Distant Gunfire

by David O'Neil

  “Beat to quarters and clear the decks for action, get the storm lashings off the guns, Mr. Callow, have plain sail set, let’s get some speed for manoeuvres.”

  Men leapt to the shrouds, whilst others cast off the gun lashings. The rat-tat-tat of the drum underscored the frantic explosion of activity. A boy dashed about scattering sand on the deck, while others ran below to bring shot and powder from the magazine.

  The colours were raised and HMS Witch bore down on the Frenchman. Robert inspected her through his telescope, he observed she was pierced for fourteen guns, in the Royal Navy she would be rated a frigate, he also noted that she was frantically running out her guns, while still clearing the raffle of gear from her foredeck. The Tricolour flew from her mizzen stay.

  Lieutenant Archer, now acting first lieutenant, was stationed on the main deck in command of the broadside guns. “Gun Captains, watch your aim, we will be crossing her bows and I want every shot to count.”

  Robert turned to the crew of the stern chase guns, “Load canister and fire as you bear.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain.” The gunner touched his forelock and passed the orders to his gun crews.

  The ship swooped down and as she crossed the bows of the corvette her guns spoke, one by one, to be immediately cleared, reloaded and run out once more. The effect on the Frenchman was shattering, the first cannon ball tore through the bow, smashing the bowsprit and ripping along the main deck with a shower of splinters, strewing broken men and guns in its path. One by one the guns spoke, creating their own trails of destruction.

  As the ship cleared the bow of the Frenchman, the stern chaser fired when the sloop came about, the canister spreading its lethal contents across the fore deck causing even more mayhem among the crew of the battered ship. The corvette only managed to reply with scattered shots from her starboard guns; she was lying rolling badly in the troughs of the waves. Many of her guns were blocked by the fallen mast and sail. She had fired as the Witch drew away, one of the shots hitting the port side of the sloop and dismounting one of the twelve pounders; the gun crew were strewn dead and dying across the deck. The ship heeled as she came round to bring her starboard guns into action, the name of the corvette, Le Vent, was now visible on her stern.

  The wind cleared the gun smoke, revealing the terrible damage done by the Witch’s guns. Men were milling about trying to serve the guns while others were pulling the bodies of the casualties out of the way. As the broadside guns came to bear they spoke, one by one. Only two of the French guns managed to fire back and both balls missed. Fired on the down roll, the shot glanced off the water and skipped over the deck of the sloop without causing any damage. The mainmast of Le Vent started to lean forwards towards her bows, it stopped, caught by the tangle of sheets and shrouds, precariously balanced, swaying to the movement of the ship.

  “She’s struck!” Archer shouted pointing as the Tricolour was brought down to the deck.

  Robert called to the first lieutenant. “Lower the longboat, Mr. Archer; take Williams, the boat crew and eight marines and secure the prize. Mr. Callow, get the carpenter and check the damage. Mr. Hardy, get the chief gunner’s report on the dismounted gun. If it can be, I want it remounted as soon as possible!”

  Hardy rushed off down the main deck, calling for the gunner in his high pitched voice.

  As the boat pulled over to the French ship Lieutenant Richard Archer looked at the blood running from her scuppers and felt a shiver run up his spine; it could so well have been the Witch in this condition. He shook his head to clear it of the thought and leapt up to catch the port shrouds and haul himself aboard.

  Followed by his boarding party he stepped over wreckage and wounded men to where an officer stood on the after deck with his outstretched sword. Archer took the sword and ordered Williams to take the carpenter’s mate to sound the well. The marines assembled the prisoners. The sound of a disturbance caused Archer to turn to see one of the prisoners protesting at being pulled away from one of the wounded.

  “What’s happening?” He called.

  “It is the doctor, he is attending the captain.” The officer beside him explained in English.

  “Sergeant!” Archer called “Leave the man be, he is the doctor, he may examine the wounded and do what he can for them, however give him an escort to help. Rogers,” he called the big seaman standing by the group, “Give the doctor a hand, and keep an eye on things.”

