by Alaric Bond
Some men found comfort in drink, drugs or religion, Dyson's need was more subtle and, as far as he knew, unique. He craved solitude. Only for a brief period; a few minutes alone, totally alone. A few minutes when he was certain not to be disturbed; a time that was his; a time to rest his body and mind totally. Afterwards he could return to work, and would be himself again. Or, if not himself, then at least the man that everyone expected him to be.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The two ship's cutters were proper sea going boats: twenty-five feet in length, clinker built with twin masts and lug sails. They were handier than both the stately barge and the long boat as well as easier and faster to launch as they hung from davits at the poop.
King looked over the equipment already stashed in his boat, before walking across to Pite who would command the second.
“Have your people prepare the sails but don't rig them or the masts. We'd rather Monsieur Crapaud remained ignorant of our plans.”
Pite nodded. “Shall I hook on to the fore or main chains, sir?”
King swallowed, it was only a couple of weeks back that they had been equal rank and friends, sharing the same berth.
“Fore, I'll take the main. And starboard side, mind.”
Only a fool would hook on to larboard, the windward side; it would be a more cumbersome manoeuvre, and more likely to be spotted by the enemy.
“Starboard side, aye, sir.”
There was just a trace of sarcasm in Pite's voice which King chose to ignore. Pite had never been in command, and gave no allowance for King having to make sure of every detail.
Corporal Jackson had already split his marines into two sections of six and divided them between the boats. The seamen followed and, after a nod from the captain, King also clambered aboard, and ordered the boats down.
Now the full motion of the sea could be felt. There was no doubt that heavier weather was on the way, and the small boats rolled drunkenly in the swell. Flint cast off the fall tackle, and clambered forward.
“Remember which boat you came in, and be sure to take the same one back.” King had to shout above the noise of the sea. He looked across to where Pite's cutter was leaving the lee of the ship. Pite was gripping the side of his boat looking very young and vulnerable in the tossing water.
Flint and another seaman were clearing away the masts, making them ready to step, while six more took oars and began guiding the boat towards the oncoming merchant ships. King felt his nausea returning; it was a sensation he had experienced before when going into action, only now it was entirely self inflicted. This was the first time he had instigated a plan. The first time he would see if an idea of his could be made to work. Men could be wounded, men could die; there was a strong likelihood of both. And were it not for him and his ideas, they would all be safe aboard Vigilant. He swallowed dryly and set his mouth firm as he watched the distance dwindle between him and the Hampshire Lass.
*****
Shepherd saw them go from the taffrail. The enemy were now about eight miles away, although he didn't think they would spot the cutters. Besides, even if they did there could be a hundred reasons why a warship should be sending boats to a merchant in these circumstances. Some particularly valuable item of cargo might have been called for, or he could be arranging to transfer important passengers. King's plan was deviously simple; he didn't think the French would guess it. And if they did, there was very little he could do now to change things.
He turned to Dyson, who had returned to the deck some minutes before and was standing a respectful distance from him.
“Mr Dyson.”
“Sir?”
“I think it is time to clear for action.”
Dyson touched his hat and set the procedure in motion that turned Vigilant into a ship of war and gave it purpose.
The marine drummer raised his sticks before beating out the stirring rhythm of Hearts of Oak. The boatswains' pipes trilled as each man hurried to his allotted task.
Aloft topmen rigged chains to reinforce the slings that supported the yards, while others roused out rolls of Sauve-Tete, the splinter netting that would catch some of the debris, or men, that might be shot down from above. More net was rigged from the yard arms to deter boarders and grappling irons were hauled up to the tops, where they could be used to lash the ship to any enemy who ventured too close.
Deal bulkheads were hinged up, and canvas screens broken down to free the gundecks of all obstructions. Wilson, the surgeon, donned his black smock, and broke out fresh supplies of bandages, sutures, turpentine and tincture of laudanum. His loblolly boys pushed the midshipmen's sea chests together to make operating tables and covered them with canvas. Sand was liberally sprinkled about the deck to maintain a sure grip for the gun crews, and render any spilt powder safe.
The cook's mates shovelled the galley fire into metal buckets which were emptied over the side, while their master approached the pigs, sheep and chickens that were penned forward in the manger. He had a small sharp knife in his hand, and murder on his mind.
Dampened “Fearnought” felt was placed about hatchways to prevent fiery debris falling below, and buckets of water laced with vinegar laid out to quench the men’s thirst. Cabin furniture was folded up and struck below, and ladders removed on certain hatchways to be replaced with scrambling nets.
Each gun captain lifted the lead apron that covered the breech of his gun, and checked his powder horn, quill, priming tubes and wire. The darkness of the lower deck was broken as the ports opened, and the great guns, already loaded, were run out. Servers went to the shot lockers, and assembled their load on the garlands that stood by each gun, while the boys checked the two charges of ready use powder that were kept in the salt box to the rear of each piece.
And all without a word or order. Only the rumbling drum and shrilling whistles gave them guidance and no more than a nod or a shake of the head was needed to carry out the well drilled routine. Even the fresh hands caught the tenor of the occasion, and fell to what work could be trusted to them with soundless efficiency. When it was finished, and the drumming ended with a stifled roll, the ship lay totally quiet, and heavy with expectation.
