by Pope, Dudley
‘You are still on trial’ – whatever Probus meant, the next trial wouldn’t lack witnesses but if he made a mistake they’d lack someone to charge.
God, but they were approaching the frigate quickly! He saw Jackson looking at him and realized he was rubbing the scar on his forehead. Damn that American! Self-consciously he clasped his hands behind his back, telescope under his left arm. Once more unto the breach, dear friends…
Now he could see the panes of glass in the frigate’s stern lights – they’d need reglazing soon. And there was the jagged remains of the rudder post where the rudder had snapped off close under the tuck of the transom. Curious how the masts had fallen in just the right position against the cliff.
Three hundred yards to go; no, less, much less.
He put the speaking trumpet to his lips, then took it away and wiped the mouthpiece free of salt water – he was thirsty enough already.
‘Remember, you men: every shot must count! Don’t hurry – and remember I’ll be bearing away slightly as you fire, so don’t worry about training the carronades. Out with the tompions!’
Now he could see some details of the gilt scrollwork on the Belette’s transom and quarter galleries. A face appeared for a moment where a pane of glass was missing.
‘For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful,’ Jackson said blithely.
Two hundred yards to go to the firing point: the cutter was creaming along like a yacht – one needed a few beautiful women on deck, laughing and joking… One hundred and fifty yards… Women like Gianna, asking questions, mispronouncing unfamiliar words, her voice like music, her body… One hundred yards: the quartermaster was balancing at the windward side of the tiller, easing it a fraction this way and that, the other man pushing or pulling in unison.
‘Stand by to ease sheets, Mr Southwick.’
An unnecessary order – he’d just said that. Ramage rubbed his forehead again, not giving a damn whether or not Jackson noticed, and glimpsed the face at the window again.
From where he was standing it was sixty feet to the Kathleen’s stemhead and her bowsprit stretched out another forty feet beyond: a little over thirty yards altogether.
Then a momentary spasm of terror gripped Ramage: he realized that it was impossible to rake the Belette and then wear the cutter round in time to avoid passing through the field of fire of the frigate’s aftermost guns. He’d misjudged both his course and the curve of the Belette’s quarter; but it was too late to do anything about it.
Fifty yards to the point where he could begin to bear away. Half these men now tensed by the guns would be dead in a couple of minutes’ time.
‘Quartermaster – bear away slowly now! Mr Southwick – sheets! Stand by at the guns!’
Slowly the cutter’s bow, which had been heading almost directly at the frigate’s stern, began to turn away to seaward. Ramage thought he’d never seen a ship turn so slowly and was just going to tell the quartermaster to put the helm hard up when he saw the captain of the first carronade drop down on one knee four or five feet behind the gun and peer along the barrel, the trigger line taut in his right hand.
Steady, he told himself… But God Almighty, a frigate was a damn big ship viewed from the deck of a cutter.
A sudden crash from forward as the first gun fired made him jump, but instinctively he glanced at the target; a complete section of the Belette’s stern lights where the man had been standing disappeared in a cloud of dust: strange how shot hitting light woodwork always sent up dust. Some rusty coloured pockmarks round the hole showed where a few scattered grapeshot had smashed through planking.
Another crash as the second carronade fired, and the grapeshot blasted into the starboard side of the transom. Most of them hit below the windows, sending up more dust, showers of splinters, and sparks where they ricocheted off metal.
The third gun fired, punching in the centre section. But the Kathleen was still swinging seaward and Ramage could now look along the side of the frigate. He saw the ugly short muzzles of her broadside guns poking out of the ports, trained round as far aft as possible. He could imagine the Frenchmen, their hands taking up the slack on the trigger lines, waiting for the cutter to sail into their sights…
The smoke from the Kathleen’s carronades drifted aft and although Ramage was not watching it, the smell was there, acrid and biting in the back of his throat. The noise and smell of battle: the combination drove many men temporarily crazy, transforming them from quiet, amiable sailors into bloodthirsty killers. This was the moment – particularly with boarding parties – when officers had to be alert to keep the men firmly in the grip of discipline. They rarely if ever did; but success needed no excuses, and in case of failure dead officers could not reproach themselves.
