Frigates of War: A John Phillips Novel

by Richard Testrake

  The transport came in, and the Earl filled the Greyhound with all the men he could pack in. Extra beef barrels were carted over to the landing, and loaded on the ships boats to be carried out to the ship. She was now so crowded, it was difficult to find a place to turn around.

  Setting sail for the East, the lookouts were ordered to be especially vigilant. The fleet’s activities in the Med this past year had upset things like kicking a hornet’s nest. Granted, many of the hornets had been killed, but a few stings were still painful.

  A few weeks into the voyage, many of the new men were now learning their duties, Most, Phillips observed, had progressed from their seasick days. The ship was creeping around the coast of Sicily, seeing what kind of mischief they could stir up, when an armed brig popped out of a narrow inlet, with much the same purpose as themselves. The Greyhound had been doing gun drill and the brig had not. She had just enough time to run up her Tricolour, and her captain was thinking about clearing for action, when he looked over and saw that thirty two gun frigate had all her guns run out, with all her port broadside pointed at him.

  Citizen Charpentier had not been given command of the newly built brig because of his warlike nature, or of his seagoing prowess. Rather, his Republican ideals were most correct. He could never be suspected to wish for the re-instatement of the Monarchy. Today though, his republican fervor lasted just long enough to order a seaman to lower the Tricolour.

  Not a shot had been fired at the brig Naiade, and she was newly built and in excellent condition. She mounted sixteen of the French ‘huit’ pounder guns, also newly cast, although a bit rough, by British standards. After sending a prize crew aboard and securing the brig’s crew, Phillips asked Lieutenant Fessler to have all the lieutenants and the Master report to his dining cabin. A master’s mate could take the deck. “Better have Scot and Webley, the two older Midshipmen, report also,” he added. Before going below himself, he checked the horizon all around, then called to the masthead. “Anything in sight, Wilkins?”

  “No sir, clear all around.”

  “Very well, keep a sharp lookout now. We’ve got enemy on all sides.”

  In his dining cabin, his steward had already put bottles of claret and a stoneware jug of brandy that had miraculously appeared after the taking of the brig. “Gentlemen, our destination is now Acre, on the Syrian coast. I am told Monsieur Bonaparte wishes to march his troops across the desert to the fortress there, which he intends to take. I wish him luck.”

  “Our purpose seems to be to deny him that option, I believe. I do not know what duties Commodore Smith may wish to assign us, but I believe he will be happier to see us with a well-founded armed brig with us, than without. Normally, of course, we would send her back home. I had halfway promised Mister Webley here her command. That is not to be. Since she may well be going into action at any time, she will need a most experienced officer at the helm. This person will be Mister Fessler, our first officer. He will need an assistant. I am selecting our acting lieutenant, Mister Webley for this task. Since he has passed his boards, and there is a genuine vacancy, I am planning to ask our Commodore to activate the commission.”

  “By the same token, without Mister Fessler, we will be an officer short. I am giving Mister Scot an acting commission, and assigning him the position of third officer here in Greyhound, and will again ask Commodore Smith to make this active also. Captain Fessler, would you and your first officer take command of the brig? You will need to select a crew, and the necessary petty and warrant officers. You may have a reasonable number of Greyhound’s crew, but you must take your fair share of the landsmen we have in the draft aboard Greyhound.”

  The pair of warships went back on course to their destination. Off the coast of Palestine, a patrolling frigate spotted them and directed them to the rendezvous with Commodore Smith. Approaching HMS Tigre, a big third rate captured from the French a few years ago, he learned Commodore Smith was now ashore in Acre, and should be met there.

  Once on station off Acre, a Navy launch brought orders for Phillips to come ashore to meet with the Commodore in the old citadel protecting the ancient Ottoman city. Bringing a selection of his officers with him, including the midshipmen Lynch and Onsley, Phillips reported to Smith in his headquarters. Smith gave him the military situation. Bonaparte had marched his Infantry forces overland from Egypt. He needed to take Acre before going on to Jerusalem and finally Constantinople (or Istanbul). Bonaparte had miscalculated though. He had loaded the siege train for his troops aboard transports and sent the guns and equipment by sea. Not expecting British ships in the vicinity, the transports had sailed right into the arms of HMS Tigre and HMS Theseus. The materiel captured aboard the transports was shortly put to use in the defenses of the city.

