by Alaric Bond
Dyson looked his captain straight in the eye and suddenly understood.
“Yes, yes of course we will,” he said.
Then the smile twisted into a gasp, and with no further word, Shepherd died.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Dyson pulled himself away from the fact of his captain's death with an effort that was very nearly physical. The men about him appeared in a trance, but the second frigate was still bearing down on them, and a further broadside could be expected at any moment.
“Mr Humble, take the ship round, I want her running south.” This would give them more room, and take them further away from the oncoming battle ships. Next he stepped forward and shouted to the lieutenant standing in the waist. “Mr Gregory, we will be passing close to the enemy, we'll make one more broadside with chain, then its round for the lower battery and canister for the top!” The time for hitting at spars had passed for now, although it would be futile to have the guns reloaded.
Dyson had taken up command instinctively, and the men had responded in the same way. Now that he had time to think, however, the enormity of what lay ahead appalled him. To fight a battle as second in command was nothing like the responsibility he now held, and he had to stop himself from pacing the deck like an excited child. Another thought occurred, and he swung round to single out a likely candidate. His eyes fell on the captain's secretary.
“Mr Lindsay, kindly deal with the captain.” Lindsay's face was white with shock, although many years of discipline had instilled in him an automatic response to orders. With the help of two men from one of the quarterdeck carronades he picked up the body and carried it back under the poop. After clearing for action the captain's quarters were merely an extension to the quarterdeck, although to one side the small chart locker was empty and relatively uncluttered. Without a word they deposited the body inside, closing the door on it with a sense of finality that was shared by all who had time to watch.
The frigate was keeping station with them now, and running very nearly parallel. She was weighty for her class, probably mounting at least forty eighteen pounders. Her timbers would be more fragile however and even allowing for the heavier classification of French gun, she was no match for Vigilant. Dyson watched without surprise as her hull came round, until she was on a converging course.
“She's trying to get in close to board!” It was King's voice, pitched higher than usual, although he clearly had a grip on the situation. Dyson glanced down at the gun crews, as they hurled themselves back on the tackle, hauling their guns into the firing position. It was what he would have done in the enemy captain's shoes. The French were known to carry large crews, often fortified with soldiers; the men of a big frigate would be quite capable of overwhelming a small line-of-battle ship, and there would be hardly time for more than one broadside to see them off.
Gregory had his sword clear of its scabbard, waiting for the chance to raise it. A shout came from the midshipman at the main companionway; the lower deck was ready, and the sword went up. Then, with a series of horrible crashes, the first shots of the French broadside began to strike them.
The range was less than half a mile, but despite this Vigilant took the broadside well; accepting the punishment on her heavy frame like a prize fighter might an unexpected blow. In two places bulwarks were pierced, but neither was important to the integrity of her hull. A man was cut down on the forecastle, and a boy on the quarterdeck fell, knocked senseless by a flying hammock. Ironically this had been struck clear from the netting where it had been placed to absorb small arms fire. A marine was hit by the blast of a shot and fell back, dropping his musket on the deck where it fired, the ball embedding itself in a bulwark, dangerously close to the boatswain. Immediately the line closed up to fill the gap, while Corporal Jackson turned and touched his hat to the bemused petty officer.
At the foretop masthead Crehan felt the timbers beneath him shudder. The enemy still had the windward gauge, and most of the broadside had fallen low. But one of the last shots, whether by accident, or design, had hit the fore topmast, level with the fore topsail yard and, more important to Crehan, below his perilous station. Again the mast trembled, and he grasped on to the shrouds for their doubtful support. He would have to make a dash for it, a back stay was the obvious choice, although that would mean being dependent on the topgallant mast holding until he reached the deck. The alternative was to throw himself down the ratlines, and make for the fore top. That would give him relative safety, and he could continue to the deck by a shroud if he wished. He glanced about him, strangely unwilling to give up his post, although there would be little use for a fore lookout in the next few hours; Kapitan was still at his station, and everything would be horribly plain from the deck. Cautiously he swung his body round, but the mast gave an alarming lurch. He froze, frightened to move. There were a series of loud groans as the shrouds and stays stretched. The deck below seemed far away and yet ridiculously close. He moved once more, and once more the mast quivered. Then, throwing caution to the wind, he began to scramble down the ratlines. He was less than a third of the way to safety when the shrouds slackened, and the mast gave way.
“Fore t'gallant’s goin'!” The boatswain roared, pointing to the tangle of spars already crashing down towards the deck. They dragged with them the fore topsail which draped over the forecastle like a shroud. “Damage party: axes!”
The waisters and forecastle men surged forward with a will, hacking at the limp shrouds and roughly throwing the redundant tackle and torn canvas overboard. The fore topgallant mast, fore top yard and the remains of the crosstrees went the same way, and within ninety seconds there was little sign of any wreckage on the deck, and none whatsoever of Crehan.
Then they could reply. Gregory was ready, sword held high in the air. Dyson nodded, the blade came down, and Vigilant responded.
