by Alaric Bond
The gun rang out again, although this time he did not catch the shot. Possibly it had even hit. The aspirant began to scribble once more and he was about to question the boy when something caught his eye.
It was the English ship, no longer was she heading with the wind one point large; her yards were moving, and she was coming round. Yes, he could see the hull lengthening as she turned from Rouault's fire. The ship began to wear when the ripple of Rouault's first broadside burst from Savarez, and was almost about as the shots fell. Clearly the manoeuvre had been well timed, as most were half a cable short, and behind her moving hull. Now the English ship was bearing down on them; heading for his own Lozere. Duboir drew breath. His ship, with nearly a hundred guns, many of which far larger than anything the English had to offer, was more than a match for a mere sixty-four. Still, the English had reputation for hard fighting, and there was something about the way this particular ship had been handled that revealed her commander to be a man of determination and skill.
“Send for the admiral!” He almost spat at the young aspirant. “Say the enemy is turning towards us, and ask him, no, tell him that his presence is required on deck!” Duboir had no intention of engaging an English line-of-battle ship without his superior by his side. Despite her damaged foremast the English were making excellent speed, and the acute angle meant that he would not be able to open fire until they were less than two cables apart.
Lafluer appeared and glared at Duboir, his face a mixture of anger and fear.
“Order Rouault to intercept!” he bellowed. Duboir turned to the enseigne de vaisseau in charge of signals, and nodded.
Lafluer was breathing heavily as he stood next to him.
“We must turn!” Duboir all but shouted at his superior. “If we do so now we can fire two, maybe three broadsides into her before she reaches us!”.
Lafluer watched the enemy ship bearing down. Despite the damage, she carried herself well, as with most English ships. But three broadsides from his guns would make a difference to that solid hull.
“Do it!” he shouted back. “Let her feel the weight of our metal! Tell the lieutenants to open fire as soon as their guns bear!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Timothy looked hard at the midshipman.
“You're sure?” he asked.
“Yes sir, that's what Mr Dyson said.” A creak from the main-mast seemed to confirm it: they were going about. Timothy turned from the youth and brought his hands up to his mouth to bellow.
“D'you hear there? Starboard battery; man your guns, and train them for'ard!”
The midshipman who had delivered the message watched as men sprang into action and began crossing the deck to clear the starboard guns for action. The gun layers were just beginning to insert their hand spikes to heave the heavy carriages over as the boy made his way back to the quarterdeck, amazed at the activity his message had created, and terrified in case he had made some dreadful mistake in its delivery.
“We's gonin' about!” Jenkins muttered as he kicked a splinter of oak into the scuppers. “Takin' on a three-decker, now there's a thing!”
Sure enough the ship began to heel as the yards and rudder pulled her over onto the reciprocal course.
Lewis was peering though the gunport. “We're heading for the Frenchie all right!”
“How's she bearing?” It was Flint this time, all trace of humour absent from his voice.
“No change, still comin' right for us!”
“Not going to wear?”
“Not yet.”
“But why should she?” Matthew asked, of no one in particular.
“If she keeps as she is we meet her that much quicker.” Lewis had turned back from the port. “An' neither of us can fire broadside 'til we're almost on top of one another.”
Simpson nodded “But if she turns we gets the benefits of her three decks pointin' at us while we run down on her.” He gave Matthew a brief smile. “The closer we comes the better, then we're left with at least a prospect of reply!”
Matthew smiled back, and naturally turned to Flint for further reassurance. He was surprised to note that Flint's face remained deadly serious and there was a far away look in his eye that neither Matthew nor any of the others had noticed before.
*****
On deck the men were quiet. Vigilant steadied onto her new course and began to make up speed. In the waist Gregory was watching the flagship so intently that the bark of their own bow chaser took him by surprise.
“Level and short!”
Gregory made his way to the forecastle, where Tait had both guns under his command.
“Fire!”
The second eighteen pounder went off, and they watched in silence as the shot fell, barely feet from the flagship's bows.
The two officers exchanged glances. “Extreme range but we might reach them with the great guns,” Gregory commented.
Tait nodded. His fair hair made an odd contrast to his face, which was now quite blackened. He pointed forward suddenly. “Hold there, she's coming round!”
Sure enough the hull of the French ship was lengthening, and her yards swung as she began to present her broadside.
“Now we's for it!” Gregory said, grimly, as the triple line of gunports turned to greet them.
The first bow chaser was ready again, and at a word from Tait, spat once more at the slowing ship.
“A hit!” Tait hissed. The shot must have stuck the French ship, or passed over. Then her unused sprit yard sagged as if in confirmation.
“An' not quite maximum 'levation!” The gun captain added, grinning toothlessly at the officers.
Gregory nodded grimly. “We can reach her now!” He looked back to the quarterdeck, although Dyson could not be seen from where he was. “You carry on, I'll tell the senior!”
*****
On the quarterdeck Dyson was well aware of the situation. For some while the officers and men had been keeping him under covert surveillance, clearly expecting him to order a change of course.
