The Patriot's Fate

by Alaric Bond

  “Mr Westwood, Mr Adshead, you will oblige me by retaining your men to larboard.” The younger officer appeared confused, whereas Westwood looked positively angry at missing the opportunity of bagging a few more Frenchmen. But it was necessary for the enemy to be fooled for as long as possible, and nothing would give the game away more effectively than the marines taking up station early on the starboard side. “How are you loaded, Mr King?”

  “Double round, sir. Both batteries”

  “Mr Chilton?”

  “Round on canister, sir.”

  “Very good. You will both hold your fire until the enemy are at their most vulnerable.” The guns on either side were already run out, so there was no room for confusion there. “We may need the larboard at some point, but I would suggest you combine both crews to starboard in case we get two bites of the cherry.” He glanced up to where Chilton had control of the forecastle. “Mr Chilton, you may do likewise, but retain both crews until we open fire.” The crews manning the forward carronades would also be visible to the French, so again, he must not signal his intention. The enemy was growing closer by the second. Banks cast a glance about once more; all seemed to be in order. Now everything depended on the next few minutes. If he was right, and Scylla could make the move to windward successfully enough, they may yet see an end to matters. He was still confident that a single broadside, coming from both an unexpected quarter, and far closer range, would deal a crushing blow to the enemy. And if he failed, if his frigate was more badly damaged than he had judged and fell short, either ploughing prow on, or dropping meekly to leeward, they might still delay them long enough to ensure her subsequent capture. It would be at the cost of his ship, but then he had been prepared for just such an outcome before the plan had first come to him, so really nothing would be lost.

  “We have to make the move, sir,” the sailing master prompted him quietly from the binnacle. He was right, but Banks delayed a second or so longer, enjoying his ship for what might well be the last time. Then he turned back almost stiffly, and caught the eye of Caulfield and Fraiser.

  “Very well, gentlemen,” he said. “We shall begin.”

  * * *

  On the forecastle Surridge had listened to the captain with ill concealed disdain. He was totally in charge of his cannon, and didn’t need officers telling him what to do with it and when. The starboard carronade had already acquitted herself well, and Surridge had not been slow in pointing out the speed of his crew and the accuracy of the piece to any that would listen. But now it looked as if she was to be presented with an absolute pearl of a target. A prime French frigate, and what sounded like the ideal range. His gun could throw a twenty-four pound round shot with remarkable accuracy; certainly, if his shouted commentary could be believed, it had scored several important hits already that morning. But there would be no need for sharp shooting in what was to come. They had already doubled the load, adding cannister to the round shot, and were bound to create some true mischief. With luck he felt they might get two or even three broadsides in, and Surridge was more than ready. Now that he had become accustomed to the piece he was truly enamoured with it; the carronade was so quick and light to serve, and the rate of fire was far faster than anything he could have achieved with his old carriage guns. He slapped at the cascabel and grinned at Cox.

  “Likely we’re to give the old bitch a touch more practice,” he said. Cox smiled awkwardly in return. Surridge in a good mood was possibly more disconcerting than Surridge in a strop. Both conditions were likely to change at any time, and Cox was rather hoping that action would not be delayed for too much longer.

  Chilton, watching from his vantage point next to the galley chimney, had been keeping a wary eye on the carronade captain throughout the morning and his thoughts were running on very similar lines. There could be no arguing that Surridge was a born fighter, but his strength of mind and purpose were almost those of a lunatic, and the lieutenant was quietly relieved that such emotion had a plain and clear target to hand in the form of the French. Then the ship heeled as if suddenly mishandled, and all thoughts for the men were instantly dismissed.

  They were turning. The yards creaked as they tried to keep pace with the breeze, while the helmsman brought the ship round in a way that would not have impressed many. But then all knew that this was for speed, not elegance; they had to gain fifty, sixty, maybe even eighty feet almost directly into the wind. And they had to gain it fast, so that the enemy, however alert or practised they may be, would not have the chance to claw any back. Chilton looked across and was faintly reassured. So far there was no sign of movement from the oncoming frigate; she was continuing on her way, still apparently expecting to meet Scylla in the accepted manner. He held his breath as he waited. Their speed was steadily dropping, but already half the distance had been covered. Now all that mattered was what the French intended to do.

