Trident

by Michael Aye

  “Aye, Captain.”

  “Mr. Berry.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “A double measure of grog for your lookout. He has given us an edge, I’m thinking.”

  “Yes sir.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Quietly, the ship went to quarters. No drums beating and no shrill of the bosun’s pipes. Men still dazed from being roused out earlier than usual made their way to the stations for quarters. At least they had a belly full of burgoo, hot coffee, and ship’s biscuits that were still fresh enough to be weevil free. The other vessels made a fine sight as they approached. Even without the glass it was obvious that it was a French ship, a corvette. Twenty guns at least, Jepson thought.

  “A ruse de guerre you think, Captain?” This was from Lord Skalla. Jepson had come to like the man. He was small in stature, with black hair that was starting to turn gray above the ears.

  Once at sea, Lord Skalla had stopped wearing his powdered wig. “Too damn hot for my taste,” he’d declared. His lordship always had a smile on his face and eyes that seemed to dance in the lantern light. He was a very shrewd man who knew his business and would tolerate no mediocrity; a most capable foe, yet a man with a big heart.

  Jepson had seen that when dining with Governor Ragland and Lord Anthony’s family. Gabe’s little man was fussy and Lord Skalla had taken the baby from Faith and whispered, “Come to Uncle Randy.” Instantly the child quieted down.

  “Must be a papa in his own right,” Bart had exclaimed.

  “Aye,” Uncle Randy acknowledged, “granddaughters.”

  “They may be as they appear,” Jepson replied to his lordship’s comment about a possible ruse de guerre. “They will be upon us in another quarter of an hour so we’ll know. Mr. Parks.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  “We are no match for the corvette’s metal so our only chance is to surprise them, if indeed it is a ruse. Have all the guns double-shotted with a measure of grape. Fill all the swivels with canister and have the last gun on either side ready to fire on the cutter if she joins the battle.”

  “Which side shall we load, sir?”

  “Both sides.”

  A smile crossed Parks’ face. He’d have bet the captain would want to have both sides ready.

  “Mr. Parks!”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Do not open the gun ports. As soon as you are ready have the bosun sound quarters.” Seeing the look on the lieutenant’s face, Jepson added, “It’s time for morning quarters, sir. I’d not want yonder ship to think something is amiss. A trifle slovenly perhaps, but not amiss.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  “Your weapons, sir,” This was from Zachary Taylor. He was one of Bart’s mates and was recovering from a knee injury.

  “He’ll do you well,” Bart had said. “Time is yew’ll need a good man and there’s none better I’m thinking.” Who could say no to Bart? Lord Anthony never had. So who was he to turn down his old friend?

  “Thank you, Zachary. How’s your knee today?”

  “Its mending, sir. A little tricky going down the ladders, but otherwise it’s doing well.”

  Jepson strapped on his sword and stuck his pistol in his waistband.

  “They’re loaded, sir.”

  Smiling Jepson replied, “I was sure they were.”

  From overhead the lookout called down, “She’s going about, sir.”

  Almost immediately Bucklin called out, “Signals sir.”

  “Well, are we to wait?” Parks growled. “Or do you need to consult with Robinson?”

  “No sir. They say, heave to, have dispatches”

  “Acknowledge,” Jepson replied. The larger ship completed its maneuver and was now bearing down on Pegasus.

  “If she comes any closer she’ll not need to send a boat across the master,” John Jones snorted.

  The corvette’s bow started to swing as the yards turned and the ship altered her course.

  “She’s shown her intention by damned,” Jepson growled aloud.

  Almost in unison, the French flag flew up the halyard as the British flag came down and the gun ports opened. A minute to soon, Jepson thought. Had the Frogs waited another minute, they could have fired a complete broadside before Jepson and Pegasus could have reacted.

  “Open the gun ports and fire as you bear, Mr. Berry. This has to be quick work if we are to win the day.”

  Survive would be more like it, Zachary thought. What had that damn Bart gotten him into?

  BOOM!…BOOM!…BOOM. Pegasus was speaking with all the authority she had.

  “Mr. James.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  “I intend to cross the Frogs bow, hopefully.”

