The Patriot's Fate

by Alaric Bond

  The seventy-four was clearly of the same opinion and soon the battered frigate was left behind. The Irishman swallowed; the huge enemy ship would be heading for them next. It would be far more of an even fight; Hoche was, after all, a solid two-decker, and mounted a weight of guns more than sufficient to tackle any British liner. And the frigates must have caused some damage in return for the drubbing they had received. But he had no illusions about the French ability in action. They might man their cannon with all the zeal of revolutionaries, and fight with every bit as much bravery and determination, but the British were the better trained. Hardly any of their ships spent as much time in harbour and while at sea they exercised almost continuously. It was not unheard of for two British broadsides to be despatched in the time it took for the French to send one, effectively doubling their fire power. And British built ships, though not always blessed with the finest of lines, were well equipped and usually handled with such professionalism that most other navies seemed amateur in comparison.

  “A vos armes!” The captain had also clearly noticed the threat and was ordering the men to their guns. Crowley moved across to the quarterdeck carronade that had been allocated exclusively to the Irishmen. It was not the only piece so served: the French had been sensible in using the men they had to hand, and recognised that friends and fellow countrymen work best together. Crowley had handled a carriage gun before, as had Doyle and MacArthur, and the two exercises that they had been permitted demonstrated there was nothing terribly different about the procedure with a carronade. Walsh was actually made gun captain, mainly because he had the better eyes, although in true revolutionary fashion all were keen to share any responsibility. The British seventy-four clearly intended taking them from the leeward side and was making no attempt to stand off; it would be close range and, when the two line-of-battle ships met, pretty brutal. So be it, but the British captain would be a fool to come too close. Hoche was carrying a good many soldiers, most of whom were almost mad with frustration at being crammed aboard a ship for such a while and would be only too pleased to vent their anger in a boarding action. The deck beneath them vibrated as the flagship fired her first shots of the battle. They would be the stern chasers, although it would not be long before the entire broadside came into use.

  “Reckon we’ll be boarding afore we knows it,” Doyle said, eyeing the enemy ship as she crept ever closer. The British liner was now off their larboard quarter, and certainly it would take little for Commodore Bompart to order Hoche out of line to engage her. It was clearly a day for impetuous action, and that might even be on the enemy captain’s mind. For the French flagship to turn, abandoning the protection of her fellows, would be a bold manoeuvre, however; even if the Hoche were able to come alongside and board the British, there were several undamaged enemy ships just astern ready to re-take the prize and capture them into the bargain.

  “No,” MacArthur said firmly. “It will be a tight battle, but your man will keep his distance.”

  “Êtes-vous prêts là-bas?” It was the voice of Wolfe Tone. Crowley felt his heart fall. The man was prancing up and down the quarterdeck dressed like a marionette in that absurdly decorated blue coat and pantaloons. For a moment their eyes met, and Crowley knew he would come and speak with them.

  “And you, my lads, all ready for the fray?”

  “Aye, Theo,” Walsh said calmly. “We’re ready as anything, and fit to fight until night fall.”

  Tone laughed and patted Walsh on the shoulder, then ruffled Crowley’s hair in the way a father might a favoured son. Crowley closed his eyes and waited for him to leave them be.

  “It’s a wonderful day to be Irish,” Tone continued relentlessly. “We’ll whip this little lot into a heap, and be landing our troops by the afternoon.” He looked over the bulwark, clearly not seeing the British ship-of-the-line that was about to attack them. “Tonight we shall be sleeping on Irish soil, and in the morning we can start to re-take our country, think of that!” He slapped Crowley on the shoulder for good measure, and beamed at the rest of the gun crew as if he had just delivered a heaven backed promise against death or disfigurement.

  “Aye, think of that, why don’t you?” MacArthur said softly as the man finally moved on. “An’ all the little leprechauns will gather together to whistle us on our way.”

  “Ask me, the cove’s been reading too many of his speeches.” Doyle said a little louder.

  “Aye,” Doherty agreed. “It’s all well to look on the bright side, but would be nice to be on speakin’ terms with reality.”

  Crowley looked at them side on and listened in silence as they continued to grumble. It was the first hint of any dissatisfaction he had noticed from the others. He knew himself to be the victim of circumstances: had he not met up with them that night in the ale house he might never have thought of returning to Ireland. At that moment he should have been just one more sailor waiting for his ship and trying to avoid the press. But the others: they were revolutionaries. They wanted to be here: no amount of misfortune or bad luck would have prevented them. And yet they were clearly fed up.

  He supposed it was not to be surprised at. Spending weeks in a cramped ship, risking all to come this far, and then the only sight of their mother country was a grey smudge behind an enemy battleship. It, or one of the others, would soon see them dead or prisoners, and in the latter case they would be lucky to hold on to their lives for very much longer. No, their reaction was not to be surprised at, and Crowley found himself feeling mildly reassured. But, at the same time, deeply disappointed.

