Distant Gunfire

by David O'Neil

  The afternoon passed slowly. The French ship was still in sight and the work to replace the foremast was progressing as Robert observed through his telescope. He hoped that the work would not be completed in time to take advantage of any wind that arose; and he prayed that there would be wind, for the convoy before it reached the enemy.

  The Captain had returned on board and taken over command once more. He was well pleased with Robert’s performance against the Frenchman. Like Robert, he too prayed the wind would come in time to give them the advantage over the enemy.

  As it was the wind when it came caused all the ships to reef and the French frigate disappeared into the haze of spume and spray that enveloped the entire convoy as well.

  They didn’t see the French ship again or any other, until they spotted the sloop Adventure, scouting for the Channel Fleet off Ushant.

  The rest of the voyage was fairly straightforward apart from the usual scattering of the ships for no apparent reason, an event so regular as to cause little comment other than the oath’s rendered with frustration by the escorts. The last hours of the convoy seemed to be deliberately conducted to extend the life of the group as long as possible. Finally at dusk after nearly five weeks, with a sigh of relief, Commander Dawson saw the last of the ships safely moored in Falmouth roads. He turned the bowsprit of his ship to the east and sailed off along the Cornish coast to her home port of Plymouth once more.

  It was eight months after leaving Plymouth that the HMS Witch dropped her anchor once more in the harbour, and the sails were brailed up for the last time on this cruise.

  The threat of mutiny had gone and the trusted members of the crew were given the chance to see their loved ones once more.

  For Robert, restlessness took him to the Manor and out into the countryside, riding the wild country up towards the high moor. It was while he was seated on a rock gazing through his pocket telescope at a buzzard soaring over a high Tor in the distance that the laughing voice asked him if he was stargazing in the afternoon. He caught the mood and answered the voice without turning, “I’m looking for the love of my life.”

  “Well you won’t find un there.” The local music in voice with the moorland accent was soft and happy, and he hardly dared look round. It was strange; he knew she would be a great disappointment but he had to look nevertheless. He turned and his eyes met a pair of dark, laughing eyes that shone from a pretty, heart-shaped face. Tanned by the sun, her bare arms were holding a basket filled with mushrooms obviously collected from the moor around them. She was slender and shapely and he called to her and invited her to share his lunch, packed for him by the cook at the manor.

  “You’re Polly Chadwick, are you not?” he was not quite sure, the last time he had seen her had been while he attended the village school. At that time she was the small sister of one of the boys in the upper class, and rumoured to be part Gypsy.

  “I am indeed and I would be delighted to accept your kind invitation, Mr. Lieutenant Graham.”

  “You know me then.”

  “I would not consider your invitation did I not!” She answered tartly and reached out and took a leg of chicken.

  He glanced at the basket of mushrooms, she saw the look and said “I collect them to sell in the village; the vicar is very partial, as is your father, the squire.”

  They both ate without further conversation until the cook’s offering had been cleared. Then Robert lay back and looked at the white clouds wandering across the blue sky. He realised that he was at peace, for the moment at least. There was a thump beside him and when he opened his eyes he realised that Polly had lain down next to him and was gazing at the sky with rapt attention. She pointed to a cloud “That looks like the sails on your ship,” she said, “When you first sailed off in her.”

  He looked round in surprise, “You were there when I left Plymouth in the Witch?”

  She blushed. “I happened to be passing at the time.” She observed.

  “I didn’t realise you noticed me when we were younger. I always thought you would have the pick of the boys, you were so pretty.” He stuttered at that point “You still are, of course!” he said hastily, realising what he had said.

  She turned and put her finger on his lips. “I think you’d better stop there before you get yourself in trouble.” She laughed, “So you think I’m pretty, do you? Well, I think you are the best-looking man around here, and I always thought that you didn’t even notice me, so how about that then?” She laughed, just a little embarrassed at her boldness.

  He laughed in turn and turned towards her to answer, somehow the words died on his lips and he was kissing her, and more importantly she was kissing him. They lay with arms around each other whispering and touching until they found their bodies entwined making love. The afternoon faded and at last they rose and adjusted their clothes, both reluctant to break the spell.

  Robert spoke “Can we meet again, tomorrow perhaps?”

  Once again Polly put her finger to his lips. “Tomorrow I will be wed to Jared Pierce, who has his farm down by Wheal Gern in Cornwall; it’s been arranged for the past six months. When I saw you here I knew that I had to find out if you were the man I imagined you were. Well, I found out. If you had known about Jared you would not have made me happy. I knew we were never destined to be together, our lives are too far apart. I will make Jared happy and he is a good man, I will be a good wife. Who knows?” she said with a smile “I may already have our first child on the way.”

  Robert was completely abashed “But ….but…” For the third time Polly put her finger to his lips.

  “I always fancied a tumble with you. I thought I would never get the chance. Today I was lucky, and I hope you feel that way too because I enjoyed every minute of our little get together, I will remember it with joy always.” She darted over to him and reached up and kissed him.

  “Goodbye, dear Robert Graham, don’t forget me!” Picking up her mushroom-filled basket she ran off through the heather and down the hill, dropping out of sight, the echo of her laughter seeming to hang in the air.

