His Majesty's Ship

by Alaric Bond

  Pite stood next to him on the tiny quarterdeck, his hands firmly wedged behind his back as he closed his mind to the dangers about him. At any moment he expected a spar to snap or a stay to part, leaving them dead in the water, a rich treat for the French to enjoy at their leisure. And even if that did not happen the frigates were gaining fast, and would be up to them within the hour. At any time now there would be the opening shots, and King would put his idiotic plan into action.

  A seaman approached, knuckling his forehead.

  “Cutters secure, sir.” It was Copley, the man King had entrust-ed with the incendiaries. “They're taking a bit of a pounding, but nothing a lick of paint won't sort out later.”

  “Very good.” King remained unmoved, trying to assume the poise of an untroubled man, and fooling everyone but himself. To his left Fletcher and the others had rigged both guns to fire to larboard; the side, King guessed, from which the French would approach. If he was wrong it would mean the effective waste of both weapons, although he had boarded the merchant unaware that she was in any way armed. He tried to justify his actions, both in the short term, with the guns and the long, in planning the adventure, while struggling to stop the nervous fidgeting that was so eager to take him over.

  Both guns were loaded with round shot; there had been no canister to hand, although Corporal Jackson had produced a store of musket balls that had been added to the charges for good measure.

  “Not long now.”

  Pite gave him a tight smile. King could tell his nerves were stretched to breaking point. On two occasions he had noticed the midshipman staring at the French with an expression rich with fascination, and he guessed he would have given anything for the action to begin. This was the same lad who had fought so well on the streets of Toulon, who ventured into the hold when the ship was thought to have sprung, who could be trusted to rouse his men to lead or fight off boarders, but whose raw courage could not stand the long drawn out wait for a superior enemy to attack.

  “Better take a look at the cutters,” King said, more out of sympathy than doubt. “Just to be sure.”

  Pite made his way forward, passing the groups of squatting seamen who were, as ordered, keeping out of sight as much as possible. From watching Pite, King's gaze naturally fell on Vigilant, now several miles away. For the past hour she had been leading the merchants a merry dance, changing course by a point or two every twenty minutes. The exercise must have caused no end of consternation to the civilian captains who, by nature, would tack or wear as infrequently as possible. Shepherd was discarding valuable time with each exercise as even small alterations allowed the enemy to close that much sooner. But then there was no doubt that the ships were responding with more speed and fluency, even after such a brief practice. If Shepherd had plans to manoeuvre the fleet later, the time would have been well spent.

  King had ignored all the signals, being only intent on getting Hampshire Lass as far away from the convoy as possible. His behaviour would be accepted by the enemy; indeed it was quite common for ships to strike out alone when chased en masse. It might even have been a feasible bid for freedom, especially as a good proportion of the convoy had escaped only that morning. The French commander could well have considered a single merchant unworthy of a chase, instead of despatching his frigates to deal with them and any that might follow.

  The shot passed overhead, missing him by a good twelve feet. Despite this, King instinctively ducked, before looking back at the ship responsible.

  A wisp of smoke was fast disappearing from the bows of the nearest frigate, and shortly afterwards a dull boom told him that he was not mistaken and the enemy had opened fire. It was the first shot of the battle, and it had passed overhead, not a cable or two short, showing that the captain was neither excitable, nor an amateur. King quickly assessed the calibre of his opponents, and hoped that Shepherd had also noticed.

  “Splice that backstay there!” yelled Pite turning back to the quarterdeck.

  “Belay that!” King waved a seaman away. The sight of well trained seamen repairing damage might be all the warning the French needed. “And take cover, all of you!”

  The men who had risen instinctively to the clarion call of the shot, slunk back, reluctantly taking shelter behind the brig’s scant timbers as another shot pitched close alongside and short.

  Pite rejoined King, “I beg your pardon. I didn’t think.”

  “All right, I felt the same myself.” King allowed him a smile. “We're going to have to put up with it a while longer. Just pray we don't lose anything vital.” Pite nodded stiffly, his face set with tension and anxiety. “And don't worry,” King continued in a softer tone. “It'll be over in time.”

  *****

  Flint was stationed next to Fletcher at one of the guns. The weapon appeared ludicrously small compared with the twenty-four pounders in Vigilant, and as he blew on the glowing end of the slow match, he wondered what use it would be. In the scupper beside him were his pistol and cutlass. The former was a clumsy affair; heavy and without sights. Sea service pistols were at best unreliable, the pan frequently needing re-priming, and even then the conditions they were used in meant that there was a likely chance of a misfire. Used properly they could be effective; fired in a volley at a crowd when boarding the weapon even carried an element of terror that might knock the stuffing out of a hesitant opposition. It also made an excellent club afterwards. The cutlass was another matter, and a far more efficient killing tool. Well, though crudely made, it would hold a good edge, while being heavy enough to take considerable punishment without breaking.

  The severed backstay had caused the mainmast to creak ominously, adding to the tension that Flint felt building about him. He glanced at Fletcher, who grinned nervously back. Normally that would have been enough to dissolve his own fear and boost him up above common men, with their natural and healthy dread of battle. Flint had always told himself he was different; built of sterner stuff: one with a pedigree of bravery that had to be lived up to.

