by David Starr
Wilson is as eager to carry out his duty as Lieutenant Murray, but he serves as the cautious voice of reason on Cerberus.
“Aye,” says Captain Whitby. “We engage and we will blow her to pieces. Goodness knows how many better chances we’ll have. Prepare for battle.”
Whitby’s orders echo across the ship. “Don’t forget Nelson’s words at Trafalgar: ‘England expects that every man will do his duty.’ Weather be damned, we will do ours! To battle, men! I want that ship resting on the bottom of the sea before morning!”
Chapter 26
The hunt for the French frigate is like nothing I have ever experienced. What little light that comes from the cloud-covered dusk sky is soon conquered by night and the storm. Captain Whitby has ordered our ship’s lights extinguished, as has the master of the French ship. We hunt in darkness, our prey visible only when lightning erupts from the sky.
“Where the blazes is she?” Bill asks. We stand ready on the bow, wind, waves and rain pelting us, carronade prepared to fire upon the French. Below us on the gun deck, Gunner Rowe has all twenty-six of our 18-pounders ready to fire from either side of the ship.
“A dinnae ken, Bill. She was last seen off the starboard bow but the ship could be anywhere now, port or starboard, bow or stern. ’Tis like trying to find a lump of coal at midnight,” I reply. We’ve not laid eyes on the enemy frigate for more than an hour. She could be anywhere.
Suddenly thunder erupts right over our head, louder than a thousand church bells, or the largest cannon on earth. “Damn them all to hell!” cries Bill as jagged forks of lighting turn night to day. “There she is!”
We have pulled even with the French. Not two hundred yards starboard they ride the crest of a massive wave, their side lined up to ours, in perfect firing position.
“Fire!” cries Captain Whitby. The French captain issues the same order, and I watch transfixed as the sea in front of me erupts in fire and smoke, the roar of French and English guns shaking Cerberus from stem to stern.
“Shoot, Trap!” shouts Bill. Our carronade is shot and wadded, and by good planning as much as luck is aimed directly at the French midships. The carronade fires all manner of things: cannonballs, chainshot and grapeshot.
Gunner Rowe has instructed us to load chainshot, two balls connected by a long length of chain — a nasty charge meant to rip masts, sails and sailors to shreds. I pull the lanyard and the hammer falls onto the dry powder.
Cerberus shudders with the force of our cannon. The deck shakes once, every inch of my body ringing with noise.
From this range, on calm seas, the two broadsides would have devastating effect. Spars and men’s limbs should be shattered. Sails should be holed. Jagged holes should be ripped into the oaken sides of the ship. On the gun decks men should be lying dead or screaming as legs and guts are blown away.
That does not happen. The seas are wild as we open fire on each other. Instead of taking a direct hit, Cerberus lunges madly up onto the crest of a wave at the same time the French frigate plunges deep into a trench. Our cannon shot flies harmlessly into the empty air above the French while theirs hits the water far under our keel.
“Swab and sponge!” I cry to Little Fred and young Peter. “Are ye all right?” I ask our youngest gunner, his eyes wide, his hands shaking as he sponges the carronade.
“I’m too scared to breathe,” Peter says, his voice shaking.
“I don’t care if you breathe,” Little Fred tells him. “Just sponge the gun and be quick about it!”
“Fire!” cries Captain Whitby just as we finish reloading. This time when I pull the lanyard we fire completely blind. The sky is black, the air on deck full of rain and smoke, the French frigate nowhere to be seen.
“Do ye see them?” The smoke clears from my eyes as Bill, Little Fred and Peter reload the carronade once more. Before the words leave my mouth there is the flash of cannon fire. It is further away, at least 800 yards now; still within range of the large guns below, but too far for the short-barrelled carronade.
The deck erupts in smoke and flame once more as we return fire. I can’t see whether any of our balls strike home, but this time a French shot comes closer. Even with the waves I see the splash of a cannonball hitting the water just off our stern.
“Hold your fire!” orders Captain Whitby as the French disappear into the storm and the darkness once more.
