The Distant Ocean

by Philip K Allan

  ‘What do you make of the warship, Leclerc?’ he asked. ‘Do you recognise her?’

  ‘Maybe, mon capitaine,’ he replied, after a pause. ‘Perhaps it is the one that was in the offing outside St Paul?’ Olivier cast back in his mind to the ships that had appeared, the day before those prisoners escaped.

  ‘Yes, you are right,’ he announced. ‘She was certainly one of the English squadron.’ They had sailed closer now, and he could see that she was busy preparing for battle. As he watched, her gun ports opened along her side, transforming the line of yellow into a checkerboard, and a line of stubby little cannon were slowly hauled out. Her Royal Navy ensign fluttered in her mizzen rigging, while lines of tiny, red-coated figures made their way up into her masts. Marine sharpshooters, he concluded. Let her prepare for battle, one sloop with nine tiny guns a side, against two forty-gun frigates. If she was foolish enough to get in his way, he would crush the little ship like a walnut.

  Next he looked at the pair of East Indiamen. They were sailing in a line ahead, a mile or so beyond the sloop. They were a little wider apart than a pair of warships would be, but they still kept reasonable formation. He could see few signs of preparation for battle on them. No sharpshooters in their rigging at all. Each one flew the red and white stripped flag of the East India Company. He looked over their hulls with care. In overall size they were much the same length as his frigates, but they were taller, with a double line of gun ports. He could not see that any of them had been opened yet. They would doubtless be shifting the cargo around to free up some space for at least a few of their guns to fire, he concluded.

  ‘Very well,’ he muttered to himself. ‘So the sloop has returned, and is now escorting two merchantmen. Where are your big sisters, little ship?’ He scanned the sea with care, looking for a slender masthead peeking just above the horizon that might indicate where the frigates lay. Nothing. He tilted his head back and called up to the lookout again.

  ‘Leclerc! Can you see the other two English frigates? The one that defeated the Prudence, and that bigger one?’

  ‘No, mon captaine,’ he replied. ‘There is nothing in sight. Perhaps they have gone to seek us at St Paul?’

  ‘Perhaps they have,’ said Olivier, ‘Or perhaps they are just over the horizon, ready to come the moment they hear gunfire. Listen to me, Leclerc. I want you to forget any fighting that may be going on beneath your feet. You are not to take your eyes from the horizon. Is that clear? I want to know the moment that the enemy appears.’

  ‘Yes, mon capitaine,’ he replied. ‘No one will surprise you, I promise.’

  *****

  ‘I do declare that the ruse may be working, sir,’ shouted Midshipman Russell, from his perch on top of one of the quarterdeck carronades of the Titan. ‘They seem to be ignoring the Echo and closing in on us.’

  Clay was already regretting his strict orders that only Russell should be allowed to peer across at the enemy. It made sense, of course. Nothing would give the game away quicker than a line of gawking faces, but he would have dearly liked to have done some gawking himself. He strode up and down the quarterdeck in his full dress uniform, opening and closing his telescope as he marched. Sunlight penetrated down through the rigging to flash from the polished gold of his Nile Medal and the pommel of his new sword. He ran a hand over the warm metal of the lion’s head. It may not be a knighthood, but for the matter in hand the King’s gift, with its astonishingly sharp edge, would prove much more useful. The sound of a distant roar echoed across the sea, and he turned back towards the young officer.

  ‘Echo has opened fire, sir!’ announced the midshipman. ‘Let fly into the bow of the first frigate, and is now hauling out of the way. Now the Frogs are returning fire with their chasers.’

  ‘It is strange how muffled the sound is, sir, remarked Armstrong. ‘Why, she can be no more than a mile off our quarter, and yet all this canvas has deflected much of the tumult.’ Clay looked down the length of his ship, the deck oddly dark in the bright tropical sun. Running like a wall along both sides, a mass of timber framing had been installed, then covered in taut canvas panels. Like the back of scenery in a theatre, it was messy to look at from the deck of the ship; all wooden batons, loose canvas and a cat’s cradle of lines. But he thought back to when he and Montague had been rowed around the two frigates, when the work had first been completed. It was remarkable how close they had been able to come before the illusion that the ships were not East Indiamen vanished.

