by David O'Neil
It was Jane who was swift to stop him talking about leaving, though when Martin asked why would they wish him to stay, it was the Captain who provided the answer. “Martin, you spoke of making your way to the sea to search for a job as cabin boy on a merchantman. If you were serious I would like to suggest you stay, as my wife bids you. As you know, I am Captain in the Royal Navy. I am waiting to join my new ship which is re-fitting in the dockyard in Portsmouth. I am taking over the crew of the vessel. Giles, as you know, is passed for lieutenant and must move to another ship. I am short of a midshipman, and with your education, I have no doubt you will in time pass for lieutenant like Giles.
“We still have the midshipman’s uniform that Giles had discarded. It will still pass. I would be happy to help with the other things you need. I would deem it a favor as I have no other person in mind for the place, and I would rather appoint someone I judge would benefit from the post.”
Martin was stunned. “But you do not know me, sir.”
“I know you well enough to trust the lives of my wife and ward to you. I think that will do for a start. That is, if you would consider my offer.”
“Consider? I accept gladly, sir. Though I will need to study the things I must know, so that I do not let you down.”
“Giles will be back this afternoon. I will ask him to speak to you and he may be able to help you with books.” He turned to Jane. “Will that suit, my dear?”
Jane just looked at him. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. She had seen in Martin what her husband had, but had taken the extra step. She saw in Martin the son she had desperately wanted but could never have. She could not be certain. He could turn out to be other than the boy she judged him to be, but she believed in him. Until or unless he proved otherwise, he would call this house home. “Absolutely, my dear. He will be most welcome.”
Jennifer laughed delightedly. “You will be like my brother, Martin. Come, I will show you my garden.” Quite unaffectedly, she took his hand and towed him off to see her garden.
“Are you sure about this, Jane?” Charles asked his wife. “I confess I had not looked past his appointment to my ship.”
Jane took his hand and said fondly, “Charles, you may be able to fool others, but I am not as they. I fear I know you too well. You had every intention of just allowing things to happen, until the lad would have been a fixture here.”
“I am so pleased I married you.” Charles kissed her and held her close. You know me well, my love.”
Chapter two
Sea-time
1793
It was difficult for Martin to believe that only six months had passed since he had been threatened by Jethro Woods. Now fourteen years old, for the past two months he had been accommodated at the Bower’s home just outside Eastney, looked after by the Bowers and Mrs.. Hogget, and being chased about by Jennifer and instructed by Giles, who was delighted to have the chance to instruct someone who really wanted to learn. Giles guessed he might well be pushed into training the Midshipmen in his new ship. As junior Lieutenant in a frigate, he was aware that he would in effect command the gunroom, the Middy’s quarters, for the next voyage at least.
Martin was grateful for the training. It had involved sailing the small boat owned by the Captain. Since Martin had never been in a boat in his life it was an important lesson, and it revealed an excitement and a talent for the feel of a boat that he was grateful to discover.
The basic teaching of navigation had introduced him to a subject that his school lessons had prepared him for, and the fact of his literacy made the schoolwork on board, while still a task, less so than were he without.
“Mr.. Forest! A word if you will.” The voice of the First Lieutenant carried easily across the poop deck of HMS Arun. Lt. Sir Archibald Carrington, Bart, was a little distant, almost aloof on occasion, but he was a good First Lieutenant for the ship. Even now, as Martin prepared to receive the rebuke he deserved for day-dreaming, when he should have been studying the horizon for strange ships. There was no rebuke however. Carrington passed Martin his telescope. “Off to the foretop. See if anything is about.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Martin took the telescope, slung the strap around his shoulder and made off to the fore shrouds and began to climb.
Happily settled in the foretop, Martin raised the telescope. He then immediately lowered it. He looked at the seaman whose task was lookout. The seaman looked back defiantly.
“Why?” Martin said. “Why did you not report it?”
