Stevens saw Courtenay watching as the sun was lowering in the west and stopped beside him. “From what you have always told me about your fight with that LeFevre woman, I would have thought you would have gone for blasting away at the corvette and getting her to come out and fight?”
“Yes, I almost did opt for that solution, but I do wish to give the man the chance to surrender, and the circumstances were different there. I had to try and cause some damage to the ship because she was a frigate and I had a sloop-of-war, albeit with extra men. We are talking about the reverse here, and in an open fight, there can be only one victor, because your fine frigate outguns the corvette both in number and weight of iron. With some luck, our lads will catch the French with their breeches around their ankles, so as to speak.”
Stevens smiled broadly. “Since the revolution Giles, they do not wear breeches, remember? Only aristos wear the damned breeches!”
“You know what I mean Martin. Now then, I can see some clouds coming in, but what does your Master think about the weather?”
“He considers tonight will be of no use to us because there will only be very light cloud. There is a new moon, but that would be sufficient to make our boats stand out as they row into the bay. He is of the view we may see some different weather on the morrow. I have not thus far seen him wrong!”
“Very well. Let us see what happens tomorrow then. We will keep to this course for another two turns of the glass then retrace our steps.”
“Aye aye sir.”
Wetherby appeared with Trafford, but saw his Admiral give a slight shake of his head and nodded in understanding. Trafford also saw it and said to Courtenay quietly, “Not tonight then sir?”
“Not enough cloud cover, and there is a new moon, so…”
“Aye. The boats would not have a chance.”
“We will hope for better tomorrow. According to Captain Stevens’ Sailing Master it will be cloudy.”
Trafford laughed, which brought a glance of disapproval from Stevens’ First-lieutenant, Josiah Proctor. “He sounds like Jacob Trainor then!”
Courtenay smiled. “Aye, he was never wrong, was he?”
The following day saw a sky covered in cloud, from one horizon to the other. For the most part they were fairly light, but other parts were darker. There was no change all day as the frigate beat back and forth, and the Master solemnly confirmed that in his humble view, the cloud would persist for what Courtenay had in mind. No time was lost in detailing to the cutting out party what was required. The attack would be led by the stern-faced Lieutenant Proctor, with the senior Midshipman, a likeable lad called Becket, as his second-in-command. The extra seamen from Alexander were commanded by her Second-lieutenant with one of the flagship’s Midshipmen as his assistant. The contingent of Marines made up the rest of the party. All were briefed thoroughly by Courtenay who had all hands lay aft so that he could explain what was required of the men who would make the attack. Some of the hands detailed could not understand why he was going to all the trouble he was to explain, but other, more intelligent, men saw what he was doing and nodded their heads in appreciation. There was no man going who did not know exactly what his job was. There were even one or two who had served with Courtenay before and they said in their Mess afterwards, “Nothing bloody unusual about what the Admiral did lads, nothing at all. He’s done it afore and he always does when there’s summat important to be done. Tell me Fuller, do you know exactly what you have to do?” The man nodded. “Well, there you are then. Everyone knows what they have to do, so there’s no bloody confusion. You’ll thank him later.”
“If I’m bloody well alive I might!” replied the man called Fuller.
As was the case in equatorial climes, it was very dark very quickly, and under reduced canvas, the frigate Miranda closed the land. The arrangement was that the boats’ crews would be sent off from the closest point it was considered the frigate could reach in the bay without being seen to enable the crews to have a shorter row. Miranda would then withdraw to the left hand side of the bay where everyone else would await the result of the attack.
The point of departure having been reached, the boats pushed away from the safety of the frigate and headed for the small inlet where it was known the corvette was hiding. At least, she had been there, and Courtenay sincerely hoped the Captain called du Mason had not decided to take his craft elsewhere. Each boat’s cox’n had been given the bearing and in any case each boat carried a blue lantern astern so that they could follow the leader. It was hoped the French would be caught just as a watch was about to change, so that the men on watch would be tired and thinking of their hammocks whilst the new watch would just be waking up.
