by M. C. Muir
‘But she has bigger guns than ours,’ the youngest midshipman added.
‘Thank you, Mr Hanson. That is why we need to drop back and stay out of range of her stern chasers.’
‘When do you intend to put these plans into place?’ Mr Mundy asked.
‘This evening. Before the moon rises.’
The murmur of agreement rose to a clatter of voices as each man turned to the man next to him and shared his views. The doctor, seated next to the captain, took the opportunity to speak privately.
‘A word in your ear, Captain,’ the doctor said. ‘Regarding the Irishmen aboard those ships: are you aware of the enemy you are about to confront? I doubt you witnessed the fighting in Ireland in ’98 or before that?’
Oliver admitted he did not.
The doctor’s expression was grave. ‘It was fighting like you have never seen before. Men fought with pikes and sticks, fence posts and sharpened plough blades – killing, maiming and burning everything before them. They fought like men possessed with the Devil at their heels. I heard accounts of those who died stating that their wounds were more horrific than those I would have witnessed on the corpses brought in from the backstreets of the London Boroughs. Throats cut. Eyes gouged out. Disembowelled. I warn you, Oliver, the spirit and commitment in the Irish heart cannot be dowsed no matter what you do. I only hope you are not facing that sort of fight when the enemy is stirred.’
‘Thank you, Jonathon. We will be ready,’ he said, turning his attention back to the assembly and raising his voice. ‘Let me remind you all – we are fighting for King and country and whatever the colour or design of the flag raised against us, we will cut it down.’
His words drew cheers from the group.
‘Gentlemen, let us save our ship, reclaim our prize and fight with our last breath to wrest the 74 from the hands of the enemy.’
The low rumble of commitment echoed around the cabin.
‘I take it we are resolved?’
Oliver glanced to the cabin window. ‘There is no time to waste. In a few hours, the sun will be down and darkness will be upon us. When the moon rises, I expect the sea to shine like quicksilver and anything seen floating on the surface will be a target. Time is of the essence. I pray those clouds gathering in the east are not the harbingers of a sudden squall. Remember, we do not want to alert the watches on either the frigate or the 74, so there will be no boats lowered and no grappling irons tossed over the rails.’
‘It is a daring scheme, Oliver,’ Simon Parry said. ‘Do you believe it will work? You are sending only a handful of men against hundreds of sailors, soldiers and marines aboard the 74.’
‘I have faith in my men. Besides, there will only be small number of men aboard the French ship and they will not be expecting an attack. Aside from that, what is the alternative? Do we turn our backs and sail away and allow the French to keep our fighting ships as their prizes?’
With no more suggestions or questions, Oliver concluded. ‘I have put great faith in the boy’s story. I pray to God he has spoken the truth.’
When the sun had gone down, night drew in rapidly blanketing everything in darkness. The moon was not due to rise until nine o’clock.
Taking a final look over the pond of water stretching between the ships, Oliver contemplated his plan and considered the many dangers that lay ahead. Gazing at the ebony water while listening to the soft hand-clapping of the wavelets teasing the hull, his attention was drawn to a pale brown mass of tangles. It floated by no more than a dozen yards from the ship’s side. At first glance, it resembled a mop of unkempt ginger hair and he mistook it for the head of a swimmer. Strolling along the deck, he observed its slow passage and kept pace with it until it reached the stern and gently drifted away. Very quickly he had realised it was merely a bunch of seaweed – the type that grows on the surface in this region of the world’s oceans. Yet not one of the lookouts at the mastheads had noticed it, nor had any of the sailors reclining against the bulwark rails. The fact it had drifted by unobserved convinced the captain his plan would succeed.
Having attended to the requirements of the men preparing to swim, Mr Parry had the deck, and following the plan he and the captain had discussed, he ordered the helmsman to steer closer to the French frigate. While there was no wind he had to rely on the helm to gain some response from the swell plus occasional drafts of light air. In answer to the rudder, the frigate drifted across very slowly.
