Worth Their Colours (105th Foot. The Prince of Wales Own Wessex Regiment.)

by Martin McDowell

  oOo

  The two white shapes, far out on the Western horizon, had caught up, drawn level and were now moving ahead. Since dawn, together they had been the subjects of every telescope on every vessel and now, as they took a course that brought them closer, the worst fears were confirmed.

  “Two heavy French Privateers, probably twins and built for the job. Topsail schooners, probably six 24’s each side.”

  This was the conclusion of Captain Smallcombe, emphatically closing the sections of his ancient spyglass.

  “What are they trying to do?” asked Colonel Lacey.

  “This wind is almost right against us. They are heading us to get the weather gauge, then they can turn and come down on the wind and choose whatever suits them best. Depends on what the Ipheion does, but they probably plan for one of them to keep her busy whilst the other takes one of us. I expect that to be this ship, we make the biggest prize.”

  “Why are they overtaking us so easily?”

  “They’re schooners, fore and aft rig. They can sail closer to the wind than we, and so on the same heading into the wind, they’re faster than we. Very handy vessels, perfect for commerce raiding.”

  He pointed to the spars above, strained around their masts as much as possible, but only gaining leverage from the wind for little more than two knots.

  “That’s the best we can get, without tacking, and we can’t do that, with them to the West and the Spanish coast to the East. They could have us against that. With this wind, we’re almost becalmed. They’ve got us bottled!”

  Three days sailing across the Bay of Biscay had seen the wind change to a hampering South Westerly. Both the Llewellyn and the Tansy were poor sailors into the wind and through the night they had dropped behind, almost a mile back. They showed as little more than white shapes over the Bidewell’s stern counter. Half a mile off to the West the Ipheion had cleared for action and her 9 guns showed through their gunports, White Ensigns at her stern and mastheads. She had hauled her wind and was closing with the Bidewell. Smallcombe continued his analysis.

  “If the Ipheion sails out to meet them, they’ll take her, one each side. They can dance around her and hit from where she can’t hit back. A British warship is a good prize by herself, and then we’ll be at their mercy anyway. They won’t pair up on her close to us, because we can come to her support, just about. So, they know the Ipheion will guard one side, and one of ‘em will keep her occupied, tacking and turning, just keeping away from her broadsides. The other will come t’other side, board and capture one of us, put on a prize crew, then sail on. The Ipheion will have saved two of us, the French will have got the other.”

  The Ipheion had come within hailing distance. Fallway was up in her rigging with a speaking trumpet. He confirmed what Smallcombe had said.

  “I’ll hold this side. They’ll split and come on, one at me and one at you. Do your best. Good luck.”

  With that, the Ipheion tacked away with immaculate seamanship and made some distance to hold off the attack when it came, but the two shapes, pure white but malignant to all, continued to gain heading. It was not yet Noon, they had plenty of time.

  Lacey turned to Smallcombe.

  “May we use your cabin, Captain, for a council? Will you join us?”

  “Yes to both, Colonel.”

  Lacey turned to O’Hare.

  “Call all Officers, Majors and Captains, to the Captain’s cabin. Five minutes.”

  All arrived sooner and Lacey lost no time in addressing the assembly.

  “Soon we will have a heavily armed French Privateer sailing down on us. They want to capture us and take us into a French port. We are the biggest prize, and the nearest. The Ipheion will deal with one; we have to deal with the other. Any ideas?”

  There was stunned silence, but it was Carravoy that broke it.

  “Sir, we have over 400 trained soldiers aboard, surely we can do something?”

  Smallcombe spoke up.

  “We must hope that they think us to be supply transports. They have to board us to capture us as a prize. If they think that we are stuffed full of soldiers they won’t try, but they’ll stand off and pound us to matchwood with their 24’s, then go on to do the same to the Llewellyn and the Tanzy. They’ll get a fine payment for sinking a whole battalion of British soldiers.”

  Silence again, then Carr spoke.

