by Alaric Bond
"Yes, sir." Fraiser’s eyes were strangely alight, and he seemed in no doubt as to his duty.
"You realise that if the turn is misjudged there is every chance we will run aground, or aboard the Dutchman?"
"I understand that, sir."
Again the look of confidence was unmistakable, and Banks knew he could be trusted.
Jehue, a forecastle man blessed with an upper body that might have been carved from a chunk of solid mahogany, came up and onto to the quarterdeck with Peters. All watched as a deep-sea lead was attached to a light grass line; the seaman swung the weight experimentally, eyeing the distance and sniffing the breeze.
"We’re about to turn, do you think you can reach her, Jehue?"
Light from the burning ship, now less than half a cable off Pandora’s bows, was reflected in the man’s serious dark eyes.
"Aye, sir; I reckons I can."
Banks looked across to Fraiser. "Very good, then there is no time to be lost; carry on, master."
"Send a fresh man to the forechains with a lead; hands be ready to turn ship." Fraiser’s call echoed about the frigate although all on deck were well aware of what was about, and ready to respond.
"Brace in the afteryards," he paused, timing his moment. "Up helm!" Pandora began to turn painfully slowly. He was cutting it fine, but soon the frigate was sweeping towards the stricken ship. It would be close; Jehue should have an easy job of it but, as Banks had said, there could be no second try. Now they were almost level with the wreck, and very nearly as far inshore as she had drifted. The leadsman called; there was less than two fathoms under her keel. Fraiser looked up at the coastline, still several miles off; two fathoms was little to play with so far from the shore. Pandora continued to bear down on the stricken ship. Heat from the fire became more noticeable, although the light rain that had plagued them for most of the afternoon was fast turning into a torrent. It soaked all about, but doubtless was welcomed by the fire fighters on board the Dutchman.
"Lay the headyards square! Shift over the headsheets!" Now their bows were passing the prow of the prize. Men were standing ready on the forecastle, and Jehue began to whirl the lead, eyes fixed on his target, barely thirty feet away. They drew level, and then the stern was as close as it would come. Banks choked back the order to throw; the man knew his business, and would certainly not benefit from prompting.
"Haul aboard, haul out!" Pandora was turning away and starting to pick up speed as the wind found her; now the distance was slowly increasing.
Jehue’s taught body suddenly released, and the line snaked out with a rush as Pandora came to the wind. Eager hands grabbed at it as it fell neatly across the forecastle and soon a heavy towing hawser was being dragged across the widening gap.
"We’ll keep the tow as long as possible," Banks said, relief evident in his voice, although the danger was by no means over. With the ship gathering speed it was quite possible that the hawser would not be secured in time and might even run out before the Dutch had properly anchored the tow.
"Brace up headyards!" Pandora was responding well, a perfectly timed manoeuvre, but the tow had still to be collected and secured. The officers watched in silence as the Dutch crew pulled the heavy hawser up from the sea, and passed it through the weather hawsehole, before fastening it at the bitts.
"Safe below, Mr Peters?" Banks asked the boatswain.
"Aye, sir. There’s little left to be taken up, and I had to hold a measure back for freshening, should it become necessary, but I reckons they’ll have it fastened b’now."
Banks nodded, they were heading back towards the battle once more, although the firing seemed to have died considerably in the brief time they had been distracted. Slowly the hawser began to lift and grow taught, and the Dutch ship’s bows dipped slightly, before being pulled round. A deep groan came from below as the strain was taken up, and Pandora’s speed was steadily drawn from her, but there was no doubt, the Dutch ship was under way, and the flames that had been impeding the fire fighters were now raging off her quarter and could be approached with far more certainty.
"We’ll send a cutter to take possession, and I dare say they could do with some help. Better make it volunteers, Mr Caulfield; for the officers as much as the men."
Caulfield touched his hat and left to attend to the boarding party. Banks continued to watch as the Dutch ship straightened, and obediently began to follow them. Then he became strangely aware of Fraiser standing near by. He turned to him.
