His Majesty's Ship

by Alaric Bond

  On one hand Crehan felt entirely justified in taking his revenge; there was no doubt that the lad had broken a cardinal, if unwritten, rule in peaching on him. But however deserved, Crehan's retaliation had all but killed the child, something that was equally against his principles. Throughout his time on the punishment deck, and in quiet moments ever since, he had tried to absolve his conscience with reasoned arguments and explanations. A good deal of unspoken regret still remained however, and as he took up his station at the foretop masthead it was with all the solemnity of a repentant serving atonement. The French were not his enemy, and yet an inner voice told him that to fight this battle for the British would be one way of absolving the guilt that plagued him. He glanced across to Kapitan at the maintop and exchanged a wave with the forecastle lookout below. The sun was still quite warm. It shone on his back, which was mending well under the fresh bandages. He curled his leg about the topgallant mast and drew a deep sigh. Then, for the first time in ages, he began to whistle very softly.

  Gregory and Tait paced the upper gundeck, ignoring the midshipmen who whispered nervously while Carling stood in cool contemplation, an example to his men and a credit to the bright red uniform that would make such a tempting target. On the forecastle the boatswain and two mates stood ready to protect their beloved rigging, while the quartermaster and four men were at the helm.

  Also on the quarterdeck, the captain stood between Dyson and Humble, with Lindsay the captain's clerk, and a master's mate. Two midshipmen were positioned close by as aides-de-camp, ready to run messages or take the place of fallen men. And all of them, from the captain of the heads upwards, waited while the afternoon sun shone down, and the wind took them closer to the enemy.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “Mr Humble, we will tack in approximately one minute.” Shepherd consulted his silver watch as if for confirmation. Dyson stood motionless beside the captain. They were hardly a mile from the frigates now, and he was surprised that the enemy had held back for so long. Clearly they were waiting for Vigilant to enter the crossfire area, but it was unlike the French to play such a cool hand. Both could turn and bring their broadsides to bear, and the temptation to do so must be great. Of course that would naturally force Vigilant round to meet the threat, and any hope of a simultaneous attack from both sides would then be forgotten.

  “They appear to be saving their first broadside, Mr Dyson.” The captain was mirroring his thoughts, although there was no longer any great surprise in that. “Belike they don't trust their-selves to load quickly,” he added. Yes, that was a point he had not considered. And a slow loading crew usually meant an inefficient one. Dyson drew private comfort from the thought, although his face remained cool and impassive.

  Shepherd caught the master's eye. “Very good, Mr Humble.” Humble leant back and bellowed.

  “Hands to tack! Put the helm down! Let go and haul!”

  The forecastle party let loose the headsail sheets and the afterguard began to pull back on the braces. There was a series of loud cracks as the sails flapped and the ship heeled slightly while the helmsmen spun the wheel, turning Vigilant through the wind and onto the starboard tack.

  “You may open fire when you are ready, Mr Dyson.”

  Dyson touched his hat with due solemnity before stepping forward and peering at the image of the frigate as it passed through the starboard shrouds. He raised his speaking trumpet.

  “Starboard batteries, on my word!” Vigilant had finished the turn now, and was running straight. He gave it a little longer. The gun captains would have to sight their target, and he wanted the ship to gain as much momentum as possible to give their next move a good chance of succeeding.

  “Fire!”

  On the lower starboard battery Flint plunged his right fist into his left hand, and after a barely perceivable delay, the gun spoke, simultaneously leaping back against the breaching line. Standing at his post mid-deck and almost behind the gun, Matthew felt a instant, savage pain in both ears, and heard little of the other guns as they fired.