‘Mr Southwick– stand by to wear ship!’
The fourth carronade fired: one more round to go: he looked at the fifth gun, the last of his puny broadside. The Gunner’s Mate, Edwards, was kneeling down aiming it: even now he was calling for a slight adjustment in elevation.
The trigger line was tight in his hand. Would the damned man never fire? He looked along the barrel, glanced through the port to make sure no large waves were coming, paused a moment for the roll – and then jerked the line.
Ramage was hardly conscious of the crash of the gun: but saw the smoke spurting from the muzzle.
‘Wear ship!’
The Quartermaster and his mate swung the tiller; seamen hauled desperately at the mainsheet to ease over the main boom; others heaved at runners and jib sheet. The cutter’s bow began to swing seaward, but slowly, hell, how slowly. Ramage watched the big boom bang across, then glanced astern.
He was looking right into the muzzles of four 12-pounders on the frigate’s main deck, and four smaller guns on the deck above: staring straight at the proof of his error of judgement. Because the Belette’s fat hull curved round to her narrower quarters, the aftermost guns could train farther round: he’d misjudged the extent of that curve, and even now the French gunners must see the Kathleen filling their sights.
Jackson was muttering, ‘Jesus… Jesus!’
The muzzle of the aftermost gun on the Belette’s lower deck winked a red eye and spurted yellowish smoke. A split second later there was a crash overhead and Ramage glanced up to see the Kathleen’s topmast slowly toppling down. He could not stop himself looking back at the frigate.
The next gun forward winked and breathed smoke.
A sudden sound like ripping canvas warned him the shot had passed within a few feet, but a hideous metallic clanging and the shrieks of wounded men told him, even before he could glance round, that it had ploughed down the line of guns on the starboard side.
But as Ramage’s eyes were drawn back to the frigate the aftermost gun on her upper deck fired, followed a moment later by the second.
He waited for pain and noise; instead there was a splash in the sea thirty yards astern of the cutter and a vicious whine as the shot, ricocheting off the water, spun away overhead. The second shot must have been too high.
‘One man aiming the upper-deck guns,’ commented Jackson. ‘Don’t know where he sent the last one, though.’
The third of the upper-deck guns fired, followed by the third on the main deck. A heavy thud and splintering wood warned a shot had smashed through the Kathleen’s taffrail, but a quick glance at the tiller showed the steering had not been damaged: then he saw the men hauling in the mainsheet had dissolved into a bloody tangle of bodies: the shot had landed in the middle of them.
The Kathleen was heading north-eastward and still swinging fast. Ramage waited for the fourth of the lower-deck guns to fire. With a bit of luck the rest still could not be brought to bear.
Southwick was already sending men aloft to clear the wreckage of the topmast and he came over and reported.
‘We can cut the topmast away without difficulty, sir: hasn’t damaged anything else. Three of the starboard side guns dismounted. At a guess, a dozen or
so of the lads killed, and maybe a couple of dozen wounded.’
‘Very well: see the wounded are taken below at once.’
A bloody mess – but it could have been a lot worse. What now, though? How the devil was he going to get the men from the Tower on board if he couldn’t use the frigate as a landing stage? All right, all right, he told himself: don’t panic. Itemize, Ramage; itemize carefully.
Hmm… Item: only two guns left out of the five on the Kathleen’s starboard side. Very well, if I want to attack again on the starboard side, shift over larboard side guns to take their place. That’ll take time, though, with the ship heeled.
Item: all three of the shots fired by the Belette’s lower deck guns hit the Kathleen; so if I have a whole broadside fired at me, I can reckon on at least ten hits out of thirteen. Ten hits would leave the Kathleen as so much driftwood.
