His Majesty's Ship

by Alaric Bond

  “It is not widely known, but the flagship is carrying British consular staff bound for the Far East; it was made very clear to me that they should not be allowed to fall into French hands, and I feel this to be the best course to take to see that it does not happen.” At that moment his mind stupidly wandered; on the cabinet to one side he could actually see an invitation delivered by boat the previous evening, inviting him and some of his officers to dinner that night, and he felt a mild sensation of relief that he would not now have to attend. With an effort he brought himself back to the matter in hand. “With luck Taymar will make contact with other British ships that can come to our aid.” There was a brief pause. “In which case it is even more important that we detain the French for as long as we can, possibly even until nightfall.”

  A general murmur spread about the room. These men were professional officers, and knew the chances of help being found and arriving in time. Similarly, stretching out such a simple scenario as they were now presented with to last until dark would take some memorable manoeuvres.

  “That is all. I shall delay clearing for action until after dinner, so the people will have hot food inside them. Are there any questions?”

  Rogers raised his hand.

  “The French, sir. Are they from Brest?”

  The fact that Rogers should ask an unnecessary and unanswer-able question fulfilled all Shepherd's expectations of him. He swallowed, struggling to make something more from the answer. “Possibly, in fact it seems most likely. Either that or L'Orient. They could have dodged the blockade in the storm a week or so back.”

  Any ship which had cleared harbour would have headed south, even if they had planned to cross the Atlantic. It was just unfortunate that they had come upon the convoy, and doubly so that Shepherd had not sufficient force to meet them.

  Further murmurs spread throughout the room, and Shepherd thought he sensed a note of derision. It was generally held that Lord Howe, or Black Dick, as he was known, was not keeping a tight enough grip on things in the Channel Fleet.

  “Admiral Howe, as you know, is not at sea at the moment; Admiral Bridport has charge until he returns. I think we all realise that both hold similar views when it comes to enforcing a tight blockade.” At sixty-eight Bridport was very much in the Howe mould and a less spirited man than his brother, Samuel Hood, whom Shepherd knew well and respected greatly, although it would not do to say as much in public. “Besides, if the squadron has come from Brest, it could be to our advantage.” There was silence, as he held their attention. “It would mean the enemy had only been at sea for few days. I think you all know the state of the French Navy; two days is not long enough to produce sailors.” It was a small point, but a valid one. French ships were well regarded for their fine lines, but the men sent to sail in them were certainly inferior. The revolution that had sprung up only a few years before had seen the departure of many skilled officers who also happened to be nobility, and even the Corps d'Artillerie de la Marine, the French system of seamen gunners that had proved successful in previous wars, had been abolished in the general drive against élitism. However Shepherd knew that if all four ships were entirely manned by seasick soldiers it could not discount the advantage that fire power and sheer numbers would give them.

  “If there is nothing else, we will dismiss.” The tone of his voice forbade further questions, and the group broke up in silence.

  “Mr Timothy.”

  “Sir?” Timothy turned and faced his captain.

  “Be so good as to acquaint Mr Tait with the situation.”

  “Sir!”

  Timothy and Tait were friends; it would do no harm to discipline for the junior to inform his senior. Besides, the captain had made a promise to Tait; remembering and honouring such things was the mark of a good officer.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  On the quarterdeck Captain Shepherd and Lieutenant Dyson stood in silence. As he had predicted, the commodore had readily accepted Shepherd's directions, and even now the East India Company contingent, complete with diplomats, wives and attendants, were pulling ahead of their slower counterparts and making an easterly heading which should lead them to the French coast at Rochefort and, ironically, safety. The British blockading squadron stationed there would provide escorts to take them as far as Gibraltar.

  Shepherd did not know who would be in charge, possibly Harvey, who had set out a few weeks before. Fresh forces could then be sent to look for the enemy squadron and the remains of the convoy. With the wind as it was the faster ships should be out of sight by the time the French squadron reached Vigilant and her charges, and it would be up to him to see that they remained so. Shepherd stared at the enemy again. They were holding their original course, which meant that either they had not registered the convoy splitting or were content with snapping up his ship, and the stragglers. It was strange how he felt a measure of relief in knowing that the enemy was making straight for him.

  It was four bells in the forenoon watch: ten o'clock. Dinner would be served at twelve, which meant they would have ample time to clear for action and beat to quarters by one thirty; about an hour before Shepherd predicted they would be in range of the enemy. The wind had been holding at the same strength and direction for over fifty minutes, although the ship had started a shallow, choppy roll, which meant that there was an increase due, or a change hereabouts. Either would alter his estimations; a strengthening wind would affect the enemy first, allowing an increase in speed, whereas a localised squall may slow him down, giving them the same advantage. Of course if the squall were big enough, a storm like the one they had recently passed through, it might make matters very different. Shepherd's estimation of the quality of French seamanship was based on fact. Both England and France relied heavily on pressed men to crew their ships, and both were reasonably adept at turning such recruits into competent hands. But to do this needed sea going experience, and here the French Navy, spending much time in harbour, was at a definite disadvantage. Added to this the English press had access to men who knew the sea. These were usually from merchant ships, often taken from homeward bound convoys. They might not be trained fighters but their seagoing experience placed them far above the average landsman. The French merchant force was far smaller, and its men less experienced. Shepherd was reasonably sure that Vigilant would fare better in foul weather than any Frenchman fresh out of port.

