But now it was the wrong way round. He faced superior numbers and he and his men would have to clamber up the side of the ship to engage them, this while both vessels rocked on the swell. And that would have to be undertaken when they’d already been exposed to concentrated musket fire, or even worse, cannon. It seemed like a recipe for disaster in his book, and he sought desperately for a solution. The only one that presented itself was the idea that he could get aboard where they didn’t expect him. How to achieve that, when overlooked, seemed impossible.
These ruminations were shattered by the first salvo from both sets of cannon, which wreathed the fighting ships in great clouds of grey and black smoke. Blown forward, that was more of an advantage to Germain than his opposite number, and he made full use of it, edging in closer to the enemy wake so that their second salvo missed completely, churning up the water off the larboard mainchains.
Against that, the increased angle meant that for a while Germain’s guns couldn’t bear, and the wind had whipped his protective smokescreen away by the time they did. But he had gained on his foe, with his bows now beginning to overhaul the broad stern, so that his forward cannon, even though only of six-pound weight, could inflict real damage on the merchant vessel. One shot went straight through the rear port, and the satisfying clang of metal on metal, accompanied by loud screams, was enough to establish that they had dismounted a gun.
The reply killed any euphoria, as a swathe of bar shot swept across the prow, high enough to spare Rannoch and the men Markham had sent there, but deadly enough to remove every forward sail, half the bowsprit, and the top portion of the foremast. Syilphide’s speed dropped immediately, and her head yawed away despite the best efforts of the master to hold it steady.
That brought every gun on the deck to bear and they used the opportunity well, catching their opponents reloading and doing telling damage. But Germain must have known what was coming, a full broadside from the enemy, since he yelled to Conmorran to let go and let the ship fall away from its course. At the same time, the marlin spikes holding the falls were pulled, releasing the clove hitch knots and the pressure on the yards, which spun sideways as the wind took them, to leave the sails flapping uselessly.
The sloop lost most of its forward motion, which saved Germain from the drubbing he’d anticipated. The water forward seemed to boil as thousands of rounds of grapeshot peppered the sea right at the point where Syilphide should have been. Germain was still yelling, calling men from the guns to reset the yards, screaming at the master to down his helm so that the sloop would yaw across the merchantman’s stern. And his marine officer was not excluded.
‘I intend to remove those deadlights, Mr Markham,’ he bellowed, pointing to the thick, carved sheets of timber that had been rigged to protect the vulnerable casement windows that covered the enemy’s stern. ‘And when they are shattered, I want you to lead your marines though the gap.’
‘Holy Mary, mother of Christ,’ Markham said to himself.
‘Man the larboard cannon and fire as you bear,’ shouted Germain to the crew, his voice mixing with that of his marine lieutenant, as he called his men to form up amidships with him.
Chapter seven
Converting a merchant ship to fight proved to have one major drawback. It was not equipped to defend itself either to the front or the rear, an obvious vulnerability that Germain should have exploited from the very first. His anger at that opening broadside had obviously blinded him. But the enemy had, inadvertently, forced him into taking a second chance. There were no stern chaser cannon and the square construction of the hull made it impossible for the deck guns to bear.
Faced with only inaccurate musket fire over the taffrail, Syilphide could edge right in so that the cannon did maximum damage. Markham, no longer exposed to a full broadside with grapeshot, had gathered his marines amidships and had them firing volleys to clear the defenders from the taffrail. All they needed now was a point of entry, which had to be through the cabin area, the casements of which were covered by sections of heavy oak, elaborately carved with smiling cupids and dancing nymphs. It also told them the ship’s name was Massime and that its home port was Marseilles.
Germain was firing at near point-blank range. Even so the deadlights cracked but didn’t shatter. It took three full salvoes to effect the first breech. Then every gun had to be aimed into that spot to finally open up an avenue which Markham and his Lobsters could exploit.
That was still something easier to contemplate than to achieve. There were bound to be defenders waiting on the lower deck to stop them. They would move into position as soon as Germain stopped plying his guns. Markham yelled to him for another salvo as he moved his men into position, crammed in two groups between a pair of six-pounder cannon. The request produced no more than a blank stare of incomprehension. But the gun captains nearby had carried out the reloading procedure without orders, so that they were ready to oblige.
No one waited for orders from the quarterdeck. They took the command straight from the marine officer, and though grape would have been better, they put half-a-dozen balls into the cabin, that followed by a heart-warming sound of splintering wood, shattering glass and several human screams.
Markham was first through the narrow gap, losing his hat right away, with his coat snagged on the sharp-edged timbers. Coming out of searing sunlight into near darkness, he felt utterly helpless, so he fired off his pistol as a precaution before he finally manoeuvred his body into the shattered cabin. This was another feature different on a merchant vessel. In a warship there would have been no impediments to stop either defender or attacker, nothing but a clean sweep fore and aft.
That, once the deadlights had been breached, would have exposed those on the lower deck to a murderous fire, as the cannonballs ripped from one end of the ship to the other. But here, as well as broken window frames and a carpet of glass, there was furniture, though it had been pulped by the gunfire. Also, on the far side, stood the remains of the bulkhead that had separated the captain’s day cabin from his sleeping quarters and those of his servants.
