Badge of Glory (1982)

by Reeman, Douglas

  All hands had been roused and piped to breakfast well before daylight, and even that had been different, and he doubted if many of the Tenacious’s eleven hundred officers and men had slept very much either. It was like remaking a part of history, or living something which might never occur again.

  As the drums had rolled and the pipes had called from deck to deck, Blackwood had felt his own excitement rising to match the occasion. Like his grandfather’s old pictures; the Nile, Copenhagen and Trafalgar.

  Screens had been taken down and the ship cleared from bow to stern. Tenacious mounted sixteen of the new eight-inch muzzle-loaders, but the bulk of her impressive armament consisted of thirty-two-pounders which had served the Navy for nearly a century. The ‘Long Nine’, as it was affectionately termed by the British sailor, was still the most reliable for accuracy and effectiveness, or so it was claimed.

  When Keene, Tenacious’s commander, reported the ship cleared for action, Jervis had gone aft himself to inform the admiral.

  The wind had eased and backed during the night, but not enough to lessen the dangers of being on a lee shore.

  Blackwood had been with his lieutenants and sergeants since dawn, for with so many extra men it was not easy to place them to full advantage. Aft on poop and quarterdeck and aloft in the three fighting tops, while others were doubled up alongside gun crews with some biting comments from the seamen who manned the batteries on either beam.

  Blackwood made his way to the quarterdeck and reported to Fynmore.

  Fynmore pursed his lips and squinted above the packed hammocks in the nettings.

  ‘This will not take long, I think.’ He did not sound very convinced.

  Blackwood took a telescope from the rack and climbed on to a shot garland.

  The coast looked hostile and blurred in the grey light. There was drizzle among the pellets of spray and he felt it sting his cheek as he stared at the anchored ships which lay across the larboard bow in an untidy array.

  He could see the first-rate quite clearly, a three-decker, she was standing bows-on as she swung to her cable, and he saw her loosely brailed canvas puffing against the yards, and antlike figures creeping about her rigging as they made their own preparations. One of the Russian frigates showed no sign of life, but the other was already shortening her cable and perhaps preparing to weigh if the enemy drew too close.

  Weak sunlight glinted on something gold, and Blackwood shifted his glass on to the dome of an isolated church which had appeared between two overlapping hills like a giant sentinel.

  Colour-Sergeant M’Crystal said, ‘Admiral’s on his way, sir.’

  He too sounded strange and his Edinburgh dialect more pronounced than usual. Perhaps he was remembering something or feeling the same sense of history.

  Ashley-Chute appeared on deck tugging on a pair of freshly laundered gloves. He glanced forward at the groups of men beside their guns and aloft to his flag at the mainmast truck.

  He seemed satisfied and sniffed at the keen air as he remarked, ‘Fine day for it.’ He gave a brief scowl as the hull shivered, as if something heavy had fallen between decks.

  Jervis watched him dourly. ‘The Chief is warned and standing by, sir. Shall I give the order to raise the funnel and lower the screw?’

  The admiral did not reply directly. He was examining his flagship and evidently enjoying what he saw. He took a telescope and looked first at the damaged Sarpedon. She had a severe list, and there were black scars on her upper deck to betray the damage which the Russian guns had caused.

  Ashley-Chute crossed to another vantage point and studied the enemy. Like Blackwood, he watched the way she lay at anchor, and then gave a snort of disapproval as two additional ensigns broke from her fore and mainmasts, the white flags with their blue crosses strangely peaceful above so much artillery.

  He snapped, ‘Run up two more ensigns, Jervis. She’s the Rostislav, by the way. Ran across her in Vigo some years back.’

  Jervis had recognized the Russian three-decker from the moment he had come on deck, but knew it would have spoiled the admiral’s mood had he told him.

  Ashley-Chute said, ‘This is what I intend. The shore battery is obviously sited to protect the main anchorage, in this case the Rostislav, hmm?’

  Jervis took his eyes from the extra ensigns as they broke stiffly to the wind.

  ‘I suppose so, sir.’