All eyes are trained on the sea, searching everywhere for the French. “There she is!” I cry a few minutes later as lightning flashes overhead. Somehow I manage to catch just a fleeting glimpse of the enemy frigate. It is 2,000 yards away now, drifting away in the waves. To fire now would be a waste of lead and powder.
“Damnation!” Lieutenant Murray curses. “If it wasn’t for this cursed storm we’d have had them.”
“Perhaps,” says Captain Whitby, “but now at least one of Boney’s captains know we’re after them. They can run, Lieutenant Murray, but they cannot hide forever. There are ten thousand bays and harbours in the Mediterranean, and if we have to search every one until we find them, then by God that is what we will do. The French may have escaped us this time, but they will not do it again.”
Chapter 27
By morning the storm blows itself out. The sky clears, and the sun shines bright and hot, reflecting on the azure surface of the Mediterranean like diamonds. I walk the deck of Cerberus alone, lost in my thoughts.
Battle or not, I am desperate to find a way to slip from Cerberus and make my way back to England, but for now I must focus on my duties. We are on a war footing; we drill with the guns daily, even firing live shot, and for the first time we are trained on the cutlass.
“Form single ranks, four feet apart!” orders Lieutenant Gladding, commanding officer of the Royal Marine detachment. We line up bare-chested on the main deck. The sun is still low on the horizon, the day only a few hours old, but it is hot, and we are already sweating.
“Don’t cut yourselves, you tars,” says Gladding as we each take a short, curved sword from the gunner’s mate. “You’re not about to become Knights of the Round Table, but with a bit of luck you’ll learn enough to use a cutlass without killing yourselves.”
I hold the cutlass in my clammy hand. It’s heavier than I would have imagined. Much more so than any knife I’ve used, and deadlier by far.
“Right,” Gladding says, lifting his own weapon. “We’ve not the time to teach you everything, so we’ll start with the basics. Swords up! Time you learned the moulinet.”
An hour later I feel as if my arm will fall from my shoulder. Gladding, in his full uniform, has hardly a glow on his forehead, while all of us sailors are soaked.
There is no fighting. All we have done is move the sword in circular motions, to the left and the right, over and over.
“That’s it, tars,” he finally says. “First lesson is over. Hand in the swords to the gunner’s mate.”
“Och! I’ll never be able to use my arm again!” I groan, collapsing in a heap onto the deck. My entire arm from my fingers to shoulder feels as if it’s on fire.
“Give me knife or a pistol any day,” says Bill. He lies on the deck beside me, rubbing his aching wrist. “I hate to say it, but the Marines have gone up a little in my estimation! I never want to hold a blasted cutlass again!”
Cutlass lessons continue the next morning, however, the one after that and every morning for the rest of the week. Gladding drills us mercilessly, teaching us the art of sword-play. We practise the moulinet over and over until he’s satisfied, then moves on, one step at a time, teaching us how to defend ourselves from a blow, then to go on the offensive.
“Cut, thrust, parry, feint. With a few hundred hours of practice some of you might make decent swordsmen,” Gladding says approvingly seven days later. “At the very least, you’ve given yourselves a sporting chance not to get gutted if you end up fighting the French hand-to-hand.”
* * *
Another week passes. By now we are deep into the Mediterrane
an and the brown mountains of Sicily have appeared in the distance, rising above the green water of the sea.
We have reunited with the Unicorn as well. Captains Kerr and Whitby had anticipated a separation on the journey to Sicily and had arranged to rendezvous in a sheltered bay on the southern tip of Marettimo, a small island off the western coast of Sicily.
Together again we patrol the coastline, seeking out the French frigates. Ships and smaller vessels sail everywhere: small coastal fishing boats and a host of other strange-looking vessels with sleek hulls, large, triangular sails, and strange, musical names like Xebec, Mistoco, Trabacollo and Felucca.
We have stopped several of them, asking their captains if they have seen the French ships, but as the days go by the answer remains the same. No sign of the French, not even a whisper. Napoleon’s frigates remain ghosts, but we do see other dangerous things in the water.
