less than half a cable would be ideal. Is that possible?"
"Yes sir, though an increase in speed might be in order," Fraiser glanced back to where the seventy-four was straining to get ahead. "Yon ship is takin’ our wind, but we might be impeding her if I make any further to larboard."
"Very good, master; make it so."
Fraiser collected the speaking trumpet from its becket; the noise of the battle was growing, this was not the time for a misheard order. The reefs were shaken out while the forecourse was set and Pandora surged forward under the extra power. Her heel increased slightly, forcing King’s guns to be depressed to maintain their level, but there was no doubt that her speed had increased considerably. Caulfield smacked his hands together as the ship pulled comfortably ahead of Montague. "Captain Knight seems to be hogging the stern ship," he said. "I would have thought him better served pushing betwixt her and the next for’ard."
"Yes, I was rather afraid of that," Banks’ tone was unusually flat. "It appears Montague cannot make the speed as well as the heading." Caulfield eyed him warily; there was definitely a slight twinkle in his captain’s eye; he was planning something, although the lieutenant could not begin to guess what it was. Banks cleared his throat. "There’s room enough now," he looked pointedly at the sailing master. "Take her in, if you please, Mr Fraiser."
Fraiser touched his hat once more before leaning back and bellowing through the speaking trumpet. The rudder bit, the sails were braced round and Caulfield very nearly laughed out loud as the frigate moved in front of the British two-decker, and Banks’ ruse became clear.
None, save the captain, had foreseen Montague changing her objective; only he had been alert to the fact that the clumsy seventy-four would not have enough speed to gain the obvious position in front of the sternmost ship. Now she was heading for Pandora’s goal, to rake the Dutchman’s stern, somethi
ng that would have far greater effect than the little frigate’s puny broadside but, more importantly, she would distract the attention of the enemy ship. Pandora was ahead and, with luck, would be past and in relative safety by the time the Dutch had recovered sufficiently to consider her. She might receive one broadside in reply, but by then the enemy would have a seventy-four on their starboard counter to worry about.
But there was more to Banks’ plan than that. Caulfield now saw, with rare insight, that all orders for manoeuvring the ship into what was ostensibly a perilous position had been made through Fraiser. During their encounter with the French frigate, the sailing master had claimed to be equally concerned about saving their stricken enemy, as he was the safety of Pandora. Now Banks had tested him: checked to see if he had genuinely sought to avoid unnecessary slaughter, or was merely taking the moral high ground, whilst hiding other personal traits that were far less honourable. Caulfield, who considered himself very much a fighting officer, had not guessed Banks’ ploy, neither had he foreseen that the British seventy-four would unintentionally give them an extra measure of protection, so he was reasonably certain Fraiser would have missed it as well. And there could be no doubt that the sailing master had conned Pandora into danger without question. His orders would have seemed to be placing her, her people, and himself in grave danger, yet he had not swerved or protested in any way. If Caulfield was right, and Fraiser had been the subject of an elaborate test, there could be no doubt that the Scot had passed.
Caulfield considered his captain with renewed respect, and Banks, clearly conscious that his second in command had smoked his plan, grinned and nodded once in return. Then there was a shout forward and, standing in the waist, King brought his hand up high. Caulfield consciously brought himself back to the real world; there might be the time for further study of human nature later, now they were drawing near to an enemy two-decker, and had other matters to concern them.