  On the upper deck the smoke was already rolling back into the eyes of the crew as each moved to service their gun as soon as it was still. Tait, standing at the starboard shrouds, climbed above the fog to get a view of the enemy. His tall frame put him over the haze and he saw the broadside strike. The frigate almost staggered as the rain of iron peppered her masts, forcing her to roll back, even against the pressure of the wind. Then the fore topmast leaned suddenly and, as he held his breath in hope, he saw it fall away, taking spars and sails with it and dragging the main topgallant mast down to hang at a drunken angle. He turned round in excitement looking for someone with which to share the success but met only intense activity and a stream of orders from Gregory, Humble and Dyson.

  “Starboard batteries, reload with chain!”

  “All hands wear ship!”

  “Larboard batteries prepare to open fire!”

  It was asking a lot of Vigilant and her crew to loose off one broadside, reload those guns, take her on to the opposite tack, and stand ready to fire the guns on the other side of the ship. The men almost forgot the presence of the enemy in their haste to finish each job before the other began.

  On the lower gundeck they had slightly more time, as men would only be taken from their guns if the ship needed to alter sail. Rogers stood in silence, apparently watching the work about him, while Timothy, his hand resting on the hilt of his hanger, bellowed to the men as they flew about the deck, securing the starboard guns, and making the larboard ready to fire.

  Vigilant began to turn once more. On the quarterdeck Shepherd surveyed the damage he had caused. The sudden turn to larboard had fooled the French as he hoped it would, but what he had not anticipated was the fallen topmast. The wreckage from this was now acting as a sea anchor, holding the frigate's bows still and allowing her stern to swing round. The Frenchman's broadside would soon be pointing directly at Vigilant as he was forced to wear ship, exposing her vulnerable stern in the very teeth of it. In a well trained ship the enemy may even spot Vigilant begin to make her move, and delay firing until they could take full advantage. The broadside of a heavy frigate could cause serious damage to a line-of-battle ship if it raked her hull. Shepherd swallowed dryly as the ship swung onto the opposite tack.

  From his position at the foretop masthead Crehan had the least of all to do. He stared down at the French ships while the rest of the crew were busy below him. The frigate was damaged and could be discounted as far as further voluntary movement was concerned until the wreckage was cut away. But she could still fight; indeed, apart from a couple of her forward broadside guns that were draped with debris, her fire power was unaffected. Crehan shuffled slightly, only too aware of his position should Vigilant suffer a similar fate to her own foremast.

  Something drew his attention, and brought him back to the matter in hand. Across the water there had been a change in the French line-of-battle ships. He looked up and over to Kapitan, at the main masthead. The man raised a hand in acknowledgement.

  “Deck there! Enemy liners are altering course. Steering east to intercept!”

  Shepherd smiled grimly to himself. He should have guessed that the French would not allow odds of two to one, when they could be raised still further in their favour. The other ships would not be on him for another twenty minutes however, there was more than enough time to do what was necessary.

  The rush of a shot took them all by surprise as it passed close amongst the command group. Dyson swore as he pitched headlong onto the deck and Shepherd staggered, for a moment completely disoriented, before falling also.

  King ran over to Dyson. “The bow chasers!” he mumbled as he helped the first lieutenant back to his feet. Despite the wreckage about her forecastle the frigate was able to pop at them with her forward mounted guns. Dyson brushed his coat down and looked back at the enemy, before turning to Shepherd, who lay on the deck, apparently shaken. The shot must have passed between them. It could as easily hav
e killed most of the executive officers on the quarterdeck.

  Shepherd mumbled something, and Dyson knelt down to him. The captain put a hand to his head, where a blue mark could be seen growing between his fingers.

  “You've been hit, sir, better get below!”

  Shepherd went to shake his head, and instantly closed his eyes from the pain that the movement caused. He bent forward and rested both palms on the deck for a moment, before forcing himself to his knees, and then upright, leaning heavily on Dyson. He was giddy and longed for a chance to sit down. Dyson placed a hand on his shoulder as the air began to rush back into his lungs.

  “Just stunned.” He explained with a slight slur to his words. He opened his eyes, smiling lopsidedly at the concerned look on Dyson's face. “Leave me a spell, if you please.”