“Cleared for action, sir.” Dyson reported, consulting his watch. “And beaten our best time by two minutes.”
“Very good, Mr Dyson.”
“Beat to quarters, sir?”
Shepherd looked back at the cutters which had just reached the Hampshire Lass and were hooking on. The wind had risen slightly, and already some of the merchants had moved from their station. He shook his head. He could safely dismiss the watch below, although there was precious little comfort in a ship cleared for battle. Besides, waiting without activity could be demoralising, he decided it would be better to keep the ship active.
“No, I fancy a little sailing practice, Mr Dyson. And send the signal midshipman back to me; we can entertain our little fleet while Mr King does his work.”
*****
Matthew found he was missing Flint far more than he had expected. In the anticlimax that followed clearing for action he had time to consider his position. Soon there would be a battle, and he would be in the middle of it. Not something written down in a book or spoken about over the dying embers of a fire, but a proper fight; here, now and happening to him. His mouth was very dry, and he looked to the men who were chatting near to him in the hope of distraction and reassurance.
They were officially the watch below, and until the order to beat to quarters came, none had any proper station. Lewis was sitting in between two guns, his back resting against the internal oak spirketting of the ship as he read from a small book. Jake and some of the other lads had been detailed to plucking hens in the galley. With Flint gone, and Crehan, O'Conner and Jenkins off with the topmen, Lewis was the only man present that Matthew knew, and he longed for a chance to catch his eye. Lewis seemed more interested in his book, however and Matthew fidgeted awkwardly, while the other men chatted and laughed amongst themselves.
The shrill blast of the boatswain's pipes filled the lower deck, backed up by cries from the mates.
“Topmen aloft, starboard afterguard to the braces!”
Men began rushing to the companionways, encouraged by starters; short lines, generously knotted and used without restraint. Within thirty seconds half the men had disappeared, leaving the others momentarily silent.
“We'll be changing course.”
Matthew looked round to see that Lewis had emerged from his book, and was addressing him. He gratefully wandered over and settled himself against a gun carriage.
“Where are we off to, then?” he asked.
“Not to anywhere,” Lewis smiled. “Captain's just manoeuvring the ship. Probably getting into a better position.”
“What would be a better position?”
“At the end of a fleet of liners!” A man with vivid tattoos and a toothless smile butted in, and there was general laughter.
“A lot depends on where a ship lies in relation to the wind.” Lewis explained patiently, when the noise had died down. “Right now the enemy has the weather gauge, which means they are between us and the wind. That gives them control; we cannot escape without them running us down when they choose.”
“But if we were the stronger fleet?” Matthew asked.
“Then they could use the wind to try an' lose us, but I can't see much chance of that today.”
There was general silence as the other men around took this in.
“When we come to fight, they'll have the advantage again.” Lewis continued, as a crowd began to shuffle nearer to him. “A ship to windward can choose the moment to close with the enemy. Furthermore the wind will be bearing down on her masts, so that when she fires, the shot will tend to be low, and hit the other's hull. The leeward ship will be firing uphill as it were; unless she is careful to fire with the roll, her shots will mainly go high, and hit the spars.”
“Aye, an what about the smoke?” the tattooed man chipped in.
“That's another business,” Lewis agreed. “Windward means your smoke rolls away. Might obscure the target for a while, but better that than fogging the decks and blinding your gunners, like on a leeward ship.”
There was a series of groans from the ships timbers, and Vigilant began to lean onto the opposite tack.
“Mind, in strong wind a weather ship may be stuck with her lower ports half under, though it ain't blowing hard enough for that.”
Vigilant completed her turn and settled on the new course. The tattooed man leant towards the gunport and looked back.
“Merchants are in a hell of a state,” he said, without emotion.
“Is that what the captain's doing?” Matthew asked. “Getting us on to the weather gauge?”
Lewis smiled. “No, lad. Take more than a change of tack for that. We got to get past the French 'fore we can take the wind.”
“Ain't much chance o' that, neither!” the tattooed man added, and there was more laughter.
Matthew began to grow more despondent. The men around him were quite clearly mad. They were to face a fight that they would almost certainly lose, and yet they still laughed about it; there must be something missing, something he didn't know about. Again he wished that Flint had stayed with them; nothing could seem so bad with him about.
“You a scholar, lad?” Lewis asked. Matthew looked up.
“I know my numbers,” he said, hesitantly.
“Can you read?”
“Oh yes.” He caught the book that Lewis threw at him.
“You can test me on my buoys, I al'ays get 'em muddled.”
Matthew opened the book and studied the pages. There was no doubt that the atmosphere on the deck was lifting; from the stern came a sound of men humming Tom Bowling softly in unison, and the rattle of a dice showed where some bold hands were chancing a game of Crown and Anchor. It all made very little sense, and yet he found the mood reassuring, and with a smile that was almost philosophical he settled down to test a man who might shortly be dead for an examination he would probably never take.