  But now the trick would not work. He had finally found his father; less than two hours ago their eyes had met and he had spoken with him, before the older man turned away. Turned away because he was scared, either of the oncoming action or being spotted as the deserter he undoubtedly was. Whichever, the fact of his fear pierced the illusion that Flint had built about him. The brave young man who had inspired him in the past was suddenly revealed as old, vulnerable and frightened. Consequently Flint was now experiencing the various stages of fear, and finding the interminable pause before action as hard to take as any man on board.

  The frigate fired once more, another of the shots that had been punctuating the time every ninety seconds or so for the last half hour. But this one caused more damage, hitting them somewhere low on the stern, making a loud splintering noise, and sending a shockwave jarring throughout the small craft.

  “Can't hold her, sir!” The helmsman spun the wheel helplessly as the ship fell away.

  “God, they've taken the rudder,” Pite yelled, his voice slightly higher than normal. King accepted the information without visible emotion, although inside his mind began to race. That was an end to it, an end to his bold plans of destroying a frigate. An end to the worry of how close he could go, and almost an end to the responsibility he held for endangering men's lives. He felt a mixture of relief and exasperation roll over him as he tried to clear his mind to think. “Stand by, but keep your cover until I tell you.” They were losing speed fast and beginning to wallow on the choppy seas. There could be no point in closing further when the ship was unmanageable; indeed, they should think about leaving without delay.

  Flint looked about and saw the other frigate coming up on their starboard counter. They would be bound to notice the cutters, and may well smell a rat. He looked across to the ship on the larboard side. She was heaving to, and lay about three cables off. It was good enough range for a considered broadside, although there was some other activity taking place. Then Flint noticed
a boat being swung out. He lowered his head, leaning against the gun carriage beside him as he suppressed the desire to urinate. Fletcher was to his left, crouching by the breach of his gun, he had the quoin ready to lay his gun when the order was given.

  “You keep that match alight, Flint!” he whispered under his breath. “Don't want no misfires now!”

  Flint blew on the match which had indeed died to no more than a glimmer. He was losing his grip, for the first time since the action with the revenue cutter his imagination was running free, and he knew his hands were shaking. He closed his eyes, willing the time to pass. In an effort to calm himself, he bobbed above the bulwark once more to see what was about. The boat, a cutter slightly smaller than their own, was in the water and setting off for them under oars alone.

  “Depress your guns,” King ordered. Whatever the need to run, there was no point in leaving just yet; especially as the French boat would be bound to give chase. Better string it out a little longer in the hope that they could at least disable the enemy cutter. “Hold fire until I tell you.”

  Fletcher pressed the wedge shaped wooden quoin under the breach of the gun, and easily lowered the muzzle to the maximum extent.

  “Try doing that with a twenty-four,” Flint said, determined to keep up an illusion of bravery in front of the other men, as he pressed his own quoin home. A couple laughed, but the rest were too nervous to notice. Again this would normally have bolstered him, but now he only felt a strange camaraderie. The cutter was making good progress. It was crewed with twelve seamen, with four uniformed soldiers and what looked like an officer in the stern. More than enough to overwhelm the crew of a merchant, but nothing like what it would take to tackle them. The Hampshire Lass was wallowing in the swell, her sails flapping impudently in the strengthening wind, an open invitation.

  “Marines form up.” King spoke softly, as if frightened of being overheard. The line of red uniforms took position, kneeling along the side.

  “Two groups,” whispered Jackson. “One to six take aim and fire on my one, seven to twelve wait for my two.” It was the best way of making sure that the same target was not chosen by too many. The second volley would be aimed at those left standing after the first.

  The cutter was close now, less than forty yards, it was time.

  “Fire as you will!” King's voice cracked as the order was given.

  Flint jumped up and sighted along the gun's crude barrel. He held his hand out to the right, while clutching at his match. Two men eased the gun over until Flint's hand went down, then stepping to one side, he plunged the match into the powder at the touchhole.

  The gun discharged almost simultaneously with Fletcher's, and one scored a direct hit, although it was impossible to say which. On the cutter three men fell from their oars and one screamed out in pain or surprise. For a moment the boat's crew stopped and stupidly looked about them, as if wondering where the shots had come from. Then the cutter began to settle as it took in water.

  The marines stood up in a rigid line and levelled their muskets.

  “One!” bellowed Jackson. The first six shots rang out in a single note, and threw the boat into total disarray. Two more slumped at their oars, and a soldier in the process of aiming his carbine rolled into the sea. The Frenchmen had begun turning the boat clumsily and were clearly attempting to pull out of danger when Jackson spoke again and the second volley hit them.

  Flint swallowed dryly. He had hoped to feel better as soon as there was some action, although as he reached for his pistol his hand was still shaking. He fired once in the general direction of the boat. The gun cracked loudly and dropped from his hand and he had an almost uncontrollable desire to run or hide.