There were bodies too, the crumpled forms of men who had been sent into the cabin when they should have stayed outside. Perhaps they had been caught by that last, extra salvo that Markham had called for. It made no difference, he was just grateful, since it gave him a chance to form up his men in some kind of order before they became engaged. Rannoch was hauling the last of them through the gap, cursing at them roundly in a mixture of English and his Highland Gaelic, ordering those already through to fix bayonets and form a proper line.
Markham knew his job. There would be no rushing forward. Instead they must advance steadily, and hold off any challenge, so that Germain and his sailors could follow them through and provide sufficient numbers for an assault on the upper deck. On Syilphide they’d aim the guns high, to fire up through the stern-deck planking and keep it clear.
Musketry, with precious little time to reload, might consist of one salvo, which would need to be timed to perfection to achieve the maximum result. The Syilphides were still outnumbered. The only hope they had of success was sheer brio: to inflict such casualties on their enemy with the bayonet, cutlass and pike that the remainder would give way for fear of their lives.
A lack of discipline in the defence helped considerably. A commander in proper control of his men would have avoided close action, and instead set up a line of muskets to keep a clear space between the attackers and his crew, decimating the British assault every time they tried to advance. Clearly they lacked a file of marines to employ the method Markham would have used if the positions had been reversed.
Close-quarter fighting in a confined space favoured Markham’s men, as was proved as soon as the defenders tried to engage. They couldn’t bring their superior numbers to bear. The line of marines, with Markham at one end and Rannoch at the other, formed a solid wall of advancing bayonets. And the enemy, even if they had much longer pikes and boat hooks, were up against men well trained i
n mutual support, as well as the art of parry and thrust with Brown Bess and bayonet.
The first impediment to this steady forward progress was the shattered bulkhead that stood between the cabins and the main-deck. Some of the panelling remained intact, while other sections had been blown apart. The French stood on one side, and his marines on the other. Markham accepted a halt, content to hold the cabin till the Syilphides could build up their strength. They, with Germain and young Fletcher at their head, were crowding in behind him, over thirty determined sailors, with their blood up, aching to be at the enemy, frustrated by the marines standing foursquare in their path.
Some form of order was a priority; otherwise his own men would be jostled forward. But to assert control in a crowded cabin, with everyone shouting at once, was impossible. The two naval officers were trying in vain to hold their men back, each one they stopped matched by another who slipped through, every shout they delivered answered by an angry curse. Even that collective bellowing was drowned by a salvo from Syilphide, not only the crash of the guns, but the wrenching of timbers being torn apart by metal right above their heads. Only by furious pushing and shoving could Markham split his men, trying to get them to form some sort of funnel through which the sailors pressing at their backs could advance.
He shouted his order without any sure knowledge that they would hear. Led by Rannoch, they fired across each other, an untidy salvo that was no more than follow my leader. The first batch of some fifteen boarders rushed through the belching smoke to reach the gaps in the bulkhead. Markham took a chance on them holding at least, and gave his men time to reload, something that few of them managed in the allotted twenty seconds. Bellamy and Dornan, the two least useful pair, were still ramming home their cartridges when the enemy put in an extra effort that pressed the Syilphides back. The rest of the Lobsters reacted well, jamming their muskets through the throng, either between bodies or over shoulders, and just letting fly to ease the pressure.
It worked, even if they could not be sure they hadn’t hit their own. The French suddenly fell back enough to let the attack get past the bulkhead on to the open deck behind. Germain and the other half of his boarding party followed, yelling like banshees. When the marines got through, Markham could see only a frenzy of wild activity, in which it was near impossible to tell friend from foe.
Germain and Fletcher were visible because of the blue coats and the officer’s swords. They were trying to employ them in regulation fashion, as if they were still practising on their own deck. But for the rest there was no line as such, just a melee of swinging clubs, jabbing sabres, of punching, gouging and biting, as the two evenly matched groups fought to gain a degree of supremacy.
Markham concentrated his men on the larboard side of the ship, and forming them into a phalanx pushed forward, his left marker brushing the bulkhead. They had to use their butts to clear a path through the battling Syilphides. Only then could they employ their bayonets on the French. The collective discipline was rewarded by an immediate withdrawal. That swept clear a space from which he could push back towards the centre of the deck, taking the bulk of the enemy in flank until he was shoulder to shoulder with the captain, the result a clear gain of some ten feet.
‘We have them, Markham,’ Germain shouted, eyes blazing.
As he said that Fletcher went down, the point of the pike that had caught him with such force protruding from the top half of his back. Germain stepped forward, sword extended, his front knee bending to increase his range, the tip taking Fletcher’s killer in the throat. Markham, temporarily not engaged, stooped down and pulled the young midshipman clear. Looking down into his startled eyes, and at the blood pumping out through his gaping mouth, it was obvious he was dying.