  Rogers knuckled his forehead and nodded to the doctor. “Where’s your bag then?” The doctor looked puzzled and returned to examining his patient.

  Elsewhere the French seamen were being pushed into a group by the mainmast that was still precariously teetering as the ship rolled.

  “Get those men working on the mainstay, brace up that mast first!” Archer found he had to be everywhere at once for those first few minutes, until the men realised what they had to do.

  The carpenter’s mate reported four feet of water in the bilges, and that the main mast stoppers had been knocked out of position. As soon as the mast had been braced up he would replace them. He rushed off to collect more tools.

  The sloop hove-to alongside and the doctor went aboard to assist with the wounded. The bo’sun took charge of fastening a spare staysail yard to the stump of the foremast. A bowsprit was fashioned out of the trimmed end of the broken foremast which had now been cleared. The settling of the mainmast back into position—once stoppered in place—made the corvette seaworthy enough for the voyage back to England.

  The quietening sea helped with the repairs to Le Vent, but it was three hours before it was deemed possible to raise sail once more. She had lost 28 dead and 22 wounded in the short action. The Witch had lost 5 killed and 2 wounded.

  Under the command of Lieutenant Archer, Le Vent kept company with the Witch until she was ready to be released to sail for Plymouth manned by a prize crew.

  The captain of Le Vent had succumbed to his wounds; the total loss to the Frenchman was now 29 killed and 21 wounded. In the hold they found eight prisoners from the crew of an English merchantman, captured by the corvette two weeks earlier. They were pressed into service on the Witch to replace the losses from the action.

  The main prize from the events of the morning turned out to be the log book of the French ship. This listed her part as escort for a convoy of ships from the Indies. She had become detached from her charges during the night three days ago. Since the destination of the remaining ships of the convoy was La Coruna, the Le Vent had continued on her course hoping to join up with her missing charges.

  Robert thought it was worth waiting for a day or so at least on the off chance that they could be in place to meet the missing ships of the convoy and perhaps obtain another prize or even two.

  By retaining the Le Vent for the moment it should be possible to deceive any of the convoy ships into believing the Witch to be her captive. Providing, that is, any of the convoy had survived the storm. It was certainly worth a try.

  Robert discussed the possibility with Lieutenant Archer who was entirely in agreement. Despite the damage she had endured, Le Vent was still in condition to give a good account for herself. The delay would also allow more time for the carpenter to effect repairs whilst she was hove-to.

  The two ships lay-to with backed foresails as the burial service was read. Standing by the body of his captain, Robert felt an incredible sadness at the loss of the cheerful Dorset man who had shaped his career over the last two years. The wealth of seamanship knowledge gone in an instant, the kindness and understanding, shown by William Dawson would be sorely missed. As he doffed his hat to read the solemn words of the burial service, he could hear the soft Dorset words in his head as spoken by his former mentor on past occasions. Standing there he realised that this was what he had been trained for, and however difficult it may seem, it was upon his, Lieutenant Robert Graham’s shoulders, that the responsibility for ship and men now lay. Donning his hat once more, Lieutenant Robert Graham. RN, assumed the burden.


  It was just after dawn the following morning that the ship came into view. She was a fat East Indiaman with her sides painted like a man-o-war. Armed with a broadside of twelve guns she could give a good account for herself.

  As she came up with the two warships Witch dropped the French flag that she had been displaying as did Le Vent, both ships raised the Union flag, and Witch fired a shot across the bows of the Indiaman. Under the threat of the combined broadsides of the warships the merchantman struck her colours without firing a shot.

  The manifest of the Coromandel revealed her to be a true treasure ship, with a cargo of silk ivory, tea and gold bullion. Having placed a prize crew and marines on board under the Master, Mr. Callow, with the help of Midshipman Hardy, HMS Witch was left shorthanded, and it was for this reason Robert decided to accompany the prizes to Plymouth.