  They could retain their present course, come up on Scylla‘s leeward side, and attempt to rake her stern, or make a race of it, and turn likewise, vying for the windward gauge as they closed on the opposite tack. Every second was vital and he realised then that Banks was depending heavily on the French not being either as fast or agile as the equivalent British vessel. He only needed to be unlucky, to have found an opponent in better practice than the norm, and his bold plan would end in ignominious failure. Then they began to react.

  She too was altering course; the braces and sheets were released and canvas began to billow, but for several seconds it was impossible to say where she was bound. Would she fall off to leeward, creating a greater distance between the two ships and allow Scylla valuable sea room? Or also come up to the wind, fight for every inch of space, and hope to win the ultimate race to cross the other’s prow? He watched as the helm was put over and the Frenchman turned. She clearly intended to compete, and with a full suit of sails and undamaged rigging, was far better set to do so than Scylla.

  Chilton thought they might have forty feet on the Frenchman, but needed to maintain that room in order to complete the turn in front. It was certainly going to be tight; nothing more than the wind changing by a point or two would probably decide. Should it back, Scylla would take the advantage, and gain a corresponding increase in speed: should it veer the reward would go to the French. And should it stay constant, he decided, well then it was anyone’s guess.

  * * *

  Banks considered matters from the quarterdeck. So far his plan was working; the French had decided to follow, and it was now a simple sailing contest. They had a slight lead that he felt he might maintain and even improve upon if the wind would only hold. He glanced up at the weather vane once more: if the wind would only hold – aye, there’s the rub. For the last two minutes the breeze had grown fickle and even dropped and was now playing an odd catch-me game that had Scylla‘s sails alternating between board tight and shivering in a way that must be infuriating to the quartermaster.

  Banks took a turn across the deck, his eyes low, not wishing to meet those of Caulfield or Fraiser. Despite the circumstances he felt this to be a very private battle. Even if every seaman on deck knew the situation it was he and he alone who had instigated matters. And whatever the outcome, be it complete victory, or devastating defeat, he would be accountable. Men would be dead tomorrow who might otherwise have survived because of his actions: such responsibility cannot be shared.

  “We’re gaining on her,” Caulfield said suddenly, and Banks came back from his self-imposed isolation. The first lieutenant was not known for bold statements; there would be something worth seeing. Yes, the lead had increased, and as the enemy frigate pounded towards them it was obvious that the time to act was close.

  Banks looked to the weather vane again: the wind had even backed slightly. The French frigate was barely more than two cables off their quarter, yet Scylla‘s lead was sufficient to blank almost all of her broadside guns. As he watched smoke erupted from her forecastle, to be whipped away by the breeze. Shots whistled overhead, and there was
a loud crack as the trunk of their mainmast was struck a glancing blow, but it would have taken a lucky shot indeed to have stopped them now.

  “Are you ready, there?” Banks called to the quartermaster. The man grunted without taking his eyes off the sails. Men at the starboard battery rose, unbidden; all knew what was about. More shots came from the Frenchman, but these were musket balls. A line of soldiers could be seen manning her side, and volley after volley of small arms fire came screaming over the bulwarks. The sight triggered something in his mind and he glanced across to Westwood. The marines were still lined along the larboard rail, and only now were being ordered into position. For a moment Banks wondered if the man was sulking from the earlier instance, but could spare little time for anyone with wounded feelings.

  “Take her across!” It was the time; Banks instinctively knew it, even though some later might say he made his move too soon. But he wanted it tight; he wanted to maintain the surprise he had created less than three minutes ago. Scylla heeled as her helm was put across, and the afterguard strained desperately to keep what wind they could. She had inertia aplenty though, and was cutting across the enemy’s bows before any had truly realised it.

  He ran forward and to the leeward side, watching the men at the guns in the waist below. King was out of station; he had climbed from the gundeck to the starboard gangway and was holding his hand high for all to see, as marines swarmed about him trying to take up their positions and gun captains frantically adjusted their elevation to allow for the ship’s heel. The two forward mounted long guns on the enemy’s bow were fired almost simultaneously, and one shot smacked into the hull just below where Banks stood, but he barely noticed the impact, nor the sound that came immediately afterwards. And now they were round; Scylla corrected like a professional and there was no longer a risk of collision as she began to run down the length of the enemy’s windward side.