The attack was going well. After his rush, the Syilphides were still making steady if unspectacular progress, pressing the enemy back to the companionways that ran up on to the deck. Any hope of repeating his previous manoeuvre was rendered impossible by the way his men had become entangled with the fight, clubbing and stabbing where they were allowed the space to do so.
The planking beneath their feet was running with blood, and one of the greatest dangers faced by the advancing men was to trip over a recumbent body, friend or foe, an act which opened them up to a blow from the enemy. Markham, using his height, was slashing forward with his sword. Vaguely he became aware that Rannoch, as cool and professional as ever, was dragging from the fight two men at a time so that they could reload their muskets.
Nothing is more exhausting than the continual exertions of battle. And in the heat of a Mediterranean summer, here between crowded decks, that was magnified tenfold. Markham was sweating buckets, his tongue feeling like a piece of leather in his parched mouth. And he knew that he was tiring, his right arm aching from swinging and stabbing with his blade. His marines would be the same, and it was only a matter of time before the Syilphides, with half-a-dozen men already down, began to relax an onward drive so ferocious that would be impossible to sustain.
Perhaps the French had calculated for that, since the pair of companionways that straddled the mainmast, which they were struggling to reach, now so tantalisingly close, were suddenly full of reinforcements. Here was a body of fresh defenders, led by men in light blue uniform coats, rushing to the relief of their wilting comrades, in sufficient quantity to outnumber the attackers.
Markham stopped at fifty. He had anyway, no need to count them. Anyone with an ounce of sense could see the game was up as soon as they appeared; that up against fresh arms and overwhelming superiority, the boarding party would have to give ground. And he also suspected, seeing those uniforms, that this was no privateer, but a ship converted by the French Navy, quite possibly for the very task of surprising British warships. Any lack of a disciplined response changed with proper officers in control, and that alone swiftly altered the nature of the conflict.
The Syilphides didn’t surrender ground immediately. They seemed, at Germain’s behest, to redouble their efforts in the face of this magnified threat, enforcing a temporary stalemate. That, at least, gave him time to disengage and think. If they fell back piecemeal, they would lose men and cohesion. That could, if properly pressed home, take the French back through the shattered cabin, and right on to the deck of Syilphide. If they managed to maintain their momentum, and get aboard in enough numbers, they would achieve their ultimate aim and take the ship. That had to be avoided, even if in the process he would be forced to sacrifice some of the men fighting alongside him.
The only people who could hold a disciplined line were his marines, and for that they needed space to bring their superior skills to bear. There was no time to consult Germain, still in the thick of things, still calling for greater efforts. Markham yelled for his Lobsters to disengage, grabbing at several to haul them clear, since they could barely hear him.
Rannoch, even taller than his officer, must have drawn the same conclusion. Markham had the distinct impression that he’d started jerking men back before the order was actually given. They didn’t all get clear. Yelland, Dymock and Tully were still in there, trapped in the heaving mass of bodies, unaware of their mates lining up all the way back by the shattered bulkheads, raising their weapons to fire a volley.
‘Steady,’ Markham shouted.
His voice was rasping due to his previous exertions, leaving him wondering how many of his men actually understood the command. He had to physically raise the nearest bayonets, fearing that the retreating Syilphides would impale themselves. Luckily those out of his reach copied their mates, and aimed their points at the overhead deck beams. There was neither time nor sufficient silence for complicated commands. He had to trust that they’d be ready to drop and fire on the fall of his up-raised sword. They would need to obey, even if some of their own men, including the captain, were still out front. Rannoch, on the other end of the line, was talking to those closest to him, quite possibly saying the very same. Even in dumb show the movement of his lips seemed slow and even,
an oasis of calm in a hot, noise-filled and bloody arena.
The Syilphides begin to give ground, hardly surprising given the numbers they faced. Germain was doing his best to rally them, but it was in vain. Worse than that, it was the wrong tactic in the situation. Markham, lubricating his throat with what little saliva he could muster, waited until the movement spread, till the back markers were taking consecutive paces to the rear, pushing to try and hold their mates in front. The noise abated just a fraction, as contact was broken, so he filled his lungs and yelled.
‘Syilphides to me!’
The deck remained full of shouting cursing men, with the clang of striking metal and wood still very audible. He could not expect them all to hear, even less to react. Germain did, stepping back and turning his head, the pointed sword keeping him safe, the surprise in his eyes total. Markham leant forward to yell in his ear.
‘We must retreat, sir, or risk the ship.’
Even if it was only a few seconds, the captain seemed to take an age to comprehend what was at risk. Fortunately the men falling back swept him along till any choice in the matter was removed. Germain, at least, could step back smartly. But for those at the very front it was no easy matter to completely disengage in a fight, especially with no clear route to your rear. But the men nearest the line of marines reacted swiftly, which increased the pressure on those in front. Speed of retreat aided quite a few, Germain included, though Markham saw several go down under a rain of blows that now came from all angles.
‘What are you about man?’ Germain screamed, sweat streaking the filth that had covered his face. ‘We had them beat!’
‘You have been humbugged again, sir. Your opponent practically invited you to board so that he could trap you.’
Honour Be Damned Page 9