by M. C. Muir
‘Cease fire!’ Oliver shouted. ‘Helmsman, steer clear. That ship is going down. Let us not get tangled up with her.’
While, thankfully, there was no firing from the 74’s port side, a battle was still raging off the warship’s starboard beam. With round shot spewing from the third rate’s red-hot muzzles, the large French frigate had kept her distance and managed to run the gauntlet without appearing to suffer major damage and sail clear of the action.
Despite the captain’s order, an occasional musket shot rang out from Perpetual’s rigging, the marines aiming at the wounded French sailors scrambling to reach the rail. They made easy targets for the redcoats.
‘Cease fire!’ Oliver yelled again. His order was echoed by the sergeant of marines.
When Perpetual cleared the stricken corvette, the sea quickly invaded its hull causing the deck timbers to explode with the popping sound of canister and grape, turning the planks to matchwood. The ship was going down by the stern, and the tricolor, which was spread on the surface, was caught on the spinning wheel of a whirlpool before being pulled down into the vortex.
Suddenly there was a complete lull in firing. The guns on the three remaining ships were silent. From Perpetual’s quarterdeck Oliver Quintrell was anxious to see what damage the third rate had suffered. Then he caught a glimpse of the French frigate making a run to the south. Despite receiving some decisive shots, it had sailed beyond the reach of the 74’s stern chasers. Its topmast had gone but otherwise it appeared sound and it was obvious to everyone it had no intention of staying around.
‘Should I put away the boats and take on the corvette’s survivors?’ Mr Parry asked.
For Oliver Quintrell there was no decision to make. ‘Leave the survivors and wounded to Captain Liversedge. He will pick them up.’ Then he looked across to the man-of-war. ‘Stalwart is in no position to come about and give chase. Mr Mundy, mark our position on the chart. Mr Parry, give the order to bring us about with all haste. Bring me up on that impertinent Frenchman. He will not escape.’
Turning the frigate’s head, Perpetual made a broad sweep of the ocean to a position where he could see the French ship heading away. With no time to signal the 74 to advise his plan, Oliver decided it was unnecessary. His course of action would be obvious to Captain Liversedge.
Sailing south, with a distance of five miles separating him from the French ship, Captain Quintrell was relieved when he received word from the carpenter that Perpetual’s hold was not only dry but the hull was virtually unscathed. News from the doctor was also reassuring. During the fight, only a few men had received minor injuries. All had been attended to and not a single man was occupying a cot in the cockpit.
Oliver was relieved Perpetual had suffered only superficial damage and felt sympathy for the crew of the smaller French ship. The corvette had been unprepared for the action and the decision to attack a 74-gun British naval third rate had been ill-conceived and foolhardy. It had been an unevenly balanced fight and the corvette had stood no chance from the outset. As a result, many of the corvette’s sailors had paid with their lives. Such was the cost of sea war.
‘More sail!’ Oliver ordered. ‘Let us make that frigate ours.’
On deck, the hands responded with renewed vigour, hoisting every inch of canvas they could muster, dowsing the canvas with water and bracing the lines as taut as harp strings. For the men, a successful chase meant a prize-of-war and a guarantee of money in their pockets. And, if they were away from the 74 when they took it, the prize would be all theirs and would not have to be shared.
However, up ahead was a vessel that was larger than Perpetual and carried more guns. Studying it through the lens, Oliver and his officers estimated 38- or 42-guns as against their own 32. And, as every foremast Jack knew, recently-built French frigates were sleeker and faster than traditionally-built British ships. But the Frenchman had suffered some damage which evened the chances of catching it. Despite that, Oliver was puzzled by the French captain’s actions. By heading away, he had demonstrated he had no concern for the fate of the corvette and its men.
On the quarterdeck, Captain Quintrell and his officers considered the challenge ahead. With no indication from the French captain that he was prepared to stand and fight, or haul down his colours and heave to, it was obvious he intended to try to outrun Perpetual and would aim to extend his lead even if the chase lasted several days.