Sitting on deck leaning their backs against the bulwarks, the volunteers had waited for the final remnants of day to fade and the sky to assume the colour of charcoal. Not a word was spoken. The sailors and officers had their instructions and knew what was expected of them. The last pair to join them was Charles Goodridge and Ekundayo. Having reconsidered the request put to him, the captain had conceded the pair had attributes that could be put to good use.
When the order to embark on the mission was given, the men climbed down the rope ladder and slid silently into the water on Perpetual’s larboard side so they were hidden from the view of lookouts on either of the other ships. Holding onto the handlines or treading water, fifteen swimmers waited until a large canvas sack had been lowered to them. In it were cutlasses, knives and hangers. Each man took a pair of weapons. There were no pistols or muskets.
When Captain Quintrell gave the signal, one-by-one each swimmer relinquished his grip and swam around Perpetual’s stern. Being in the low latitudes of the tropics, the sea was not cold. Silently and seemingly effortlessly, the volunteers, including the captain, spread out across the water and headed toward Flambeau not more than one hundred yards away. The 74 stood motionless a further hundred yards ahead of that, the heavy hawser, uniting the pair, submerged in the waters between.
Though the men had been told there was no sea running, there was a slight pull from the Equatorial Current as it flowed north but the men were swimming across it so it had little effect.
The progress of the swimmers was observed discretely from lookouts in Perpetual’s rigging, together with topmen on the yardarms and Mr Parry and the other officers on the quarterdeck. Familiar with how clearly sound carried over water, those on deck were under strict instructions not to shout encouragement or make any sounds that would draw attention to the men in the ocean.
Swimming across the pond towards Flambeau, the heads glided with the ease of a barge hauled by a boat-horse along the still waters of a canal. Every stroke drew them closer to the French frigate.
In the west, the last vestiges of day had been obliterated by dark clouds piling up on the ocean’s rim.
‘That will give the men better cover,’ the midshipman commented quietly to the helmsman in an attempt to sound positive. But the helmsman was wary. He knew what a sudden change in the weather could mean.
Having overheard the conversation, Mr Parry echoed a similar view. ‘If those clouds deliver rain, they will also bring wind. And if the wind arrives before the men reach the ship, all three vessels will drift. Retrieving the swimmers will be nigh on impossible. If the wind arrives after the cable is cut, once the order is given to set sails, the 74 will immediately notice the Frenchie is no longer trailing behind it. Who knows what will happen then?’
The young man looked from the leaden sky to the heads bobbing in the sea. ‘Pray to God they make it,’ he said.
‘Have faith,’ Mr Parry replied. ‘The rain is not yet upon us and there is no wind. The men have already made half the distance. Now they are faced with boarding and taking the sailors on deck without alerting anyone.’
‘Is that possible?’
‘The captain believes it is, and I have faith in his judgement.’
Kicking noiselessly, the group closed on the French frigate. When they reached the hull, Oliver tapped the Negro on his shoulder. ‘Wait here and mind the boy.’
Eku nodded. The mismatched pair was aware of what had been asked of them and swam around to the plaited cable and waited there each with one hand resting on the heavy hawse
r. They were to await word that the boarding party had been successful in taking the ship before they headed across to the third rate.
The sounds that followed came from the deck. There were several dull thuds, a faint smothered gurgling cry, a rasping growl and suddenly a high-pitched squealing miaou from the ship’s cat. Having been curled up sleeping in the scuppers, the black feline had been invisible in the darkness. Unfortunately its tail lay directly under the feet of one of the boarders when he dropped onto the bow. The screech the animal let out was enough to raise the dead and carried across the water to the other two ships. Heads popped up, sailors turned and stared. Questioning voices were heard. Everyone froze.
From the waterline, Eku cried clearly and loudly, ‘C'est le chat!’
