The Patriot's Fate

by Alaric Bond

  “Hey, there, Michael; be still, be still.” Both men were panting but the fire was dangerously bright in Crowley’s eyes. “Fine, I was a little hasty, and spoke out of turn. But we’ll look after your man, and tend to Liam, so we will.”

  Crowley felt his anger dissipate, and knew that tears were very close, but Tone continued. “Hey there, you; deal with this and take this gentleman to the surgeon: Allez chercher le chirurgien!”

  Two young soldiers came and collected what was left of Doherty. They looked no older than fifteen, yet picked up the body expertly enough. Crowley knew that on a British ship his friend would have been despatched straight over the side, but the French, it seemed, were a little more sensitive. Walsh followed them on foot as they made their way towards the hatch while Tone returned to the remaining three.

  “So,” he said, looking especially at Crowley. “We have wasted enough time, and will still be one man down, even if I joins you. But what say we get this gun back to its proper job, and we to ours?”

  “It is loaded,” Doyle told him warily. “Just need to prime and fire.”

  Tone glanced at him for a second, then bent down and collected the priming horn that had fallen to the deck and gave his attention to the gunlock. Easing the hammer back, he poured enough of the fine meal powder into the touch-hole and snapped the frizzen shut. There was little need to lay the gun; the seventy-four was in plain view and at point blank range. Tone stood to one side and tugged at the firing line, watching as the cannon recoiled, and the shot smacked visibly into the hull of the British ship.

  “Well, ain’t that a satisfying experience?” he said, turning and grinning at the rest of the gun crew. “Why don’t we tries it again?”

  * * *

  The wind had shifted marginally in their favour and Scylla made the last few hundred yards to the French line in something of a rush. In the waist King was walking backwards and forwards behind his gun teams, his eyes constantly roaming about those under his command. It was important that order was maintained; the natural reaction for any man going into battle was to fire at the first opportunity. But if any of Scylla‘s great guns were let off early much of the impact from the initial broadsides would be lost. And there could be no denying the psychological power of her opening attack. The position they were claiming should place the British frigate at the stem of one enemy vessel and the stern of another. Both areas were fragile in any warship, and allowed shot not only to penetrate, but travel the entire length of the hull. King was determined to time each barrage so that the maximum effect could be gleaned. Were the broadsides despatched too soon, the blows would strike the side of the hull, and might even be deflected; he must avoid that, and the only way to do so was through control.

  “Hold it, hold it…” he said, pacing back and forth, while Rose peered through a starboard gunport and Barrow to larboard. “Anyone even thinks of firing and I’ll see them at a grating tomorrow, and their back bones shortly afterwards.” It was a measure of King’s desperation that he had descended to threats and outright bullying. But the men knew him well enough, and understood the reason for his concern.

  “Starboard ship is turnin’ to leeward,” Rose shouted.

  That was to be expected, and meant that at least one of the enemy had given up trying to turn them away. The move might lessen the impact of Scylla‘s broadside somewhat, but it would take time to shift the hull, and King was still hoping to achieve a partial rake. But the news contained greater significance, which he was quick to appreciate. Having an enemy ship wear out of the column meant that most of their task was already achieved; the French had been stopped, and without a shot being fired.

  They would be arriving a full cable behind the leading frigate, and slightly more than half in front of the second. The two ships were more or less in line, so he would have to order close on simultaneous discharges. Then both batteries would continue to fire for as long as the enemy remained in range. Scylla was well manned, but her gun crews would be stretched considerably. Some would remain effective, others, the weaker ones, must inevitably slow. King felt that two broadsides from each battery would be sufficient, then the individual gun captains could be given their heads, and independent fire ordered. But it was important that the first barrages were powerful enough to knock the stuffing, and most of the fight, from the Frenchmen.

  Rose raised his hand, and King thought he saw the shadow of the second enemy ship’s bow loom through the starboard gun port. From above they could hear the sound of the marines as they started to take pot shots. It would be long range for their muskets, but there might be psychology involved there as well, and it was faster to reload a Bess than an eighteen pounder carriage gun. Barrow’s hand was also up, and both were peering out intently; it could not be long, and some of the gun captains were standing to one side, eager to hear their weapons speak.

  “Hold it, hold it…” King repeated, willing the ship on. It could only be a matter of seconds now. A crack came from above, clearly the leading enemy had stern chasers, and was firing on them. Someone shouted and one of the British forecastle carronades went off. Then both lads brought their hands down at almost the same time and King bellowed the command for his guns to open fire.

  The cacophony of a double broadside was deafening, even to men who had been used to the sound of cannon fire for most of their working lives. Scylla trembled dreadfully beneath their feet, and as the emptied barrels were sponged out, reloaded and heaved back, King even worried that they had caused some major internal damage to the frigate’s fabric. But all such thoughts were soon wiped away as the first gun captain signalled his piece ready. King could have no exact idea of the reload time, but knew that it was fast. Rose and Barrow had rejoined him; clearly Banks had brought the ship to a halt, and Scylla was ideally placed for another onslaught. The larboard battery was ready first and he despatched it. Two guns from starboard joined in, but that mattered little now. Soon the rest were ready, and the second starboard broadside was released. Then he gave the command for all to fire at will, and the race was truly on.

