Vendetta: The Dorset Boy - Book 6

by Christopher C Tubbs

  Shelby approached him on the Formidiable that afternoon as he watched Ackermann finalizing the provisioning with Fletcher.

  “Permission to visit the flagship before we leave Captain,” he asked, “I would like to have a look and see how the Admiral is fairing before we leave and to make sure he has enough medication.”

  “I don’t suppose you will tell me what is wrong with him?” Marty asked, knowing the answer.

  “Patient confidentiality prevents me saying, but I can say he should not be here and would be better off at home.”

  Oh lord, he’s that bad is he, Marty thought but said.

  “Take the gig and please give him my compliments.”

  The Eagle was first to leave as she was their scout and Marty wanted her an hour or more ahead of them to spot potential targets. The Formidiable led the rest with Frasier, commanding the Hornfleur a cable behind him and the Alouette out to windward.

  They kept to a gentle pace of around eight knots and Marty had them running the usual practice exercises. They didn’t expect to see any French or Spanish country ships as they cruised along the South coast.

  He had it in mind to have a look into Malaga. The city was prosperous and had a history that went back centuries, he had also heard that the Granadans particularly hated the French. They cruised leisurely into the bay at around six that afternoon, flying Spanish flags.

  Marty couldn’t believe his eyes! There was a French third-rate anchored right in the middle. She looked like she had gotten the worst of some weather and pulled in for repairs. There were a plethora of small boats running back and forth from the beach and her main mast was missing its top two thirds.

  “Well, well, well,” he said to Wolfgang Ackermann, “the sun is shining on the righteous today. Please go to quarters, but do not run out, and signal our consorts to do the same. Take or burn do you think?”

  “It would make more of an impression if we burnt her,” Second Lieutenant Trenchard suggested as he studied her through his telescope.

  “But the blast if her magazine goes up would flatten half the docks district and that is not what we want. If we sink it in the bay it won’t block the port and it will be a permanent reminder that the French can be beaten.”

  He pondered for a minute.

  “Double shot the guns and load the carronades with smashers. I want the carronades to concentrate on her waterline and shoot the bottom out of her. The main batteries to wreck her upper works. Low charges so we don’t shoot all the way through, we don’t want our shot landing in the town! Don’t run out until we raise our own colours.”

  They had fifteen minutes to wait before they would be in position as they cruised along at less than four knots under topsails.

  Marty planned to anchor beside the sixty-four towards the bow, attach springs then begin. He trusted James to try and position the Alouette across her stern and the Hornfleur to pass him so they could rake the French bow from ahead. He would begin as soon as everyone was in place.

  James did exactly as he expected, veering to larboard to anchor behind the sixty-four. The Hornfleur, however, showed all the signs of staying directly behind them. Marty went to the rail and waved his hat at them and when Frasier appeared at the bow, he waved to indicate he should pass him and pointed to the bow of the Frenchman and made a ‘T’ of his hands.

  Frasier ran back to the wheel and the Hornfleur turned to pass the Formidiable. On his larboard side.

  Marty gritted his teeth as the whaler masked his guns from the Frenchman while sailing past. If they twigged what was going on, they were in trouble.

  It seemed to take forever for the Hornfleur to clear them and then it was time to anchor. It was risky, but he dropped a stern anchor first. They had lashed one to the starboard quarter with its cable looped around to come up their stern and through the transom so all the had to do was cut it loose letting the cable run out before backing the top sail and dropping the best bower anchor as they came to a halt. Then use the capstan to haul back on the stern anchor to get them in position.

  The French who were watching jeered this evolution and Marty imagined there were plenty of comments about the ineptitude of Spanish sailors.

  The time had come, the springs were set.

  “Raise the colours!” Marty called. “Run out! Make every shot count!”

  Marty had schooled his men in aimed broadsides and they quickly trained their guns on the gundecks of the Frenchman. He wanted as many of her guns out of action as soon as possible.