“Look to the sea, Trap,” says Bill as we stand on deck, searching the sea for sails.
After all this time at sea I am used to dolphins. They frequently swim beside us, dancing and playing in the wake or alongside the bow as it cuts through the water. The grey, triangular fins I see now belong to no dolphin.
“Sharks, the real wolves of the sea. Not a good time to go for a swim.” This is the first time we have seen sharks on our travels, and the old sailors take it as a dark omen.
“Some say sharks can smell blood in the water a mile away,” Little Fred says. “They are a portent of death. Battle’s coming soon enough; the sharks are waiting around for a meal.”
Cerberus and Unicorn are in a constant state of readiness. Gun hatches are open, cannons at the ready, all set to blast the enemy to blazes. None of the vessels we see, however, fly the flag of France.
We sail along the southern coast of Sicily when, in the late evening three days after seeing the sharks and with just one bell left in the second dog watch, sails suddenly appear.
They look like white billowing clouds as they emerge out of a hidden Sicilian bay far up the coastline. The familiar cry of “masthead there!” rings out across the ship as we move to the sound of the drum and the cry of “beat to quarters!”
“Most likely a fisherman leaving port,” says Bill as we stand by the carronade, our cutlasses standing ready in racks beside the mast. We are on a war footing, and Lieutenant Gladding has seen fit to keep us armed.
“Aye, most likely.” This is the tenth time at least we’ve drummed to stations since seeing Sicily. We are well practised, ready to engage our enemy with broadsides and sword, but have yet to find them.
“Hold on, I may have spoken too soon, Trap.” Bill eyes the far-off ship keenly. “That’s no fishing schooner; she’s a frigate, full-rigged for sure, with gun ports. Whatever she is, she belongs to someone’s navy. Stand ready.”
On the quarterdeck, Captain Whitby, Lieutenant Murray and Lieutenant Wilson have their glasses pressed to their eyes. One by one they lower the long brass telescopes, the grim looks on their faces confirming that they’ve come to the same conclusion as Bill.
“French frigate! Two points off the starboard bow!” cries Murray. “Battle stations!”
Hearts race as we leap into action. I spread sand around our gun, knowing now from personal experience how slippery the wooden deck of a ship can be when it’s covered with blood.
“Ye’ll be fine, Peter,” I say to the youngest member of our gun crew. Just a few short months ago the lad was a powder monkey, running bags of gunpowder between the magazines and the guns. Now, he is an experienced sponger. Bill will load the shot and help aim the carronade, while I fire.
Gunner Rowe has armed us with lead canisters of small grapeshot, as well as chainshot. Our task will be to shred the sails, the lines and the men on the main deck.
The distance between Unicorn, Cerberus and the French frigate closes. A large white banner with a red, white and blue canton in the corner flies proudly in the wind. Though it is too far away to see with the naked eye, Captain Whitby can make out her name through his spyglass.
“The Incorruptible. Forty-four guns by the looks of it. There are two against one. We have more sail and we are upwind; we have the weather gauge. She can’t outrun us, and her captain knows it. Make sure the men are ready, lieutenants; we’ll be at war within the hour!”
“A bit bigger than a Russian gunboat, eh, Trap?” says Bill as the distance between us evaporates. The wind blows briskly at our back, as Unicorn and Cerberus fairly race through the waves towards the French frigate.
“Aye. A bit bigger, indeed.” Staring at the approaching French warship, I begin to tremble. Incorruptible is bigger than us, longer, heavier, and with more guns. The Unicorn and the weather gauge or not, we are in for the fight of our lives.
“She’s trapped. Ain’t nowhere to go,” says Bosun Watson. “Land to the back of her, Royal Navy to the front. Weren’t expecting us to show up like this, I reckon. She’s caught with her breeches down, so to speak. All the French can do is swing around, fire broadsides and fight like the devil.”
Below us on the gun deck, Gunner Rowe is preparing the cannon and crew, ensuring all is in readiness, waiting for Captain Whitby to close the distance, order the ship to come about swiftly and give him the order to fire.