  ‘Congratulations, Mr Blake,’ he said to his second lieutenant, as he had then. ‘Our disguise seems to be tolerably effective. You truly are a most gifted artist.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said the young man, blushing, ‘but it was your idea. I just put it into practice with a deal of help from the carpenter and the sail maker. What was it that made you think of it?’

  ‘In truth it was a remark of the commodore’s,’ said Clay. ‘He had just seen your splendid portrait of my wife and spoke of what paint and canvas could achieve. I had been pondering how we might lure the French into making an attack upon us, so his words found their mark. But do not be so humble, Mr Blake. Your execution of the plan has been superb.’

  ‘I was only directly responsible for the finer details myself. My team of assistants applied most of the paint.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Clay. ‘I hear that Sir George’s private supply is sadly depleted, much to his annoyance. Let us hope it will all be worthwhile.’

  ‘I trust so, sir,’ said Blake. He pointed towards the panels next to them. ‘I am particularly proud of the section positioned along here. It includes a trompe-l'œille of the steering wheel and binnacle which will be quite destroyed when the time comes for the quarterdeck carronades to open fire through it.’

  ‘On the subject of guns, you had best take command of the main battery now,’ said his captain. ‘And remember, you are to fire as indifferently as drunken Spaniards, until you hear my call.’ He held up the silver whistle that hung around his neck. ‘When I blast on this, you may commence in earnest.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir,’ replied the lieutenant. ‘Lubberly practice it is.’

  ‘Frogs are coming on faster now, sir,’ reported Russell. ‘On the same course as us, and edging steadily across. The lead one looks to be lining up with the Prince, the other one with us.’ There was another roar of cannon fire, the sound distorted by the canvas cocoon all around them.

  ‘There goes the Rush again, sir,’ announced the teenager. ‘Letting them have another broadside from range. She looks to be firing into their top hamper.’

  ‘How far away are the frigates, Mr Russell?’

  ‘Couple of cables outside of long cannon shot, I would say, sir,’ he reported. ‘But the range is closing. You may even be able to see the tops of their masts from the deck now, sir.’

  Clay walked to the far side of the quarterdeck and looked back. Rising above the canvas screen were two sets of masts and sails. The second of them was almost level with the Titan. So you are to be my opponent, he thought to himself as he levelled his telescope towards her. The figure of a sailor in a red waistcoat came into focus, standing at her masthead. He was busy scanning the horizon, one hand sheltering the sun from his eyes, the other holding on to the mast beside him. As Clay watched the lookout, the man turned through a full circle, searching everywhere, except towards where the danger lay. Excellent, he thought.

  ‘I am surprised how airless it is behind yon wall,’ said Tom Macpherson as he mopped at his brow. ‘I am perishing hot and I have no jacket on. You gentlemen must be fair roasting.’

  ‘It is warm,’ conceded Taylor, looking at the nearest panels. The sun was shining on the outside, making the material glow with light.

  ‘Are your men ready, Tom?’ asked Clay.

  ‘Aye, they will come boiling up from below when the signal is given,’ he replied. ‘They know to wait for the peal of your whistle. Till then, no scarlet coats will be seen on deck to spoil matters.’

  �
��I think the enemy may be about to open fire, sir,’ announced Russell. ‘The one that has taken station on us has run out her guns.’ As if to prove his point a cannon ball shrieked over their heads, and a cut line pattered down onto the deck. A moment later the sound of the broadside boomed off the canvas wall.

  ‘They are firing high,’ commented the first lieutenant, as he watched Hutchinson on the forecastle directing some of his men to repair the small amount of damage. ‘They mean to disable us.’

  ‘All to the good then, Mr Taylor,’ said Armstrong, rubbing his hands. ‘They are still persuaded that we are harmless cargo ships and they do not wish to knock us about excessively.’

  Clay walked to the front of the quarterdeck and looked down into the well of the ship. The space below him was crammed with men. Not only were there the gun crews grouped around their pieces, but all of Macpherson’s marines in a block of red, together with the crews for the forecastle and quarterdeck carronades.

  ‘Mr Blake,’ he called.

