Beautiful Star and Other Stories

by Andrew Swanston

  ‘Thou art come!’ he cried, gazing at the comet. ‘A matter of lamentation to many a mother art thou; I have seen thee long since; but I now behold thee much more terrible, threatening to hurl destruction on this country.’He turned to the young oblates around him. ‘It is a sign from God. Mark it well and be prepared. England’s enemies will come soon.’ He spoke quietly, as was his way, but with the force of conviction. ‘Once before it was the Danes. This time, who knows?’

  The outline of the abbey tower was visible against the sky. With an effort, Eilmer lifted one of his sticks and pointed at it. ‘And note this. One day, a man will fly. Not, as I did, for a matter of feet, but for miles. He will fly over land and sea and think little of it. Just as man learnt to build a boat which would carry him on water, so he will learn to build wings which will carry him through the air. I am sure of it.’

  HMS ASSOCIATION

  1708

  A true account of the final voyage of HMS Association

  by Daniel Jones, pressed man.

  In setting this down, I know that the wrong eyes may see it, but when I’m gone there should be at least one true account of that voyage, there having been neither inquiry nor inquest. Only twelve months have passed, yet already there are stories – fanciful, foolish stories – of the kind that men of the sea have ever been fond of telling. And in the villages of Cornwall and in the islands there are many men of the sea happy to spin a tale for the price of a pot of ale. The more pots of ale, the finer the tale. So this, from one better placed than any to know the truth of it, is what occurred. First, however, I should explain how I came to be on board HMS Association.

  The greater part of the fleet had set sail from Portsmouth in July and had put in to Falmouth to take on food and water. Ships of the line crammed the harbour and lay at anchor just outside it. War with the French dragging on, ships in need of crews – every man in the town knew that the press would be about and all but the most foolish kept themselves out of harm’s way. Against the law or not, the press would think nothing of taking men from inns and taverns, from fishing boats and shipyards, even from fields and farms, caring little if their ‘catches’ were men of the sea or of the land. It was bodies they needed, nothing more. I was one of the most foolish and, on my birth day, for the sake of ale and a woman, I took the risk. And regretted it.

  The press burst in to the Mermaid Inn – six of them, with short swords and cudgels – looked about, saw only one able-bodied man and ordered me, in the name of the Queen, to come quietly. That I did not, but laid out two of them before I was knocked senseless and carted off to serve in Her Majesty’s navy.

  When I came to, I was deep in the hold of a ship among the cack and the rats and bound at the wrists. There were four of us, all taken that night and all wishing we had stayed in our homes. We said little, but lay without food or water until the ship weighed anchor and we felt the sea’s swell under us. When, eventually, bruised and sick, we were released and ordered on deck, we were a mile or more from shore. Even I, a strong swimmer from playing for hours in the river as a boy, was not going to risk the water, especially among those treacherous currents. Every fisherman in Cornwall knows to beware of them. An only son to my widowed father, my mother having died at my birth, I was a fisherman, as he was, working at the drifting and the seining to catch pilchards. Hard labour it was to be sure, but we had a decent enough living, which many, in these harsh days, do not. And we knew full well about the fickle Cornish seas.

  While we stood huddled together around the main mast, trying to come to terms with the misfortune we had brought upon ourselves but ignored by the rest of the crew who had doubtless seen enough newly pressed men not to care much about us, a sharp-faced youth, barely old enough to have need of a razor, barked at us that he was Midshipman Alexander, and that we were on HMS Association, a second-rate, ninety guns, with seven hundred men on board, Edmund Loades Captain and, he added proudly, flagship of Admiral Sir Cloudesley Shovell, Commander-in-Chief of the Mediterranean fleet.

  Behind us fourteen other warships followed in line astern. It was off to war for us and we had best set to or we would not live long enough to see a Frenchie, never mind kill one. I looked at one of my new shipmates and saw misery in his eyes. He might have seen the same in mine. I cursed myself for an idiot and wondered if I would ever see Falmouth again.