“Steady as she goes,” he said it a quiet voice. The quartermaster repeated the instruction, and King was exchanging looks with Humble when Gregory bounded on to the quarterdeck.
“We got her range!” he shouted. “She's steering into the wind and coming round, but we can reach her with our lower deck!”
Dyson eyed him coolly. There was no private way to prick his bubble. “Thank you, Mr Gregory, I am aware of that.”
Gregory faltered for a moment. “Well, why don't we turn? We can fire on her!”
“We can,” Dyson confirmed, “But I feel it better that we do not.”
The look of incredulity on Gregory's face would have been comical, were it not for the circumstances. “But she'll be opening up on us directly!” he persisted.
“Yes, I expect you're right, Mr Gregory. But we will hold this course a while longer.” Dyson turned away discouraging further comment while his stomach heaved against what he was about to do.
Gregory was right; they could bear round to larboard now and open with their lower deck guns. Pound for pound they might be out gunned, but that could be balanced to some extent with their firing speed, which was almost certain to be faster. The two ships were not equal in timbers however; the three-decker, possibly Toulon built and from Adriatic oak, would boast scantlings that could withstand their fire well: certainly better than Vigilant might handle shot from the heavier French guns. By maintaining his present course he was gambling against losing any vital equipment aloft, so that they could close with the three-decker. If they made it that far, he had a chance to play his next card. This, he knew, was bold; bordering on the reckless in fact; so much so that he hesitated even to think of it.
“Enemy's opened fire!”
The call from the masthead alerted them to the ripple of flame that was now spreading along all three decks of the flagship. Dyson waited, resisting the temptation to order a hasty turn of the wheel. After a second or two the salvo passed, peppering where
they would have been if he had ordered them round. He glanced at his watch. The French were unlikely to fire again for a good three minutes; that meant there would be two more broadsides before he intended to reply, and he could expect no further confusion as to his course. Two broadsides and, with the range closing, each would be more accurate and devastating than the one before.
*****
Dyson’s plan soon became clear as Vigilant clawed her way towards the French flagship. She approached with her bow angled slightly towards the enemy’s stern, the oblique angle giving extra protection from the murderous broadsides. Her bowlines drew the canvas tight, catching the strengthening wind and forcing her over until Timothy decided to order the larboard ports closed, to avoid any danger of the lower gundeck flooding.
Rogers watched this without comment. Certainly he was the senior officer, but Timothy was handling things well enough. Besides, at that moment he didn't trust himself to speak, much less give orders. He pressed his hand under his collar and eased his stock. They had been in action for a long time, far too long for him, and he was feeling the pressure. Pacing the deck in that crowded space was all but impossible, and with the larboard ports closed he began to dream of fresh air and open spaces. A hand-spike, dropped at a near by gun, caused his feet to almost leave the deck in fright. A sailor caught his eye, looking at him with interest; curiosity almost. Rogers turned away, ashamed, taking refuge in the bulk of the mast trunk that seemed so solid and safe. The guns were ready now, although as long as they held this course, there was no chance of using them. He watched as some of the men began to whisper and joke amongst themselves. Stupid fools, had they no idea what they were about? Didn't they care that every second brought the next broadside closer? Didn't they know that they could die shortly, die horribly? Die without ever seeing the sky or the sun again? He pressed his hands deep into his pockets in an effort to control the shaking, and lent his body against the warm wood of the mast.
The broadside came late; approximately five minutes after the first, and yet it still took everyone by surprise. A shout from above, then the familiar sweep of fire from the triple striped side of the flagship. This time the range was shorter, and the guns better laid. Vigilant was neatly straddled, with the majority of the shots hitting or passing over her forecastle.
Half the crew of the starboard bow chaser were all but wiped out in front of Tait. The young man watched in dreadful fascination as their gun took a lucky hit to side of the muzzle. The barrel reared up and was sent spinning round, sweeping them aside as if they were nothing more than pot house skittles. The dolphin striker was neatly separated from the bowsprit, and the improvised jib fell slack, robbed of the lower tension. Both round houses crumbled as the heavy shots passed through them, and the figurehead exploded in a mass of plaster, paint and wood.
But apart from the crew of the bow chaser and the boatswain, who took a splinter in his side, there were no other serious casualties. The work to rectify the damage could begin, with men heartened by the prospect of at least five more minutes to live. Five more minutes before the next salvo would land amongst them.
As the work was being done, Dyson summoned King.
“The men have three minutes to clear what wreckage they can, and splice the important shrouds. After that I intend to steer three points to larboard, and reply with our starboard broadside. The turn will be signalled by the striking of the ships bell. As soon as the guns are fired I will turn back to my original course, do you understand?”
King gave a quick nod and was gone; there was no time for comment. Dyson watched as he summoned a group of midshipmen and began speaking earnestly to them. Thirty seconds for that, then the news could spread about the ship. Most would get the message in time; some may not, but he could delay no longer.