Item: the Belette is impregnable so far as the Kathleen’s concerned: despite being raked with grapeshot, her aftermost guns had fired, and fired accurately. The guns’ crews might have been killed, but others quickly replaced them.
Item: the – a sudden thought struck him: although the Belette’s impregnable so far as the cutter is concerned, what about the Belette’s former crew in the Tower? Supposing they made a sally and recaptured her by boarding, using the masts as ladders?
Short of the Kathleen boarding, which is impossible because we can’t get alongside without being blown out of the water, that’s the only chance. The more Ramage thought about it, the more convinced he became.
It left two unknown factors: how many French soldiers are there in the Belette; how many French soldiers are besieging the Tower?
Ramage reckoned there were at least six score seamen and Marines in the Tower; and he’d have to chance that most of them had muskets or cutlasses. If he organized it properly, the Belettes would have a vital ally – surprise; often the most decisive factor in any battle. A horde of British seamen suddenly yelling and whooping their way out of the Tower and making a bolt for the cliff top might well get them through a French cordon of twice their number. And in the Belette herself, the seamen would have all the advantage of fighting in a ship they knew intimately, while the French soldiers would be tripping over everything.
That settled it. Ramage rubbed his forehead: how could he convey the idea to the Belette’s captain, marooned in his lofty Tower? There’s no signal in the book to cover it.
Meanwhile the Kathleen was still running north-eastward, wasting time. He glanced up and saw the men lowering the last few pieces of the shattered topmast to the deck, and Jackson was walking towards him.
‘All the wounded have been taken below, sir. Ten dead and three won’t last long.’
Thirteen men killed unnecessarily, Ramage thought bitterly.
‘How many wounded altogether?’
‘Fifteen, sir.’
Twenty-five killed and wounded out of a ship’s company of sixty-five: more than a third – nearly a half, in fact. Enough to satisfy anyone who rated a ship’s effectiveness in battle by the size of the butcher’s bill, even if her captain was still ‘on trial’.
Yet he was lucky – Southwick, Appleby, Jackson and Evans had all escaped.
‘Mr Southwick – a moment, if you please.’
The Master came striding over, a cheerful look still on his face: a man who thrived on difficulties, Ramage noted thankfully.
‘How long before I can tack? We’re wasting time standing out to sea like this.’
‘Give me two minutes, sir. I’m just making sure all the halyards are free to run and checking the shrouds and stays.’
‘Very well.’
He said to Jackson: ‘Signal book, please.’
Ramage flicked over the pages, glancing at the numbers of the signals on the left and their meanings on the right.
First, he would hoist ‘Prepare for Battle’. The Belettes will understand that easily enough. They’ll have seen the damage to the cutter and the captain’s no doubt wondering what Ramage was going to do next.
Ah! Ramage jabbed the page with his finger – he should have thought of that: the ‘Preparative’ flag, followed by the signal to board the enemy. The actual wording was ‘To lay the enemy on board as arriving up with them’, but when hoisted with the ‘Preparative’ flag, the Belette’s captain would not obey it until the ‘Preparative’ flag was hauled down.
He’d just told Jackson to get the flags bent on the halyards in readiness when Southwick came aft to report that the mainmast was now clear of wreckage.
‘Right,’ snapped Ramage. ‘We’ll go about at once.’
Three minutes later the Kathleen had turned and was plunging in towards the shore again, hard on the wind, sluicing spray washing away the dark stains on the deck by the dismounted guns and farther aft, where the men at the mainsheet had been killed.
If the French gunners had used grape or caseshot instead of ordinary round shot… Grape would have done much more damage aloft than just smash the topmast; case shot – forty-two iron balls each weighing four ounces – would have fanned out to kill just about everyone on deck. Ramage shivered.
He’d better give the Belettes as much time as possible to get ready – it would be no easy task giving orders to four score or more seamen crowded into that Tower.