  There can have been barely a man of the sea who did not know of Sir Cloudesley Shovell, a tarpaulin who had worked his way from cabin boy to his present rank and whose reputation for bravery and leadership was unmatched in the navy. At that time I could not have told you anything more about the man – but I was to learn.

  At first the four of us were given simple tasks – hauling ropes, swabbing decks, working the pumps – and were watched over by Alexander or another of the callow midshipmen. We had all taken immediately against the boy and on land I would have cheerfully given him a bloody nose just for being a smug little toad, but here there was no gain to be had from causing trouble, only the knotted end of a rope on a man’s back. So I held my tongue and did as I was told. We all did.

  By the time we reached the island of Ushant at the southern end of the channel – as far from England as I had ever been – we had been joined by twenty more vessels: fourteen warships, four fireships, a sloop and a yacht. Thirty-five ships in all, under Admiral Sir Cloudesley Shovell. A formidable force which would not have been assembled without good cause. The word was that we were bound for the port of Toulon where much of the French fleet was anchored. Had the French known we were coming, I daresay they would have put to sea to avoid being trapped like fish in a net. Whether that was the reason we were not told our destination, I could not say, but as the days passed it became accepted among the crew that Toulon was where we were headed and that the admiral and captains of all the ships in our fleet were hopeful of a good reward in the form of prize money. If we could capture a vessel or two and take them back to England, there would be money in it for all, even the pressed men, and treasure for the captain and officers. That was what we thought.

  There were three gun decks on Association. When not in use, the guns were secured with ropes so that they did not slide about. A loose cannon could maim or kill as easily as enemy fire. Our hammocks were slung between them. On our passage through Biscay, when gunnery practice was ordered for three days on end, we stowed the hammocks before each practice and hauled the guns into position at the gun ports. I was put to a gun crew and shown how to swab out the barrel to extinguish stray embers left from the previous firing. After the cannon had been charged with powder, loaded with its shot, packed and rammed, we all heaved on the tackles to position it correctly and stood well back while our gun captain lit the priming powder. We did it again and again until we could carry it out in our sleep.

  Salt pork, hard, maggoty biscuit, even beer as thin as piss, I got used to. So too sleeping in a hammock no more than fourteen inches wide, and hard up against snoring, grunting neighbours on either side. But the smoke and the crash of the guns of twenty-nine warships I never did become accustomed to and nor, I think, ever would. At times, the deck seemed to shake under our feet; at others, the gun-thunder echoed around us, bombarding our ears and rattling our skulls. It was no wonder so many who served on a warship were deaf.

  Our captain, Captain Loades, was the nephew of the admiral’s wife, Lady Shovell, whose two sons by Sir John Narborough were also among the officers on board. This much we learnt from an ancient member of the carpenter’s crew, a gawky tittle-tattle with a lop-sided face and a cast in one eye. Plank was his name – apt enough for a carpenter – and he knew, or claimed to know, more or less everything about the ship and its officers.

  From Plank I learnt that Sir Cloudesley’s rise, not by preferment or the advantages of birth but from cabin boy through the ranks of midshipman, master’s mate, captain and rear admiral was by no means unheard of. But no man could reach such a rank who had not distinguished himself in battle, which Sir Cloudesley ce
rtainly had, having been in actions against the Dutch and the Spanish and having won a gold medal, awarded by the late king, for destroying a pirate fleet anchored at Tripoli on the African coast. It was said of him that he never ordered a junior officer to carry out a task that he himself was not willing to carry out.

  There was no doubting our admiral’s courage or skill and we were pleased to know it. Our fate was in Sir Cloudesley’s hands more than any other. On a warship, as on a fishing boat, a man must have confidence in his leader. Setting nets to catch pilchards or sails to catch the wind, feeling your boat, knowing the tides, being sure of where you are – the skills of the mariner vary little. True, we seldom lost sight of land when we went out after the fish, but then our boats were small and vulnerable. In the waters off the Lizard or the Scillies, a sudden storm can swallow a fishing boat. By comparison, Association, carrying over seven hundred crew and marines, was a castle.