*****
The crew of the Hampshire Lass stared openly at King as he clambered over the side and walked towards the small quarterdeck. A mate stood next to the wheel, and beyond him was what appeared to be the captain. Both were dressed in blue coats with black collars, the captain having also donned a pair of knee britches. Clearly they intended to see the end of their ship properly dressed.
“Good afternoon, sir,” the captain's greeting was equally formal. “Robert Newton, at your service. I don't believe I have had the pleasure.” He was a mature man, with skin that was lighter than most seafarers'. King accepted the proffered hand. It was soft. King gave his name, before taking a breath and continuing in a firm voice.
“Sir, I fear we have need of your vessel.” It was the best way, straight to the point. “As you are aware, there are enemy ships in pursuit, and we believe we can delay them.”
“You will do my ship harm, sir?”
King nodded. “That is inevitable.” Behind him he could hear the noise of the marines forming up and as he looked over the captain's shoulder at the French ships the urge for action became great.
“Your crew can remain here, or transfer to another merchant, or my ship,” he continued in a hurry. “They will be placed in safety, and not be pressed or asked to fight against their wishes.”
The captain nodded, and turned aside. Despite the need for haste, King felt a certain sympathy for the man. He had already decided that Newton must also be the vessel's owner, and guessed that any insurance he had would not cover these circumstances. Compensation might be paid by the government, but that would be a long time in coming.
“So be it.” he said finally. “Allow us to assemble a few belong-ings.”
King nodded and the captain left the mate to bellow at the crew, while he descended to his cabin for the last time.
The ship was armed with two four pounder guns. Fletcher had spotted these and was inspecting one gingerly, clearly not trusting any piece that was not Royal Ordinance. The weapons had reasonable carriages, and were positioned on either side of the quarterdeck.
“Any use, Fletcher?” King asked.
He looked up at the young officer. “Can't say, sir. Neither’s loaded, and this one's got rust up its barrel.”
“See what you can do. Robson, Douglas, Determan and Barnard help him. If you think they'll serve, move them both to the larboard side.” There was a port spare and a four pounder would be reasonably easy to move across the deck with enough man power. “Flint can captain the other gun when he's done with the cutters. The rest of you, to your stations.”
Men clambered about the unfamiliar ship, occasionally knocking into the departing crew, who had assembled their dunnage and were trying to launch the small boat that hung from the taffrail. Jackson had his marines sit down beneath the cover of the forecastle where their vivid uniforms would be best hidden. King walked back to the cutters. A single powder cask lay in the bottom of each, and the four men detailed were in the process of attaching lines, before parbuckling them up the side. Copley was standing near, a canvas bag containing slow match and flint swinging from his belt.
King turned to Pite, who appeared to have little to occupy him. “The cargo includes powder,” he said. “See if you can identify the casks, they should make a good home for that lot.”
“Aye, sir.” Pite nodded, and flashed a look at Copley who followed him across to the main hatch.
King watched as each body of men undertook the tasks they had either been allotted, or assumed. He looked about his command, the rising wind seemed to emphasise her frailty and size. Vigilant, thrashing through the water ahead of him, appeared safe, powerful and all too far away.
*****
Flint was the last to leave the cutter. Both boats had to be left with the masts lying loose in their keepers so that the first men back could step and rig them in a matter of seconds. Once the trap was set they would need to le
ave in a hurry. He was still thinking of this as he climbed up over the side, and found himself looking straight into the eyes of another seaman.
His feet touched the deck as the face registered in a distant part of his brain. Then, as the realisation came, he had to fight back the instinctive desire to embrace the older man. But there was no controlling the grin that spread across his mouth, nor the hand he thrust out in greeting.
“Dad, it’s me, John”
The older man looked at him in horror, and did not extend his hand. “John? What you doin’ here?”
Flint shrugged, “Same as you, I reckon’s. Gonna leave a nice surprise for the frogs.”
“Come on, Charlie, we’s off!” the mate shouted.
“Dad, it’s fine to see you; maybe we can meet up, after this is over, like?”
The older man scoffed, dismissively. “You mean in a French prison? Yeah, I’d like that.”
“Flint, if you don’t get a move on we’s goin’ without you!” Both men turned, but it was the older who was being addressed, and he moved to join the departing merchant crew.
“Hey wait, dad; you can stay with me.” Flint followed his father. “We’re gonna be heading back to Vigilant in no time. I’ll get you a berth, we can ship together – be like old times.”
His father turned back, a look of horror on his face that quickly gave way to something even more awful. It was an expression that Flint had never seen before, nor expected to see. His father appeared embarrassed, ashamed almost, and yes, there could be no denying it: he was afraid.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The wind was rising; King could see the cat's paws increase as they spread across the ocean; the air was coming alive, and blowing moist and strong. In the Hampshire Lass the deck heeled as a fresh gust hit them, thrusting her down as the sails grew taut and full. She was on the opposite tack to the other British ships, and had more canvas showing than was sensible. Still, they had wrung an extra two or three knots from the old tub, and King looked back at her wake with satisfaction. Beyond were the two French frigates that had broken off to pursue as soon as the Hampshire Lass had left the main convoy. It was all going as he had anticipated, although the cold feeling in his stomach almost made him wish it were otherwise.