  The situation was tense. At the previous battle for Jaffa, Bonaparte had promised surrendered defenders their lives, but instead put thousands to the bayonet on the seashore. Reports said his troops wished to save scarce gunpowder and used the blade instead. The defenders of Acre believed this to be a fight to the death! At any rate, every ship was to furnish a levy of guns and men, to stiffen the defenses of Acre. Men and guns still aboard ship would assist the defenses by firing into the enemy when and where they could. Captain Phillips would personally command a section of the defenses, using his people and guns.

  When the preliminaries were over, Smith seemed relieved that Phillips was agreeable to his demands and did not intend to dispute his orders. When Phillips brought up the subject of the captured brig, the Commodore offered immediately to request Admiral Nelson to buy the brig into the Royal Navy. As far as the promotions were concerned, he was confident that he himself had such power, and would order his clerk to immediately draft their commissions.

  Since Mister Onsley had reasonable penmanship, and also knew a little French, Phillips had him remain with him, using him now to draft an order for Mister Lynch to take aboard ship. His new first officer, Mister Grenville, was directed to take command of the ship temporarily, and keep enough men aboard to sail the ship, and man a broadside on one flank of the ship. Half of her guns were to be lowered into barges that would be brought alongside, as well as appropriate ammunition. Case and grape shot would be especially useful. Beef and pork barrels would be lowered into the barges, as well as sufficient biscuit and rum to feed his contingent for a few weeks.

  The officer bringing this document was asked to enter the Captain’s Quarters of the ship, and retrieve such articles as he chose to bring ashore. Especially desired was the Captain’s rifled gun along with the bag of accoutrements.

  The man bringing this order was also carrying a bag of correspondence which would be loaded aboard the captured brig Naiade and taken to the blockade fleet off Alexandria. She would keep her guns and crew in the event she needed to protect herself.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Mister Lynch, while aboard Greyhound found the articles his Captain had asked for. Also, he found the cased pistols Phillips owned. Packing everything into a biscuit sack, Lynch brought them back. The ship’s Marine lieutenant had positioned his people as well as most of the seamen brought ashore. Several of the petty officers used their expertise to reinforce crumbling sections of city wall and build emplacements for ship’s guns. Going forward to inspect the work, Phillips heard a distant ‘Bang’ and a subsequent crash as a ball impacted the wall near a new gun emplacement. Phillips asked Lieutenant Harper, the Marine, what had just happened.

  “The French have found an old four pounder gun, and are using it to pound us where our men are working. Of course, as soon as we can bring a gun forward, we can make it uncomfortable for them, but we will lose some men.”

  “How far are they away?”

  “A good two hundred yards. I’ve tried having my men fire volleys at them, but we are just wasting ammunition, at that range.”

  Phillips looked around. His Midshipman Onsley was back behind an ancient stone column, clearly not enthused at being sniped at by cannon. The boy was loaded do
wn like a donkey, with items he thought might be needed. He had indeed brought the items up by donkey, a diminutive animal he had rented for a silver sixpence. The ass was now behind the defenses, staked out on a patch of grass, guarded by a seaman.

  Prominent among the boy’s load was the rifle that he had brought from home. He ordered the boy to put his load down, and set up housekeeping. They had a canvas fly borrowed from Lieutenant Harper to keep them out of the sun, as well as a ground cloth. Water bottles, food and a spirit stove completed the inventory. Phillips went over and retrieved his rifle and accessory pouch. As he carried it toward the wall, he heard the gun bellow and felt the shock of that four pound ball hitting the masonry at a thousand feet per second.