The man, maybe three years older than Martin’s fourteen years, looked as if he was going to cry. “’Coz I don’t belong here. I should be at home looking after my mother. They bloody Press-men came and snatched me when I was working in the field. I’m no sailor. I’m a field hand.” He sobbed quietly.
Martin raised the telescope, discomforted by the distress of the young man. He called below. “Ship on our port bow, closing under full sail. Looks like….. She’s under French colors, a frigate.” He waited for the lift of a wave, “Looks like 36 guns.”
Carrington called, “Stay there and keep me informed for the moment.”
From beneath them the two people in the foretop heard the whistles calling the men to their quarters.
Martin turned to his companion. “What’s your name?”
“Peters, sir. Patrick Peters.”
“Well, Patrick Peters. I should report you for this, but I won’t. You can do nothing about your mother now, absolutely nothing. If you like, I will write to your local vicar when we speak to a homeward bound ship. It’s the best I can do. If you do this again it will be the cat, with no option. You put the whole ship in danger. Understand?”
Peters looked shamefaced. “I didn’t think of that.” He said, “I’ll do my best, sir. If you will write a letter I should be obliged.”
From below came the call to clear for action. Then, “Mr.. Forest, take your station. Lookout?”
“Peters, sir.”
“Peters, call any change in position.”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
Martin slid down the forestay and landed on deck with a thump. He hurried to the quarter-deck and passed the glass to Mr. Carrington. “She looks fast, sir. And her sails are clean.”
“Well observed, Mr.. Forest.” The captain turned to Carrington. “Load the guns, but do not run out until the situation becomes clearer.” Turning back to Martin he said, “Your first action, Mr.. Forest!”
“Yes, sir.”
Captain Bowers looked thoughtful for a moment before saying, “Keep close to Mr.. Carrington and mark what he does. He is a fine officer and is experienced. You’ll do well to learn from him.” He turned and walked the length of the quarter-deck before turning and walking back. As Martin had become aware, the walk was the Captain’s way of letting the crew know, he was sharing the danger with them. It also allowed him to see what was happening, and issue orders controlling the ship during the forthcoming action.
HMS Arun was nominally a 36gun frigate, captured from the French who had named her L’Hirondelle (Swallow), her 9 pounder broadside guns had been replaced in Portsmouth with 12 pounders. Also 2x9 pound bow and 2x9pound stern chasers had been added. In addition 4x24pounder carronades mounted on slides were placed on the quarter-deck to complete her main armament. The carronades were short range because of the short barrels, and only used at close quarters where they were devastating.
Martin watched the approaching French ship. Neither craft was attempting anything spectacular. The course of each ship would bring them to a collision point by late afternoon. According to Mr. Carrington the action would be over before nightfall, which would not be until about 9pm that evening.
The war with France had only officially started in 1792, but clashes with French ships had been intermittent since the Revolution. There had obviously been problems within the French fleet with many of the officers being replaced or eliminated in the name of the people. This resulted in some cases of ships being handled by inexpe
rienced officers. The Arun herself had been captured with very little damage because of the inept handling of her captain.
The approaching ship was not however, being handled by an amateur. Identified now as the Charon she would not be up with them for at least another hour.
Both ships closed gradually. Neither Captain was disclosing his tactics before it was necessary. The Frenchman was sailing on a converging course, heeling to starboard under full sail.
The Arun was on the port tack, sailing close to the wind. Captain Bowers turned to the Master. “Mr.. Hardy, can we get any extra out of her?” He looked up at the cloud of sail on the three masts.
Carter Hardy scratched his bristly chin. “If we can get her a little more upright, we should ride easier through the water.”
“How can we do that, d’ye think?”
Hardy’s eyes ranged over the masts and straining sails. Martin, standing next to him, said quietly, without thinking. “What about the guns?”
Hardy looked at him quizzically.
“Suppose we run out the starboard guns. That would shift, what? 25 tons weight to starboard. It should ease the ship a little.”