  Shots were coming from the frigate again now, and a heavy ball crashed through the light scantlings of the merchant.

  “Time to go, lads!” King yelled. “Flint and Fletcher, rig the cutters, Pite, stand to your boat, I'm going below, come on, Copley.”

  The order came just in time and, abandoning his cutlass, Flint ran headlong for the side and vaulted over. He tumbled clumsily into his cutter and lay in the relative safety of the boat for several seconds, taking fast and shallow gasps of air while he wondered if he would ever find the ability to move again.

  Meanwhile King and Copley had dropped down the main hatch, as more shots swept across the deck. In the murky depths they picked out the powder charges that were lying in readiness. The explosion would not be as devastating as he had intended, indeed King doubted if it would do any good whatsoever. But he had come to destroy the ship, destroy her in the age old way; the way of Drake when he sent his brûlots to singe the King of Spain's beard, and there was still a chance he could take a few Frenchmen with him. The yard of slow match would burn at just over an hour to the foot, but King had no intention of allowing anything like that amount of time. Copley struck his flint and blew on the tinder to encourage a flame.

  “There!” shouted King, pointing to a spot about two inches from the charge. Copley pressed the flame to the match and paused to see it burn.

  “That'll do, come on!”

  In the brief time they had been below much had happened. The French cutter was now filled with dead and injured, and barely afloat in between them and the larboard frigate. Its presence had prevented the ship from firing a broadside, but the frigate on the starboard quarter was coming up fast, and would have no such inhibitions.

  “All right, Jackson, fall back!”

  The red and white line broke as the men made for the boats, Copley and King followed them, joining Pite who was by now the only other member of the deck party left.

  The marines split into two groups and clambered into the boats. The masts were raised and ready with sails loose. King jumped, scrabbling amongst the confusion of the cutter. He looked up, Pite was safe in the other boat, and Copley was about to board his.

  “Cast off!” King's voice was no more than a squeal as Copley loosened the painter and a seaman pressed the hull of the ship with his oar. The sails ran up the masts, and were just filling when it happened.

  With a rumble like rocks tumbling down a hillside the first shots of the broadside hit the hull of the merchant ship just above them. Every man dropped instinctively to the bottom of his boat as carnage and destruction rained about. King felt a splinter rip into his chest, followed by a stream of warmth that soaked his shirt. Pite's cutter was hit and one of the masts fell across them, adding to the confusion. Copley, who had been caught mid-flight as he jumped into the boat, was screaming and holding his leg, where his foot hung as if from a string. King could see Pite as he gazed up from the water, floating on his back with an amazed expression on his dead face. From somewhere above a loud crash told the end of the merchant's main topmast, and blocks, tackle and lengths of line rained about them in a murderous tangle as the yards fell to the ship's deck. King held a hand to his wound and glanced over at Vigilant sailing safe and strong and so far away.

  *****

  From his position at Vigilant’s taffrail Shepherd could see it all quite clearly. The second French frigate had been several cable lengths off when she turned to present her broadside to King's party. Many of the shots went wild, as might be expected of a ship firing at long range, but enough had fallen amongst the cutters to do the business.

  Dyson stood next to him, and both men surveyed the scene through their glasses. Pite's boat appeared to have sunk and the water all about foamed with the arms of struggling men.

  “Looks bad, sir.” Dyson muttered. The scheme had been hazardous from the start, but that had in no way lessened the feasibility in his mind. If plans were rejected purely because they were dangerous, there would be little point in venturing out of harbour.

  Then King appeared to have taken control and the small boat started to pull away.

  “She's swimming low!” Shepherd commented. It was true, the cutter's gunwales were barely inches above the heavy waves, as the sails filled and the men began to row.

 
“They may have holed her or she could be carrying survivors.” Shepherd nodded, although there would have been precious little time in which to collect many of Pite's men. The French frigate was staying hove to, clearly intending to send another broadside shortly. Shepherd brought out his watch, a crack British ship would be at least ninety seconds reloading; he hoped the French would take longer.

  Tait was also surveying the scene. Standing near to the other two officers, he was not officially on watch, and had no glass of his own. The night glass, which gave a clearer sight by removing one of the prisms, was free; and on an image that was upside down and back to front he watched his shipmates fight for their lives.

  Crehan had no glass, but perched in the mizzen top he could see the general situation, and Mason, a midshipman of wealthy means, was giving a running commentary to the men who crowded the top as he gazed through his own handsome five element Dollond.

  “They're pulling clear, and someone's hoisting another sail. Yes, it's taken; they'll make good speed now!”

  “Any sign of Copley?” Pamplin's anxious voice this time. He thought he had caught a glimpse of his companion as he fell from the side of the merchant ship.

  “Can you not stand to be apart from him for a moment?” Crehan had no time for such friendships.

  “I can't see him particular,” said the midshipman, as he peered through his glass. “But they're making better progress now.”

  “Only the Frenchie's gonna fire presently,” Crehan muttered. For him the French held a special fascination. Morally they were his ally rather than enemy, and it was not lost on him that those very ships might be bound for the Americas.