  * * *

  The wounded had started to appear on the orlop deck and both surgeons were at work. Mr Clarkson, assisted by two loblolly boys, had a member of the afterguard on the operating table and was attempting to stitch a gash to his calf. The man was clearly terrified, and quite convinced the surgeon wanted to cut the leg off. Meanwhile Manning, his assistant, was examining a marine who had been struck on the head and appeared concussed. The women had three more waiting for them, none of whom seemed to be in any great pain, and Sarah was just getting used to the idea of tending to injured seamen when the casualties from the last broadside began to be delivered.

  These were of a different order; the wounds were horrific and demanded immediate, if not necessarily expert, attention. Mrs Porter applied a tourniquet to the leg of a man who was surely about to lose his foot, and soon moved on to comfort a lad with a large splinter in his right thigh with all the assurance of his own mother. Betsy Clarkson was also occupied with a seventeen stone gunner who had lost an ear and was crying like a child. But Sarah hesitated. There could be no denying it, she found the patients intimidating, and was suddenly aware both of what everyone expected of her and how hopelessly inadequate she was to the task.

  “If there is bleeding, try to stop it,” Betsy called across while her current charge began to shake uncontrollably. “For those that need dressings there are bandages a plenty, and you can use one of these if it is a limb,” she said, pointing to a pile of tourniquets. “But make sure you chalk a mark on the forehead, in case they gets left for too long.”

  Sarah knew she was being a fool, but Betsy understood. “Look, we only got to keep them alive, nothing more,” she said, in a softer voice. “The surgeons will deal with them proper later.”

  She nodded; she felt weak and her hands seemed unusually large and clumsy, but still she looked at the nearest man and tried to smile reassuringly. He was bleeding badly from a cut on hi
s left shoulder. Blood had already soaked into the canvas flooring, and showed no signs of stopping. The wound was unsuitable for a tourniquet, but the flow was significant and might be hard to check with just bandages.

  Sarah was about to go for help but stopped when she caught the man’s expression. He was clearly frightened; his eyes stayed fixed on hers and carried a desperate plea for help. She looked away, feeling both unworthy and undeserving of his trust, but the look remained with her, and she collected a roll of bandages and returned to him.

  “Well then, you seem to have been a little unlucky,” she said, her voice sounding unusually loud as she braced herself to pull back his shirt. The cloth came apart in her hands, and the sight of the mangled flesh was almost too much to cope with. But the man was still watching closely, considering her almost, and she felt embarrassed, knowing he deserved far more than her inept ministrations.

  “I’m going to make you more comfortable,” she said, now confronting the seeping wound while reaching for a bundle of cotton waste, “and will try and stop that dreadful bleeding.” She placed her hand upon his shoulder and examined more closely. In fact it was not as bad had she had feared, though quite a large flap of skin had been torn back, and a piece of what might be wood was lodged against his shoulder blade, holding the cut open and doubtless encouraging the haemorrhage. At first she considered pressing the injury closed, but guessed it to be a waste of effort as the wound must eventually be re-opened to have the object removed. A loblolly boy was waiting while Manning attended to the concussed marine and looked across in her direction when he felt her eyes upon him.

  “Can you fetch a pair of tweezers?” she asked, feeling mildly ridiculous as she closed her forefinger and thumb together in mid air. The man, who was far older than she was, appeared unsurprised at her request; he collected something from the instrument box and came across.

  “You gonna stitch him, ma’am?” he asked.

  “No, I want to clean his wound,” she said, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. The loblolly boy passed across a pair of bright brass forceps. Sarah took them and noticed the patient was still watching her.

  “What is your name?” she asked.

  “Jeffreys, miss,” the seaman told her.

  “Very well, Jeffreys, are you happy for me to do this?”

  “Yes, miss.”

  She glanced at the loblolly boy. “Can you help Mr Jeffreys forward?”

  “Very good, ma’am.” he grasped Jeffreys’s good shoulder and heaved him upright, rather roughly, Sarah thought.

  Jeffreys gave a groan, but the wound was much easier to reach, and was even in a shaft of light from the lanthorn. She brought the forceps closer, and eased the skin back with her other hand. Yes, it was wood: a wedge shaped piece about three inches long and almost half an inch square at its thickest end. She grasped it in the forceps, and eased it gently free of the muscle. The blood continued to flow, but the loblolly boy saw to that with a handful of tow, and as she removed the piece completely, the skin flopped back neatly enough. Sarah sighed, and felt the tension leave her to be replaced by a deep and heady feeling of success.

  “You have to check the wound, ma’am,” the loblolly boy said, as if stating the obvious.

  “I have to what?”

  “Check to see there ain’t no bits left behind,” he told her patiently. “They can cause it to go bad later, else.”