"That was a job well done, master." The two men’s eyes met, a lot had happened in the past few months: Banks certainly acknowledged the change in himself. "Thank you for your efforts; I am greatly obliged to you."
Fraiser nodded and Banks thought he could spot the slightest hint of a smile on the Scot’s face. "’tis a terrible thing, a burning ship," he said.
The captain grinned readily in return. "Aye, it is, Mr Fraiser. A terrible thing indeed."
* * * * *
Duncan watched the small jolly boat as it headed through the dark, rain soaked afternoon with a feeling of immense, but unspeakable, relief. Already seven enemy ships had surrendered, and it seemed likely that more would follow. But crossing the short stretch of open water was the Dutch commander, and that spoke as much for the victory as any prize.
The boat approached the flagship and was allowed to rest against the side without the bother or indignity of a hail. De Winter was the first up through the gangway port. Wearing a large dark coat that ended just below the top of his black boots, he looked about him with an air of resignation. Duncan stepped forward and considered his opponent face to face for the first time. The Dutchman was younger than he had expected, although there was a poise and bearing in his stance, which was emphasised by his large, full frame. In fact he was almost as massive as Duncan, with square shoulders and a natural authority that shone out, even in this final moment of defeat.
"Do I have the honour of addressing the Admiraal Duncan?" his voice was clear but respectful, with only a slight accent.
Duncan removed his hat and held out his hand. De Winter reached inside his coat and drew his sword. His face softened slightly as he held it by the forte for a moment, examining the weapon as if for the first time. Then he stretched his arm forward and offered the hilt to the British admiral. Duncan shook his head and waved it away.
"I would much rather take a brave man’s hand than his sword." De Winter paused for a moment, before smiling slightly and returning the weapon to its scabbard. He took one step forward and reached for Duncan’s right hand with his.
"It was a hard battle, admiral," Duncan told him. "But now over, we must do all we can to make our ships safe."
"There is much to be done, and many wounded."
"Many wounded," Duncan agreed. Then his face relaxed and he chuckled slightly. "Indeed, it is to be wondered at, that two as large as us should have come through it all unscathed."
* * * * *
"He used to stammer," Flint told Kate earnestly. "When he were first taken aboard Vigilant, an’ a youngster."
"I’d hardly call him old now," she replied, considering the prone body that had finally given in to Mr Doust’s second draft, and was now soundly asleep. "This is not the first time he has seen action?"
"No, he’s been in a fair few scraps and… and always held his nerve." He blushed slightly, there had been the one occasion in Vigilant when Matthew had done anything but, although Flint had hardly been a model of composure on that day, so he reckoned the lad was allowed one fall from grace.
Kate shook her head sadly. "I know little of such wounds, but wounds they be, even if there are no scars to show."
"D’ you think they’ll be able to sort him in England?" Flint’s voice was hopeful, although inside he knew the likelihood to be bleak. When a man can lose both legs in battle, and be rejected by his ship, the navy and effectively his country for the same reason, he could foresee no bright future for one who had merely lost the desire to talk. And there
would be those, like Powell, who would consider him a coward, and many more who had never even smelt the scent of battle, ready to agree.
"I can make no promise, but am hopeful it will not last for long." She bit her lower lip slightly, knowing that her wishful thinking might be giving Flint false hope. "The best we can do is allow him sleep," she continued hurriedly. "There should be further to be learnt in the morning."
"I’m obliged to you, miss; more than I can say."
She smiled and pressed her hand reassuringly against his shoulder, and Flint obediently turned and walked from the orlop. She hoped he was not to be disappointed; so much was unknown about injuries to the mind, but what she had said was in some way correct. Matthew could wake to a normal psyche, and continue through life as if the incident had never occurred; instances had been known, although the reason still lay undiscovered. Alternatively, and she knew that this was more likely, he would remain as he was, gradually becoming accustomed to communicating through the guttural sounds of an animal, while little lay ahead other than the life of a beggar. Then she brightened as an idea occurred, maybe a hospital might be found where he could live as an inmate, earning his keep clearing out the wards and tending to the less demanding patients? Or he might find a place working on a farm, or a workhouse; just because a man could not speak, it did not necessarily mean he was feeble minded. She looked at him once more, sleeping peacefully, many miles away from the real world that would be all too ready to face him when he awoke. There was only so much she could wish for, eventually reality must take a hand. And it spoke much that the Royal Navy had felt the need to build a specialist hospital for their insane; he would probably go there, or somewhere similar. Why, he might even be sent to join her father in the Bethlem.