For a long moment, everyone held their breath fearing a rush of crew onto the deck or voices hailing from the 74 to know what was happening. But the spontaneous explanation served its purpose and, with no further interest excited by the ear-piercing sound, everyone resumed what they had been doing.
To the half a dozen French sailors and couple of soldiers on the French frigate’s forecastle, the sudden appearance of men tumbling over the rail was totally unexpected. One of the soldiers picked up his musket from the deck, but before he could level it and pull the trigger, it was snatched from his hand, drawn across his throat and held tight until his windpipe was crushed and his legs collapsed beneath him. A sailor sleeping against the pin rail received a fatal puncture from a hanger in the centre of his chest. His mouth fell open before he had even opened his eyes. Mr Tully leapt on the back of a French sailor who in turn tried to swing the lieutenant off him. When a cutlass blade sliced across his opponent's calves, he dropped then gurgled after the same blade sliced across his throat. As other French sailors climbed out of the hatch, they were dropped on the deck and silenced.
With more than a dozen men dispatched, Captain Quintrell waited for a frenzied response from below, but none came. So far his plan was going well. With two of his crew left to dispose of the bodies and three more to go aft, Oliver lead the others down through the forward hatch to the mess where another group of young French sailors was relaxing.
Without weapons and lacking courage, they were quick to surrender. Mr Tully then conducted a search of the other decks rounding up several more surprised French soldiers and seamen. Heading deeper into the ship, the captain located the locked grating beneath which his own men had been secured. He was pleased to learn that Mr Nightingale and the prize crew, plus Mr Crosby and all his men were safe and in good health. There was an immediate outburst of jubilations from the men when they realised they were to be released. The captain quickly stifled the noise.
While two of his sailors searched for an axe or crowbar to free those in the hold, the captain addressed his men through the holes in the grating telling them what was afoot and advising what he expected of them. A marlinspike was used to lever the lock from the hatch coaming and the men were pulled out one by one. They immediately headed to the weather deck with the instruction to stay silent. All that remained for the boarders to attend to was to round up the remaining Frenchies from within the ship, push them down into the hold, secure the hatch cover and station a pair of armed guards over them.
Confident Flambeau was now in British hands, a signal was passed to the two swimmers, Ekundayo and Charlie Goodridge, waiting in the water. They had been assured by the captain that the cable would remain in place until they returned. If all went well a new hawser would be floated over to Perpetual so she could again take on the task of towing the French prize. Much was dependant on a breath of wind blowing up during the night lifting the two frigates’ sails sufficiently to carry them away from the third rate before they were missed.
With the French sailors locked up once again below deck, the Perpetuals were divided into two watches to man the prize frigate. Sailing would not be easy as repair to the rudder had not yet been completed. Mr Crosby assured the captain that he and his mates would stay aboard and continue the work to ensure the prize was made seaworthy.
CHAPTER 14
Mischief aboard the 74
Having received the long-awaited signal that all had gone ahead as planned, Charles and Ekundayo swam slowly along the tow cable attached to the 74. Cautiously and slowly, their hands loosely cupping the heavy hawser, they pulled themselves along it. With no waves to contend with, the pair glided silently in the darkness. As they neared the stern of the warship, they dived beneath the surface and swam alongside the submerged rope coming up only once to take a breath. With the moon not due to rise until later that evening and the sea and sky as black as coal, it was unlikely they would be seen.
Ahead of them, the hull of the British warship rose up from the water like an overhanging cliff face. Standing as motionlessly as one of the prison hulks set in the silt of Portsmouth Harbour, the 74’s hull was equally as daunting. Apart from the stern lights, a yellow glow streamed from the windows of the great cabin and from the smaller windows of the cabin below it. Several were open. Above the windows, painted in large letters and embellished in gold, was the ship’s name: STALWART.