  “Sir. If we can convince them that we are supply ships, merchantmen, then they will come alongside. That will give us a chance to board her ourselves. Captain Smallcombe, what would they expect to see as they sailed down onto a prize such as ourselves, if we were a merchantman?”

  Smallcombe paused, then answered.

  “She would expect to see the crew give her up and sail for the two astern. They appreciate that the crew would not want to be taken prisoner, that the crew would know that they had no chance and so the crew takes themselves off. It’s the common result. If we slacken the sheets and let the sails hang limp, they’ll think that we’re giving her to them, in return for being allowed to escape.”

  “There, Sir. It’s a start. If the French see no soldiers and a crew taking off in the longboat, giving her to the French, then they will come alongside, and that’ll be our chance, Sir.”

  Lacey took it up.

  “Right, we’ve got them alongside, what then?”

  Carravoy grinned. “We’re all waiting behind the bulwark and we stand up and give ’em a volley.”

  Smallcombe spoke up.

  “Beggin your pardon, Sir, but ‘twon’t serve. These Privateers is stuffed full of men. You won’t down a quarter of ‘em. They’ll sheer off and man their guns, just like I said.”

  Lacey spoke again.

  “So we must hold them fast to us to give us a chance to board them. Any ideas, Smallcombe.”

  “They will throw over grappling irons to pull the two ships together. All right, you blows away their boarding party. We then have to use their grapnels on their own ship, and our own that we have, to hold the ships together. It won’t be easy, after seeing you they’ll be doing their damndest to sheer off, cutting the grappling ropes and setting sail, which, with this wind, will move them away.”

  Lacey gave his orders.

  “Right. Carravoy, your Grenadiers are on the grappling hooks, our own, and also to use any thrown over by the French that can be pulled aboard and then used on them. Carr, your riflemen and any other useful marksmen are to prevent any Frenchman from cutting a grappling rope. No. 3 will give the first volley. One and Two will hold the ship and wait below. O’Hare, you’re in command of our deck. Good, I think we have a chance.”

  Carr gave voice to his idea.

  “The longboat, Sir. It doesn’t have to be seamen in it. The seamen will be needed here. If the longboat had our soldiers, dressed like sailors, when the fighting starts they could come back and take the French from the other side.”

  But Smallcombe interjected.

  “Again, beggin’ your pardon Sir, but it’ll be a long pull back to here against the wind. You can sail off, the French will expect it, but a row back will take some time. It’ll all be over. You’ll be more use aboard.”

  “Then we’ll pay out a towing rope to pull us back, then row round to her bow. Will that work.”

  “Yes Sir. Yes, I think it will. I’ll get some cable spliced together. It’ll have to be a long one!”

  Lacey turned to Carr.

  “Right; Carr. You’re in the longboat. Choose your men.”

  Drake’s face broke into a smile.

  “Sir, what if the French thought that there were French prisoners aboard. Then they’d be even less likely to fire and even more likely to come alongside. Some Officers, including myself, speak a bit of French, or at least pronounce it. If we were up the front, I mean bow, as they came in, shouting out in French, that could add to the effect, Sir.”

  “Good idea, Mr Drake. You see to it.”

  He looked up and looked around.

  “Gent
lemen, I think we have a plan that gives us a more than an even chance. It’ll need careful timing, but well executed, it’ll work.”

  However, Carravoy wasn’t smiling.

  “There’s just one danger, Sir. We can keep redcoats hidden on our deck but what about the Llewellyn and the Tansy. If they spy redcoats aboard them, they’ll put two and two together and take no chances. They’ll use their guns on us.”

  Lacey’s face fell.

  “Your right. How can we get a message to them? They are way back. What about your signal flags, Smallcombe?”

  “Almost certainly the French will have a captured British signal book aboard. They’ll read whatever we send.”

  The meeting fell silent, as all fell to thinking. It was Captain Heaviside who spoke.

  “You can send Gen. 37. 3. Matt. 9, 30. Ecc. 3.6.”

  From Lacey. “What will that say?”