* * * * *
"I had expected you to form the line of battle," de Winter told Duncan as the two admirals sat in the screened off remains of Venerable’s great cabin. It was night, and the ship was still cleared for action, but Fairfax had found the time to arrange this small measure of privacy between securing his own ship, and mustering the prizes. De Winter sipped at his port and sat back. "Were you to have done so I would have had time to take my ships nearer to the shallows. Both fleets should than have been drawn into the shoal water; many of yours would have taken ground and I could have destroyed them at my leisure."
Duncan swept his white hair back into a semblance of order. There was little he could say in response; a defeated enemy was not the easiest of guests, and he had no need or desire to start an argument. He looked across at the younger man’s face and noticed a look of contrition.
"I did not mean to appear the bad loser," the Dutchman assured him.
"I understand, admiral, and in your position would probably feel as you do. But it was a battle like few before, and neither of us should feel the need for regret." De Winter nodded, as Duncan continued. "You might wish to send a message to your government, I would arrange that."
"I would be grateful, sir. Thank you."
"We hope to be heading for Yarmouth some time tomorrow, and expect to see England in under two days. My ship has suffered considerably, and I think it better that you should precede us; I will have you transferred to a frigate. Pandora is relatively undamaged.
"Pandora? It is a name I am familiar with."
Duncan nodded. "You were good enough to repatriate two of her men."
"Ah, yes."
"Adam Fraiser, her sailing master, is my nephew and Godson: a fine man. She will have you there the quicker and probably in greater comfort."
De Winter smiled, "I am in no rush, sir, believe me. But I would send that message, if you would be so kind."
* * * * *
As the following dawn finally broke, the dark clouded sky gave little promise for the day ahead. Van Leiden followed the lieutenant up the entry steps of Pandora and raised his hat respectfully as his feet touched the deck. King had seen the boat approach, and was waiting to meet him at the entry port as soon as Caulfield had led the unknown British officer away. The two men shook hands without speaking, then embraced as brothers. Venerable’s master at arms, who had accompanied the prisoner, cleared his throat diplomatically, and they drew apart, awkwardly grinning and patting the other on the shoulder.
"Tom, it is good to see that you are all right."
"And you, Wilhelm; but your face?" the lieutenant indicated the large patch of cotton and diachylon plaster that covered most of one cheek.
"Oh, it is nothing," van Leiden’s eyes twinkled mischievously. "But I am hoping it might leave a scar; it would be good, no?"
King shook his head, "If you say so, Will. But what brings you to Pandora?"
"It is your navy, they have made such a mess of our fleet, and so I come to complain." King raised an enquiring eyebrow, and the Dutchman continued. "The admiraal might be travelling to England in this ship. Mr Cleland has come to speak to your captain, and I was sent to ensure his accommodation would be acceptable."
"You will accompany the admiral?"
"Oh yes, I am about all that is left of his officers, but I think maybe it will not happen. Your Mr Duncan would need to come as well, and a small frigate is not quite right for two admiraals, even if the journey will be brief."
"Venerable must be badly damaged."
"They are making good progress; she should survive to get us to your harbour."
"Well, it is fine to see you, and I hope we will meet again in England, even if Pandora does not take you there."
"That would be good; maybe you can make me fat, as my family did you?"
"Ha! I cannot promise home comforts."
"No?" he pulled a sad face. "You do not have a sister who can cook?"
"I doubt that you will be our guest for very long."
Van Leiden grinned. "So it has seemed in the past."