  A cheer went up. A lucky shot had hit something so that the Frenchie’s anchor broke loose from where it was catted. The anchor fell far enough it was halfway in the water when it stopped. This caused the bow of the ship to slew to starboard.

  “Now, Mr. James, helm down.”

  Lord Skalla had to grab hold of a rail as the deck canted.

  “Mr. Berry,” Jepson yelled. “The cutter is to starboard. If she opens a gun port pour a broadside into her, if not aim for the mast and riggings.” Turning back to the master, Jepson ordered, “As soon as we clear the cutter bring us about and we will engage the larboard guns.”

  “Do you intend to continue the attack, Captain?” Lord Skalla asked.

  “Better to press the advantage now,” Jepson replied. “If we don’t, sir, they will be on us in an hour at most. They have bigger guns with a longer range. They would chase us down and pound us to pieces before we could get in range. They thought that we’d be an easy prize, otherwise…”

  Another cheer! A lucky shot had brought the cutter’s mast down.

  “Well, that’s one puppy we won’t have to worry about nipping at our heels,” Parks declared.

  “Now, Mr. Jones,” Jepson ordered. “Bring us about.”

  Pegasus’ crew had been well-trained in both sail drill and gunnery. Would that be enough, Jepson wondered. They were overtaking the corvette fast.

  “Be ready, Mr. Berry.”

  The young lieutenant saluted with his sword. One of the corvette’s aft guns had been brought to bear. Flames belched out of the cannon, its ball plowing through the forward rail. It missed the gun but flying splinters had several men down, and one was dead. Jepson could see a piece of the rail had gone all the way through the poor soul. He lay in a fetal position as his blood poured onto the polished deck. Another seaman had a splinter a foot long sticking from his shoulder. Others less injured helped the man below.

  The deck gave a shudder as more balls struck, but Jepson couldn’t see any visible damage. “Above the water line, I hope,” he muttered.

  “Sir?” Zachary asked.

  “Nothing,” Jepson snapped. Sorry about his bluntness, he apologized. “Just thinking aloud, Zach. Forgive my ill mood.”

  “No worries, Cap’n.”

  Jepson could feel the vibration of the deck as Pegasus fired her guns. One after another, the guns roared, only this time they were not only giving but also receiving. Enemy balls plowed into the bulwark and rigging, bringing down a spar and overturning two guns. A flash was seen amidships as a powder boy was hit and his charge ignited. A fast thinking seaman threw a bucket of water on the burning sack and body. The boy was dead. Its best, Jepson thought. The pain from the burns would have been unbearable.

  “We can’t take much more of this,” Lord Skalla muttered as he looked about at the destruction.

  “Come about, Mr. Jones,” Jepson ordered. “Let’s engage on the starboard side.”

  Looking aloft, the master replied, “Aye, Captain, if it holds. They’re still trying to take us as a prize, or their gunners don’t know what they’re about and are shooting high.”

  “Captain!”

  “Yes, Mr. Parks.”

  “Mr. Berry is in a bad way. Mr. Drake says we don’t have enough men left to fight both sides.”
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  “Very well, send every available man to Mr. Drake. If possible, I intend to try to cross her stern if we can make it through one more pass.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  The two ships were now converging. Pegasus’ guns had made their mark upon the French ship but had not done anything to damage her sailing abilities now that the loose anchor had been cut away. The corvette fired first again, and this time there was a sickening crack as a ball hit the forward mast. Jepson was never sure if it was the enemy ball or the shudder of Pegasus’ deck as the starboard guns fired a broadside, but the mast came down, falling to larboard and causing a list. It brought the ship to a halt as it fell to the sea. Almost at once, grapnels began to fly from the corvette.

  “Cut the mast away,” Jepson ordered.

  Men grabbed axes to chop away the wreckage and chop at the grapnel lines.

  “Mr. Hacket,” Jepson called to the bosun. “Keep a party busy clearing the mast away. Mr. Parks, stand by to repel boarders.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  Men were firing down from the sides of the taller corvette. These were quickly silenced as one of Pegasus’ marines fired a load of canister from the tops down onto the Frenchie’s sailors. Good, Jepson thought. Sergeant O’Malleys got his men deployed. There was another bang from above…sharpshooters. Suddenly a thought came to Jepson: they’d never expect us to attack.