Hardy turned to the Captain. “Sir. Young Mr. Forest here suggests that we run out the starboard battery. By doubling up on the gun crews for the task they should be able to manage it. It could shift just enough weight to make a difference. At least it’s worth a try.”
The Captain looked at the pair of them, considering what had been suggested. Then he turned to Mr. Carrington. “Run out the starboard guns, and chock them in place. We will have to remember when we use them to remove the chocks.”
Carrington raised his speaking trumpet. “Starboard guns run out. Port watch double up for the run out. Lively there!”
The men crouched on deck sprang into activity. The gun ports on the starboard side were opened and the guns standing on the sloping deck, with huge effort, were hauled up by the double crews to the fully run-out position. The barrels of the 12 pounders projected from the gun ports for the full length of the gun deck, like the thorns on a rose stalk.
Hardy was watching the sails and he called for slight adjustments to the trim. The Captain ordered the log to be checked and the speed marked.
As the ship settled down to the alterations to her trim, Hardy commented, “It’s made a difference, I vow. I can feel it. She is lighter, by God.”
Martin was looking at the French ship when Mr. Carrington, who was using his telescope, called, “We are headreaching on her, sir. We are outsailing her.” He snapped his telescope shut and turned to Martin with a quiet “Well done, lad!” Then he strode to the quarter rail and called down to the main deck, “Mr. Green, Mr. Harper. Be sharp when the orders come. The Frenchy looks well-handled and new. She’ll be full of men so our gunnery is important.”
Both Lieutenant Green and the senior Midshipman Robert Harper responded, eagerly awaiting the chance to use the guns they commanded.
Captain Bowers turned to Martin. I think we’ll hoist the battle ensign, just to make sure our friend there knows who he is fighting. As Martin saw the huge Union Flag raised, snapping and rippling in the fresh breeze, he thought his heart would burst with the pride it inspired.
The two ships closed the gap between them with the British frigate drawing gradually ahead. The effect of this was that for the Frenchman to bring his broadside to bear he would need to give way to port. The other danger he faced was that the Arun would gain sufficient lead to allow her to cross the bow of her opponent, firing her broadside guns in turn, with the effect of sending her shot the full length of the French ship, creating mayhem in their passing.
On the other hand, if the French ship could keep close to her opponent, a skilled Captain may be able to come starboard and cross the stern of the British ship and use her broadside against the stern of the Arun. This action would now be a battle of wits between the two Captains.
There was no way that Martin could describe the action with any accuracy. It started at 5.00pm, and it was all over by 6.15 pm. Between times, for Martin, the action was a confusion of smoke and noise from the guns, and the shriek of passing bullets. Men cheered. The gun carriages rumbled out and were thrown back by the recoil from firing. Enemy shot hit the fife rail, sending a swathe of splinters across the deck. The only man standing upright on the quarter-deck was one of the helmsmen who had managed to hang on to the wheel when everyone else was thrown down. He managed to remain upright. Sadly, he was caught in the shower of splinters. Riddled and bleeding he collapsed on deck, coughing his life away in seconds.
Martin was back on his feet in time to see the foremast of the French ship lean back and collapse in a tangle of rigging and torn sails. The Charon fell off to port and the smoke ripped apart in the freshening wind. There were a series of holes smashed into the French ship along her exposed sides. Only seven of her cannon were still were still firing. There were red streaks down the side of her hull, that Martin realized were tracks of blood from the dead and wounded strewn across the decks. Men were hacking away at the rigging from the foremast trying to clear room to move it out of the way. The mainmast was rocking dangerously and another group of men were trying to carry a hawser from the truck of the mainmast to the bow of the ship to brace it and stop it from collapsing and bringing the mizzen down with it.
All the time the relentless crash of the guns from the British ship, as they were sending their heavy shot to add to the carnage on the enemy ship. As he watched he heard the swishing noise of the canister shot and saw men on the enemy deck struck down. All the men with the hawser were gone, cut down with the one shot. The collection of half inch lead shot spread in a wide swath and took them all.