  Harper shook his head when he saw his Captain approaching with the long arm. “You are far out of range with that weapon, Sir. My advice would be to wait until we can get some of our ship’s guns up here. You will just make them angry with that.”

  Phillips put a patch on the rod, and scrubbed it in the weapon’s barrel, to remove any excess oil that might still be there. Then, he pulled some of his accessories on a block of stone near an embrasure in the wall. He had a cartridge box, a small flask containing priming powder, extra flints, and a pick for clearing the touchhole. Removing the ramrod from under the barrel, he picked a cartridge from the box, and tore the paper tail from the rear portion. Dumping the powder down the barrel, he tapped the buttplate on the stone deck to settle the charge. Then, pulling the paper wrapped projectile from its cartridge paper envelope, he fitted it into the bore. Ramming it home with the ramrod, he was almost done. Since the bore was clean, the bullet a bit loose, and he was shooting downhill, he wadded the remains of the paper cartridge and shoved that down the bore, too. Its only purpose was to keep the projectile from moving until the weapon fired.

  With nothing else at hand, Phillips removed his heavy, second best coat, folding it and placing it in the embrasure. He got behind the weapon and pulled the frizzen back, exposing the pan. He dropped the tiniest amount of priming powder in the pan, and closed the frizzen. Running his thumb over the flint, he found it satisfactory. Checking his sights, he raised the 300 yard sight leaf. Knowing the range was actually about 220 yards, he decided to hold the front sight blade at the level of his target’s knees. A very slight wind was blowing from starboard to port, so he put the blade just to the right of his target. In this case, a soldat (French soldier) just preparing to drop the next ball down the muzzle of his gun.

  With the cock pulled back, Phillips applied pressure to the trigger. The dog jaw slashed forward with its flint and knocked the frizzen open. The energy of the powerful mainspring caused the flint to strike so many sparks from the frizzen that the powder in the pan flashed before the flint finished its work. The gun fired almost instantly after, and a blossom of smoke obscured the target for a few seconds, until the slight breeze blew it away.

  A quiet whistle came from the group watching. The Marine put down his glass and said, “You hit him in the armpit just as he was about to drop the ball in the gun. The ball fell on his foot, and I expect he will be out of action for a bit.”

  Phillips walked away from the embrasure to the loading table. With everything ready this time, he had the rifle loaded in half the time. The enemy too, was ready. The new loader just picked up the ball and dropped it down the slightly elevated bore. The gunner checked the match glowing on his linstock and pushed it down on the touchhole. The gun fired, bucking up and rearward on its trail. The ball striking the side of the embrasure Phillips had fired from, whining into the enclosure, struck a stone splinter into the thigh of a native laborer. He was being carried to the surgeons as Phillips approached the newly scarred embrasure again. The gun crew had just finished swabbing out the bore, and a loader was approaching with a powder cartridge. Phillips took his rest and was ready when the loader began to stuff the bag down the barrel. His target, the broad back of the loader, was stationary for the second it took to squeeze off another round. Phillips had adjusted his shot so that it should have drilled through the center of the man’s back, but the gun was not perfectly accurate, and probably the rifleman’s aim and hold was not actually sure.

  This bullet drilled through the man’s left scapula and into the lung underneath. He would be dead by morning. The duel continued for three more exchanges. The gun wounded a pair of sailors, but Phillips struck two more gunners, with a close miss on another. When he bounced a bullet down the exterior barrel of the gun to ruin the eye socket of the gun aimer, that crew decided to call it off. Leaving the gun in place, the remainder of the crew fled to safety. Soon after, two straining yokes of bullocks dragged a twelve pounder ship’s gun into position. Its second shot blew that little four pounder gun into pieces.

  The action still required Phillips to attend to his administrative duties, which he performed in a tiny alcove off the main court, seconded by Midshipman Lynch, with sometimes the assistance of Mister Onsley, also. One of them had found a leather worker in the remains of the bazaar, and commissioned the worker to make something for him to carry his pistols in, other than his belt. There was some language difficulty, and neither was certain he had got his message across to the worker. His men were concerned about Phillip’s habit of roaming the fort, with no other weapon than his sword, or possibly his rifle. Phillips tried to make a point of spending some time sniping every day, to encourage the others, and somehow his name had leaked to the enemy. By now, he had killed or wounded over twenty of the enemy, who responded by putting a price on his head.