  * * *

  They were now well within long range of the enemy’s great guns and had already withstood two French broadsides, Scylla‘s timbers being sound enough to see off the partially spent shot. Banks had brought them up, almost in line with the leading frigate, and was considering the time to turn. By steering as close to the wind as he could, he reckoned the distance would be covered relatively quickly. If they could survive without desperate damage aloft, he intended placing Scylla at the optimum angle, with the larboard broadside raking the leading ship’s stern, and the starboard the bow of the second in line.

  It should take no more than ten to twelve minutes; in that time he would receive at least two, probably four, or, if he was especially unlucky and the French in good practice, maybe six broadsides. So far the French had been mainly aiming at their hull, but as soon as the range shortened, he expected Scylla‘s masts to become the target. Were they to sustain critical damage aloft, or even the loss of a single minor spar or piece of rigging, the time for reaching the enemy line would be correspondingly extended; that or become both irrelevant and measureless.

  Banks turned to his first lieutenant. “I think we may make for the enemy, Mr Caulfield.”

  Caulfield touched his hat with due formality, then was surprised to see the captain’s outstretched hand, and shook it with genuine affection. The two had been through much together; this might prove to be just one more action, but both shared an inner feeling that neither they, nor anyone else on board Scylla, would emerge from it unchanged in some way.

  “Larboard your helm, take her two points to starboard,” Caulfield ordered.

  “Two points to starboard, sir.”

  The ship crept further towards the wind and presented her starboard bow to the enemy line. The yards creaked round, and soon they were heading on a collision course. A broadside was due from both of the nearest ships; all on the quarterdeck waited expectantly. The French might be holding back, waiting for Scylla to become a better target, or just plain slow, it was impossible to say which. But the ship was now on course, and Banks looked up thoughtfully to the sails and weathervane.

  “Do you think she will take another point?” he asked the quartermaster.

  “It’s a fickle wind, sir,” the man said after considering for a moment. “But I could bring her a little closer if you wish. That’s if you don’t mind me easing back for a spell when I ‘as to.”

  “I shou
ld not mind at all,” Banks said evenly.

  Scylla leant further into the breeze, and now was visibly gathering up the sea room between her and the enemy line. The details of the French ships were becoming clearer by the second, but they remained silent, and the broadsides did not come.

  Then there was a cry from a midshipman on the forecastle and, as if signalled, the first flash of fire appeared on the leading ship. It was quickly followed by more as both ships discharged their guns in Scylla‘s direction. The shots were erratically aimed, with some crashing into the British ship’s vulnerable bow and hull while others smashed through her tophamper. Lines parted, the fore topgallant billowed out, and there was a scream from the break of the forecastle where three men had been struck down with one ball. But a good few missed the ship entirely, falling ineffectually into the ocean, and Scylla was allowed to maintain her course and way.

  “Splice the fore backstay there and get that t’gallant sheeted back!” The boatswain’s voice came up from the waist, but the men were already moving and the work was soon addressed. On the quarterdeck Banks and Caulfield exchanged glances. They could expect several minutes of peace now before either enemy fired again, and already it seemed unlikely that they would be able to fire more than one additional full broadside before Scylla penetrated their line. Lieutenant Adshead and Sergeant Rice were forming their marines along both bulwarks, each line sheltered by the hammock-filled netting. The densely packed canvas offered a far better defence than any wood that could splinter and shatter. The gun crews were waiting to fire their pieces, topmen and afterguard stood ready at their stations, and all was crisp with anticipation.

  “Secure the men, if you please, Mr Caulfield.” Banks’s voice rang out quite clearly in the expectant silence, and the men were responding before the first lieutenant even began to bellow. All knew the drill as well as the reason behind it, and took what shelter they could. Those in the waist ducked down behind the reinforced knees that formed the ship’s frame, or stood in the lee of the lower masts. Even the marines were permitted to lower their shakos and present as small a target as possible, while any in the tops drew back and tucked themselves behind the bundled mounds of the studding sails. And all remained quiet as they waited for what was to come; only the officers stood bold, trusting in luck and whatever else they held dear to protect them as the ship drew steadily nearer to the line of enemy warships.

  This time the French made far better practice. The first broadside came from the second in line and was quickly followed by the leading ship, and both were well laid and far more even. The shots had begun to strike Scylla even before the last had been fired, and a cloud of dust and splinters flew up, hanging over the ship as she was battered by the flying iron. A carronade on the starboard bow was struck soundly on the muzzle, causing the entire gun to fall to one side and crush two of its servers. The bower anchor was knocked unceremoniously into the ocean, and several foremast shrouds parted. The red cutter, that had been filled with water so as to act as a reservoir in case of fire, dissolved into her constituent parts, drenching the men sheltered below. A marine was struck by a splinter that carried away a good part of the flesh of one leg. The entire crew of a quarterdeck carronade, who were crouched together behind a bulwark, crumpled to the ground as two shots crashed through the seemingly impregnable oak defence, and all about there were cries and screeches as chaos threatened to reign.