  “Mr. Parks,” Jepson yelled. “Mr. Parks.” Finally the lieutenant looked his way. Jepson pointed toward the enemy ship with his sword and yelled again, “Boarders away.”

  The swivel barked again and a swath of lead decimated a group of enemy sailors. Climbing up and over the enemy rail, Jepson was not surprised to find Lord Skalla at his side. How they made it onto the enemy deck without being cut down was something of a miracle. Men were yelling, cursing, and crying out in pain. It was blade on blade with blood flowing onto the corvette’s deck, making it slippery. An officer lunged at Jepson, the tip of his sword just missing Jepson’s eye but cutting into his cheek. As Jepson fired his pistol at point blank range, the officer’s chest turned crimson and he fell to the deck, grasping the hot pistol barrel in his hand. Jepson clubbed another enemy sailor who was fighting with one of his men. Lord Skalla was locked in combat with a big brute. The larger man seemed to have the leverage but didn’t react quickly enough as Lord Skalla dropped his hand, quickly pulled a dagger and drove it into the man’s kidney.

  Without realizing it, Pegasus’ men had driven the corvette’s people back to the quarterdeck. Above the din of battle a voice called out, “Surrender, surrender.”

  “Hold your fire,” Jepson ordered his men as a few more shots were fired.

  The corvette’s crew was beaten. Looking about the deck, bodies were strewn everywhere. O’Malley’s marines had accounted for a number of them, but the blood lust was upon his seamen after seeing so many of their mates fall to the enemies’ guns.

  Walking up to the officer who had surrendered, Jepson asked, “Are you the captain?”

  “No sir, I’m Blake. I am the second officer.”

  “You sound American.”

  “I am.”

  “On a French ship?” Jepson asked.

  “The war makes for strange bed fellows, does it not, Captain?”

  “That it does,” Jepson agreed. “Where is the captain?”

  “Dead,” the first officer replied. “I believe you killed him, sir.”

  Jepson now recalled the officer who’d gouged him, blood was still dripping from the facial wound. “Mr. Parks.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Secure this ship, and then send Robinson across to the cutter with a few marines and take charge of our prize.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  “I would like to be the first one to congratulate you, sir, if I may. You take on not one but two enemy ships and carry the day, one being a much superior ship, as well. Lord Sandwich will hear of this. I’ll even send a letter to his Majesty,” Lord Skalla said.

  “That’s not necessary, your Lordship.”

  “Nonsense Captain,” Lord Skalla replied. “England needs more officers like you.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Nay,” Lord Skalla answered. “It is I who thanks you.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Gabe was stomping the deck trying to get his foot into a rain and sea soaked boot. Nesbit appeared through the doorway and announced, “The admiral is up and about.”

  Damn Buck, Gabe thought, he always was an early riser. “Has Chen Lee gotten over his seasickness?” Gabe asked.

  “Aye, Captain. He seems to have recovered fully.”

  Nodding, Gabe continued to dress. It had been a terrible beginning. No stranger to convoy duty, this was the first time Gabe had been given sole authority and responsibility, not only for his ship, but also the rest of the ships in Admiral Buck’s squadron and those in the convoy.

  The weather had not helped. Foul weather that had drained the men’s strength and tested every ounce of their resolve. No sooner had a watch been dismissed and weary men made it below decks to their hammocks, when one of the bosun’s mates would fill the air with the hated sound of his pipes.

  “All hands, all hands. Shorten sails, repair foul riggings.”

  It never ended. Men, stiff, torn and bleeding, would climb aloft from the swaying deck to dizzying heights to accomplish the urgent task. Once back on the deck, they’d be dismissed and would stagger back to their berth decks where the foul stench of the bilges greeted them.

  Old hands encouraged the newer ones to eat when they could, in order to keep up their strength. Otherwise, they’d never be able to answer the twitter of the bosun’s pipes when they sounded again. Chen Lee was not the only one to suffer the ills of seasickness. On the dark mess decks the sour odor of vomit made following the recommendations to eat almost impossible.