  As the colours ran up and the union flag streamed out in the breeze a shout went up on the Frenchman, hopefully too late.

  The eighteen-pound mains roared, and the big sixty-eight-pound carronades coughed. On the Alouette, James had swung her around as they anchored and gotten right across the stern. His carronades were loaded with a dozen four-pound shot each.

  On board the Frenchman chaos ruled. They had been taken completely by surprise thinking that the British fleet was in Sicily and believing that the visiting ships were Spanish. It hadn’t helped that their captain had been hurt during the storm and an inexperienced second lieutenant was in command as the first was with the captain, on shore, at the hospital.

  The sound of gunfire in the bay roused the two men from their conversation, the captain lying in bed, his broken leg stretched out, splinted and heavily bandaged.

  “Mon Dieu! The British are in the bay!” shouted the first lieutenant as he stared out of the window. He could see his ship, L’Argon, shudder as she was hit by a second broadside from the frigate moored a cable off her starboard bow.

  Cunning that, it seriously limits the guns that can fire back, he noted. Was that a French corvette raking the stern? No, she was flying the hated British flag as well, as was the whaler that had gotten across L’Argon’s bow.

  “What the hell is whaler doing in the Mediterranean?” asked the Captain as the first described the scene.

  They shot the poor L’Argon to pieces with only a few shots in return. The carronades blew huge holes in her waterline and she soon started to settle as the sea flooded in. It took scarcely more than an hour for her to become nothing more than a pair of masts sticking up out of the water. Marty ordered the boats into the water to fish out the French survivors.

  In the quiet that followed the last gunshot, Marty became aware of cheering coming from the shore. Then as the smoke blew away, he could see that the dock was lined with a large crowd of people cheering and waving the Spanish flag. Now he regretted sending the Eagle ahead as Ryan Thompson and Matai were the only ones to speak Spanish. Matai had gone with Ryan to replace his captain of the mainmast who had broken his arm.

  “They are chanting ‘death to the French’ and ‘long live the British’,” Midshipman Jonathan Williams told his usual partner in crime, Midshipman Eric Longstaff, as they stood side by side at the rail of the quarterdeck.

  Marty gave him a sharp look.

  “And how do you know that Mr Williams?” Marty asked from directly behind him.

  Williams nearly jumped out of skin at being addressed directly

  “My mother is Spanish Sir!”

  “Is she now.”

  “Yes, she still is,” the panicked youth stammered and then went bright red when he realised what he had done.

  Marty looked at him and grinned.

  “Mr Williams, I would be obliged if you would have my barge brought around and manned, we are going on a short trip ashore. Put on your best uniform, we need to put on a show!”

  Sam helped Marty into his number one dress jacket which was adorned with his badges of office. Then he buckled on his dress sword and handed him his best hat. Marty had gone the full mile with gold buckled shoes and solid gold buttons. He was out to impress.

  A knock at the door and Midshipman Longstaff was pleased to inform him that the barge was ready and a pair of marines “was all scrubbed up and shiny” and ready to accompany him

  A last tug of the coat to straighten it, an adj
ustment of his dress sword and he was ready. Sam was also dressed in his best and preceded him down into the barge. Between them they had enough concealed weapons to take on a platoon.

  The boat pulled up at the dock and the marines stepped up to secure the top of the steps before Marty went up followed by Williams and Sam. Williams had borrowed a clean shirt from Longstaff, the gunroom steward had given his shoes a quick polish and his best uniform a brush.

  The crowd were cheering and clapping, and Marty waved and grinned back at them. Then there was a shout and a squad of Spanish soldiers muscled their way through the crowd forming a corridor through which a regal looking man approached them.

  He said something in very rapid Spanish to Marty. Williams stepped up and translated,

  . “This is Don Andreas Carlos de la Borda, he is the Minister for Justice and has been tasked with welcoming you and thanks you for removing the blight of the French from their bay.”