  ‘Sir,’ replied the lieutenant. He pushed his way through the crowd and looked up towards his captain.

  ‘You may open an indifferent fire on the French, if you please. Nothing too troubling for the enemy, I pray.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ replied Blake, touching his hat. A muffled cheer started to rise from the men, quickly stifled by the petty officers.

  ‘Silence, there!’ roared Clay. ‘Remember you are to play the part of frightened lascars. Only when I give the signal are you to act like Titans once more.’

  *****

  When Clay disappeared out of sight, Blake contemplated the row of eighteen-pounder cannon. They were big, heavy pieces, squat and low on their dull red carriages. Each long black barrel was worn with daily use and adorned with the names that their proud crews had given them. The one nearest to him had Dan Mendoza in flowing white script, painted across the breach. None had been run out yet, but each one was loaded and ready. The gun crews were stripped to the waist, with their neck cloths tied about their ears, and they crouched like sprinters around their pieces. Each gun captain held a glowing linstock in one hand, and looked towards his divisional officer, eager for the action to begin. The gun deck felt like a wound spring, ready to burst into life.

  ‘This is not going to be easy, Mr Butler,’ muttered Blake to the midshipman who stood next to him. ‘For two years now we have drilled the men every day, to make them one of the briskest set of gunners in the service, and now we need them to act like lubbers.’

  ‘Let us hope they will not forget all their training when we wish them to fire in earnest, sir,’ replied his deputy.

  ‘Precisely so,’ said Blake, and then he called out, ‘Larboard battery, gun four, seven and nine only! Up ports!’ A grumble of disappointment swept the deck as those crews not selected stood upright again.

  ‘Gun seven!’ exclaimed O’Malley from where he stood at the rear of his piece. ‘That’s us, that is. Open the hatch, Sam, we’re in fecking business, at last.’ The big Londoner leant forward to unbolt the flap, and then pulled hard on the lanyard to swing the lid open. A square of dazzling blue sea appeared, making the gun crew squint. Framed in the hole was the second of the two French frigates. Her big solid hull filled the gun port, and her long line of guns pointed back towards them. Above the hull her huge masts seemed to tower over her, like the spires of a cathedral. Craning round a little, Evans could see the Echo, as she harassed her huge opponent from astern. At that moment the sloop yawed around to fire a broadside that fluttered through the French ship’s rigging, sending down a shower of debris to patter into the water alongside her.

  ‘Run out!’ ordered Blake, and the men threw themselves against the rope tackles till the cannon thudded into place against the ship’s side. ‘Number four gun, fire!’ There was a roar from forward, and the gun hurled back inboard. Its crew leapt forward as they sped to reload it.

  ‘A hit,’ yelled O’Malley, watching a burst of splinters fly up from the Frenchman’s side. ‘Got the fecker!’

  ‘Too good,’ pronounced Blake, from his position behind the gun that had fired. ‘O’Malley, I want you to fire indifferently.’

  ‘Beg pardon, sir,’ said the Irishman, linstock poised over the touchhole. ‘What manner of fire was that again?’

  ‘It means that he wants you to miss,’ translated Midshipman Butler from behind him. ‘Fire across her bow, so you do not endanger the Echo.’

  ‘Miss, sir? With a fecking beautiful target like that? Why in all creation would you be ordering me to miss, at all?’

  ‘Just do it, O’Malley,’ ordered the teenager. With a grumble of disappointment the gun crew levered the carriage around until the barrel of the eighteen-pounder pointed at a patch of blue water well ahead of the Frenchman.

  ‘Easy lads,’ muttered the Irishman. ‘We wouldn’t want to go hitting the other Frog ship, would we now?’ And then he shouted. ‘Stand clear!’ He brought the glowing linstock down on the touch hole. There was a brief hiss, a roar, and the gun thundered back across the deck. As it came to a halt the crew sped to reload it. Evans thrust the wet sponge end of the rammer down the barrel to extinguish any sparks, while on the other side Trevan waited with the serge bag that held the next charge of powder, poised to push it into the muzzle. ‘Take your time lads,’ said O’Malley. ‘No need to raise a sweat, like. It’s fecking indifferent we’re after being today.’