  “He made him a coat of many colours. See that no man knows it. A time to keep, a time to cast away.”

  Lacey turned to Smallcombe.

  “Will the French have a Bible?”

  “ Some do, some don’t. It depends on the Captain. Whatever, it’ll take them a while to work it out, even if they do.”

  Carravoy looked worried.

  “Won’t the French smell a rat, us sending cryptic messages, Sir?”

  “Perhaps, but it can’t be helped, it’s a chance we’ll have to take. Besides, it is Sunday. Perhaps we’re exchanging texts for Sunday service?”

  All laughed, the tension broken, at least for a while.

  “Good luck to you all.”

  oOo

  Carr went below and gathered his company.

  “We are going to be boarded by a French Privateer. They think we are a Merchantman, and we must keep it so. You must not show yourselves above the ship’s side, your redcoat will tell them that the ship is full of soldiers, and they’ll keep off and sink us with their guns. When the ships come together, our job, as good shots, is to stop any Frenchman from cutting the rope from a grappling iron. Take care with each shot, but I need 20 men to come with me in the longboat to attack them from the other side. Volunteers? You’ll be first for any plunder!”

  He grinned and, and soon he had more than he needed, so he chose the 20 he thought best suited to close quarter fighting, which included Tom Miles.

  “What will they be armed with, Sir?”

  “Cutlasses, but that’s fine. Just think of them as cavalry. Longboatmen, leave your jackets here. You’ll get some shirts to make you look like sailors.”

  After removing his own jacket and donning a large blue neckerchief, he led his men up to the deck, to find the Grenadiers and Number 3 Company already squatting against the ship’s side. The longboat was being swung out and he wondered at the haste, but a walk to the forecastle and a look South West told him why. The Privateers had gained all the sea-room they needed and were making their move, even from a mile away he could see their creaming bow wave, forced aside by the bulk of their sleek hulls, which looked small by comparison to the tower of white canvas that forced them on towards their intended targets. Another look out to starboard saw the Ipheion, stationed off their starboard bow, ready to meet any attack down that side. At that moment the Privateers split and Carr watched fascinated as the gap grew between them. He was called back to his task by Major O’Hare.

  “Captain Carr. Into the longboat, if you please.”

  The Bidewell was stationary, the sails now hanging limp. Carr slid down a rope into the crowded vessel, noted the bayoneted muskets lying in the bottom and watched two of the three sailors hoist the sail and spread it to the wind. He looked back. One of the Privateers was visible from their side. They could see him, so time for the off. The rope began to pay out through a rowlock from its perfect coil in the bow. Carr was set on his part of the plan.

  The roar of gunfire drew all eyes that were able, over to the starboard side. The Ipheion, with perfect timing, had tacked around to parallel her Privateer and present her larboard broadside and each gun, carefully aimed, was holding the Frenchman out from the Bidewell. However, the Frenchman, with equal skill was holding his ship just out of range, as shown by the fall of shot, thus forcing the Ipheion to hold her position to protect that flank of the convoy.

  Davey and Joe Pike crouched down on the deck, as low as they could despite the discomfort of many like them crowded up under the ships side. Davey could read clearly the fear and anxiety of Joe’s face.

  “John, d’you think we can do it? John, I never shot at no one, never mind killed anyone.”

  Davey smiled and squeezed his upper arm.

  “Neither have I, boy, but I knows one thing. This is soldiering and if we don’t win, it’s a French prison or the bottom of the ocean for us both. You’ll soon change when you see’s what they’n tryin’ to do to you.

  He smiled again.

  “We’ll be all right, Joe. Both of us, once it gets goin’. Just do what you’ve been told. Think of ‘em same as those straw dummies you blew apart on the range! Now check your priming and your flint.”

  Joe grinned and nodded, and did as he was bid, then looked up. O’Hare was passing amongst them, crouching just as they were.

  “Now remember, you gang of scoundrels. No. 3 fires first, then the Grenadiers, then you Lights, and you Lights especially, choose your targets, like you’ve been told, not just anyone. When you’ve fired get back out of the way, make room for the next. Good luck to you all, boys; they’re in for a nasty surprise trying to pick a fight with the 5th,” and he slapped as many on the back and shoulders as were in range.