  Sailing up the channel, the small convoy encountered the blockading fleet off Brest; where Robert reported to the Admiral on board the 80 gun Flagship HMS Orient. He was thrilled to be piped on board ship for the first time, while at the same time sad at the reason it was happening. He was received in the Great cabin lit by the windows that overlooked a gallery around the stern of the ship.

  Sir Walter Keith, KB, Rear-Admiral in Command of the blockade squadron off Brest, was a sturdy robust man with a well-fed look. As Robert handed over his report, he spoke.

  “I’m sorry to hear of the passing of William Dawson, he came from my part of the world, and he was with me in the Levant five years past. An enterprising and dependable officer, he will be sadly missed.”

  He shrugged. “Now your report.” He turned to his servant. “Mason, some wine for Captain Graham. Take a seat sir,” he indicated a chair and settled down to read Robert’s report.

  Mason brought a silver tray with two glasses of red wine, one of which he served to Robert. While Robert waited and sipped his wine the Admiral read with an occasional grunt and at one point a smile. Eventually he finished, picked up his wine and drank it straight down.

  “Mason, more wine, man.” As Mason hurried to refill the glasses the admiral turned to Robert, looking at him keenly, he spoke. “This report will go to the Admiralty with my covering letter; I suspect it will appear in the Gazette. God knows there is little enough good news at the moment. The corvette Le Vent should make a fine addition to the fleet, we are always short of frigates.

  “Though I am not in a position to promise anything; I have little doubt you will advance, I can however, and will advance Lieutenant Archer as well as young Williams, who will become acting lieutenant. I will write orders for you to report to the Admiralty immediately. You can carry my own despatches with you.”

  He stood and held out his hand. Robert hurriedly climbed to his feet and banged his head on the deckhead, flustered he took the hand extended to him.

  “Well done, lad!”

  Robert stammered his thanks and left the cabin to the Admiral, who was already calling for his clerk.

  Back on board his ship, Robert sat for a few moments still a little stunned at the way things were going. It seemed that events had begun to flow over the past few weeks, one thing after another without any effort on his part. He breathed deeply, once, twice, and then not able to sit still he leapt to his feet and went up on deck.

  “Mr. Williams! Attend me!” He passed his hat to the master, and to the astonishment of the watching crew members stepped over to the port side and mounted the rigging to the maintop climbing round the futtock shrouds avoiding the lubber’s hole. Williams arrived diplomatically at the same time as his captain.

  “You have to do better than that, John,” said Robert with a grin. “Even an acting lieutenant should be able to beat the Captain to the maintop!”

  “It could be the quickest way to stop being an acting lieutenant,” the tongue in cheek reply drew a chuckle from Robert.

  “Touché, Mr. Williams. However I am happy to inform you that you are now officially acting and will be required to attend an examination board, probably in Plymouth, as soon as one is convened.”

  John Williams suddenly realised what his Captain had said. “You mean….so soon….I must get down to my books.” He started to climb down; realised Robert had made no move and stopped reddening with embarrassment. “I beg pardon sir, have I your permission to return to my studies?”

  “Congratulations John and off you go, just make sure you don’t let us down.”

  He was smiling as he watched the young man sliding down the stay to the deck. He remembered his own board of examination, the nerves and the desperate wait while the board decided his fate. The relief had been incredible; he remembered the stiff-legged walk to the deck of the flagship in Gibraltar, the waters blue and calm. His sense almost of disappointment that the scene had not altered since he had entered the waiting room two hours before, and the handshake of the first lieutenant of the Flagship with whom he had served in a previous commission.

  With a shrug and a last look round feeling a little deflated he descended to the main deck once more and accepted the proffered hat, the Captain once more.

  ***

  A week had passed before the three ships sailed into Plymouth Harbour, saluting the forts according to tradition. The evening sky was reddening in the west as they came to anchor.

  Midshipman Hardy, back on board once more, approached Robert. “Signal, sir, captain to report to the Port Admiral.”

  “Very well, Mr. Hardy, acknowledge if you please, and have the longboat lowered.”

  The middy turned and called for the longboat. The bo’sun had the lashings off in anticipation and the boat was being swung out before the acknowledging signal was sent.

