The Sea Officer Bentley Thrillers

by Jan Needle

  These poor lost fellows with their eager, hopeful faces. Expecting him and Matthews to find a way of escape.

  Not so Madesly. He only leered. He was a noted seaman, who had probably commanded coasting traders in his time. He touched the pistol he had stuck back in his belt, and stepped out of the ruck.

  ‘Just what do you suggest then, Broad? That we down helm and try to claw off upwind? That we set everything she’ll take and show that bastard our heels? It is true, lads,’ he added with a laugh, ‘that we’re the bigger, faster ship. So let’s get to it! Let’s break the canvas out!

  ‘You there!’ he shouted to the helmsman, who was a bare few feet from him. ‘Down helm and quick about it! Bring her on the wind! We’re going to make a run for it!’

  The helmsman kept his eyes ahead, watching the sails, sensing the rolling seas that piled up astern of him. The men were confused, not knowing, most of them, if it were good advice or no.

  ‘Well?’ shouted Madesly. ‘Come on, Mr Matthews. Do we make a run or not?’

  ‘You know we cannot,’ Matthews replied. ‘Our mizzenmast is sprung, our gear is ruined. We have not enough men to get the extra canvas on her, and if we come on to the wind that mast is overside, for certain. As well you know it.’

  Madesly laughed still more. The men said nothing, digesting the information. So – they could not run.

  A voice said from the back: ‘But if we cannot run, sir? Then what can we do?’

  ‘Surrender,’ said Matthews brutally. ‘We cannot run, there is no point. Our gear is wrecked, we are a sinking hulk. We must surrender.’

  Jesse, looking at the faces, knew the men would have taken this in silence. They would have thought it out, followed all the paths until they reached the deadlock. Not so Joyce and Madesly. The idea maddened them. Clearly, he guessed, they had drawn the same conclusion. But without acceptance. Why indeed should they, anyway? Mad dogs they may be, mad dogs they were, but why lie down and die without a fight? He was almost on their side.

  ‘Surrender?’ Joyce forced out at last. It was a hoot, a shriek, filled with derision. Then he shouted: ‘And what then, you pair of turncoat fuckers! Will your precious little arsehole-boy see that you go free? Was it all arranged between the captain’s blankets?’

  Matthews’s stony face did not flicker. When Joyce had finished, he spoke as evenly as ever.

  ‘If we surrender I suppose that we shall hang. You shall, certainly, Henry Joyce; and I, and Broad and your friend Madesly. But there are many men who will not. Those who did not join, and others, too. They will not hang the lot of us I doubt; there is too many. An example must be made but that is easy, with all the villains that we have on board us here.’

  He ranged his eyes sombrely over the assembled men. ‘My friends, I beg you to listen carefully, and think. If we should not surrender it can only make things worse. If we do, there will be retribution, sure, and not a few of us will hang in Portsmouth or Spithead. But I tell you truly, we cannot get away. The Welfare is not able, despite her greater size.’

  The ship to leeward was very clear by now. She was smallish, probably a twenty-four. She was yellow-painted and trim, what sail she carried very white. There were not many minutes left before they would be on each other.

  The matter was decided by Henry Joyce. He was no longer wild with rage, but he had clearly made his decision. He jerked out his pistol and levelled it at Broad. Madesly followed suit, covering Matthews. The others of their party cocked their pieces.

  ‘There is another way,’ said Joyce, thickly. ‘And it is the way we take. We stand and fight, and blast them to the bottom of the sea. It is a sloop almost, she cannot match our weight of metal. One good broadside and she’s on her way to hell. I say we stand and fight!’

  ‘Good Christ!’ cried Jesse – and jumped in shock as a ball buzzed past his ear. His hand half reached towards his belt but stopped; a half a dozen muzzles stared him in the face. One of Joyce’s guns was pouring smoke; he changed it for a fresh one with a grin.

  ‘Just shut your mouth up, friend, and get the keys out to the musket room,’ he said. Then he turned to face the people.

  ‘Lads,’ he cried. ‘What do you say? We either give in or we turn and run, but there’s not much luck in any of those plans, eh? If we surrender like a little flock of puling lambs we end up dangling. If we turn and run it’s even worse.