  It made sense, she supposed, although part of her felt that Jeffreys had already suffered enough. She returned to the injury and, as carefully as she could, lifted it open again. The man stirred, but the loblolly boy was holding him still in expert hands. There looked to be nothing untoward, and she was about to release the skin once more when a small piece of black attracted her attention.

  It was another piece of wood, far shorter, and very much thinner, almost insignificant looking. She reached forward with the forceps and removed it.

  One more the wound closed itself, and she felt ready to apply a dressing. The loblolly boy passed a piece of tow to her, and she smoothed the skin flat before beginning to wind a strip of coarse cotton cloth about the chest. Jeffreys was breathing hard; she could feel his warmth on her neck, but she continued to work, keeping the bandage as tight and even as was possible. Then, reaching the end of the roll, she tied it off with a simple knot.

  “Nicely done, ma’am,” the loblolly boy told her. They lowered the man back onto the deck, and Sarah arranged a bundle of canvas behind his head to act as a pillow. “I seen a deal worse, and that done by doctors,” he continued, then added meditatively. “But then doctors ain’t surgeons: most are too full of learnin’. They might know all about humours an’ the like, but few would care for a wounded man in the normal way. They ain’t got the sensitivity, you see. Hardly any could close a body, not with any feelin’, not as you jus’ did.”

  * * *

  Scylla was keeping all her promises. She had already proved herself an excellent sea boat, fast and biddable; now she was showing just how fine a gun platform she could be. And her cannon were well worth the mounting; already the eighteen pounders on her main deck, supplemented in no small way by the forecastle and quarterdeck carronades, had made a visible impact on both enemy ships. Banks had backed the main and they were maintaining position reasonably enough, just in line with both frigates. Fire from the great guns was almost continuous, and Westwood and Adshead had organised their marines along the starboard bulwark. The crisp bank of red and white stretched almost the entire length of the ship, and under the stoical command of Sergeant Rice the men were working like automatons, buffeting the nearest Frenchman with volley after volley of deadly musket fire. The starboard ship had begun to turn when fortunate shots from Scylla‘s main battery brought down both her jib boom and the fore topmast, making the manoeuvre clumsy and incomplete. A trail of line, canvas and spars now trailed from her foretop; she hung in temporary suspension with her starboard bow exposed to the British frigate’s broadside, and most of her cannon either covered by wreckage or unable to bear. There was a solid pencil of smoke winding up from her waist and at times a tongue of flame could been seen. Banks knew that if he were to remain much longer she would strike, although strangely that was not in his plans. The frigate that was third in line was a good way back but coming up on her stern. She was without damage; his next task must be to engage and disable her.

  Meanwhile, to larboard, the leading French ship had received a proper pounding. Her stern lights and quarter galleries had been almost completely knocked in, and it was only luck that had left her with a mizzen and any means of steering. Quite what conditions were like below deck he could not tell, but no ship survives two comprehensive stern rakings and emerges undamaged. She had limped on and was now only just in long range of their cannon, and clearly intended to wear. Doubtless her captain proposed turning back on her tormentor, and Banks was quite prepared for just such a move.

  “Bring her to the wind, if you please.”

  The quartermaster strained at the wheel, and Scylla eased gently to larboard as the braces brought the main back to the breeze once more. There would be an uncomfortable moment when her stern was presented to the starboard frigate. But she was still in such disarray from the downing of her spars that Banks considered the risk worth running. The larboard ship had caught his intention, and was coming round as fast as she could, but would be in no position to deliver a broadside while their bow was vulnerable.

  For a moment there was blessed silence as the guns were stilled. All stood waiting while the British frigate picked up speed, then the yards were adjusted further, and Scylla began a tight and tidy turn. Her starboard battery fired halfway through the manoeuvre, and the leading enemy ship was nicely straddled. Little material damage could be seen, apart from the forecourse, which took fire and was consumed within seconds. Banks watched with satisfaction; doubtless the flames would be quickly contained, but the ship would lose speed, and her crew confidence. Then Scylla was round and heading
seemingly on a collision course with the bow of the second frigate.

  The quartermaster was clearly following his captain’s train of thought, and had the ship aiming at a point just ahead of the Frenchman’s bowsprit. Scylla was gathering speed all the time and should pass her with ease and in ideal range for a sound broadside, although Banks had a different target in mind.

  Beyond, the third in line was on the starboard tack and closing. She had slowed following Scylla‘s intervention, and was now setting to clear the disabled ship. Banks knew then that he must be prudent and not waste shot on an enemy that was already badly damaged. There would be no time to reload; they must be ready to face that third frigate with something more than empty barrels.

  “Tell Mr King to ignore the first target,” he said, turning about for a messenger and remembering that Parfrey was absent. Crouch, a reliable hand, was standing at a nearby carronade and took the instruction without question. Banks watched him as he made for the quarterdeck steps. King might find it hard to contain his gun crews; their blood would be up, and some were bound to protest at being ordered to leave the exposed bow of an enemy unattended. But the third in line was fresh, and liable to deal them a nasty blow; he had to meet her with some degree of retaliation.