Courtenay wanted to pace the quarterdeck but with most of the ship’s company awake and waiting for news, he did not want to betray any uncertainty he might feel. Stevens was sympathetic, but even he kept his distance from his friend. Courtenay drained what was probably the third mug of coffee Kingston had brought him and got up from the gun carriage he had been resting against. “Damn this waiting Martin!” he said fervently. “I should have gone with them, not stayed here.”
Martin Stevens smiled. He knew the Giles Courtenay of old, the one who always led from the front, but he was now the Admiral, and as such, he had to allow others to take the chances, and hopefully, reap the rewards. Stevens opened his mouth to reply when there was a call from the bows, repeated up to the quarterdeck. “There be a boat coming sir!”
“What?” exclaimed Stevens. “That is far too early, surely?”
Courtenay knew, straight away by instinct. “Something has gone awry. Perhaps she is not there after all?”
The boat came alongside and Courtenay saw it was Matilda’s senior Midshipman who virtually ran up the stairs to the entry port and then up the ladder to the quarterdeck. Courtenay made him calm himself. “Now then Mr Becket, there seems to be a problem?”
“Yes sir. That corvette we are after sir, she is leaving the bay!”
“What do you mean Mr Becket?” said Stevens.
“We were closing on the bearing where the corvette was seen sir, when Peters up front in the bows said he thought he could see something in the dark that looked like a breaker, only when Mr Proctor had a look he said it was the bow wave of a ship. He told us all to wait where we were, then took his own boat on, and came back in a hurry. He said the corvette had made sail and was slipping out of the bay to the sou’east. He was stepping the mast on his boat sir so that he could follow, and he told me to come back with everyone else and report.”
“Very well Mr Becket, thank you.” said Courtenay. “Odd, Martin, that the very night we come a-calling, the frog decides to leave?”
“You think someone warned him?”
“It is a possibility, yet how? No-one knew what we were about, after all. In any event, make sail to the sou’east and let us see if we can be on his tail by the time dawn is with us.”
“Aye aye sir.”
The boats were all brought aboard quickly and were still being stowed on the boat tier when Matilda got under way. Hopefully, they would run down on Lieutenant Proctor and his small boat fairly shortly, but dawn was showing to the east before word was passed back to the quarterdeck that the small boat had been sighted. Quickly on top of that was a report from a keen-eyed look-out that he had sighted their quarry. A line was thrown for the launch in which Proctor and his men were waiting to be taken aboard, and it was held fast to the frigate’s side as she sped through the water to allow the men to clamber aboard. Then the boat was cast off, to be hopefully recovered later. Proctor was on the quarterdeck in seconds.
“I hope Mr Becket gave you a full report sir?” he asked of Courtenay, who nodded.
“Yes, he did Mr Proctor. That was a brave thing you did, following that ship in the dark.”
“Had to make sure where she was going sir, and that was the only thing I could think off. Cannot understand where she is going to, though, to the south?”
“Just trying to get away now she knows we are guarding Bimara?” ventured Stevens.
“Possibly, but I would wager someone has tipped off Captain du Mason that we will be looking for him and he has decided that discretion is the better part of valour. We are hardly likely to send our brig after him, are we?” commented Courtenay. Even the stern-faced Proctor managed a slight smile.
“Very well Mr Proctor, to your guns if you please!” said Stevens. “We have a pirate to catch!” Proctor touched his hat and turned to the rail to issue his instructions that sent the hands to quarters, and the guncrews to their charges.
The corvette was about half a league (3 miles) ahead and normally would expect to be able to out-sail even a frigate, but when Stevens had the log cast, he found his ship was speeding along at eleven knots, whereas it seemed the corvette was slower through the water. It was Wetherby who found the reason when he went aloft and it was simply a case of bad sail-handling. Whereas the sails on the British frigate were drawing to perfection, the ones on the former French ship were not, probably because the crew were not as well-drilled as the Navy men were, and slowly but surely, Majestie was being overhauled.