  For according to Mr Matthews here, our mizzenmast will just give up the ghost and totter overside. Well listen, God damn it. We have nothing to lose by making a fight of it, for Matthews is a coward and a liar, and if you think they will not hang us all you’re living in a paradise for fools.

  You know the England Navy, you know the worth they put on poor Jack Tar. They’ll hang the lot of us, from the highest to the lowest, including you poor innocents that us filthy rebels kept on board that luckless day! There’s only one man-jack on here that will not be stretched, and he’s that little bastard boy. And I say this: when we’ve sunk that tin-pot sloop down yonder, let’s hang him first! Let’s hang Billy Bentley, then his chums! Let’s string up Matthews and Jesse Broad to keep him company! But first – let’s fight! Or are we dirty, frightened animals!’

  Broad was detached from it all, somehow. How many more orations was he to endure on this ship? How many more times see the heads go up, the mouths fly open wide? He turned his eyes to the leeward ship, tried to count her ports. He could see men, in the rigging and about the decks. He wondered if they could hear the ragged cheer that tore downwind from the Welfare.

  It was a ragged cheer, but not so ragged that the issue was in doubt. Joyce had been convincing, no question.

  Broad tried to size it up. Would they arm the men, take the keys from him and Matthews? Or would that strike them as too dangerous? If all the men were armed, what would break out? For the idea of firing on another Navy ship was a wild idea, a desperate idea. His mind reeled from under it. To open fire on a Navy ship! It was sheerly mad! It was lunacy!

  But Joyce was in full cry.

  ‘All right, my lads, all right! God love you, we’ll take them on! And never fear, we’ll send her to the bottom! We’ll arm, we’ll arm, we’ll each have sword and musket if the fight gets close! But first, to the guns! Gun captains at the ready, rouse out what you need. Go now, go, make ready! And listen—’ His voice became harsh, it cut through the jumbled noise. ‘Me and Madesly and our friends will lead you now. And any damned coward who will not fight will feel cold steel, mark; or the bullet! Are you with us?’

  There was another cheer, and men began to run about once more. Some ran with purpose, some were clearly lost, frenzied, terrified. Madesly stayed by Joyce, but the rest of their gang hurried here and there, cajoling, threatening, organising gun crews at pistol point. It was chaotic, ridiculous. And clear across the cold grey waves was the man-of-war. As near as Broad could judge, she was almost within range. It was a matter of minutes.

  Joyce and Madesly had their pistols in their hands, Matthews and Broad did not. But there were feet of deck, the wheel, the mizzenmast between them. As the two new leaders approached, the two deposed ones drew their weapons. They faced each other in the moaning gale.

  ‘I want the keys, Matthews. We will fight this out like British sailors, not like yellow men. If that bastard closes, we will fight them hand to hand.’

  ‘Henry, you are mad. We cannot win it, man. Have we not done enough? Leave it, Henry, leave it.’

  ‘You fool,’ said Joyce. ‘Does nothing ever touch your sort? Would you let them hang you, just like that?’

  His face was pale, his eyes were bright, his tone twisted with bitterness. Broad was speechless, racked with pity.

  Along the deck he saw men running, aimless, lost. Again he thought of chickens, and nearly smiled; we’ll all be headless soon, I guess.

  ‘Come on,’ repeated Joyce. ‘Give me the keys. If you have not the courage to fight give us a chance. You will hang whatever, both of you. If you will not die fighting, fo
r the love of God let me!’

  There was a distant bang, flat and torn. All four of them looked to the leeward ship. A trail of smoke blew off downwind of her from a bow-chaser. A couple of hundred yards ahead of them a plume of water rose in the grey sea, collapsed and disappeared. She had fired across the Welfare’s bow.

  ‘If you intend to clear for action,’ said Matthews quietly, ‘I suggest you look to your guns.’

  Joyce’s small pig-eyes were full of hate. ‘And you?’

  Broad spoke. His voice was trembling. ‘We will not interfere. Of that you have our word.’

  Joyce and Madesly looked at each other. Madesly turned.

  ‘Then damn you for filthy cowards,’ said Henry Joyce. ‘I only hope I live to kill you both.’

  It looked as if he might spit on the deck at their feet. He cleared his throat noisily. Then he shrugged, and followed Madesly forward.