  “They're keeping together, sir” said Dyson, echoing Shepherd's earlier thoughts. “It appears that they don't intend taking the others.”

  Shepherd nodded, that was good; although it did make their own capture more likely.

  “When I was a midshipman, the French held me for two years.” Dyson continued, almost absent-mindedly.

  The captain turned to look at his first lieutenant. It was relatively rare for Dyson to volunteer any information about himself. Shepherd supposed the impending action had loosened his tongue.

  “I was not aware of that.” he said, hoping to coax more. “How was it?”

  Dyson's face was blank. “Frustrating.” He said. It was about the only emotion Shepherd had heard him admit to.

  The captain smiled, “You have my word; I will try to avoid it a second time.”

  Dyson was nettled. He moved across to the binnacle and picked up the traverse board to hide his anger, before realising that the remark was meant as light. After all, a joke proffered by a captain did not have to be riotously funny. He glanced at the traverse board, the rough slate that kept record of the ship's last few hours before being copied out into the log. For the hundredth time he reminded himself that he was completely without social skills; in a perfect world he should not be allowed in company with others.

  “What speed, Mr Dyson?” asked the captain.

  “We're currently averaging three and a half knots, sir.”

  Both men looked up to the sails; the wind had increased slightly, and there was plenty of power available, if only they were allowed to use it.

  “What do you
think she'd do?” The captain had sensed that he had hurt Dyson's feelings, and was trying to make amends, however unintentional his offence.

  “Probably double that, sir, if we were on our own.”

  Shepherd nodded. If they were on their own they may well avoid the French altogether. As a sixty-four Vigilant was different from the normal ship-of-the-line. Captains either swore at them, or prayed for them, and Shepherd was one of the latter. He believed, indeed he had proved on occasions, that Vigilant could match or out sail most of her larger cousins. Of course her broadside was that much lighter; the thirty-two pound gun of the seventy-four was undoubtedly a far superior weapon, although one that took longer to load. In the captain's eyes the rapid fire of twenty-four pounders made up for the weight of slower, heavier, broadsides.

  That extra weight would also make the enemy's line ships less handy, even taking into account the sleek designs of French built vessels. If Vigilant was alone he could probably play a pretty game, possibly to the extent of luring them into the guns of the Channel Fleet, provided they were stupid enough.

  “And the French, what speed?”

  “Reckon they'll be making seven, sir, maybe more.” That was over doing things a little, although Shepherd did not contradict his junior. He would not have expected them to see anything past six, which meant they were being overhauled at roughly three nautical miles an hour.

  The motion was increasing; both men could feel the ship as she butted into the deeper swell. There was no sign of a squall on the horizon, although the outline of the pursuing ships was a little less distinct, despite the lessening distance between them. Shepherd sniffed the breeze, which was dry and lifeless; the storm, if there was to be one, would not be from that angle.

  “I think we might give our merchant friends some exercise,” he said, smiling at Dyson.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Let's start by getting them to show more canvas, and then set them into a “V” formation: en echelon.”

  Dyson felt that something more was called for from him, and that this was one of the occasions when he should discuss matters with his captain. “They'll be less easy to control then, sir. At least when they are in a tight body we can signal to them as one.”

  “Yes, but spreading them now will use what wind there is to the greatest advantage. Ideally I’d like the enemy separated as much as possible. When the French close, our merchant friends are bound to scatter and with luck the enemy will be forced to divide. I'd wager Vigilant is faster in stays that any of their line ships; what say we run amuck between them before they account for us?”

  Dyson nodded, pleased with the prospect of selling his ship dear. “We may give them a few surprises, sir.”

  The captain continued in a quieter voice. “In a ship to ship I feel we could take at least one Frenchman with us and it would all be over in an hour. I intend to damage three or possibly four. The action will take longer with a butcher's bill to match, and we probably won't actually destroy a ship.”

  “There's a chance that help will come through.”

  Shepherd smiled. “We'll have to string it out a long time for that, but at least Admiral Howe will know where to look, and the French won't be so able to run. If we can keep them away from the commodore’s ship for now, then damage them enough to slow at least some of them down, I will be more than happy.”

  It made sense; taking one from their number and leaving the others relatively unharmed might reduce the enemy’s strength, but the rest would be free to reach their destination without delay. If Shepherd’s plan was successful the entire force would remain intact, but delayed to the extent that their eventual destruction became inevitable. However, both men were aware how the Admiralty, and other officers, might interpret their actions. No one would expect much with the odds as they were, but to go down without taking another ship as well might be judged disappoint-ing; little value would be placed on partially disabling more ships, even if they were captured later. Some would understand their motives, but others, and the British press and public come to that, would be quick to damn their sacrifice—and some would call them cowards.