With a following wind and despite the damage the Frenchman had suffered, the gap between the two vessels changed little. For half a day, all eyes in the tops, on the quarterdeck and from the forecastle were fixed on the fleeing ship, anxious for any sign of it dropping off. The main worry expressed by the officers was that they might lose sight of the enemy when night fell and in the morning find only an empty horizon. Then unexpectedly, after six hours of chasing, a call came down from the foretop.
‘The Frog’s heaving to,’ the lookout shouted.
Telescopes snapped open but even without a glass it was obvious the helmsman was having difficulties maintaining a straight course. The broad white wake left by the French frigate was drawing a serpentine line on the surface of the sea.
Having pursued the vessel for only forty nautical miles, Perpetual’s crew cheered when the French captain struck all sails and hauled down his colours. But despite the air of jubilation around him, Captain Quintrell approached the enemy with caution. He knew the French to be cunning.
As they sailed closer, another call from the masthead identified the name painted on the transom: Flambeau.
‘What is that Frenchie up to?’ Mr Mundy asked. He received no answer.
Leaving the quarterdeck rail, Mr Parry accompanied the captain as he went forward with a glass. The sailors standing by the lines moved aside to let them pass.
‘She’s listing off to starboard, Capt’n,’ came a familiar voice from the foretopsail yard. ‘I reckon she’s taking water.’
‘Thank you, Smithers,’ Oliver Quintrell replied, closing the telescope and returning to the quarterdeck. It was just as the sailor had suggested. The French frigate was listing noticeably to starboard and appeared to be in danger of sinking.
CHAPTER 8
Flambeau
As the distance between the two frigates narrowed, Oliver ordered a shot to be fired from one of the starboard guns. It was aimed wide and low and well clear of the enemy’s side. The iron ball skimmed the water, bouncing three times before splashing into the sea. Everyone waited to discover what response it would raise from the Frenchie but there was none. Oliver remained cautious.
With the enemy frigate hove to, Perpetual’s sails were backed.
‘All hands, Mr Parry. Have the men stand by the guns. Helmsman, bring us up to within musket shot of her starboard side.
As Perpetual swam towards the foreign frigate, the extensive damage it had suffered became obvious. Round shot had pockmarked its hull and shattered the starboard gunnels from stem to stern. Aloft, every square foot of canvas had been peppered with holes from grape and chain, and the once handsome frigate had lost its main topmast. Much of the running rigging had been severed leaving frayed ropes’ ends dangling and swaying to the rolling swell. Oliver was amazed the main shrouds and stays had held and the fore and main had not come down. Until it was closely examined, it was impossible to assess the extent of the damage to the hull below the waterline. As for the rudder, it had split vertically with half of it shot away. The part remaining was hanging from the sternpost and in danger of being ripped from the stern by the next large wave. Only the preventer chain had saved it from being lost completely. How the frigate had made the speed it did when Perpetual was in pursuit was remarkable. Oliver had to commend the helmsman for steering the ship in the condition it was in.
Yet, equally disturbing was the apparent state of confusion and disorganisation on deck. Men were running this way and that, sails were left unfurled, lines hanging loose, blocks swinging like pendulums over the deck and orders being called but not heed
ed. Cries of panic were coming from every quarter of the ship.
As the two vessels came alongside, a heavily accented voice hailed Perpetual through a brass trumpet. ‘My, ship is hit. He is sinking.’
Despite the French captain having struck his colours and the obvious confusion and chaos on deck, Oliver was still cautious. Grabbing the speaking trumpet from his lieutenant’s hand he called out: ‘I am Captain Quintrell of His Majesty’s frigate Perpetual. I wish to speak with your captain.’
‘I am le capitaine. My name is Moncousu. My ship is sinking. I must abandon him. You must take my men.’
Oliver returned the trumpet to Mr Parry. ‘Inform the captain I intend to board and will accept his sword.’
Receiving no answer from across the water, Oliver ordered two boats to be lowered.
‘I want sharp shooters in the rigging and half a dozen marines to accompany me. I require Mr Crosby and three of his mates to come also. I will need an urgent assessment of the damage. Perhaps the hull can be patched and the ship saved.’
‘She’ll make a tidy prize,’ the sailing master said.