‘Jackson – hoist both the signals, but make sure you’ve got the “Preparative” before the second one.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’
Ramage watched a red flag followed by a flag quartered in red and white squares soar up the halyard.
To Prepare for Battle, one of the most exciting signals in the book…
Through his telescope he saw the Tower acknowledge.
Then, on another halyard, Jackson hoisted a flag divided horizontally into five blue and four white stripes: ‘Preparative’.
Finally the American hauled away at a two-flag hoist, the first a blue cross on white, the second horizontal stripes of blue, white and red – ‘To lay the enemy on board…’
Once again the Tower acknowledged.
Everything depends on the timing…everything depends on the timing… Well, not everything: if the men in the Tower failed to carry the Belette by boarding, no timing in the world would save the Kathleen from being blown out of the water because he wouldn’t know of their failure early enough to get clear.
Looking round the deck, Ramage saw the rolls of hammocks in boarding nets which he had ordered the Bosun’s Mate to prepare for when the Kathleen went alongside – before he knew the French were in occupation. It’d be worth getting them rigged over the side. And the hands for grapnels – had any been killed? He walked over to Southwick and gave him the necessary instructions.
Perhaps the wind was easing off after all: earlier he had noticed momentary pauses, as if the Libeccio was occasionally holding its breath. He had often seen half a dozen pauses like that herald the change in ten minutes from a strong wind to nothing, leaving a ship becalmed and wallowing in a nasty sea, with everything aloft thumping and slatting and everything below jumping up and down as if it had St Vitus’ dance. Supposing he was becalmed a hundred yards short of the Belette, after the seamen had left the Tower…?
Ramage swayed in time to the cutter’s rhythmic roll: the Belette was a mile ahead and he was steering the same course as before. The ‘Prepare for Battle’ and ‘Board’ signals were flying, the latter qualified by the all-important ‘Preparative’. The main and jib sheets were eased so that both sails were spilling a lot of wind, reducing the cutter’s speed to about five knots. They’d be alongside the Belette in about twelve minutes.
Ramage walked over to the quartermaster, who was standing on the weather side of the tiller, with a seaman to leeward.
‘You understand your orders?’
The quartermaster grinned confidently.
‘Yes, sir: same as before, only this time I luff her up and lay alongside the Belette, so our transom is level with theirs.’
‘Good: do your best: min
d the bowsprit – we don’t want to harpoon the Belette with it.’
Both the quartermaster and seaman laughed.
Ramage was thankful he’d hove-to and shifted over the larboard-side carronades to replace the damaged ones to starboard: it had been hard work, but worth it. He walked over to the crew of the aftermost gun. Their cutlasses and boarding pikes were stuck into the bulwark on each side of the port, ready to be snatched up at a moment’s notice. The gun was loaded, and the tompion closed the muzzle against spray. A gaudy yellow and red striped rag – judging from the grease one of the men had been wearing it round his forehead – covered the flintlock, and the trigger line was laid on top. To one side of the gun was a grapnel, its line coiled down. The once-smooth planking of the deck was deeply scored where the shot from the Belette had flung aside the carronade that this one replaced.
‘Who’s the man for the grapnel?’
A burly seaman in grimy canvas trousers and faded blue shirt stepped forward.
‘Me, sir.’
‘And you know where I want that grapnel to land?’
‘If we get alongside like you said, sir, then I pop ’im over the bulwarks just above the second gun port from aft.’
‘And if we stop short?’
‘Over the taffrail, sir.’
‘Fine. Don’t forget to let it go when you throw: I don’t want you to fly across to the Belette.’
The rest of the gun’s crew laughed and a moment later the seaman, who had not at first understood Ramage’s joke, joined in.
Ramage walked forward, having a word with the crew of each gun. He checked how the sausage-shaped fenders had been lashed over the side and made sure they were clear of the muzzles of the guns.
Standing by himself near the stemhead, Ramage found a small, thin and almost bald seaman waiting patiently with a grapnel and coil of line at his feet.