  ‘Be certain of it. So we shall run down on her using the wind to full advantage. Once across her bows we will come about and rake her.’ His eyes glinted as he saw it happening in his mind. ‘We shall lose the wind-gauge, but no matter. Our Russian friends will not know of our additional power, what you call progress, eh? So we shall pass ’twixt the enemy and the shore battery and steam sou’-east from the bay.’

  Captain Jervis glanced at the commander and then at his admiral.

  ‘Very well, sir.’

  It was hard to tell if he was alarmed by the audacity of the plan or by the admiral’s sudden reliance on the engine-room.

  Ashley-Chute nodded as if to confirm his thoughts.

  ‘Signal Rupert to stand by but to stand clear of those guns.’

  He smiled at Fynmore. ‘Not much for your fellows to do today, Colonel. But they may learn something.’

  Captain Jervis took a deep breath. ‘Carry on, Commander. Load and run out. Mr Irving, alter course two points to larboard, Mr Aldham, pipe the after-guard to the braces-and trim the driver, we’ll shorten sail again when the range is reduced.’

  Like nerves from a human brain, Jervis’s officers passed his orders, which were then relayed to each deck. When the last messenger and boatswain’s mate had reported to the quarterdeck, Jervis faced the admiral again.

  Ashley-Chute took his sword from his flag-lieutenant and clipped it to his belt. It only made him look shorter.

  ‘So be it, Captain Jervis.’

  At the shrill of a whistle the gunports opened along the flagship’s side, and to a second blast the lines of black muzzles poked out into the poor light. Between decks the gun crews on one side would see their enemy for the first time, even though their admiral’s strategy would remain a mystery.

  Jervis licked his lips. ‘Let her fall off another point, Mr Irving, I do not want the enemy to know our intentions.’

  Blackwood watched the anchored ships and saw the Russian three-decker’s ports open in response to Tenacious’s challenge.

  Smoke eddied through a vent and passed swiftly downwind as the engineers fought to keep their boilers under control until the very last moment.

  At the top of the main companionway a marine bugler moistened his lips and waited for the order. Blackwood caught his eye and smiled. But the youth did not even see him. He was living each precious second, nursing it for the time when he got home to his parents in Portsmouth.

  Boom . . . Boom . . .

  Blackwood saw the flashes along the dull coastline and waited for the waterspouts to appear. Towering columns of water burst from the sea between Tenacious and the Russian, the rigidity of the barrage bringing a chorus of derisive jeers from the waiting gun crews.

  Jervis rasped, ‘Keep those men silent! Master-at-Arms, I’ll flog the next one who disregards my order.’

  Blackwood glanced at the powerfully built captain. This day would mean a great deal to him. His ship, his future, even his hopes for a new Navy might depend on it.

  The enemy battery crashed out again and more waterspouts towered above the ships before being scattered by the wind.

  Jervis said, ‘Pass the word to the carronade crew. They may get a chance to engage.’

  Ashley-Chute looked at him and said dryly, ‘I intend to rake her, not step aboard!’

  Jervis frowned. ‘Pipe the hands to the braces, Mr Norman! Send the topmen aloft and shake out all reefs. The enemy will imagine we’ve seen our danger and are coming about to beat clear of the bay.’

  Men swarmed up the shrouds once more, and as the yards were hauled round and extra helmsme
n took their places by the big double-wheel, Jervis shot a glance forward where the boatswain’s party waited with tackles and halliards to hoist the long funnel. Below decks, when the order came, another party of men would throw their weight on the lowering gear and lower the shaft and screw into the water.

  Ashley-Chute sauntered across the quarterdeck and stood with one foot on a coiled hawser. He glanced up at his flag and the whipping masthead pendant and then said to Blackwood, ‘Tell your fellow to sound off, hmm?’

  Blackwood raised his hand and dropped it to his side.

  All eyes turned to watch as the minute bugler brought his heels together and raised the instrument to his lips.

  They were about to become a part of history.

  20

  A Handful of Rifles

  ‘One of the frigates has weighed, sir!’