That was the least of the captain’s considerations.
Within minutes, Captain Quintrell, accompanied by his second lieutenant, the carpenter and his mates, and six marines were heading across the short stretch of chop between the two vessels. A second boat carrying more marines and several able seamen followed behind.
From the sternsheets, Oliver had the opportunity to study the frigate rising up before him. It was relatively new displaying much evidence of skilled craftsmanship and pride in its finish. It would take weeks of work if it was ever to be restored.
Like many French ships, the transom was ornately carved although bombardment from the 74 had caused extensive damage. Unfortunately, the close-quarter pounding it received from the third rate’s 24- and 18-pounders had destroyed its rails and punctured its sails with massive holes and tears.
Boarding was not easy as the gangway entrance was crowded with French sailors convinced the ship was going down and eager to escape in the approaching boats.
Mr Tully discharged his pistol into the air and yelled for the men to stand back. With muskets levelled at them from the marines in Perpetual’s tops, the Frenchmen reluctantly understood and moved back, allowing Captain Quintrell and his men to climb aboard.
On reaching the deck, Oliver looked around. His main interest was in the number and configuration of guns on the weather deck, the state of the frigate’s masts and top hamper and the amount of damage the sails and rigging had suffered. His first few steps up the sloping deck confirmed that the ship was indeed listing badly.
From a group of men gathered in the forecastle, Oliver caught sight of gilt buttons and braid flashing in the sun. The French captain presented himself in full dress uniform but the greeting he extended was curt and ungracious. With his limited English, the unmannerly officer identified himself as Capitaine Moncousu. He said his frigate, Flambeau was out of Brest though Oliver doubted that Brest was the port he had just departed from and considered a French island in the Caribbean more likely. He did not state where he was bound.
No sooner had that formalities been observed than the Frenchman repeated the information he had delivered earlier. ‘My ship is sinking. He is taking water. I have lost many men and have many more whose lives are in danger. You must take them into your ship.’ Then, he continued in French, speaking rapidly and, at times, raising his voice along with his hands and arms which he swung in violent gesticulations.
Oliver stood, watched and listened, somewhat bemused, as the captain repeated himself twice over. Despite not fully understanding what was being said, Oliver followed the gist of the one-sided conversation, but was not interested in the French captain’s lamentations. More importantly, he wanted to know the amount of damage the ship had suffered. He had no desire to have it sinking from beneath his feet.
‘Where is the damage?’ Oliver asked bluntly.
‘Forward. Starboard. A lucky shot from your man-o’-war,’ he said sourly. ‘The water has filled the hull. Mon Dieu, do you not understand? Flambeau is sinking.’
With that, Capitaine Moncousu unbuckled his sword and thrust it at Captain Quintrell’s chest. He then grabbed the English commander by the cuff and started pulling him towards the bow to show him the problem.
Knocking the Frenchman’s hand from his sleeve, Oliver handed the sword to Mr Tully, and turned to his carpenter. ‘Mr Crosby, be so good as to go wherever le Capitaine indicates and report back to me with all speed. I must know the extent of the injury to the hull and the possibility of plugging the hole or holes. I also want to know how much water the ship has swallowed and how much time we have left before she founders.’
‘Aye, Captain.’
Accompanied by two sailors both shouting at him in French, Mr Crosby hurried forward ignoring them. William Ethridge followed closely behind with another of Perpetual’s carpenters.
Retreating to the relative calm of the quarterdeck, Oliver took time to consider the damage to the ship. Looking aloft, the damage to the topmast was obvious. Underfoot, a raffle of lines was waiting to be coiled. On the deck, belaying pins turned in circles with the motion of the ship, and loose grape shot that had bounced down onto the deck rolled back and forth along the scuppers. Walking in any direction without stepping on something was almost impossible.
In their eagerness to leave the ship and get into the boats, the undisciplined French sailors continued to challenge the marines on the gangway, their behaviour typical of the landsmen pressed into service by the French navy.