  Royston D’Villiers had much more of a view than he wanted. The Privateer was growing in size, rushing on in puissant confidence, so quickly that details rapidly emerged within the terrifying picture that was building before him. Her guns, run out and ready on the side that would come to face him, muzzles speaking their own threat, the huge tricolour billowing off to the left, and, worst, the men milling about and busy on her crowded forecastle, many clearly armed.

  He was stood with Drake, Rushby and five others, all able to speak French and all scruffily dressed as though prisoners. He studied the Privateer and his fear grew worse, such that he gripped the arm of the man before him.

  “Steady up, D’Villiers. Must make the right impression, you’d agree.”

  Nearer and nearer, was she going to stand off, or was she going to board? Her course said the latter, but it could change. Did she know? A puff of white smoke issued from her bowchaser on the forecastle, followed by the report, then a splash of shot 30 yards before them. What did that mean? Nearer and nearer. Here was the enemy, in all his strength, ability and power. Now he could see their faces. He doubted that he could speak anything, but then came relief so strong his legs gave way, he had to seize the nearby rigging. She was running in her guns, he could hear the squeal of the gun trucks and the portlids were closing with a thump. No doubt, she was coming alongside. He heard Drake yell, to be taken up by the others.

  “Ne tirez pas. Ne tirez pas. Nous sommes prisonniers Francaise. Ne tirez pas. Vive la France. Vive la France.”

  The others were waving and cheering, and, unbelievably, the French were laughing and grinning back. D’Villiers started shouting for all he was worth.

  “Merci. Merci. Vous etre notre secourireurs. Merci. Merci. Vive la Revolution.”

  With superb seamanship the Privateer slackened her own sails and glided to a halt just off the Bidewell’s hull, both mainmasts opposite, but the Privateer shorter, measuring somewhat over half the Bidewell’s length. The distance between them was not quite enough to leap over, but almost. Joe Pike and Davey looked up to see the towering sails with Frenchmen on the uppermost spars. The realisation struck him hard: Frenchmen! If he could see them, they could see him, and they were shouting something, but he could hear nothing above the gunfire between the Ipheion and the other Privateer and the yelling from the forecastle. Joe’s attention switched to the grappling hooks t
hat arced over the sides and jerked back against the rail above. The barbs bit into the woodwork as the Privateer crew took the strain. Seconds passed, surely the gap was closing. Then he heard,

  “Allez, mes enfants, en avant, en avant!”.

  Carr turned in the stern of the longboat and decided his moment had come. The Privateer was stationary beside the Bidewell, her rail and rigging black with men waiting to swing over and board. Not quite yet going over, but he decided to take the chance. Time to return.

  “Strike the sail! Onto that rope, all of you, and pull for all you’re worth.”

  The longboat spun with the new strain on the towline at her bows and Carr and his men began the long haul back, rapidly closing the gap, but not fast enough for Carr. He studied the gap between the two ships. It was narrow enough, the boarders were away, swinging on ropes from the French yardarms.

  O’Hare stood up. “No 3 Company. Up. Present. Fire!”

  His timing was as good as could be hoped. The Privateers, their ship left behind and in the act of swinging across, were suddenly confronted by the muzzles of 85 muskets, at point blank range. Practically the whole boarding party were blown away to fall between the two hulls. The few that, by a miracle, made the deck of the Bidewell were quickly bayoneted.

  “Grenadiers. Up. Present. Fire!”

  The volley from the Grenadiers added to the confusion on the French deck, then they dropped their muskets to use their own grapnels, some hauling in the rope of those thrown by the French, to use them as their own.

  “Lights. Up. Independent fire.”

  Smoke was everywhere, despite the breeze it was moving too slowly to see any target. It was caught in the eddies around the slack sails, but what could be heard was the sound of chopping from the French deck and many grapnel lines were going slack.