“Show the colours if you please Captain Stevens.” ordered Courtenay as the distance closed to less than a mile. He looked at the mizen gaff as the huge White Ensign streamed from it, and the men on the corvette could not possibly have failed to see it. Matilda was now coming up quite fast on the corvette’s starboard quarter and Courtenay fancied he could see activity on the ship as if her company were making ready to fight the British ship.
“Surely M’sieu does not think he can take us on and win?” said Stevens, lowering his glass.
“If I were him Martin, I would bank on trying to wing us and cause sufficient damage he could slip past us. By the time we had sorted ourselves out, he would be long gone. We must be alive to any trickery.”
“With your permission sir, I will not show our teeth just yet in that case.”
“I agree, let us see what he does first of all.”
Proctor turned. “All guns are ready to be run out and fire sir. Which battery?”
“We are going to see what M’sieu does first Mr Proctor.” replied Stevens. He turned as Trafford appeared with Courtenay’s sword and a pair of pistols, which he checked and made sure were safe before handing them to him. Then he stood at his Admiral’s left shoulder, sharp as a razor cutlass through his belt. Wetherby took up station to the right, notepad in hand. Stevens smiled, shook his head, and turned back to see what the corvette was doing. She seemed to be keeping to her course, which seemed odd, because it was clear she was being overhauled. He looked at Courtenay. “Orders on tactics sir?”
Courtenay smiled. “She is your ship Martin, and for you to fight as you see fit. Just remember what you have learned over the years!”
Stevens smiled but said nothing. He looked ahead and suddenly got the impression the Frenchman was going to alter course. He saw the yardarms start to move slightly, then more, and then the corvette suddenly altered course quite sharply to starboard, cutting across Matilda’s line of advance. It was clear instantly to both Stevens and Courtenay what the Frenchman was trying to do. By cutting across the frigate’s hawse as he had, he hoped to push the British ship into a hurried turn to starboard as well, so that the sails would be in disarray for a short while, and in that time, he would have the chance to try and gain distance between them. He might have even hoped that a violent turn might bring down a spar. He was wrong, on both counts, because Martin Stevens had no intention of turning inside the corvette. “Standby, first division starboard side!” he yelled.
The Frenchman must have realised his mistake, but too late, because as he smiled when his ship completed her turn and looked to see what the British frigate was doing to turn inside his ship, he found she was not there, where he planned she should have been. Instead there was a yell from one of his men, and he looked to see that the frigate was still on course and that course was taking her across his own ship’s stern at what would be easy range for the weapons a British frigate would carry as her main armament. Even as he opened his mouth in horror, Matilda started to cross his ship’s stern, her starboard side gunports opened, and guns were run out. He saw the guns explode in orange flame and dense smoke, which by the direction of the wind was blown towards him and his men. The deck beneath his feet shook and rebounded as the first shots crashed home. Two balls careered the length of his ship, coming in through the transom and exiting under the small quarterdeck, and crashed into two of his guns. Metal splinters went scything everywhere and the screams and cries from the gundeck made him realise a number of his men had been cut down. However, he had larger problems because the men on the wheel were staring in horror at the fact it was not answering. One ball had severed the lines that connected the rudder to the wheel. He ordered men below to reeve new lines, but he knew his time was almost up. When he looked at the British frigate again, and even shook her fist at it in his rage, he saw how well she was being handled, and that she was now wearing to run down his port side, to batter his ship with her starboard guns.
On Matilda the forward guns which had fired had now reloaded and all along the starboard side, gun captains had their right arms raised to signify they were ready to fire. The frigate ran down on the port quarter of the sinister-looking dark blue corvette, which at least had some of her port side guns run out, although not many. Martin Stevens stood on his quarterdeck with his sword raised high, then brought it down as his ship’s bowsprit crossed the corvette’s taffrail. One by one, all down the starboard side, the 12-pounders rang out, their barrels spouting orange fire and a cloud of smoke. At that range, all the balls found their mark and the corvette heeled to starboard as she took the weight of iron. Stevens turned to his Sailing Master. “Get us alongside!” Then he turned back to his First-lieutenant and calmly ordered “Boarders ready Mr Proctor!”