Further forward, a group of sailors squabbled and abused each other while attempting to swing a boat from the davits. The words they uttered, while not understood by the British crew, spoke of frustration and anger. Amidships, another group of French seamen argued as they tried to right an upturned boat they were attempting to get over the side. Desperate to save their own skins, the sailors showed no inclination to save the ship. The frenzy was uncontrolled. The presence of Capitaine Moncousu had no effect.
‘Belay!’ Oliver shouted. ‘Stop what you are doing.’ But his voice failed to carry over the din.
Conscious of his limitations with the language, Oliver turned on his heel and beckoned to the Negro who had just climbed aboard. It was not be the first time Ekundayo had served as a translator. ‘Tell these men to stop what they are doing and move to the stern.’
When the deep Caribbean voice boomed out with the French accent spoken on the island of Saint-Domingue, the sounds were suddenly stilled. The marines were then able to force the mob aft and collect the weapons still in their possession. During this time, a few more heads emerged from the hatches. Being desperate to escape the flooding hull, some were unprepared to wait for the boats and headed straight for the rail and jumped into the sea.
‘Fish those idiots out,’ Oliver called, before turning and questioning the French commander. ‘What measures have you taken to save your ship?’
The French captain was taken aback. ‘The damage is too great.’
Oliver shook his head and repeated his question only to receive the same answer. At that moment, Mr Crosby returned and Captain Quintrell was able to direct his question to his carpenter. ‘Tell me what you found. Has any effort been made to stop the sea engulfing the ship?’
‘It’s like the French captain says,’ the shipwright explained. ‘The damage is severe. There’s a great cleft in the starboard bow that extends from the gunnels down to the waterline. I understand an attempt was made to fother the hole, but the pressure of water, while the ship was sailing, would have made it impossible. At the moment, being hove to, the sea is only lapping in but I imagine when she was making eight or nine knots the bow wave would have been cascading through like water from a burst dam.’
‘Can anything be done to save her?’
‘I think the hole could be plugged if the starboard bow could be raised a few inches.’
Oliver
nodded. ‘Have you sounded the well and examined the hold?’
‘I stuck my head down below but what I saw was not good. Empty barrels are floating freely. I didn’t measure the depth but, even if the damage is repaired, I fear it will take days to pump the water out.’
‘We do not have days, Mr Crosby. Perhaps hours only. I will arrange for you to have more help, but for the present, you and your men must do the best you can. Kindly check the rest of the hull. The starboard beam received all the fire, so I imagine the port side is unscathed. In the meantime, I will see if we can lift the bow very slightly to make the repair work possible.’
The carpenter dried his hands on the cloth he was carrying and knuckled his forehead. ‘I wouldn’t recommend sailing her until the level’s down and the ship is back on an even keel.’
Oliver agreed. ‘In the interim, we will pray the sea does not come up on us. You have forty-eight hours, Mr Crosby, otherwise the 74 will head north without us.’
Armed with the facts, Oliver turned to his men. ‘The hold is flooded. As you can see, the ship is listing badly and if she goes over by more than a few more inches, we will lose her. There is no time to waste. Will,’ he said to the young shipwright, ‘check the gun deck. Make sure all the ports on the starboard side are tightly sealed. I want no more water coming in.’
‘Aye, Captain.’
‘Mr Tully, pass a message to my coxswain. I need more hands from Perpetual. Return the boat forthwith. Have it return with twenty strong men and two more of the carpenter’s mates.’
The lieutenant nodded.
‘You four,’ Oliver called to his men waiting by the bulwarks. ‘Get some help from the Frogs and man the windlass. Unseat the best bower from the cathead on the starboard side, swing it clear of the hull then cut the cable. Let it go. We must lighten the bow. Leave the larboard anchor for the present. Next, move the bow chasers as far aft as possible. Muster some of the French sailors to help you.’ Glancing up at the forecourse yard, he quickly assessed the enormous weight of canvas furled to it. ‘Unbend the forecourse,’ Oliver ordered. ‘Lower it down, smartly as you can, and drag it aft. Rest it across the quarterdeck. When that is done, head down to the gun deck. I want the four forward guns on the starboard side rolled back to the waist. They should move fairly easily on their carriages.’