  “You're certain, sir?”

  “Leave me, Mr Dyson.” The last words were all but shouted; Shepherd had a sudden feeling that he was about to be sick. Then the pressure in his head faded slightly and the nausea eased, although there was now a strange numbing sensation spreading down his left side.

  *****

  The crew of number three gun had reloaded the starboard and crossed the deck to the larboard piece. On the way they passed Lieutenant Timothy.

  “We're wearing!” Lewis informed him unnecessarily. “That'll mean showing our bum to the frogs!”

  “Get to your station!” Timothy bellowed, conscious of the tension that almost made his voice crack. Still, the man was right; Vigilant would be in a dangerous position, especially as the enemy had yet to let loose its first broadside. He glanced across at Rogers, already hard to spot in the smoked filled gloom.

  “Mr Rogers, we must secure the men!”

  There was no reaction from the senior officer, and Timothy felt mildly annoyed that he was being forced into taking charge. He turned to the nearest gun crew. The guns were ready. “Lie down, shelter yourselves!” he shouted, as he took position behind the trunk of the mainmast. The men tumbled to the deck, lying alongside their guns in untidy heaps. Within seconds the only sound was that of deep breathing, the entire lower gundeck was heavy with anticipation as Vigilant began to turn.

  *****

  She swung round in the last of the sunshine, a thing of beauty in a terrible world. Shepherd caught himself looking at the deep blue of the sky, and contrasting it with the green sea. Both colours were rich and luscious, with the occasional trace of white as the wind shaved a wave top only emphasising their depth as salt does the flavour of a nut. Their stern was now fully towards the enemy, but he continued to watch the sea, the sea he had known for all his life, yet only at this point properly noticed. It was the green of her eyes, not his wife's but another. And he suddenly recalled her deep rich skin, unfashionably tanned, yet refreshing; refreshing and unspeakably attractive. Dyson was talking to him, but he had no time to waste; there were other, far more important things to think about.

  *****

  “For what we are about to receive...” Gregory muttered, as the ship continued to turn. Still the Frenchman was quiet, and it would only need another thirty seconds or so of peace for Vigilant to be safely on the opposite tack. He stared at the enemy's ports, unconscious of the fact that he had not drawn breath for some while. Then he saw a sudden stab of flame as the first gun spoke.

  The broadside hit them as they were just over half way through the turn, so that only three shots actually raked the ship. Of these, two lodged into knees on the starboard side lower gundeck where buckets of water quickly cooled their latent heat. The other quenched itself in three men from number fifteen gun larboard side, before smashing into the carriage and dismounting the weapon.

  On deck there were more casualties. Four marines fell as the shots came over the quarter, and a master's mate lay wounded in the scuppers. A block falling from the main Burton pendant came clean through the netting and knocked out one of the afterguard, while splinters from the torn up deck and spirkettings flew amongst the men causing a minor wound here, and major one there. And still Vigilant turned; turned until, once more, her fighting side was facing the enemy.

  “Got off lightly there, sir!” Dyson commented, although Shepherd appeared distant in thought.

  “Larboard battery, prepare to fire!” It was natural that the second in command should take over now, as the captain had done everything necessary to take his ship into action.

  “Fire!”

  Once more the smoke rolled over the deck, as the guns erupted in a ripple of deafening crashes. On the lower gundeck Flint's hands still shook slightly as he pulled the trigger line, but as his gun barked and flew back, he pressed the vent closed with more control. This time the broadside finished off the main topgallant and took away the frigate's mizzen topmast, which fell down onto the hull like a spear, dragging the gaff of the driver with it. Now they could leave her in relative certainty that she could take no further part in the action, other than as a stationary gun platform. Dyson turned to Shepherd and gave a rare smile, his teeth unnaturally white against skin already blackened with smoke.

  “One down, sir!”