  He peered back at the target as the third gun fired from farther along the deck. As if in response, the Frenchman disappeared behind a wall of smoke and a storm of shot howled overhead, bringing down a pattering torrent of cut rigging and blocks thudding onto the deck.

  *****

  ‘Afterguard! Have this trash taken away,’ ordered Clay as he stepped over the shattered remains of a block that had fallen from high in the mizzen mast, only narrowly missing him. While the debris was removed he turned back towards the figure on the quarterdeck carronade. ‘How far away is the enemy now, Mr Russell?’

  ‘Three cables, and closing steadily, sir,’ reported the midshipman. His first lieutenant looked at him with raised eyebrows, but Clay shook his head.

  ‘Too distant, Mr Taylor,’ he said. ‘If we bare our teeth at this range, they will simply shear off and return to Reunion, and we shall be back where we started. Let them commit themselves more fully, so there can be no escape. Remember, I have a new born child to meet back at home, God willing.’ He stooped down to touch an oak plank, before he continued. ‘I would sooner not pass another six months pursuing shadows on this blasted ocean. Let us get the job done today.’

  ‘The Echo is doing a passable job of wounding the enemy’s rigging, Mr Taylor, sir,’ added Russell.

  ‘I doubt it is as thoroughly cut about as ours,’ snorted Taylor. Clay looked up and winced. All of the sails had at least one shot hole in them now, and cut lines hung down like jungle creepers. The rigging was alive with sailors as Hutchinson struggled to keep up with the repairs. Just then another broadside from the Frenchman tore over the ship, sending down a fresh cascade from above. One cannon ball punched a hole in the canvas screen with a noise like a drum being struck. He held his breath as he willed the structure to remain upright.

  ‘Let us hope that some French officers is not puzzling as to why no shower of splinters accompanied that hit,’ said Macpherson.

  ‘I can smell their powder smoke now, sir,’ said Taylor. ‘Must we wait till I can smell the garlic on their breath before we engage them properly?’

  ‘Perhaps not that long,’ smiled his captain. ‘How far now, Mr Russell?’

  ‘Cable and a half, I should say, sir,’ he replied. Clay looked at the upper masts of the two frigates. He could see the topgallant masts in their entirety now, and a little of their topmasts. A big tricolour streamed in the breeze, the colours bright in the sunshine.

  ‘Very well, Mr Taylor, you can have the carronade crews come up from below and man their pieces now. They are to do so quietly, if you please, in smal
l groups.’

  ‘I presume I still can’t deploy my lads for a wee while?’ asked Macpherson.

  ‘Not yet, Tom,’ said Clay. ‘Nothing will give the game away faster than that. But the moment we run up our own ensign in place of that red and white rag, bring them up.’

  *****

  A hundred and sixty feet above the battle, Seaman Leclerc was finding it difficult to concentrate on the far horizon as his captain had ordered. For one thing, there was nothing out there for him to see. Try as he might, the line where deep blue ocean met a sky paled to white was smooth and uninterrupted in every direction. And there was so much to draw his attention closer at hand.

  There was the little enemy sloop, for example, as she harried the two big frigates like a terrier confronted by bulls. Whenever one of the frigates made a ponderous move to turn their main batteries on her she would shy away, using her superior manoeuvrability to spin onto a different tack. But the moment the frigates returned to their pursuit of the two East Indiamen she would close in behind them, where none of their guns would bear. From his lofty position he could admire how well she was being handled, yawing first one way, then the other, and sending her little broadsides flying into their rigging. Strange that, thought Leclerc. He had always heard that the English only fired at the hull of an enemy. Kill the men and take the ship, was said to be their motto. Perhaps they hope to bring down a mast with a lucky blow.

  Little by little they were making progress with doing so, thought the lookout. One shot had struck his mast a glancing blow earlier, the shock almost unseating him from his place on the royal yard. If he leant right out he could just see where the cannon ball had struck. Far below him was a white scar in the wood, like a bite from an apple. Then, moments ago, one of the thick topmast backstays had been cut by another ball, parting with a crack like a pistol shot. Now the play of the mast he sat on was noticeably more than it had been, as if a sea was running, rather than the calm conditions below him. But that shot had come from one of the merchant ships, rather than the little sloop.