When the pair was within a few feet of the rudder, Eku beckoned Charles to follow him to the larboard side. If they climbed the preventer chain attached to the rudder, as they had originally planned, there was a chance they would be seen from the great cabin and, for the present, it was not known who was occupying it.
With little choice available, the pair kicked for the steps leading to the entry port. Their hope was that no one would see them climbing aboard – a concern they had spoken of with Captain Quintrell. The Negro’s wet skin, being the colour of polished jet, was disguise in itself but there was nothing to hide the pale pink hide of the ten-year-old boy.
Eku climbed first with Charles at his heels. When he reached the gangway, he glanced forward and aft to check all was clear then reached down, grabbed the boy’s hand and hoisted him bodily onto the deck. The couple stood motionless for a moment, the water running down their legs pooling on the planks then, without a word, Ekundayo tiptoed forward, through the darkness, staying close to the rail. Charles followed one stride behind. The line of wet footprints quickly dried on the warm deck.
‘Hey,’ a voice called out sharply.
The pair froze, turned and leaned nonchalantly against the bulwark.
‘Is this your watch?’ the voice asked.
‘No, Massa. Just came up for a breath of air. Mighty hot below,’ Eku replied with his best plantation accent.
‘Well, you ain’t got no business here. Get below and don’t let me see you on deck ’til you hear the bell.’
‘Yessa, Massa,’ Eku replied, putting his hand on Charles’s shoulder and shepherding him toward the main hatch. As he had served on a ship of the line, and as the boy from Gibraltar had spent a short time aboard Stalwart, finding their way around the third rate was not a problem for either of them.
Captain Quintrell had eventually conceded that the boy had a good chance of getting aboard the third rate without attracting attention. Plus, with his inquisitive eye he would be more observant than most other sailors. But the captain had refused to allow Charles to go alone and Ekundayo was a good choice to accompany him. Apart from being educated and alert, the Negro was strong and almost twice the size and strength of the average able seaman.
The job the pair had been charged with was to check the situation that existed on the gun decks and to report back on what they saw. The captain was anxious to know if the guns were being manned throughout the night and, if so, by how many gun crews. It was also important to learn if the guns were ready for action, but more importantly, who was in command of the ship?
Before leaving Perpetual, he had warned the pair not to do anything foolhardy or dangerous and, above all, to avoid getting caught. They were ordered not to venture any further than the gun decks and when they had completed their reconnoitre they were not to dilly-dally before slipping into the water and swimm
ing back to join the others.
Oliver’s concern was that if his plan to take the French frigate failed and his men were discovered, the 74 would immediately turn its guns on Perpetual and a single broadside could blow it to matchwood.
During the time they had spent in the water waiting for the boarders to take the frigate, Ekundayo and Charles Goodridge had occupied their time conceiving a plan of their own.
‘We’ll start on the lower gundeck,’ Eku said.
Charles remembered what the captain had told him. He was to follow the Negro’s orders and not argue or ask questions. ‘Aye aye,’ he whispered.
While the weatherdeck had been black and silent, as they descended to the upper gun deck, the flood of light from the lanterns and rumble of voices were unexpected and unnerving to the lad. Apart from the refit crews, the warships he had roamed over in the Gibraltar dockyard had all been empty – the only sounds being those of hammers, chisels and saws. Ekundayo, however, was more familiar with the gundeck sounds and the congestion.
Apart from the blast of noise that greeted the pair, there was a near-suffocating smell that met them. It was heavy with sweat, residual acrid powder smoke and tobacco fumes together with the glutinous odour of congealed fat burning in the slush-lamps and cooking smells drifting up from the galley. While the gundeck was almost twice as long and broad as that of Perpetual’s, it was impossible to see beyond the first few cannon, as hammocks belonging to the gun crews were slung from the overhead beams between each gun and groups of sailors were huddled together along the gangway throughout the full length of the deck. Some seamen were sitting on sea chests, benches, stools even half barrels. A few even straddled or lazed on the cold guns’ barrels.