  *****

  Throughout the ship men began to prepare for battle, spreading stories and opinions about the French ships as they went. The surgeon and his assistants started to move instruments and supplies from the sick berth down to the midshipmen's quarters on the orlop. A methodical man, who knew a little medicine and a lot of surgery, Wilson laid out and inspected his tools at leisure, while his loblolly boys checked needles and horsehair, gags, turpentine, and tow needed for the inevitable operations. An empty barrel was procured for the “legs and wings” that the surgeon would discard, and canvas piled in readiness to cover the decks when the order was given to clear for action. In addition, bandages and tourniquets were parcelled up to be left at strategic points throughout the ship, where they could be used for first aid. A good supply of rum was also raised and brought down to the makeshift operating theatre. This would be used when the work was hottest, to calm the waiting injured and, all too frequently, Wilson and his helpers.

  On the main deck, just under the forecastle, the cook watched as his mates stoked up the galley fire, while stewards emptied the day's meat rations out of the steep tub, and checked their lead tags. In a gesture of rash generosity he laid out several pots of slush; the fat skimmed from the boiling coppers of meat, and normally sold to the men to spread on their biscuit. The cook was a veteran of the First Battle of Finisterre, and knew well how easily the men's mouths would dry, even without the smoke and fumes of action. He also authorised an extra ration of one lemon per man. There were no oranges, or any other soft fruit to issue, but a dessert of slush covered biscuits might make the men more comfortable for a time, and the bite of a lemon would clear a fighting man's mouth. He might be losing money on the slush, but he was reasonably certain of being around to make it up later. The cook would see out the action in the grand magazine, ironically a place of relative safety; if death should meet him there he would not go alone.

  The carpenter and his crew piled wooden bungs, nails and lead sheets in the wings, the narrow corridors that ran along the side of the ship, level with the waterline. The gunner checked his supply of cartridges, and watched while his mates set to sewing more. The boatswain routed out the spare cable, ropes and line that would be needed to keep the ship under command, trying to anticipate the master, who would be bound to call for a certain brace or shroud to be replaced or reinforced before action. The work was carried out with few words of command; the men fell to their tasks naturally before the call to clear for action took them to the next state of readiness.

  But one man had nothing to do, and no one, apparently, had need of him. His station in action would be with the wounded, where he would make the men as comfortable as possible, both physically and spiritually, while trying not to get in anyone's way. In the dubious privacy of his tiny cabin he clenched the bible his father had given to him, staring at the well thumbed pages with only the vaguest pretence of reading, while inwardly his body trembled.

  The Reverend William Bryant knew his duty, and it was a hard one. At best he was accepted by the officers, at worst he was despised by the men. Men who begrudged him their groat; the four pence a month they had to contribute towards his wages. Men who openly mocked him, taunted him, and ridiculed his faith, while the God fearing amongst them despised his weakness in accepting the abuse.

  He had thought it was faith that kept him sane through the last few months, and faith that prevented him from resigning during their recent stay at Portsmouth. In the half light Bryant decided that even his father would have understood, and may even have arranged a safe little parish for him within his own diocese. In his cramped cabin Bryant had time to consider this and, almost for the first time, his life and the mess he had made of it. He knew that to be proud was sinful, but when pride was removed from his faith, there was very little left.

  *****

  “Of cou
rse, they might not fight.” It was a bold statement, and instantly the other officers gave Gregory, fourth in seniority but more experienced than any other lieutenant present, their entire attention.

  “Not fight?” asked Rogers. “Why the devil shouldn't they?”

  Gregory closed his journal and sat back in his chair. The wardroom was unusually crowded, and he felt the need to stretch his legs.

  “We don't know where they're heading. It could be the Med., it could be America, or the 'Indies for that matter. And we don't know what they intend to do. If their senior officer has orders to meet up with another squadron, he's not going to be thanked for wasting time plundering a convoy.”

  The others digested this for a moment before Carling, the captain of marines, spoke.

  “But if they were bound for America or the 'Indies, wouldn't they be halfway across the Atlantic by now?”

  Rogers snorted into his wine with disdain and went to speak, although Gregory, calmly shaking his head, got in first.

  “South to twenty degrees, that's the usual way. Past the Canaries, then pick up the Westerlies and let them carry you across. There they could shelter to wait for others; the French have used that trick afore to assemble a fleet. That is if there aren't other ships already awaitin' them”

  Rogers felt unreasonably annoyed by the older man's confidence and as his anger grew he became scathing; the next stage before denouncement and straight forward abuse. “You're not trying to tell me,” he said, reaching for the black bottle once more, “that a squadron of warships is going to sight a poorly protected convoy, and just pass it by?”