  Thirty-Three

  Jesse Broad and Matthews took no part in the action, although they could not find it in their hearts or minds to move. They stood on the quarterdeck as though paralysed, watching the strange, slow scene unfold. They saw the downwind frigate snug down to fighting rig, they saw the officers grouped near her stern, they saw the well-drilled sailors run out the guns. Now that the ships were so close the unreality was even greater. For the vengeful frigate was more or less hove-to, lying in the jumbled, leaden sea waiting, while the Welfare, sluggish and short-canvased, covered the last distance that would bring her to her fate straight as an arrow, but oh so very slowly.

  On the deck before them, and on the deck below for all they knew, the frenzied process of making ready the guns for firing went on. But it was laughable, horribly pathetic. Half the gun crews were of men who had no knowledge of the weapons. Half the men on board had given up all hope. Joyce and his henchmen rushed about like furies, but little groups, small knots of seamen, could no longer be moved. They swayed as they were harangued, made half-motions to man a gun; and then subsided, staring at the rigging or the deck when the jostler went away.

  Firing the long naval guns was a skill that needed training and application, and Broad wondered why it was that Swift had so neglected it. There had been a period, long ago, that they had done gun-drill, but even then it had not been intense, and the mood had not affected the captain long. Since the Line, or earlier, not a gun had been run out. Something to do with his sealed orders, perhaps. The mission that would never now be done, the reason they had not stood to fight that time, the reason they had battered south without a stop. Or was it just another quirk of the owner’s character? Had he merely forgot that they must train?

  Whichever way it was, Broad could see that chaos was afoot. The guns were heavy, they were dangerous. In the awkward corkscrew motion of the quartering sea, the upper-deck guns, as they were released from their heavy-weather lashings, began to roll back and forth on their carriages, to be brought up short by their breech ropes.

  Men manned the tackles, tried to run them out, but with not such marked success. One slewed sideways and a man went down with a cry. The upper-deck twelve-pounders must weigh well above a ton at his guess. He could imagine it careering round the rolling, pitching deck. It would be a juggernaut.

  ‘This is madness.’ Matthews spoke quietly, his voice reflecting the sadness that Broad felt. ‘Cannot they see it? They will not have a dozen guns cleared.’

  Broad did not reply. He thought again of trying to end it now, of trying to retake the men by arms or switch of mood. But it was too late. Several were armed, and half a hundred, maybe more, were working with the guns. They were determined, or desperate, or mad, or anything. He half believed them right in any case. Almost anything was better than be bested by the dreadful Daniel Swift at last. To be hanged was a bearable idea; at least inevitable. But that Swift should end the day triumphant. It was terrible.

  ‘Half the guns won’t fire anyway,’ Matthews went on. ‘I am no expert in this, but consider the conditions. Our cabin, even, is wet and stinking with the damp and condensation, and that’s the best accommodation. When we had a proper crew on board, the gunner and his mate and yeoman kept up a constant conversation with their powder. Maybe it’s gone like porridge; it cannot be dry, surely? Or does it not feel the damp like we do, I do not know. And what about the balls? Some of them below are rusted up to hell. They’ve gone like chair-cushions some of them. It is sheerly madness.’

  The downwind ship was nearly ready now. The captain had jockeyed her so that when the Welfare was well in range he could up helm and rake her from stem to stern with his starboard broadside. Even had the Welfare got a broadside manned, only the fore portion of it could be brought to bear. She plunged along with the wind over her larboard quarter into the jaws of that battery, with chaos still unconfined. Her decks were covered with men in every state, from readiness to panic to demoralised inactivity.

  ‘Will Madesly put himself on the wheel to try and bring her round to bear, I wonder,’ Matthews mused. Broad wondered too; and caught himself wondering.

  ‘Good God,’ he said. ‘Now this is queer, you know. Here we are talking tactics like a pair of armchair admirals, and any minute now the action starts. We are cold fish, you know.’

  ‘I do not think it— Ah!’ Matthews’ voice changed. ‘Yes, Madesly will take the wheel, I thought he might.’ He looked aloft. ‘You know, Jesse, if he shoves her round we’ll likely lose the mizzen. Best watch out.’