  It was on the second day of gunnery practice that I first set eyes on the admiral. When it was over and the guns had been secured again, we were called up from the gun decks to take a few welcome breaths of sea air. There was no mistaking Sir Cloudesley Shovell. He was a large man with an unusually big, round head, not unlike one of the thirty-two pound balls we had been firing from the demi-cannons. He wore a full wig and a blue woollen coat edged in gold braid to his knees. I remember shafts of sunlight reflecting from his gold buttons. Strangely, he held on a lead a small greyhound.

  Beside the admiral on the poop deck stood Captain Loades and below them on the quarter deck half-a-dozen lieutenants and midshipmen. They seemed to be inspecting us, as if we were creatures brought up from the depths for their amusement. One scarred old salt danced a little jig for them, but they took no notice of him.

  The biscuit we ate was maggoty, as I have said, and the meat perforce salted. But there was plenty of it, as well as fish, cheese, rice, peas and flour. Never believe a seaman who tells you he had not enough to eat. Nor did we lack for drink. A gallon of the watery beer or two pints of wine or half a pint of brandy or rum was issued to each man every day. Having never had a taste for wine or brandy, I made do with beer and was content enough.

  Plank told us that Captain Loades was not a ‘flogging man’ and only once on the outward voyage did I witness such a punishment. The wretch had saved up his rum ration for a week, drunk it all one evening and could not get out of his hammock the next morning. He was tied to a grating and given fifty lashes while those of us not engaged in other duties were made to watch. He survived, just, perhaps thanks to the rum in his blood helping to deaden the pain, but he could do no work for a week.

  On the twentieth day of July we turned east and followed the line of the distant Spanish coast, past the island of Gibraltar and into the calmer waters of the Mediterranean. Three days later, we were in la grande rade, the big natural harbour of the French city of Toulon. There we anchored, outside the range of French cannon, to await the arrival of those ships of the fleet that had fallen behind. To the delight of our officers, the French ships at anchor in the inner harbour had not put to sea and were trapped. On Association we had lost just one man fallen from the topmast and two from sickness. Rubbing his hands in anticipation, Plank told us it had been a ‘good’ voyage which boded well for the fighting ahead and that we could expect to capture ‘a fine few’ Frenchies.

  I have mentioned Midshipman Alexander and there were others of his kind; as there were others like me – pressed into the service of the navy – and wishing only to be able to return to their homes and families. Having no family, I was perhaps less affected by our condition than some, but still I thought of little but Falmouth when I was not at work on the ship and I avoided close conversation with my fellows. I did what I was told and no more. Captain Loades and his lieutenants we viewed from afar or at least from the distance between the main deck and the quarter deck. I confess to having formed no strong impression of any of them.

  On the occasions that he appeared, the admiral, however, caught my attention, not only for his size and the extravagance of his dress but also for his presence. It was a presence that few men have and is all the more remarkable for that. Scrubbing the deck or heaving on a rope, I sometimes sensed eyes on my back and, turning, found that the admiral was staring down at us. Not at me particularly but on all of us. More often than not, he had the little greyhound with him, sometimes on a lead, sometimes under his arm. It was a strange sight on a warship.

  Once, when the admiral descended to the quarter deck, I noticed that he wore two large rings – one on the third finger of each hand. On the right, a thick band of gold, on the left a large green stone, which I took to be an emerald. The rings, the greyhound, his wig, his dress and demeanour, his unusual presence and his climb from the lowest rung to the very pinnacle of the service – it seemed to me that Admiral Sir Cloudesley Shovell was far from your ordinary seaman. I wondered if he ever addressed a man at a station almost as lowly as his own once was and, if so, what he might say. I saw him speaking to Captain Loades but could not hear their words.