Martin heard his name called and turned to see Mr. Carrington struggling to rise from the deck where he had fallen. There was blood on his sleeve. He ran across and sat him up, looking in horror at the splinter of wood that projected from the sleeve.
“Get me back on my feet, Martin. Come, help me up.” Carrington gasped. Martin hauled the wounded man up to his feet and held him while he caught his balance. The Captain came across and saw the wound. “Get Mr. Carrington down to the surgeon! Quickly now.”
“But, sir, my place is on deck here with you.” Carrington was still finding difficulty in standing upright.
Martin called one of the spare hands over to help him. Between them they carried the First Lieutenant down to the orlop deck where the surgeon was performing his duties, in what looked like hell to Martin Forest. They set Carrington down and told the surgeon he was there.
The Surgeon came and looked at the wound. He tied a bandage tightly round the arm above the splinter, the blood flow slowed though it did not cease entirely. “I’ll get back to you shortly,” he said and returned to the man he had been working on, still held down by his assistants.
Martin returned to the quarter-deck where he realized that the guns were silent. The Frenchman had struck her colors.
Mr.. Green spoke to the Captain, who ordered him to take a party across to the captured ship and accept the surrender of the French Captain. As he turned to leave he called to Martin, “Collect your sword and accompany me to the prize. Tell the Bosun to bring the longboat alongside, and get it manned. I’ll arrange some marines.”
Martin called the Bosun and gave him his orders, then ran down to the gunroom and collected the sword given him by Mrs.. Bowers. He was back on deck in time to follow the crew down the side into the longboat. He was followed by ten red-coated marines, who crouched down the middle of the boat trying to keep clear of the men settling to row.
At the French ship’s side there was nobody to stop the boarding party from hauling themselves aboard. On the deck the men were still clearing the raffle of torn sails and tangled rigging. On the quarter deck the Captain was leaning on the binnacle, his shoulder bandaged and the arm hanging loosely down. Beside him another officer stood arrogantly facing the British party.
“Have you come to surrender?” He s
aid in accented English.
The Captain wearily lifted his head and drew the sword awkwardly from its scabbard. He reversed it and presented it to Lieutenant Green. He turned to the man beside him “Armand, your sword!”
The arrogant one drew his sword and Martin, not trusting the man’s temper, lifted the pistol he carried. In the event the man ungraciously passed his sword over with a nod of his head. Lt. Green turned to Martin. “Return to the ship and inform the Captain we need help to keep the prize afloat, and, if they can be spared, more of the marines.”
Martin took the longboat back to the Arun and informed the Captain.
He watched as Bill Swan, Master’s Mate, and Robert Harper, the senior midshipman took the loaded longboat across the darkening gap between the ships. They all climbed aboard including the longboat crew who went to help with the securing of the prize.
They kept company for two days whilst repairs were carried out on both ships. After 48 hours of backbreaking work the prize parted company with HMS Arun, and they resumed their voyage to Gibraltar. The Charon made for Falmouth, perhaps two day’s sailing north-east back the way they had come.
Both the officers and the crew were for several days involved in the restoration of the rigging and the remounting of one of the forward broadside guns which was dismounted during the action with the Charon. The absence of Lt. Green and Midshipman Harper was also felt as the remaining deck officers were pressed to cover the gaps. John Reed was elevated to acting Lieutenant, having had three years’ experience as a Midshipman. The captain thought the responsibility would be good for him. His chances of retaining the post were slim, as it was known that there were several officers in Gibraltar from the Mediterranean, men wounded in action and taken to Gibraltar for treatment, now recovered and looking for places. The unsuccessful would be returned to England where they must compete with many others for berths.
Captain Bowers was indeed depending on the pool of men available in Gibraltar to make up the numbers short in the crew due to being shorthanded when they sailed, a situation made worse by the need to produce a prize crew for the captured French frigate.