  Donning his boat cloak, Robert turned to the diminutive midshipman, “You have the ship, Mr. Hardy.”

  As he turned he caught the eye of the master’s mate Sven Hansen, a steady experienced hand. He nodded to the man, who nodded back in understanding; he looked about the ship for what he thought might be the last time then descended over the side into the waiting boat. His servant Meadows had packed his luggage ready for his departure and he was waiting in the boat with the box and bags stacked around him.

  At the admiral’s port office he was greeted by Admiral Reeves, a grey and weatherbeaten old friend of his father, who had been helpful in getting him his first ship. The Admiral had been advised of his necessary departure for London and was therefore unfortunately unable to discuss the events of the latest voyage. He had however arranged for the London Mail coach to be slightly delayed, to send the young officer on his journey.

  Once securely seated inside; the coach it set off with an impatient lurch; Meadows, Robert’s servant rode outside, crouched in his oilskin against the wet weather.

  It was a battered and weary Robert who descended from the coach after the eighteen-hour journey. He watched his sea chest and other gear taken into the Cock Inn by Meadows and the inn servant. The Cock was the preferred hostelry for sea officers visiting the Admiralty in London.

  He was hardly through the door before he was greeted with a shout and buffeted by the strong right arm of his friend, Lieutenant, Lord William Beaufort-Robinson. Baron Brimpton.

  “Here at last, Bobby, what kept you?” Billy Beaufort’s usual robust, good humoured direct manner was like a breath of fresh air.

  Robert looked at his friend. Billy’s face was smiling and he looked well though a little pale. “I see you haven’t changed, still the same old Billy! But what are you doing here? I thought you were still in Hotspur.”

  “I was tagged in a scrap with a galley off Tripoli and came home with the mail to get repairs. They replaced me and now I’m fit as a flea and going mad in the Admiralty, trying to get back to sea. You have your orders, I suppose?”

  “Yes, I must report to the Admiralty.” Robert replied.

  “It says forthwith does it not?” Bobby said tugging Robert’s arm.

  “But I need to clean up and change.” Robert protested.

  “You�
��ll do!” Insisted Bobby, and dragged him through the door and called for a carriage, directing the man to the Whitehall.

  On the way he demanded to be told of the action off the Spanish coast, and after hearing the bones of the story said, “You’ll get a command, no doubt at all.” Though Robert protested, he would hear none of it.

  “I don’t suppose you would consider finding a job for me to do. Perhaps you already have a first in mind?”

  “You idiot, Billy, you know you would be my first choice if and when the chance arose. I think you are quite mad to presume that I will get a command. I have no influence and there are too many above me on the list to allow me a chance.”

  “Just wait, I will look forward to treading a deck again, under your command.” Billy was quite confident about it.

  At the Admiralty after handing in the reports and letters, they were asked to wait. The afternoon sky was grey and it was beginning to rain. Robert looked glumly through the window at the wet street below, he felt uncomfortably dusty and dishevelled.

  “Lieutenant Graham, if you will?” The clerk called him and indicated the door being held open by Billy. Robert straightened his shoulders and walked through.

  There were three men in the room, standing by the fireplace where a small fire did little more than dent the cool atmosphere. He noticed a slight figure in dark blue coat. He realised with a start it was Captain Nelson—no, he was Commodore Nelson—or was he? Confused, he turned to the figure seated at the table. The other standing man, still reading his action report; was Captain Sir Edward Pellew, whose actions in command of a frigate made him famous throughout England.

  “Ah, Lieutenant Graham.”

  Robert straightened. “Sir” he acknowledged.

  With a sigh the seated man shrugged and continued. “You do not call me sir, I am a civil member of the admiralty.” Ignoring Robert’s confusion, he continued, “I have to inform you that their Lordships have decided that in view of your actions in the matter of the corvette Le Vent and the merchantman Coromandel, plus the recommendations of your captain and that of Admiral Keith, you will be advanced to Post rank from this day.