After the loss of power from the jib, Vigilant had slowed slightly, and the quartermaster had been forced to let her drop off a point. Still, she was making good way and if the next broadside could be weathered, his plan may yet be put into action.
The bell rang before anyone bar Dyson and the quartermaster were completely ready, and the hull levelled slightly as she came round. Seconds ticked by slowly. All waited, eager for the gun captains to be certain of their target, whilst dreading the answering salvo from the French, which could also be expected at any moment. It was a race the British won. Their guns firing erratically as each captain made sure of his mark. The broadside may have lacked the disciplined ripple of the French, but the job was done, and almost every shot told.
From the quarterdeck Dyson surveyed the damage, while the ship creaked back to her original course. He glanced at his watch. Six and a half minutes since the last broadside; his own shots must have bought the extra time, although the range was closing rapidly now, and it was just conceivable that the French captain was holding his fire, intending to deal a devastating blow later.
The second French ship was still a good distance off, and unlikely to be a problem to them for at least five minutes. He found no difficulty in ignoring her. In that time Vigilant should have closed with the flagship, or be a total wreck.
Seven minutes, surely their broadside had not caused so much confusion? Already most of their own upper battery gun captains were signalling readiness; the enemy must be holding their fire. Then, again when the men in Vigilant least expected it, the French guns replied.
The shots came in a slow ripple, and were better aimed, and hit harder than any the British had endured so far. A splintering crash told the end of the mizzen topmast, which fell back over the taffrail, and slowed the ship considerably. On the lower deck a shot knocked two gunports into one, and accounted for six men from the crew of number five gun, barely feet from where Matthew was returning with two fresh charges. A twelve pounder was hit on the upper gundeck, the barrel torn free of its carriage, and left to lie across two unfortunate members of its crew, and the starboard main channel was struck in two places, causing the main shrouds and backstays to slacken. Blocks and other debris clattered from the top hamper and shouted orders and obscenities mixed seamlessly with the screams and pleadings of the wounded.
King dropped to the deck, the wind of a round shot taking most of the breath from his body. He lay on the warm burnished planking, stunned and disorientated, and it was only when the air began to trickle back into his lungs that he realised he had forgotten to breathe.
“Axes there!” Dyson bellowed, pointing at the tangle of rigging and sail that was now draped over the stern of the ship. The wreckage acted like a sea anchor; the ship was slowing and would soon be a sitting duck for the French gunners.
A master's mate led a team of men who began hacking at the lines. King, who was still shaken, staggered forward to help, but was stopped by a hand from Dyson.
“They have their job, and you yours,” he said, roughly. “Boatswain's wounded; find a team and rig the mizzen staysail.”
King slumped off towards the waist, his hand to his head as he tried to think. The mizzen staysail would be a blasted nuisance hanging as it did over the quarterdeck, but it was clear they needed to equalise the pressure lost by the topsail. He saw George, the negro, a topman who also worked one of the quarterdeck carronades. There would be precious little use for guns until the ship could sail again. He summoned him and three more hands and directed them to the sail loft. They knuckled their foreheads and moved quickly through the chaos, ignoring the cries of wounded shipmates as if they were nothing more than birdsong.
*****
Timothy guessed that they had lost part of a mast from the way the ship settled. His guns were ready to fire once more, but their position prevented him from bearing on the flagship. The other French liner was coming up fast, and he hesitated about selecting that as a fresh target. He peered through an open port. Yes, she was heading to pass behind her companion, and would be in range in five minutes, possibly less. He glanced about and saw Rogers, standing in the gloom and looking vaguely lost. For a moment he considered consulting him befor
e tossing the idea aside like so much rubbish. As far as responsibility went, he was on his own, and had been for a while.
Young Davis was near by. Timothy caught his attention, and pointed to the companionway.
“Go up on deck!” He shouted, roughly. “Tell Mr Dyson I can't reach the flag at this angle!”
The lad looked at him blankly. His face was white and his eyes were round and staring. Clearly the events of the past few hours had taken their toll, and he was fast approaching a state of extreme shock. Timothy looked for another messenger.
“Get out of my way!” Rogers voice was thick and his face unusually white. He brushed past the shaken lad carelessly without waiting for answer or comment.
“We need a target.” Timothy began, but Rogers was already making for the main companionway and the upper deck.
As soon as he appeared in the waist Rogers was horrified by the sight. With the loss of two major spars Vigilant was a confusion of trailing lines and fallen blocks. He picked his way through groups of men desperately trying to make order of the jumble. A party pushed past him carrying a heavy, unmanageable grey lump that was the mizzen staysail and began to bend it on to the mizzen stay. King was in charge, and the men worked with a focused determination that Rogers vaguely envied. He moved on without comment.
On the quarterdeck he found Dyson surrounded by trails of line that had been cut to free the mizzen topmast, now floating a few yards off their counter. Men moved about him with white shocked expressions; most were cut or bruised, few spoke. The stained decking and strong smell of effluence told its own story.