  Captain Jervis grunted and watched the nearest Russian man-of-war tilt over to the wind, her billowing canvas in violent disarray as she fought clear of her anchorage. She lay on Tenacious’s larboard bow some three cables clear, and her captain obviously knew his ship and the bay very well indeed. The frigate tacked hard round until she seemed to be skimming the wave crests with her main-yard, but slowly and deliberately she managed to steer close-hauled between the flagship and her anchored consorts.

  Blackwood clung to a stay and watched intently. The frigate captain knew he was in a hopeless position to protect the other vessels in the bay unless he could gain some sea-room. With the wind to his advantage he might even manage to beat well clear and attack the disabled Sarpedon. Ashley-Chute would then be forced to discontinue his plan and go to Sarpedon’s aid. It would take a lot of time, and by then the enemy might have brought up more artillery or found some additional ships to deter the invaders.

  ‘Man the braces! Hands wear ship.’ Jervis’s square jaw was set like a crag while his heavy-swell side-whiskers blew forward with the wind. ‘Steer nor’-east, Mr Irving.’

  With blocks and halliards squealing in protest and the seamen flinging their bodies on to the braces, Tenacious began to turn slowly to starboard, so that the enemy frigate seemed to hang across the opposite bow as if held there.

  Blackwood saw the Russian ship setting more sails, the blurred gleam of copper as she rolled over to expose her bilge.

  The range was falling away as Tenacious and the frigate moved inexorably together. Jervis held the advantage and was using the wind to swing his great ship as if on a pivot so that very soon all his larboard guns would bear on the enemy.

  The frigate was almost in line with the anchored Rostislav. Forbidden to shout or cheer, some of the British seamen and marines were nudging each other to contain their excitement while gun captains crouched and peered along their sights, hands on trigger lines, waiting for the order to fire.

  It was as if someone had drawn an invisible track across the choppy water, Blackwood thought. Tenacious was bearing down from the seaward end while the frigate lay somewhere between her and her heavier consort. The other enemy frigate remained firmly at anchor, and even the shore battery held its fire, an unwilling spectator as their aim was blocked by their own vessels.

  Ashley-Chute said calmly, ‘The Rostislav is shortening her cable now.’

  Fynmore gave his twisted grin. ‘Too late for him, sir.’

  His smile vanished as a long orange tongue flashed from the frigate’s side. Several men on the quarterdeck ducked involuntarily as a ball shrieked overhead and brought down a trailing creeper of halliard from aloft.

  ‘Stand by, the larboard battery!’

  Deck above deck the lines of thirty-two-pounders pointed blindly towards the lithe, fast-moving frigate.

  ‘On the up-roll!’

  Captain Jervis blinked as another ball fanned overhead and punched a hole through the mizzen-topsail.

  Blackwood could picture the gundecks, the shadowy shapes of the crews, their eyes gleaming in the light from the open ports. As on the upper deck where at regular intervals the lieutenants stood at their divisions, midshipmen and warrant officers between them like links of a chain.

  ‘Fire!’

  It was more like hitting a reef than firing a controlled broadside. The deck bounded beneath their feet, and as the guns hurled themselves inboard on their tackles and the crews leapt forward with sponges and rammers, the smoke erupted over the deck in a solid, choking barrier.

  Blackwood wiped his eyes and watched the terrible wave of destruction as it smashed along the frigate’s side and rigging like an invisible scythe.

  It was awful to see. One moment there was a taut pyramid of sails, a graceful hull leaning as close to the wind as she dared, and in just a few seconds she had been transformed into a wreck. Her foremast and main-topmast plunged over the side in a great mesh of spars and thrashing canvas, while lengths of her gangway and poop were flung high into the air before splashing around her to reveal the extent of the damage.

  ‘Run out!’

  Squealing on their trucks the larboard guns were hauled hastily to the ports. The dragging mass of wreckage on the enemy’s hull was pulling her round like a cruel sea-anchor, so that eventually her stern would lie exposed to Tenacious’s broadside.

  Jervis glanced at his admiral. ‘Cease firing, sir?’

  Ashley-Chute clasped his hands together more firmly.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Fire!’