  Marty replied and told Williams to translate as exactly as he could,

  . “I am Captain Sir Martin Charles Stockley, Baron Candor of Cheshire.” If the Spanish could do titles and long names so could he. “I am pleased to be of service in helping our Spanish brethren resist the depredations of their so-called French allies and lend assistance wherever I can.”

  The exchange of pleasantries was quickly repeated through the crowd and Marty’s statement was greeted with more cheers. It was followed by an invitation from the, obviously impressed, Don to visit their local ruling elite in the Ayuntamiento.

  They were walking side by side and Marty was getting a running commentary of the more historic buildings when the French first lieutenant appeared with a pair of pistols shouting about treachery and pirates. He pointed his pistols at Marty who was reaching for the stiletto in his sleeve when the man’s eyes rolled up in his head and he folded to the ground.

  A scruffy looking individual dressed in fisherman’s garb stood behind him holding a crude club grinning at Marty with a mouthful of rotting and broken teeth. Marty grinned back and said, “Gracias, senior!”

  The Don snapped an order to the sergeant and two soldiers picked the Frenchman up and dragged him away. Marty didn’t know, or particularly care, where.

  They came to an ornate and ancient building, which reminded Marty of the Moroccan style. Entered by large ornate double doors up a flight of steps and were led to a large meeting room. Seated inside were seven aristocratic looking men and one senior military officer. Marty made a leg and bowed to the assembly.

  “These men are the governing body for Malaga and the surrounding area,” Williams translated and introduced each man in turn ending with the uniformed man who was the local military commander.

  The man who had been introduced as the chairman started to speak and Williams gave a phrase by phrase translation.

  “We welcome you in the name of the Kingdom of Granada which is in its entirety is opposed to the infernal alliance between the government in Madrid and the French dictator Napoleon. The French ship in the harbour was threatening us with its guns if we did not cooperate with their repairs and behaved more like occupiers than allies.” He paused to gesture at his fellow men. “We thank you for your action. It removed a thorn from our side.”

  Marty bowed and replied,

  . “My lords, it was my pleasure, even though my country and yours be at war over a trifling matter we have a common foe in the French and should put aside our differences to push the dictator back from your borders. Alas, I have doubt that the men in Madrid will see it so clearly as we. May I ask what you will do with the French that are still on shore?”

  The military gentleman stepped forward.

  “The crew will be disarmed and allowed to walk back to Cadiz, the officers are more of a problem. The captain is in hospital with a broken leg, the first lieutenant is in a cell at the rear of this building and the rest of the officers are under house arrest.”

  Marty thought for a minute.

  “Give them to me,” and when he saw looks of alarm he continued, “they will be sent to Gibraltar and from there exchanged for British officers that are held by the French. They will be told that I forced you to give them up under threat of bombardment.”

  And interrogated by me in the meantime.

  This suggestion was welcomed after a brief debate and after a drink to toast their accord Marty and his men returned to the ship.

  They made a show of running all the guns out and threatening the town. The governors made sure the locals knew that it was just for show. The French officers were marched to the dock and handed over to a squad of marines under Sergeant Bright’s command. The French Captain was carried on a stretcher and the first lieutenant had to be led, as the blow to his head had rattled his brains. His eyes were most definitely crossed, and he had a confused look about him.

  Once aboard Shelby went to work examining the Captain and Lieutenant. Ackermann got them under way. Marty gave orders that the officers must be kept apart and not allowed to talk to each other either before or after he talked to them. He started with the most junior.

  Sixth Lieutenant Jean-Phillipe Trudeaus was just nineteen years old and was the third son of a baker from Lyon. He had joined the navy to find adventure at sixteen and all he had seen since leaving the naval college was the Mediterranean from Toulon to Cadiz. They had been one of the few ships to get out and patrol the Mediterranean before that demon Nelson had decimated the fleet the previous year.