  Damage was also taken to the hull; Scylla vibrated and seemed to stagger as the heavy round shot dug deep into her vitals. And these were important hits: ship killing blows that might be difficult to find and all but impossible to plug. The carpenter and his mates were stationed below, ready with wood, lead and leather, but the best they could offer was a postponement of the problem; Scylla had been hurt, and hurt deeply; such punishment could not be withstood indefinitely.

  But through it all there was some semblance of order. Calls sounded and instructions, even if screamed, were at least obeyed, and men moved instinctively to save their injured mates. Some were pulled back from further danger and dragged to the nearest hatchway, others had wounds attended to on the deck, bandages and tourniquets being deposited throughout the ship for just such a purpose. Men calmed excited nerves or the first signs of shock with a reassuring nod or friendly slap to the back. Meanwhile others did what they could in minor ways to secure the ship: round shot knocked from a garland was gathered up, or water thrown on a burst salt box. And soon, before anyone had truly noticed, there were no more shots.

  From the quarterdeck Banks could see as much as he needed to. The masts and sails were apparently unaffected, although shots that had struck them low in the hull were still an unknown danger. But even if Scylla had been especially unlucky and sustained some terrible damage below the waterline, he felt she would now stay afloat long enough to complete her task. Relieved, he went to speak to Caulfield and was surprised to see him bending over a crumpled figure on the deck.

  Young Parfrey had been injured and was bent double, his hands held tightly to his face. Banks moved across and laid his arm across the lad’s shoulder: the woollen cloth was warm and wet. The volunteer raised his head to look at his captain; his cheek had been neatly split, either by a wooden splinter or some other piece of flying debris, and was bleeding profusely.

  “Get below, lad,” Banks said, forcing himself to look the boy in the eyes. “Let the surgeon attend to you.”

  Parfrey mumbled something incoherent but Caulfield was already summoning a hand.

  “Take Mr Parfrey to the surgeon,” he said. The man went to knuckle his forehead but quickly realised this was not the time for formality, and gently took hold of the boy’s arm. Banks watched them go, relieved in part that the lad had not been killed and would now be relatively safe. He had seen flesh wounds every bit as bad heal up sound enough, even if some of Parfrey’s youthful looks might suffer.

  The French were that much closer now, almost within range of Scylla‘s forward guns. The British cannon were double shotted; the gunners would be retaining their first broadside for the time when they were hard up against the enemy, and the place where they should cause the most damage. Banks could see King standing in the waist waiting for the order to open fire, and next to him Rose, the midshipman that he could remember so well as a young and innocent volunteer in Pandora. Lewis, a master’s mate, was on the forecastle, another face from his previous ship, and Fraiser, the ever reliable sailing master, stood next to the binnacle. They were all men he knew well and trusted; in addition there were many others whom he had grown to like and respect even so early into the commission. He still considered Warren a fool to treat his frigates like so many liners; a general chase would have used their sailing qualities to far better effect, and Scylla would not have been placed in such an exposed position. But if he had to take his ship into danger, he could think of no better men to face the peril alongside.

  Chapter Forteen

  The crew on the quarterdeck carronade were working like a machine. As soon as the British seventy-four came alongside they had been released from the strictures of broadsides, and each gun was discharged as soon as the weapon became ready. There was neither the time nor energy to measure their work against any other crew, but the Irish served cannon must have been one of the faster and more efficient of the killing devices in use that day. The British were also keeping up a substantial rate of fire, and both ships began to show signs of damage. Crowley, who was working the rammer, had time to glance back while Walsh primed the piece, and saw the second British ship closing on them from astern. The gun was fired and all became temporarily obscured by smoke, but when the air was clear once more, and a fresh charge and round had been tamped home, he looked again. The seventy-four alongside was spilling her wind to maintain position, while the frigate immediately behind had put her helm over to avoid a collision. It was the sort of confusion that would do no harm to the French effort, and Crowley was just starting to feel his spirits rise when a shot came through the b
ulwark, scattering splinters in every direction and sending him gasping into the scuppers.

  He pulled himself up and snatched angrily at the rammer that had fallen on the deck beside him. His breath was coming in short shallow draughts; he must allow himself time to recover: men had been known to die from the wind of a passing ball, but the tumble had both shaken him up and strangely ignited his wrath. The gun was still and silent as he clambered to his feet and glared about.

  Doherty was dead. Crowley took in the fact without emotion. There could be no doubt; the poor devil must have taken the shot full on. And Walsh had been badly wounded: his left arm hung limp and lifeless and his trousers were soaked in blood. He looked to MacArthur and Doyle; both were as dazed as he was, and no man moved for several seconds.

  “What are you doing there?” It was the voice of Wolfe Tone. Still dressed in that absurd rig, he stepped nonchalantly over Doherty’s body as he approached them. “A silent gun is an insult to the cause,” he said in that same patronising voice, and Crowley found himself reacting without thought. With a straight right that came as a surprise to both parties, his swung his fist at the lighter man. Tone caught sight of the move at the last moment, but was fast enough to both dodge the blow and catch the outstretched arm of his assailant.