  The range was less than half a cable and Blackwood could hear the iron smashing through the enemy’s hull, upending guns and roaring between decks with a hail of splinters and flying timbers.

  Jervis called, ‘Stand by to alter course.’

  As the yards swung round once more and Tenacious turned this time towards the land her starboard guns waited impatiently for their chance of action.

  The Russian three-decker’s anchor broke from the ground, and as sails flapped and then hardened to the wind she began her own fight to escape from the bay which had changed from a haven into a trap.

  ‘Stand by to starboard!’

  The careering Russian three-decker would soon be directly across Tenacious’s bows. She was almost aback as the wind moaned into her, the same wind which the enemy had relied on for keeping the British attackers well clear and easy meat for the shore battery.

  Ashley-Chute snapped, ‘No point in any more deception, Captain Jervis.’

  Jervis looked at him only briefly. Blackwood saw the glance. Relief that he could use his engine to protect his ship from further risk of running aground. Contempt too for the admiral who had ordered him to continue firing on a sinking, dismasted enemy and cause a terrible and unnecessary slaughter.

  ‘Raise the funnel!’

  The working party jerked into life and the tall funnel rose from the deck, its stays humming in the wind. Smoke began to gush from it even as the deck shook and settled down to a steady vibration as the lowered screw started to take effect.

  An uneven crash of gunfire cut across the water and Blackwood felt some of the enemy’s shots hit Tenacious’s hull like muted hammers.

  ‘Starboard battery!’ Commander Keene was crouched down as if he alone was sighting every gun. ‘Fire!’

  Because she was almost bows-on the Russian ship received less than a quarter of the broadside, but as the sea boiled around her and great columns of water hemmed her in like pillars of ice, she was seen to rock as many of the balls smashed into her. Her sails were pock-marked with holes and lengths of broken cordage blew unchecked in the wind.

  Ashley-Chute heard some of the gun crews cheering again and said, ‘Let them cheer, Captain, and let those ruffians hear them!’

  Grim-faced, Jervis turned away. ‘Hands aloft, reef tops’ls! Stand by to come about.’ He tried to gauge the engine’s beat but it was drowned by the thunder of the guns as another broadside flashed along Tenacious’s ports.

  The Russian captain had realized what was happening but could do little. Once again his enemy was close enough to prevent the shore battery from helping him in his
plight. As Tenacious’s canvas was lashed smartly to the yards and the engine brought her further and further round into the wind she stood like a black and white cliff between the Russian and the land. By this time there was so much smoke in the bay that it would have been hard for the gunnery officer ashore to hit anything.

  Blackwood ran to the poop ladder and joined Major Brabazon who was pointing down into the water as it lifted against the tumblehome like a tide.

  Survivors from the Russian frigate were clinging to broken spars and an upended cutter. Others, torn and bloody, or blackened by powder burns, rolled in the swell like so much grisly flotsam.

  Brabazon yelled above the din of gunfire and shouting, ‘The frigate broke up, Philip! God, it must have been a terrible end!’

  Blackwood winced as a musket-ball slapped into the packed hammocks. Were they that close? And who was brave or foolhardy enough to bother with a musket as the two giants drove towards each other?

  Brabazon yelled, ‘Look! There’s her poop!’

  The frigate’s battered stern was riding above the water with over a dozen men clinging to its gilded scrollwork like seals on a rock. Others splashed and pleaded for help among the tossing wreckage, and Blackwood thought he saw a woman amongst them, probably the wife of one of the officers.

  ‘Reload!’

  One of the enemy shots had come through a forward port and yet aft on the quarterdeck they had not even seen it. A gun had been knocked away from the side and two men lay motionless on the planking. As the other guns roared out again Blackwood saw some blood run across the deck and quiver in the sunlight as if it still clung on to life.

  Some of the marines growled angrily and thrust their rifles over the nettings and trained them on the swimmers.

  Sergeant Quintin snarled, ‘Belay that! Save yer ’ate fer later!’

  ‘Cease firing!’ Jervis stared round fiercely, his eyes red from smoke. ‘Tell them to hold their fire, damn you!’