  Now he was a prisoner of the British and his ship was at the bottom of the Bay of Malaga. Worse, he was kept apart from his fellow officers and was being escorted by a silent midshipman to God knows where!

  They came to a door which he guessed must be the captain’s cabin. A marine guard knocked the door, opened it a crack and said something. There was a response, he was ushered inside and sat on a hard-wooden chair in front of a desk behind which sat a young man in captain’s uniform.

  He looked around the nicely furnished cabin as the captain was ignoring him for the moment. There was an elegant but functional sideboard with a decanter set and glasses on the top. Judging by the fact the decanters were almost full the Captain wasn’t a drinking man. Hung on the wall above the sideboard was a portrait of a stunningly beautiful woman and on either side of her were portraits of two children.

  Beside the sideboard, next to one of the stern chasers that was covered in an embroidered cloth, was an open chest that was full of weapons. He gaped, no one had that many!

  He was brought back to attention by a polite cough, the captain was watching him with an amused look.

  “I am Captain Stockley of his Majesty’s Royal Navy and you are?” he asked in perfect French with a Lyon accent.

  Jean-Phillipe introduced himself and waited.

  “May I offer you a drink?” Captain Stockley asked him politely and when he nodded a steward, who he hadn’t notice come into the room, went to the decanters and poured them both a glass of dark liquid.

  He took a sip and holy Mary it was strong stuff! He coughed as it burnt his throat and the Captain laughed and said,

  “Navy rum. Not as elegant as French brandy but beggars cannot be choosers.”

  He waited until Jean-Phillipe had regained his composure and then asked.

  . “Have you been in the Navy long?”

  The interview took an hour during which Jean-Phillipe’s glass was refilled twice with the almost one hundred proof un-cut rum. It appeared that the Captain was drinking just as much as he was, but the fiery spirit didn’t seem to affect him in the slightest.

  Marty had in fact drunk none of the rum he had been served but had used sleight of hand to empty his glass into another concealed in the top drawer of his desk. In the hour he had watched the young lieutenant get increasingly comfortable in his surroundings and a flush had risen in his cheeks as the alcohol did its work.

  He chatted to him as if they had known each other for years and slipped questions into the conversation about their mission
, where they had been and where they were intending on going next.

  The next lieutenant in seniority was brought in and Marty went through the same process with him, confirming what the sixth had told him and adding to it. By that evening as he sat eating dinner with Shelby, he knew that L‘Argon had sailed from Toulon a month ago and was cruising with a frigate in attendance down towards Corsica when a storm had hit them, and they got separated. A squall had taken out a third of their mainmast and two thirds of their mizzen and they had limped into Malaga bay to make repairs having been driven Southwest.

  The captain had been worried about using that particular bay as the Granadans were belligerent towards the French and were at odds with their national government. The French hadn’t thought to pay for anything either which had further aggravated the locals.

  They had kept the town under their guns as their men acquired the necessary for the ship to be repaired. That was why Marty had such an easy time sinking her as all her available gun crews were manning the guns on the landward side and by the time they got the starboard battery ready it was too late.

  It was time to talk to the first lieutenant, Shelby said he was still confused and was suffering from something called concussion.

  “Hello, how are you?” Marty asked him as he lay in his cot.

  “My Captain! The British!” the lieutenant gasped and tried to sit up.

  Marty pushed him back down onto his pillow and made comforting noises.

  “It is alright, Steffan you are safe now, all is well,” Marty reassured him; he had gotten his name from one of the other officers.

  “Our ship, they sunk it! What of the mission?”

  Marty needed to know what that was, he had gotten hints from the other officers, but they wouldn’t, or couldn’t, elaborate on it.

  “I have been ordered to complete the mission, but your captain has been sent back to France to recover from his injuries. I need you to help me, his written orders are at the bottom of the bay, sunk by the bloody roast beefs,” Marty lied.