  Lieutenant Harper of the Marines tried to dilute the blame by borrowing the weapon, and taking out some of the enemy himself. He tried some of his Marine NCO’s on the weapon also, but they had trained blindly on the Sea Pattern musket for years, and found it difficult to shoot accurately with a modern, delicate rifle. Nevertheless, Harper began making an impressive bag himself, but the enemy did not realize more than one man was firing at them with such accuracy.

  Lynch and Onsley were fearful an assassin would approach Captain Phillips and try to eliminate him. At least one lad, armed to the teeth tried to accompany him, but often Phillips assigned duties which prevented that. One day, the leather worker approached them with his products. He had made a pair of holsters, which were meant to be slung over the shoulder on a strap. When carried in that manner, the holstered weapon rode on the wearer’s hip. They presented the articles to Phillips with some trepidation, fearing he would just laugh them off and put them aside. He did not. After examining the painstaking workmanship, he donned them and dropped a pistol in each one. A belt came with the holsters that connected the pair, preventing much of the flopping one might expect. A cartridge box could be mounted on the belt, which would allow the wearer to have extra ammunition handy.

  Barely a week after receiving the gift, a turbaned man in a ragged cloak came by Phillip’s little alcove. The captain noticed when the man looked around, and put his hand on a pistol butt. When the man pulled a short sword from his cloak, Phillips pulled his weapon and fired, as did Lynch with the short musketoon he had ready. The attempted assassin dropped in his tracks.

  On closer inspection, it was revealed the body had blonde roots showing on his body hair. His hair had been expertly dyed, but apparently a few days ago. With few natural blonde men in the native population, the assumption was the French had somehow insinuated a man into the city, prepared to pass as a native.

  Days later, Phillips was at his accustomed place on the parapet, waiting for a target to show himself. He attempted much the same task every day. Harper, and the mids expostulated strongly. They were sure if he continued firing from the same position every day, the French would someday determine how to stop him. Phillips was reluctant to follow their advice. This position was convenient to his alcove, and besides, he could see no reason to defer to the enemy. There was no immediate target nearby, but off in the distance, a column of infantry were approaching their hutments, having completed a night on watch.
They were a good four hundred yards away, and far out of his comfort zone, but the troops were in enfilade, he had a good rest and an accurate rifle.

  As the double column of troops approached their quarters, Phillips aimed way over their heads, and fired. An instant later, a man near the rear of the formation dropped to the ground, severely wounded. Almost immediately, a masked battery of four pounder guns hidden in a ravine fired, almost simultaneously. While Phillips was the target, none of the balls hit him. One did knock some impressive fragments from a stone wall nearby, and one of those did hit the naval officer. A piece of stone had impacted his left upper arm, and the shock had dropped him to the ground. A dozen men came forward, surrounding him, and inspecting the damage. The rock was protruding from the wound, and one pulled it out, freeing a gusher of blood. A tourniquet slowed that, and somebody fetched a surgeon for the now unconscious officer.

  A week later, Sir Sidney Smith visited and informed him that he was no longer likely to lose the limb. “You know, you were a damned fool going around potting French privates. You were lucky to get away with the wound you did. At any rate, with a wounded wing, you are no use to me here, so I am sending you home. I expect you may be intercepted on the way and compelled to give an account of the happenings here. I just ask that you give the unvarnished truth. You know what we need here.”

  “Now, what about Greyhound? Are you happy about your first officer taking over?”

  “Commodore Smith, Grenville is a most excellent officer, and with a little seasoning will make a fine commander. Here though, in combat, I wonder. I would prefer to see Captain Fessler brought back to Greyhound, with Grenville remaining as first officer a bit longer.”