The Patriot's Fate

by Alaric Bond

  Sarah nodded; it all made sense, and she was reasonably sure she could cope, especially with those as experienced as Mrs Clarkson and Mrs Porter close at hand to guide her. “Betsy, have you been in action many times?” she asked finally.

  “Lord no,” the surgeon’s wife replied. “This is my first.”

  * * *

  The British had certainly found them, but this was not the biggest problem the French fleet faced. The storm that had been building steadily throughout the day had reached it zenith by evening; it was the third they had encountered in a short time, and most of the seamen knew this was likely to prove the most dangerous.

  The wind bore down relentlessly, while waves broke over the heavily laden hulls, soaking any part that the rain might have missed and terrifying the human cargo packed tightly below. Many of these, whether French soldiers or Irish patriots, were desperately sea-sick, and any that were not appeared drunk. And all the while the savage Irish coast was in their lee, waiting to welcome them with beckoning breakers and razor sharp ridges of rock that would be glad to rip the bottom off any ship, or strip the soul from the body of a man.

  To avoid this danger Bompart was desperately clawing back as much sea room as possible, but his efforts were causing great strain on his ships. The fleet itself had separated, and all were paying scant attention to their fellows as they fought their own private battles for survival.

  The scene that Crowley and the others had witnessed on the Hoche‘s orlop had brought forth images of hell powerful enough to convert the most determined sinner, and despite the atrocious conditions on deck, had sent them up to the open air of the waist. Now they huddled together, taking what shelter they could under the gangways, while above them the tophamper creaked and groaned in a manner that chilled the seamen’s hearts.

  “If it lasts the night out I’ll count my blessings and never go to sea again,” Doyle told them with total sincerity as they watched the jury main topmast working in the storm. They were carrying fully reefed topsails, but even that scant amount of canvas was dangerous in the present conditions.

  “He must be clear of the coast b’now,” MacArthur grumbled, although none felt inclined to look, and all were well aware of the dangers of a lee shore.

  “We have to take in that sail,” Crowley said, his eyes still fixed on what served as a main topsail. “It isn’t going to hold, and if we lose the mast we’ll be in a worse fix than ever.”

  He even rose, and was starting for the quarterdeck steps, but as he did a terrible groaning came from above. The men watched, fascinated, as the jury topmast bent and split before their eyes. Then the topsail itself billowed and cracked, while the bulk of the mast began to fall.

  “It’s going, it’s bloody going!” They stood, transfixed, not knowing where to run as the tangle of rigging started to collapse above them. A block fell, landing between Doyle and Doherty, and there were shouts and cries from all about.

  “Under the gangway!” Crowley shouted. The ship’s boats and what few spare spars they carried appeared to give some shelter, but the gangway planking would offer better protection from falling tophamper. The men ran back as the mast fell to leeward, snapping lines and ripping shrouds as it went. Then there was a further shout. The fore and mizzen topgallant masts were going also, their fragile housings being far too weak for the topmast’s tremendous leverage. The Hoche fell off the wind and began to roll in the hollow swell while wreckage tumbled down, dragging the ship round like one large sea anchor.

  “Axes, men!” Crowley was first up and bounding across the heeling deck. There were several ready use hatchets stored on beckets by the mainmast: prime tools for hand to hand fighting, although they would now be used for a very different style of combat. Crowley reached the first taut line and smacked his axe down against the bulwark. The rope separated and disappeared instantly, only to be replaced by another, which Doyle attended to. The jury topmast was smashing against the side of the ship, seemingly determined to burst a hole in the hull with its death throws as the seamen continued to hack at the lines that held it. Then, with a sound that was audible even above the noise of the storm, the maze of wood, canvas and line fell away and was left to float alone.

  The ship righted, then began a regular roll as she gave herself entirely to the whim of the current. Crowley looked back to the quarterdeck, where the officers, ridiculous in their full length oilskins and oversized hats, were desperately calling for hands. He had no idea quite how close the shore might lie, but knew well enough that the ship must inevitably be pushed towards it. They would have to rig another jury mast, or find some other method of raising a balanced suit of canvas if they wanted to beat away from its impending embrace. A sudden gust of wind took them, laying the hull over for a few desperate seconds, before the ship reluctantly reverted to her steady roll. It would mean working aloft, a dangerous exercise in the present conditions, that or face the certainty of the ship beaching on a lee shore. Crowley glanced about at the others, all equally aware of their predicament, while a wicked thought occurred. They had all been so keen to see Ireland again; now it was apparent that they might be there in a way none of them had imagined.

  * * *

  With the bulkheads down, the galley stove cold, and the ship stripped of nearly all comforts, those in Scylla rode out the storm with grim determination. On the berth deck the watch below had slung their hammocks in the normal way, but with their canvas screens removed it was a bleak and draughty place, and they missed the fire to dry their sodden clothing. The midshipmen and volunteers had lost their quarters to the medical team, and were bunking in various storerooms and passageways. Dudley, the purser, and marine lieutenant Adshead, who had earlier been moved from their cabins in the gunroom to make way for the Monroes, now found the stewards’ pantry they had been sharing to also be the home of Barrow, Rose and Parfrey. The only area that retained some degree of normality was the gunroom itself, and even that had been disrupted. The captain had taken over King’s cabin, forcing the two lieutenants to share Chilton’s quarters, while the dining area was now a general mess for other junior officers. But with the ship in the very teeth of a storm, a powerful enemy fleet and a lee shore known to be close at hand, cramped conditions and lack of privacy were hardly important considerations.