  Robert sat, once more gloomy for the moment, at meeting and then losing the delightful Polly. At last he burst out laughing at himself. Polly was right; there would have been no future for him there with her, however much they enjoyed each other. They lived in different worlds with totally different lives.

  His horse lifted his head and snorted at his wry laugh, before returned to its grazing. As he stirred once more preparing to ride back to the Manor, it occurred to him that his restless mood had gone.

  The ship was being attended by the master Mr. Callow who was directing the necessary replacement of ropes and fittings. Men were over the sides in the dry dock, scraping and painting, and there were several panes of horn being replaced in the stern windows. As the Captain remarked dryly, “Perhaps we would be well advised to open the casements next time we go into action.” Horn was expensive.

  The work progressed over the next two weeks and several replacements were found for the crew members lost on the last voyage. Christmas passed and the annual festive board at the Manor was graced by the presence of Commander Dawson. The Commander was resigned to the fact that he was not destined to make Post Captain, he was content with his lot; at thirty six his position as Master/Commander kept him in reasonable comfort and since his wife had died giving birth to their only child, he had found contentment in his job. The child had been given to his brother and his wife who brought him up as their own. His family lived in Dorset near Weymouth and he would normally have been with them, but snow and ice dictated that the roads were not suitable for safe travel and he had gratefully accepted the invitation of Robert’s father to join them for the Christmas feast.

  At the Manor, the Christmas was an annual event for the village. The Squire, Robert’s father, provided a repast for over one hundred people from the village and some of the surrounding farms.

  They all gathered after church and walked to the Manor, the barn beside the gat
e was dressed and set up for the party and all the guests brought their own contribution to the event. The food, prepared by the Manor cook with the help of several of the village ladies, was brought to the long tables where everyone seated themselves to be served by the Squire and his son, this day joined with great good humour by Commander William Dawson. The meal was followed by music and dancing that carried on to the morning of the following day. The recovery from this party was normally accomplished over the next day.

  By common consent the work of the area recommenced by that time and the dreadful recovery period lasted almost to the New Year.

  The New Year began with a harsh wind that clawed its way into every nook and cranny. As soon as the chance arose the ship was re-launched and the final re-fitting completed.

  They sailed on the fifteenth of January and set course for the Channel Fleet somewhere off Ushant. The beginning of a three-month period of sail changes rough seas and wet clothes.

  The sea was running in long swells, lifting the sloop and causing it to pitch with a jerk, a most uncomfortable feeling for the hands currently lying out on the foreyard. The setting of the main had caused some problems as the sail had been furled whilst wet during the morning watch. A cringle had started, requiring re-stitching and the sail had not been cleanly stowed. Midshipman Williams standing in the Main-top cursed the sail-making crew in his high, half-broken voice.

  On the deck below, Lieutenant Robert Graham, the first lieutenant, muttered impatiently at the delay, and turned to the bo’sun and expressed himself in no uncertain terms on the subject. Eventually the sail snapped out to the wind, bellying out until the sheets were snugged home and the sail was drawing properly. Satisfied, the tall young lieutenant resumed pacing the quarterdeck of the ship-sloop HMS Witch close hauled closing the Spanish coast, 60 miles to the east.

  “That damned sail could have been a real problem if we had been caught out this morning!” the soft voice was calm but the admonition was there.

  “My fault sir,” Robert apologised. “I should have checked last night when the sail was stowed.”

  Dawson looked keenly at Robert as he stood in front of him, and still quietly said “I know what happened, see it doesn’t happen again.” He mused; It was so typical of Robert Graham to just accept the blame for things that happened on his watch. I hope he had a word with young Williams. His eyes swept round the horizon noting the build up of clouds to the South West.

  “We’ll need to take in sail shortly, there’s dirty weather on the way,” he nodded towards the building clouds.

  A cry from the masthead jerked both men’s attention from the impending weather.

  “Sail Ho!” The masthead lookout called.

  “Where away?” Robert called.

  “Starboard bow, hull down!” The lookout replied.

  “Mr. Williams, take the glass, and see if you can make her out!”

  The lieutenant handed the telescope to the young midshipman, who took the glass and leapt into the port rigging and scampered up expertly to the maintop, from there up the topmast shrouds to join the lookout. He hooked an arm round the mast and lined the telescope up to the horizon and started a slow sweep from either side of the bearing indicated by the lookout.

  He caught the scrap of white, the topsails of a ship and steadied the telescope. As the sloop rose on the swell the ship came into sight; he took a deliberate look before calling below.

  “Looks like a French corvette by the cut of her sails. She is standing in across our course heading for the Spanish coast.” He took another look on the next up roll and then reversed his upward journey, sliding rapidly down to the deck to report more fully.

  “Well! Mr. Williams, what have we got?” The captain quite liked the young middy; he always seemed to be where he was wanted with a smile on his face.

  “I think she is a corvette, sir, she had three masts like our own, but she lies low to the water. She either has not seen us, or she thinks we also are French. She showed no sign of avoiding us.”

  “How far away is she?” Graham interjected.