“Ready they are sir!” the man responded and drew his sword. He disappeared down the starboard ladder to the gangway, and Courtenay smiled grimly at Stevens and followed. Trafford was there, cutlass now in his hand, and Wetherby dropped his notepad and drew his sword.
“Remain with your ship Captain!” called Courtenay as he headed for the ladder. Stevens sadly shook his head at his friend wanting to be where the action was. He was the Admiral. He ought to keep out of it, but he knew Giles Courtenay would never do that, even if he was Admiral of the Fleet!
Struck badly the former French corvette might have been, but what was left of her crew were ready for the Navy men as they prepared to swing across. A group of men appeared on the side of the other ship, waving an assortment of weapons and screaming abuse in several different languages, but a Gunner’s mate pulled the lanyard on a vicious swivel gun and the crowd disappeared accompanied by cries and screams.
Proctor was there, waving his sword. “To me, Matildas! Boarders away!”
He swung over to the other ship with several of his men following swiftly, two of whom were cut down even as they set foot on the corvette’s deck. The First-lieutenant slashed at one of the corvette’s men, and his keen blade took the man across the mouth, opening up a wide slash which fountained blood. As the man fell back, one of the boarding party thrust a pike through his chest and the man fell onto the maindeck among a number of his shipmates who were getting ready to fight. Then there were more of the frigate’s men swarming across and the popping sound of pistol shots.
Courtenay swung himself into the port main ratlines of the other ship and dropped down onto the gangway. Trafford was next to him and swung his cutlass at a man who was trying to get to the person he perceived to be an officer. Courtenay, as usual, wore no coat or other indication of rank, otherwise the other man might have been even more surprised he was taking on a senior officer. However, he did not even get the opportunity because it took Trafford just a few moments to silence him with one slash to his stomach and then a backhanded one across his throat. The man dropped his own we
apon and fell to his knees, clutching his neck, but Trafford picked him up and threw him over the side. The man was just about alive enough to scream as the two hulls rode together and crushed him. Wetherby was crossing swords with a scruffy looking seaman wearing a dirty black shirt and baggy grey trousers. His elegant swordplay pushed the man back along the gangway until with a final thrust Wetherby ran him through. The man cried out in pain and disbelief and sagged to the side. Wetherby copied Trafford and tipped the man over the side.
Courtenay ran along the side of the ship with Trafford at his back and had no trouble in gaining the small quarterdeck because the men coming down the ladder to him were blown off it by a salvo from Matilda’s Marines, who were climbing aboard as well. The quarterdeck was carnage. The last balls from the frigate’s guns had swept across it, and loaded with grape as well, they had caused a large amount of damage. There were dead men all over the small deck, the wheel had gone, smashed into shards of wood and metal. There was a man dressed in finer clothing laying propped against a nearby gun, and he feebly raised a pistol as he saw Courtenay. Trafford stepped forward and with a slash of his cutlass knocked the pistol away, and was about to finish the job when Courtenay’s hand on his arm stopped him. The man was clearly dying. There was blood all around him and his gold-coloured waistcoat was saturated with it. He looked up at Courtenay with dying eyes which were also pleading.
Courtenay knelt by his side after asking his Flag-lieutenant to see how the rest of the fight was progressing as he sensed the man wanted to say something. “You are Captain du Mason?” The man nodded weakly. “My name is Courtenay.” The man’s eyes opened wide and he smiled grimly.
“So you are the famous Lord Courtenay? I often heard about you when I was fighting for my Emperor. Those…those were better days M’sieu, were they not? I was an honourable man then, not what I have been turned into….no more than a common pirate, selling to the highest bidder!”
Courtenay and the Mercenaries Page 16