They were close enough to see the damage in detail. The chain shot reeked havoc amongst the delicately balanced rigging of the frigate, causing blocks, tackle and in two cases soldiers, to hang for a moment, before crashing down to the deck, or the ocean beside it. The gaff of the driver sagged as its lift was shot away, and the jib fell down upon the bowsprit like so much laundry from a broken line.
The French ship slowed, the wind taken from her sails, then her yards began to creep round and the hull leant in response to a kick from the rudder. She was turning harder towards them, and soon settled on a collision course.
Dyson swallowed, clearly his opposite number had planned this, as the evolution ran smoothly, despite the damage just inflicted. Now he was faced with the choice of continuing as he was, and take the frigate amidships, or alter heading or speed and have his stern or bows raked. There was a third option; he could turn towards the enemy, and attempt to pass and capture the windward advantage. Then he could take her with the unfired starboard guns and at that range the damage would be devastating. Dyson considered this for no more than a second; his men were unprepared and he doubted that they would be capable of such a manoeuvre at short notice, especially with the fore topsail missing. Besides, the advantage they would gain would be nothing to what might be lost, for to fail halfway would leave them in irons, the ship entirely at the mercy of the waves and current, with no steerage way to bring her back to the wind. She would be an open and easy target.
“Back mizzen top's!” The men responded to the command immediately, and Vigilant slowed up with groans of protest from her stays and shrouds.
The decrease in speed would bring the collision forward, giving his gunners the best possible opportunity of doing damage. The frigate would hit them in less than two minutes. The men sweated as the hot guns were run out once more. The angle had increased, they would be aiming almost straight at her bows; the two ships would hit and lock before a second shot was possible.
Gregory looked at the enemy forecastle, already filled with men; some soldiers, some seamen, armed with pikes, axes, swords and various fire arms, and making ready to leap on to their deck. He g
lanced at Dyson, there was no time for a request: he would have to take the initiative.
“Fire when your guns bear, men, then make ready for boarders!” Broadsides were all very well, but they slowed the rate of fire to that of the slowest crew. This way their guns could be discharged with the least possible delay, allowing the men to prepare themselves for the oncoming assault.
On the lower larboard battery, number three gun was one of the fastest, and Flint was already sighting his piece. Timothy appeared next to him, staring through the port at the approaching enemy.
“That's your target!” He shouted to the entire battery. “Take her foremast out and we’ll keep the buggers off!”
Timothy withdrew from the gunport as a small cheer ran through the waiting gunners. The feeling on the lower deck was good; the men had spirit and would fight well. His eyes fell on Rogers, standing motionless beside the foremast. Timothy grinned, his blood was up and he was spoiling for a fight, but the older man gave him a cold look and turned away.
Flint was concentrating; all thoughts of fear and disappoint-ment had been postponed until aiming at the Frenchman became a totally absorbing occupation. He had set the gun slightly ahead of the target, and was now watching as the mast slowly came into his field of vision. Silently he counted, measuring the speed of the ship, to anticipate the correct time to fire. Then, several seconds ahead of the ideal moment, he stood to one side and counted to three. He pulled the trigger line with a firm, even pressure and watched with satisfaction as the gun flew back against the breaching line.
*****
Carling was ready, sword and pistol drawn, beside the forecastle detachment of marines. Sergeant Bate had started them firing in volleys as soon as the frigate was within range, and now the men were busily reloading and shooting at a rate equal to that of a crack field unit. To his right seamen were assembling, variously armed with pikes, cutlasses and axes. Vigilant's main guns were firing spasmodically as each gun was ready and found its target. Carling imagined he could see splinters flying from the frigate's bows, although that could be merely imagination, or wishful thinking. The enemy's bowsprit glided closer, and shots from her marksmen began to thud into the netting about them. King joined him from the quarterdeck, his dirk drawn and young face set in an odd expression that might be eagerness or fear.
“Some will fall coming across,” the marine officer told him in a steady, professional voice. “And some will be cut down by my men. Those that make it are all yours, but don't get carried away and follow them back.” King turned to him and opened his mouth to speak. Then a shot cracked into the frigate's foremast, and it began to give way.
The British seamen waiting at the bulwarks cheered as the entire mast dropped in a tangle of line and sail. Those stationed in the tops fell as their platform was taken from them, their screams all but drowned by the crash of timber and tearing fabric.
“A fortunate shot!” Carling grinned at King. “About the first bit of luck we've had so far!”
The wreckage dropped about the frigate, almost stopping her in the water and forcing the stern round. Gregory yelled at his crews who quickly returned to their guns and began to reload with a vengeance.
*****
On the quarterdeck Dyson allowed himself two seconds to consider the frigate, before looking back to the battle ships that were running down on them. They would be in range within ten minutes; there was no time to finish the frigate off.
“Make sail!” he snapped at the master. The marines were still taking pot shots at the men on the wreckage, while the gun crews slaved at their pieces. “I want the forecourse on her, and rig a replacement jib!” The forecourse would correct some of the balance lost by the fore topsail and the jib would be needed to carry out the manoeuvres that Dyson knew would be necessary.