  “I think perhaps 12-13 miles sir, she was at the limit of sight, sailing across our course. Perhaps she is running for shelter from the weather.” He indicated the building clouds with his thumb.

  “Well done, lad, back to your duties.” The Captain dismissed him.

  “My cabin, Mr. Graham. Join me for a glass.” He turned and strode below, followed by Robert, who on his way below, called to the master, Mr. Callow, to keep the deck.

  In the stern cabin, Dawson poured two glasses of Madeira, and handed one to Robert. The two stood swaying to the movement of the ship, each guarding their wine being careful to prevent it spilling, Dawson raised his glass. “Death to the French!” He said and drained his glass. Robert raised his own glass in turn and drank the sweet wine in one.

  “Now, this corvette of young Williams, what do you think?”

  Robert considered for a moment before replying.

  “She should be hull up before nightfall so we will be able to confirm her nationality. Mind you, she should also be more heavily armed than we!”

  “True, but our men are well drilled, and I would wager we can fire two broadsides to his one, but let’s wait and see how things go. He may turn away, or even towards. Meanwhile, let’s get sail off her and batten down for a blow. That storm is going to be a real snorter, to my mind.”

  Robert stood back. “With your permission, sir?”

  At Dawson’s nod, Robert strode back to the deck and roused all hands to secure the ship for the coming storm.

  The second lieutenant, Richard Archer, joined him on the main deck and took over the supervision of the double lashing of the guns, Robert grinned as he heard the cultured tones using the sort of language normally associated with the gutter. Archer cheerfully drove his men to greater efforts. The men liked him, despite his upbringing. He had the knack of getting the best out of them, of that there was no doubt. He was also a good friend of several years standing.

  Robert watched with envy the slim young man, six foot tall, with the thin aristocratic good looks, a rebellious curl of black hair lying on his forehead, to be brushed aside every few minutes. Others would say he had nothing to be envious of. Robert stood six-feet two inches in his stocking feet, with broad shoulders and wide-set grey eyes set in a pleasant face, his fair hair was not quite long enough to conceal the scar that went from his ear into his hairline above his left ear, relic of a boarding action as a midshipman five years before.

  As the storm approached, the work was completed and Archer joined him aft. They strode up and down studying the approaching storm and chatting idly until Robert’s servant brought his oilskins. Archer went below and the Captain joined Robert on deck.

  “Nasty!” He said in his soft accent. “The corvette has shortened sail; she’ll not be with us until tomorrow, that’s for sure. It will be a long night; so you’d better get some rest. I’ll stand with Mr. Callow until Archer takes over.”

  Despite the increased motion of the sloop Robert fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. Dawson was still on deck when Robert took over the first dog watch, he passed the time with a grunt and clutched the mizzen stay as the sloop lurched in a cross sea.

  It was near morning when the big wave hit catching the sloop plumb on the bow, the crew on deck hung onto the safety lines for their lives. Robert was standing by the wheel when the wave hit. The midshipman of the watch was Hardy, a rather stolid lad but dependable enough, he had just rung four bells and the first splinters of light were appearing as he saw the wall of water rising ahead of them in the faint light. He called out a warning and grabbed hold of the wheel ropes. He held on determinedly as the bow rose seemingly endlessly until it seemed the sloop must be upended. She lurched sickeningly on the crest, shaking loose three of the men from their handholds. All three were swept overboard by the surge of water as the ship raced down the back of the wave into the turmoil of broken water. With a loud cr
ack the mizzen-staysail split and in moments was ripped to ribbons by the wind. The ship shook off the tons of water that had buried her, and Robert called for hands to strip off the torn sail and rig a replacement. The men on the wheel were fighting to keep her head to the wind under the pull of the storm jib alone.

  Robert became aware of Midshipman Hardy tugging his sleeve. “Sir, please! The Captain.”

  He turned; Dawson had been caught by the wave and flung into the scuppers below the mizzen shrouds. He lay not moving, looking broken to Robert’s eye. He plunged over the pitching deck, shouting for the surgeon.

  Dawson’s eyes were open, as Robert leant down he heard him say in a faint voice, “I cannot feel my legs or arms. I am gone. Look after the ship, Robert. She’s yours now.” He gasped, and his eyes closed.

  Chapter six

  Commander William Dawson died where he had spent most of his life; on the deck of one of His Majesty’s ships of war. They had straightened the twisted limbs and placed him on a stretcher and carried him below.

  With an effort Robert forced himself to put aside the sorrow at the loss of his Captain and friend and concentrate on the ship, it was now all down to him. He had dreamed about his first command but he would have rather not have earned it, however temporarily, in this way. He called the carpenter and sent him below to sound the well and set the bo’sun to check and repair the rigging damaged during the storm. The weather was settling down rapidly, the front having passed the veil of spray and cloud parted revealing the vast area of broken water around them and the French corvette.

  Unlike the sloop, she had obviously suffered severely during the storm, or more likely, Robert thought, it was the wave that followed it that had done the worst damage. Her foremast was lying across her bows and men were busy chopping away the wreckage. In addition the mainmast looked unsteady, although it still carried a topsail.