  Madesly hurried aft and gestured the helmsman to stand down. They were in range, plainly. The downwind ship nudged the head sea, her luffs shaking as she spilled the wind, almost stationary, almost across their path and over to the larboard side. Madesly took the wheel, but did not alter course. He and Joyce had clearly decided to wait as long as the nerves of their fellows could stand it.

  The officers on board the adversary were clustered on the quarterdeck, and more were ranged in their gun control positions. They too were playing the waiting game, and when the balls started flying they would not have far to travel. Broad was helpless, but tensely excited. Henry Joyce must change his mind, must strike the colours before it was too late. At this short range the net result was carnage, on either side or both. The colours! Even now, even with the gap between them closing at a suddenly accelerated rate, it struck him anew as strange, unreal, fantastic; they both carried colours, both the same. Two British men-of-war about to open fire at each other.

  All the slowness of the last twenty minutes, all the odd sensation of the two vessels closing imperceptibly, had changed. The Welfare appeared to be charging now, tearing across the last gap of grey-white water as if in a frenzy.

  Broad’s mouth was dry, his fists were clenched. His eyes flicked from the Welfare’s decks to the tight little waiting frigate, to the long lanky back of Arthur Madesly. There seemed to be about a half a dozen upper-deck guns manned, the twelve-pounders. Below on the gundeck, presumably some eighteen-pounders were out. All those men who had not joined in were standing aimlessly. No one had taken cover, no one had manned sheets or braces in case of an altered course. And yet again the last few seconds changed the way that time was running. It almost stopped. The ships were in a limbo. Nothing could happen. Everything was fixed.

  With amazing suddenness, Joyce thrust his bald-domed, pig-tailed head out of a forward hatchway.

  ‘Put up the helm!’ he shouted. ‘We’re going to blast her!’

  Madesly did not reply. He began to heave at the spokes, and after a few seconds the Welfare responded. Her stem swung slowly to larboard, towards the waiting frigate.

  Farther and farther round it came, until more guns were brought to bear. No one moved to trim the sails.

  Matthews was staring at the mizzen, out to starboard. ‘It’s starting to lift,’ he said to Broad. ‘She’ll be by the lee if he doesn’t watch her. He’ll gybe the bugger, then we’re done, there’s no preventers rigged.’

  Broad was staring at the adversary. This aggressive manoeuvre by the Welfare had move
d them not at all. The sight of the bigger ship’s ports swinging round to face them seemed to signify nothing to the man in command or to his people. She hung in the wind, luffs shaking, waiting for the Welfare’s guns to speak.

  The gap was madly small. ‘Almost spitting distance’, went through Jesse’s mind. Joyce gave a great roar to the men on deck, then dropped out of sight, doubtless to repeat it below.

  ‘Fire!’

  Time hung in the balance once again. Broad clearly saw the men apply their linstocks, then spring back. He clearly saw flashes at two breeches, then another slightly afterwards. Then there was a pause, of unbelievable duration.

  As the guns went off, Madesly began to spin the wheel, to get the wind back on her quarter, to lessen the target she presented to the foe. He was too late.

  The Welfare’s roar was not particularly loud. The forepart of the ship disappeared momentarily in a cloud of smoke. The deck trembled. As it did so, it also gave a lurch. With the flat explosions ringing in his ears, Broad heard Matthews shout: ‘Get down! He’s gybed her!’

  Madesly was too late. The Welfare’s mizzen had already been caught by the lee. The freezing wind, its strength apparent once again now it was no longer merely pushing from astern, got underneath the sail and tore it from its vangs.

  It was a huge piece of canvas, on a massive, iron-bound wooden yard. With the full weight of the wind in its wrong side, it swung across the quarterdeck with irresistible force and speed. Broad and Matthews, crouched, heard the roar as it shot above their heads. Even had the mizzenmast not been sprung, it could hardly have survived the shock.

  But it was sprung. As the flying yard smashed over to larboard the deck beneath them bucked as though alive. There was a crunching, splintering crack, then a prolonged roar. As mast, shrouds, stays, everything, came down, they were enveloped in clammy, icy canvas which was beaten from above by other falling gear. By the time they had clawed their way out, the end was very near.