"I will have a message passed back to your family. And I was writing to Juliana just yesterday evening, so you can send a letter to them as well."
"Ah, it is good that you write, she enjoys to hear from you."
"I have thought of little else since we met."
"And she you; it is fine, I think," he placed his hand on King's shoulder. "And soon it will be time for you to be my prisoner again, then maybe she can meet you once more. I shall tell her so in my letter, and she can start to save the dirty dishes."
* * * * *
Doust had transferred most of the patients to the re-established sick bay and, with the galley fire alight once more, warmth began to spread through the ship, along with the promise of a proper breakfast. Kate had slept little but now, as she mixed the warm burgoo in a small pewter bowl, she felt her eyes begin to grow heavy. One man had died in the night but the others had survived, and were likely to recover now. With luck they would be back in England within a couple of days. There was much to be done before then, and she would still have to present her accounts: something she had been secretly dreading, despite the fact that they had been brought up to her exacting standards. Kate played with the spoon, stirring the bowl; after a while the oats began to soften, and the burgoo was then considered fit to eat. She had added some raisins and preserved cherries, and supposed the mixture would do the men some good, although it would have been so much better to serve fresh eggs, or milk, or anything more appetising than gruel.
The first patient was Jameson, and she was particularly eager to see that he ate, and ate well. He lay quiet but awake in his hammock after a peaceful, though drug induced, sleep. She approached him with the bowl, and smiled into his eyes.
"Breakfast, Matthew?" His head stayed still and he made no attempt to talk. She placed the bowl down, and reached under his arms to ease him up in the hammock. The body was light and moved easily, but his eyes remained dark, blank and distant. "Just a little to eat," she soothed. "Make you strong again."
She picked up the bowl and loaded it with a little of the mixture.
"Come now, take a bite," his mouth dutifully opened, and accepted the spoon.
"There’s a lad," he took some more. "Now you don’t want to worry, just rest and relax." She gave him another spoonful and another after that. In her time, as a Mother Midnight, she had looked after many older children while her current charge was recovering from, or preparing for, the trials of birthing. And Matthew was no different, no different from any infant who needed reassurance, food and the promise of safety. He continued to eat until she noticed, with slight sadness, that the bowl was empty. She smiled at him. "That’s all, Matthew. That’s all until later. Sleep now, sleep, and feel better."
As if responding to her words his eyes did close and she got up quietly and left. They opened again as she went, and for a moment the lad looked about and realised he was quite alone. But still his lips moved very slightly and, in the subdued sounds of a ship at dawn, he muttered a faint "Thank you."
Author’s Note
Duncan’s action became known as the Battle of Camperdown (after Camperduin, a village on the nearby coast), and was the second major fleet engagement of 1797. It resulted in ten enemy ships being captured, a figure that equals the total number of prizes taken at the Battle of Cape St. Vincent and the Glorious First of June combined.
The British victory was achieved with an inferior fleet, mainly comprising of vessels that were completely worn out, or requiring extensive repair. The Dutch ships were well maintained and designed with a shallow draft to suit the waters off their coast. The fact that they fought well has been universally acknowledged; their standard of seamanship was also considered markedly superior to that of the French and the Spanish at that time. They lacked two things: carronades, the shorter barrelled gun that took less men and time to load, and delivered a heavier charge in relation to its weight and, ironically, they had not just endured one of the largest naval mutinies in history.
There is little doubt that the British seaman had been treated badly, and some form of protest was inevitable. Much had been rectified by the middle of May however, when a resolution was reached with the men at Portsmouth. The uprising at the Nore, subsequently led by Richard Parker, was less justified; the delegates made extreme demands and sought to enforce them in ways that were directly against their government and country. By the time the mutiny collapsed there was both general ill feeling against the British sailor and a genuine and urgent desire to make amends, and prove their loyalty, by those who had taken part, most of whom were members of Duncan’s North Sea Fleet. Certainly the victory did much to re-establish Jack Tar in the public’s esteem and affection.