The plan is simple. Cerberus will slide through the water, present her starboard side to the French while Unicorn swings to the port. Twenty-six guns will fire at the same time, unleashing massive broadsides. The French will do the same and while it is two ships to one, they will have twenty cannon of their own, and will not surrender without the fight of their lives.
On the main deck, preparations of an equally deadly but much different sort are being made. The Marine sharpshooters have climbed into the rigging to the fighting tops.
With their long flintlocks they will take aim at Incorruptible’s exposed gunners and officers, killing as many as they can — as well as the French Marines in their own fighting tops, who aim to kill our officers and crew.
When the two ships come together, the Marines will take the lead, boarding the French as they toss grenades onto the French deck before leading the men onto the French ship itself, fighting at close quarters with cutlass and pistol.
“Your job is simple enough, lads,” says Second Lieutenant Wilson to Bill and me. “We’ll be going in bow-first until the last moment when the helmsman comes about. Before he does, you’ll aim the carronade dead ahead, fire on my command, and rake the men on the deck, the rigging and the sails. You’ll cause as much damage as you can with your chainshot, then you’ll reposition your gun when we turn and keep firing until the gun barrel melts, you’re given the order to stop, or you’re dead!”
The drums roll. We are hurriedly beaten to quarters, not ten minutes before we engage the French in battle. “Men of England,” says Captain Whitby to the assembled crew, “we are about to fight a warship from Napoleon’s fleet, the greatest enemy to the security of our people since the Spanish Armada, more than two hundred years ago.”
I stand breathless, excitement and fear coursing through my veins. “The Royal Navy is the only thing that stands between our shores and invasion,” he continues. “King George and the people of England are counting on you to do your duty, and by God you will not let them down. Capture her if you can, sink her if you must, but before the sun sets, Incorruptible will be ours!”
Chapter 28
“Fire!” cries Lieutenant Wilson when the French warship comes into range. I take a deep breath, pull the lanyard, then step quickly out of the way as the carronade bounces backward as it sends its deadly load of chainshot towards Incorruptible.
“Well done, Trap!” cries Bill, although I can scarcely hear him through the ringing in my ears. Our first shot has found its mark in the sails of the foremast.
I’ve managed to shred a sail and send chunks of spar splintering down onto the French deck. I watch as sailors run for cover, desperately trying to avoid the falling wood.
We don’t have ti
me to congratulate ourselves. Peter quickly sponges out the gun, and Bill reloads, this time with a nasty-looking grapeshot. I fire again, this time onto the deck of the ship itself, right towards the crew.
We are close enough to hear the French sailors scream. The shot tears across Incorruptible’s wooden deck. I can’t see for certain through the smoke what damage we’ve inflicted, but I’ve no doubt more than a handful of our enemy have been separated from their limbs or their lives. I also know that their deck runs thick with blood because my aim was true.
I have just killed people, men and boys alike, my own age or younger. I suppose that later those screams and the rest of what I see and hear today will haunt me, but I have no time to dwell on that now.
A plume of smoke and the sound of thunder erupts from the carronade on the bow of Incorruptible. The French have mounted their counterattack, sending their own grapeshot our way.
I throw myself to the deck as hundreds of the tiny balls fly through the air above me, slamming into the foremast, ripping through our sails like deadly hailstones.
A Marine in the fighting top cries out, then tumbles from the mast headfirst, landing with a heavy thud onto the deck just behind me. He lies still on the deck, limbs and neck twisted in strange angles, blood pouring out of the large hole in his belly.
Incorruptible starts to turn, preparing to unleash her main cannons. “Keep firing!” commands Lieutenant Wilson. I feel dizzy, overwhelmed by the smell of the gunpowder, the noise of the gun, and the taste of sweat in my mouth. Bill loads the carronade again. I pull the lanyard, then send another load of iron into French men and sails. More screams. More blood.
“Come about!” shouts Lieutenant Wilson. The helmsman turns the ship’s wheel sharply and Cerberus heels over, her stern sliding through the water. The frigates are now less than two hundred yards apart.