  Fraiser sat at the gunroom table, his chart of the western approaches laid out in front of him. The bread bin and a shielded sconce held the paper flat while he worked a set of parallel rulers across the page. Lewis, a master’s mate, was seated to his right and followed the older man’s calculations in silence. Dead reckoning was a skill he had yet to perfect. He knew that with care and attention a feel for the work could be acquired, and having a tutor such as the sailing master to learn from was a definite asset. Fraiser finally looked up and treated the younger man to one of his rare smiles.

  “Well, it is impossible to gauge the strength of the current, but I would say we were safe enough for the time being.”

  Lewis looked again at his master’s workings, a small triangle of neat black crosses showed their estimated position, with the nearest stretch of coast being the Rosses, which still lay a good few leagues to leeward. He nodded without saying a word. Besides the current Fraiser had allowed for a strong but fluctuating wind, as well as the leeway that any ship was bound to make in such conditions. They might as easily be anywhere within a five or even ten mile radius and, with no evening sighting, Fraiser could hardly have been blamed if they saw breakers at any moment. But there was something in the older man’s calculations that rang true; it was almost as if he had cast a spell and willed Scylla to that particular spot, although Lewis would naturally never speak such blasphemous nonsense out loud. But witchcraft or not, Lewis was as confident of Fraiser’s estimation as the captain would soon be. More than that, he felt he had learnt a little of the ancient art himself, and in a few years might even be able to emulate the master in his work.

  * * *

  By midnight the storm had eased, and
once the clouds permitted, the moon gave a fair amount of light. But that was all that could be said in favour of the night. It took two hours of hard work to clear away the wreckage and repair the damage done aloft before the last suitable spar, a fore topgallant mast, could be released from its fixings. It now lay on the skid beams ready for raising into position. The ship was still rolling heavily; it would take skill as well as brute force to bring the spar upright and manoeuvre it against the lower mainmast. A single gust of wind when it had been lifted but not secured, or a rogue wave nudging the ship unexpectedly, and the mast would be lost over the side like its predecessor.

  A lantern had been fixed to the mast cap, along with four lines that led up through the lubber’s hole of the maintop. These would first raise the spar upright and then, after being passed about the maintop and refastened, used to keep the mast from tipping in either direction as it was raised. Two stout halliards ran from beneath the heel to provide the upward pressure. They passed up and over the lower mast cap, and lead back through a succession of blocks to two teams of eight men stationed on either gangway. The spar was far lighter than the original main topmast and even the jury mast that had replaced it, and should prove easier to lift, but would remain just as vulnerable during the short journey up the lower mainmast. The boatswain, or maître d’équipage, stood at the break of the quarterdeck, an ideal position to supervise the entire process.

  On the quarterdeck Bompart and Maistral were standing as mute observers. Neither Commodore nor Captain were particularly skilled in such intricate seamanship, and appeared quite content to give those that were a free rein. They had, however, insisted that the work be carried out immediately. Dawn might not be far away and such a delicate procedure was very much more dangerous during the dark hours, but morning was likely to reveal a British fleet close at hand, and no time could be wasted. Crowley and the other Irishmen were amid the larboard gangway team and stood fingering the line expectantly as they waited for the call to begin.

  It came in the form of a shrill note blown from the boatswain’s silver call. On hearing the sound the four men at the cap falls began to haul on their lines. The lantern described a wide arc as the spar was slowly raised upright. At the maintop it was gingerly guided through the lubber’s hole and held in position while the lines were removed and reattached. All waited while the work was done, and held their breath when the ship heaved unexpectedly to larboard. But in time the new fixings were ready, and one of the maintop team called down to the boatswain.

  The first part was over, now all that was needed was to guide the spar up the lower mast. Both gangway teams took up the slack; the boatswain blew on his call once more and began to count as the men on the gangways heaved the spar skywards.

  “Un, Deux, Trois… Tribord!” The unexpected shout stopped everyone instantly. The mast was leaning too far over; the boatswain on the quarterdeck held one arm in the air and pointed in an accusing fashion at the masthead. All waited while the men with the guiding lines made subtle adjustments until, apparently satisfied, the boatswain sounded his call again. The spar rose further, and was now more than half way through its journey. Crowley could see that it was far too light and short to do the job properly. It might, however, be suitable for mounting a small square sail, and would provide a suitable anchorage for stays. Then the call was heard for the last time: the mast was now as high as it would go.