  Teeth unnaturally white, and her smile came so easily. He could almost taste the clear air of Surrey as they wandered through the dusk; the heavy impotent red ball of the sun dipping below the fringe of trees that marked out their horizon. They would have too few evenings such as this before the sea called him back.

  Crehan's horizon was filled with the second frigate, now turning slightly to fire her starboard guns into Vigilant. It would be a blow they could do little about, as their own larboard guns were still at least a minute away from being ready. Their first warning was smoke from the frigate's black hull, shortly followed by shot that began to fly amongst them.

  “For’ard there, secure that larboard anchor!” Tait's voice came out in a high falsetto, but three men ran to replace the catting that had been struck by an eighteen pound ball. Another shot bit into the mainmast, nine feet above the deck. Gregory looked at it warily, although it had not penetrated past the centre line and the mast seemed sound.

  “Two men down from number five, sir!” A midshipman appeared, eyes round with excitement.

  “Take one from four.” Gregory looked along the deck to check for more casualties, but they were mercifully few. Amid the confusion gun captains began to signal their pieces ready; before long they would be able to return the compliment. Gregory looked towards the quarterdeck, and realised for the first time that the captain was injured.

  *****

  The chaplain held his bible tightly in his left hand while his right rested on the forehead of Clarke, the boatswain's mate, who was wounded terribly in the groin. His eyes were closed in prayer as his lips moved silently.

  “All right, parson, we're ready for him.” Wilson's words were quietly spoken, but Bryant removed his hand immediately and opened his eyes.

  “Plenty more for you over there,” The surgeon nodded to an untidy line of men waiting for his services. Bryant left Clarke to the terrors that awaited him and approached the next casualty a little warily. It was Hunt, a heavily tattooed man of middle years; one of the many who had mocked and taunted him in his time. The man looked at him now, eyes filled with pain and hope; Bryant laid a hand on his head and began to work.

  *****

  “Take my arm, sir.” Dyson caught his captain as he was about to fall once more. “We'll get you below.” Shepherd registered the face of his second in command, but no more. The man was asking the impossible of course, and he had no time to waste on things that were beyond his control. There was now no feeling in the left side of his body, his vision was hazy, and his tongue was far too large for his mouth.

  Dyson swung round on a group of seamen watching in silence. Their captain, fit and well one moment, was now apparently wounded. The men appeared stunned and confused. “Help me, damn it!” Dyson roared. King along with Lindsay, the captain's secretary, joined him and together they lowered Shepherd to the deck. King opened his
captain's coat and felt about his chest for some sign of injury.

  “There's no wound that I can find!” King almost shouted at Dyson.

  The first lieutenant nodded briefly. “The head's badly bruised; it was probably that passing shot,” he muttered quietly. King took in the news, ashen faced. The bruising suggested some impact, although with heavy round shot even the wind of passage could be enough. He had heard of such things causing everything from extreme physical shock to heart failure. “We'll get you below, sir,” Dyson repeated, then instinctively looked forward along the upper gundeck. The guns were ready to fire, and must have been for several seconds. He moved away and stood up, momentarily forgetting Shepherd. The frigate was in clear sight, there was no further time for delay.

  “You have control, Mr Gregory,” he shouted, and paused to watch the shots as they pelted the masts of the ship. An empty spar fell from the main, but nothing more. Apart from some severed lines, and possibly a few men taken from the tops, the broadside had been ineffectual. Something moved by his feet, and he looked down. Shepherd has raised himself slightly and was now resting back against Lindsay. Dyson knelt to join him.

  “How is it with you, sir?”

  Shepherd's eyes, open and strangely dark, seemed to be set on something far in the distance. “Time to go back now.” His words were slurred and barely discernible. Dyson drew closer, trying to catch every syllable as blood began to trickle from the captain's ear. “Time to go back, else we'll be missed.” He paused for a moment and a smile flickered crookedly about his face. “Out too late,” he continued, apparently noticing Dyson for the first time and staring deep into his face. “We'll come again tomorrow, though, won’t we?”