  A poor soul groaned, “I wish I was dead.”

  Listening to the howl of the wind and feeling the crash of the mighty Atlantic’s waves against the hull, one of the old hands replied, “If you don’t eat so’s you can keep your strength up, you might get your wish.”

  It wasn’t just the men whom the elements harassed. Campbell, the first lieutenant, was on deck at all hours as was the midshipman. Signals were constantly passed in attempts to keep some of the grocery captains from lagging too far behind. As it was, the convoy was stretched out for miles, in spite of every effort by the convoy escorts to keep them on station.

  Captain Lamb, of the Stag, had even threatened to put a ball amidships of one of the convoy ships if they didn’t respond to his signals. Admiral Buck had tried to stay out of the way of things. He let his officers, especially his flag captain, do their jobs without having to worry about the admiral looking over their shoulders. It was a lesson Buck had learned from Lord Anthony. “You have enough to do without worrying about bumping into me at every turn,” Lord Anthony had said.

  Buck gazed out the large stern windows, feeling the dampness on his palms as he leaned on the sill to get a better view. He now realized how hard and lonely it was to stay below…out of the way as it were. Looking through the glaze created by the salt spray on the window, the ship’s frothy wake was bright under the gray skies. Voices could be heard from the forward part of the cabin, several conversations in fact. Nesbit was trying to get a point across to Chen Lee, and Hex was giving instruction to Crowe.

  Of his new entourage, Fleming seemed to be coming along the fastest. However, as Hex had stated, pushing paper was pushing paper regardless of the forms. Sums add up or they don’t, the same at sea as it is on shore.

  Crowe was a good seaman and knew how to handle a boat. It was the ceremony and tradition that was so much a part of the Royal Navy that he was having difficulty with. But it would come. Buck could see the man’s determination and his desire to please. He would become a good cox’n.

  Gabe seemed pleased with his ship, its officers, and crew, with one exception…the surgeon. He was
newly appointed after Trident’s previous surgeon had decided to retire. Thus the port admiral had posted the first one that came available. The first night at sea, the poor man had scared the watch half to death screaming at the top of his lungs, naked and holding his wedding tackle in his hands as he ran back and forth along the deck until he was subdued. Wright, the senior surgeon’s mate, was perplexed by the man’s behavior.

  “He reminds me of a man who’s in his final days of the pox. I have seen one such at the Bedlam Asylum in London,” Wright volunteered. “I was interested in the treatment of the black bile, which is said to cause a person to go insane. It’s one of the four humours: blood, phlegm, yellow bile, and black bile. One of the mad doctors at Bedlam took me under his wing and I was able to spend a fair amount of time learning to care for the insane.”

  “Did you say mad doctors?” Buck queried.

  “Aye, sir. That’s the term they give the doctors who treat the insane or mad patients. Dr. Munro was who I studied under. He had a physician friend from the Royal College of Physicians who got the pox. Dr. Munro treated him until the poor fellow died. Toward the end he acted just like our surgeon does now. Dr. Munro said he wasn’t sure if it was the pox that caused the ill humour or the mercury the doctor used to treat himself with. Either way he died.”

  “Are you certain?” Gabe had asked.

  “No, Captain, I’m not.”

  Since that night the surgeon would have periods where he appeared as sane as anyone but those periods were getting less frequent. The crew avoided the surgeon if at all possible, which wasn’t an altogether bad thing as it weeded out the sick and lame from the merely lazy.

  ***

  Gabe finished dressing and made his way on deck. Lieutenant Davy had the watch but Campbell, the first lieutenant, was already on deck as well. A sleepy-eyed midshipman, Brayden, tried to hide his yawn as Gabe walked past. It was not so long ago that he couldn’t remember such mornings.

  The pre-dawn sky was starting to give way to the faint light of dawn. The sea was starting to take shape and rolling waves could be seen before they crashed into the ship’s hull, sending spray on board. Glancing aloft, Gabe could see the sails were pulled taut in the morning breeze. The master was by the helmsman, peering at the compass needle.