  Men on the maintop started to set the lower housing, while those who had been guiding secured their lines to keep the upper mast stable long enough for proper shrouds to be mounted. Once fully rigged, a replacement yard could be set up. It would be an arduous and time consuming task that may well stretch on beyond the dawn, and Hoche was by no means out of peril. But the main danger at least had passed; it seemed that some of their former luck was returning and they could hope to meet the next storm, or the British for that matter, on slightly better terms.

  * * *

  The storm’s cessation was no less welcome to those in Scylla. There were no major repairs to carry out, but all bad weather is disruptive. The men were tired, and the knowledge that an enemy force was near did not sit easy with any of them. By three bells in the morning watch there was finally light enough to see the true position. The French lay in two loosely formed parallel lines off the starboard bow; there appeared to be one ship less; although, as this was the first time they had been viewed from a close vantage point, that might be an illusion. The north-northwesterly wind had fallen and the fleet was making slow progress towards the southwest: it was the only course they could steer with any hope of escape. The flagship had clearly sustained serious damage aloft and was now under a jury rig that would prevent her coming closer to the wind. Meanwhile Foudroyant and Melampus, in clear sight off Scylla‘s starboard beam, effectively blocked any move the French might make in that direction, and the remainder of Sir John Warren’s ships could just be made out to the east, where they were closing fast on the enemy’s stern. If the wind held, the British might be within long range in an hour or so, and it would be only a short while longer before they brought their broadside guns to bear.

  Banks closed his glass with a purposeful air, but continued to study the enemy fleet. It did not do to anticipate one’s commodore, but Banks guessed that Sir John would order a general chase. The first two French frigates were slightly ahead, while the rest seemed to be holding back to protect their flagship, much in the way a swarm of bees might defend their queen, and it would seem probable that they would remain in that defensive position should the British choose to launch an all out attack. That was the instinctive reaction after all, and would probably be the choice of most commanders; although, in this instance, Banks felt they would be making a very big mistake.

  Most if not all of the French frigates would be carrying troops, and even without those packed inside the flagship, their number must be substantial. The French raison d’être lay not in fighting the British but delivering an invasion army; a force of any size landing in Ireland would be better than none at all. It might not even need the full weight of the fleet’s cargo to kindle a revolutionary fire large enough to deem the whole project a success. If Banks were the French commander he would order all the accompanying frigates to make off, using their superior speed, and then do what he could to delay Warren’s ships from following. With luck the frigates would get as far as the Irish mainland, and may well be able to disembark their men and supplies before the British found them. It would be the sensible course, and would ensure the project was not a total failure, albeit at the sacrifice of one seventy-four.

  He glanced back to starboard where Foudroyant was beating as close to the wind as she would lie. The old liner was roughly eight miles from the nearest Frenchman and making heavy weather of it, forcing Scylla to hold back in order to keep pace. Beyond, and perhaps a mile further to leeward, was Canada, Warren’s flagship. It would be later still before she came to grips with the enemy; in fact the best that could be said of her position was that it gave the British commander a grandstand view of the action. Scylla was far better placed and had speed in hand to act, but, as a mere frigate, could do little to stop the French unsupported. The bulk of at least one two-decker would be needed, unless Scylla was used as nothing more than a sacrifice: a sprat to catch a mackerel.

  And it was then, as he stood on his quarterdeck and considered the situation, that Banks first became aware of a curious and disquieting feeling of impending doom. Instinctively he knew that Warren was not going to release the ships to pursue as best they could. This would be a more considered action, one where personal judgement would not be required. And Scylla, perfectly positioned as she was, seemed the ideal candidate to carry out a major part in the proceedings, and would inevitably come out the worst.

  He looked about, as if desperate to share the terrible thought that now seemed so blatantly obvious. Sir John had every reason to not be confident of catching the entire fleet from astern. In fact it was highly likely that the lea
ding French ships would slip clean away. In which case it could only be a matter of time before Scylla was ordered in to stop them and, despite her size, she must necessarily go alone.

  Single-handed they would have to run amok amongst the enemy, causing as much damage as possible in the hope of slowing the leading ships down. It might not take long, twenty minutes, maybe half an hour, just sufficient to allow the rest of the British fleet to catch up. But in that time his ship would probably be pounded into a wreck, and he could even be forced to strike.

  Banks actually closed his eyes as he considered the proposition. One ship to stop many; it was an appalling thought, albeit peculiarly similar to the role he had loftily decided would be right for the French flagship. Then he cursed himself for the fool he was, and grudgingly recognised the difference between theory and practice.

  “The French are manoeuvring,” Caulfield said softly. The first lieutenant had been standing next to him for all of the watch but had said nothing as the dawn revealed the two opposing fleets. King and Fraiser were also nearby, and equally silent: there had been no comments or trite remarks from any of them. All had been in action together before. Each understood that sober and considered judgement was particularly important at this stage, and would be all but impossible amidst an atmosphere filled with excited chatter and unnecessary speculation. Banks was reasonably sure that Caulfield had only spoken now because his captain was apparently focusing on the British liner, and he was quietly thankful that he had such a team supporting him. But despite their quiet concern, had any of his fellow officers realised the invidious position that Scylla now found herself? He thought not, and rather envied them their ignorance.