There was a distinct pause after Humble bellowed his order. The men at the nearest quarterdeck carronade glared rebelliously back at him, and Dyson was conscious of a sudden atmosphere of disapproval that could almost be touched. Taking hands away from the guns to set more sail appeared a terrible waste when they had the enemy at their mercy. The extra speed would hardly justify the effort, and another two or three full broadsides would see the Frenchman wrecked. But only he was in command, and only he knew of the almost painful urge to put as much sea room as possible between them and the approaching liners.
“Get to it, you lubbers!” Gregory's voice cut through the squeal of pipes; clearly he had noticed the men's reluctance and was hitting back with true lower deck logic. “Plenty of time to finish her off when we've dealt with t'others!”
Some gave a cheer, and all went to their work with added will. Dyson caught Gregory's eye and nodded his thanks; Gregory nodded back, and through the smoke and confusion, touched his hat in a token salute.
*****
On the lower gundeck the guns were being swabbed and loaded with a will never found in exercise. Matthew dumped a charge with a loader, before spinning round to start back to the main companionway. They had suffered a number of casualties, and the intricate loading chain had almost broken down as boys were being called to make up deficiencies in gun crews. Acting alone, Timothy had organised a different system, with a fewer number of lads running for the main hatch, where two men, under the direction of a midshipman, were handing out the charges passed up from below. Each took a double load, thus halving the number of journeys, and slightly easing the confusion. A small queue of panting boys lined waiting for their charges, stoically ignoring the screams of the wounded that came up from the orlop. Jake was at the end, and Matthew smacked his back as he took place behind him.
“How's it with you?” Matthew asked. Jake grinned, his face was blackened, he had a cut to his shoulder and blood was smudged on his shirt.
“Lost our loader.” he shouted, although Matthew could hardly make out the words. “An' larboard number fifteen's out of action; carriage broke and men smashed to pap!”
Matthew nodded. He too had seen sights that would have appalled him normally. Ever since the first gun had fired he had been largely deaf, and it was rather the same with his other senses. They were numb, paralysed, deadened; whatever atrocities were being committed, he only registered a fraction, and even then they seemed unable to affect him.
“Buzz is the capt'n's down” another boy told them as he joined the queue.
“That right?”
“Stopped one early on,” the boy confirmed.
It was their turn now, and a grizzled hand passed them the charges. Matthew snatched at his twenty pounds of high explosive, before rushing back to his guns.
Flint was laying the gun when he arrived, and Matthew stood to one side, waiting for it to fire.
“Captain's dead!” he muttered to Lewis. “Does that mean we got to surrender?”
“Nay, lad.” the man replied with a grin. “We goes on, it's not a game of chess!”
Then the gun spoke, and the process began again.
*****
The extra speed was taking them away from the frigate; in no time they would be unable to fire on her. Dyson looked up at the sails, now filled and pulling well, and back at the pursuing line-of-battle ships. The first part of the plan had worked moderately well; both frigates were temporarily disabled, and yet, apart from the loss of the fore topyard and fore topgallant mast, Vigilant had suffered remarkably little structural damage. The line-of-battle ships were in full pursuit; with every yard they made taking them a yard further away from the escaping merchants. A jet of smoke came from the bows of the nearest, and seconds later a splash erupted a cable's length off their stern.
A wardroom steward, carrying a pewter tray loaded with mugs, appeared on the quarterdeck and approached the group of officers. King took one and sipped cautiously. It was lemonade, sour and strong. Without another thought he drained the mug.
Humble caught Dyson's attention.
“Bosun's rigged the fore topmast stays'l.” He said, his voice unnaturally loud. “It's slung lower tha
n normal, but he reckons it'll serve well enough.”
“Very good, take her on to the starboard tack.” Dyson replied, also accepting a mug. “I want the wind well on our quarter.” Their speed was all important, and yet with the rigging already weakened, he dare not risk more sail.
Gregory had left his guns in the waist and now joined them on the quarterdeck. “What do you intend?” he asked Dyson, almost conversationally.
“Run for as long as I can,” the first lieutenant replied. “But when they come into range I will have to turn and fight.”
Gregory nodded, and accepted a mug of lemonade from the steward. “Will you strike?”
It was the question Dyson had asked himself a dozen times since the captain's death. “Yes, when it comes to it,” he said simply, before sipping at his lemonade. British line-of-battle ships were not known for surrendering. Dyson would always be remembered as the man who yielded to the French, and in later years there would be few who would give any consideration to the odds he now faced.
Gregory nodded, and handed his mug back with a grim smile. “We'll take a few with us though, eh?”
*****
On the orlop, Bryant was closer to God than he had ever come in his life. The line of wounded now consisted of twenty-two, with twelve still waiting to meet the surgeon. Bryant, who had long since abandoned his bible, was administering neat rum with the care and devotion he had previously given to communion wine.
The man he was currently attending to had a splinter in his leg. It stuck out, bold and black, through the torn white duck trousers. Bryant turned his attention to the wound, carefully cutting away the bloody material with a pair of the surgeon's scissors. Skirrow knelt down next to him. Both knew that most of the waiting needed attention without delay.