  Stories, true and false, spread on ships as they do in villages. We were never directly informed of our purpose but as our fleet assembled we came to understand that we would be bombarding the port of Toulon while our allies, the Dutch and the Austrians, launched an attack from the land. Without thinking much on it, we simply accepted this. It took Plank to point out that if we bombarded the town while our allies were attacking it we would be as likely to kill friend as foe, unless they stayed out of range in the hills above the town, which indeed is what they did.

  I cannot with certainty state exactly what events took place at this time or in what order because of the confusion of battle and of my own station on the lowest gun deck, from which I could see very little. Here I thus rely in part upon the reports of others.

  A party of about six hundred marines led by Rear Admiral Sir John Norris were put ashore and attacked the enemy fortifications before withdrawing back to the fleet. What they achieved I do not know. While our allies, led by the Duke of Savoy, fired down from the hills, we fired across the harbour, both sets of guns trained on the town. We bombarded it with every cannon in the fleet, and watched towers of smoke and flames rise into the sky as we unleashed their full fury. On Association we loaded and reloaded our guns and fired round shot and case shot in thundering salvos. We suffered a little damage from French cannon but the most danger we were in was from accidents and fires on board. With these the surgeon was kept busy. And we took great care, under threat of a lashing, not to let our shot fall short and land among the French ships. There was no prize money to be had from a sunken vessel.

  For three weeks we kept the bombardment up, each day expecting to be told that it was over and that our allies had taken the town. At least once each day a barge would arrive and a message would be delivered to the admiral but still our guns kept firing. Only when we were running low on shot, a fireship was sent in among the French fleet and we were ordered to lower our aim from the town to the harbour, did we realise that the Dutch and the Austrians had failed to take it. Later we learnt that they had abandoned their attack and retreated, leaving the hills in French hands.

  The fireship did no damage that we could see, but our cannon did sink several French vessels. We need not have wasted the powder and shot because, before our eyes, the French set about scuppering their own ships. Within two days, fourteen of them lay with only their upper deck above the water. We stood and watched and bellowed insults which were carried away on the wind.

  On Association, this was a time when petty squabbles, often fuelled by drink, arose to fill the empty hours of inactivity and the frustration of seeing our prize money going up in smoke or down to a watery grave. Tempers flared, false accusations were made, fights broke out and three men were tied to the grating and put to the lash for drunken brawling. At sea or in battle, a warship is like a nest of ants – scurrying, carrying, pulling, pushing – always busy and with a purpose. At anch
or with its guns silent it is more like an idle, ill-tempered bulldog. And the mood was made worse by our failure to take Toulon. A victory of sorts possibly, the French having scuppered their own ships, but no prize money for us. Punishments became harsher and more frequent – rations cut, the rope knotted, the gauntlet run.

  Plank the carpenter told us that it was too late in the year to attempt another action and that we would be home before winter storms made the voyage perilous. From that we took some comfort.

  The cloud hanging over us was not lifted, however, until we hauled anchor and set sail for Gibraltar. There we left thirteen of our fleet for the winter, the remaining twenty-one vessels (one fireship having been used at Toulon) included Royal Ann, flagship of Sir George Byng, and Torbay, flagship of Sir John Norris. I recall wishing that winter in that island at the mouth of the Mediterranean had appealed to Sir Cloudesley Shovell and that Association had been among the ships left there. From Gibraltar, a man might quite easily have made his escape. Of course no such thing was possible, the admiral bearing the responsibility of bringing the fleet safely home, not to mention the prospect of his receiving yet more glory for the destruction of the French ships and, in early October, we left the calm waters of the Mediterranean and turned north into the stormy Atlantic.

  If I have dealt too briefly with life on board Association and with our bombardment of Toulon, it is because my purpose is not to recount those matters in detail but rather to tell the story of our fateful voyage home. There are many others better placed than I to describe what occurred to this point but none, I think, more able to recount what befell us thereafter.