  There was no time to back sails, but Scylla was not sailing fast, due to her apparent mishandling. King brought his arm down, and a deep and mighty rumble began from her hull as the double shotted barrage started to bite.

  It was not the hard crack of a simultaneous discharge, nor even the regular wave of disciplined ripple fire, but a slow and considered attack, with each gun captain waiting until he had a definite target in sight. The French main channel and chains dissolved into their component pieces when two eighteen pound round shot buried themselves in the mounting, and several banks of snipers vanished as furrows of canister cut through their tightly packed ranks. The carronades next to him were firing now, and Banks saw French officers brushed aside by the terrible power of the overloaded guns. The enemy quarterdeck must have been all but swept clear, he guessed, as men at the wheel fell to the withering onslaught. About him musket balls began raining down from the Frenchman’s tops like so many hailstones, but it was not until they were all but past that the first of the enemy’s great guns fired in return.

  They did little damage. Either the men were untrained, or such panic had been induced that they fired indiscriminately, without troubling to aim their weapons to any degree. Caulfield was still looking back at the Frenchman when Banks finally turned to him. There was little either of them could say, and both knew the other well enough to resist any of the trite platitudes that came to mind. It had been a bold plan, one that proved successful. That single broadside had knocked much of the fight from the French. They might continue to run, but they would be caught, that was now a certainty; as would the others that lay disabled in their wake. Scylla had carried out Warren’s orders to the letter: the enemy line had been halted.

  “Beggin’ your pardon, sir.” Banks looked round to see the carpenter knuckling his forehead as Caulfield ordered the ship back on to an easterly course. “There’s another two feet taken in the well. I put patches to a couple of nasty leaks, but would reckon there to be a plank or two stove in below the waterline.”

  “The pumps are in operation?” he asked.

  “Jus’ the one, sir. Mr King said he can spare me more men when we are out of action.”

  “Very good.” Over five feet in the well was a good deal of water, but King had been right in keeping his gunners at their posts, and Banks must also think of the action in hand. Behind them Foudroyant was already exchanging long range fire with the first of the frigates, and Warren himself in Canada lay close behind. Melampus was off their starboard quarter and beating up against the wind. Then he switched his attention to the Hoche for the first time in what felt like ages. The ship was besieged, with Magnanime and Robust competing for position to one side, and the smaller Amelia off her stern. “Very well, he repeated. “Mr Fraiser, can you lay us alongside the enemy flagship?”

  The sailing master peered through the smoke and glanced up at the sails before nodding. “Aye, sir. There should be little difficulty.”

  Badly holed as she was, Scylla was in no fit state for high speed sailing, but could still continue to make her mark in the action, and while she was so able, Banks had every intention of using her to the full. “Then you will oblige me by doing so without further delay,” he said.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Hoche was little more than a wreck. Crowley and the rest were still tending their gun, but those on either side had grown silent due to a lack of trained men. And the supply of powder, previously brought by a succession of soldiers, had slowed until they were left waiting for each charge to appear. But the enemy seventy-four was also severely damaged, as was the heavy frigate on their quarter, and even the fifth rate now to their stern. In the pause Crowley noted a further British ship heading for them, and the frigate that had done so much to initially halt the French column was also bearing down from the west. He wiped the back of his arm across his forehead. Shot and splinters continued to fly about the quarterdeck but the small group had remained unharmed since Doherty and Walsh had been accounted for. Now, deafened by gunfire and apparently immune to the rigours of action, it was doubtful that any even noticed the carnage that was being wrought about them.

  A fresh charge came by way of a new face, a young lad who looked no more than twelve. He passed the deadly package across and waited, panting, while it was inserted into the mouth of the carronade.

  “Be gone,” Doyle told him roughly. “We need more; bring back at least two, I don’t care about the regulations.”

  The boy looked at him blankly and stayed where he was. Tone translated, but still he did not move, and eventually replied in a series of short sentences delivered in a thick Bretton accent.

  “He says they have no cartridges,” Tone told them. “They are sewing more as fast as they can, but have resorted to using powder ladled straight into the guns on the lower deck.”

  Crowley heard, but said nothing. The earlier incident, when he had all but revealed his private thoughts, was still with him. Whatever his reasons, he maintained that moving on would have been the right strategy, but in saying so he had clearly earned the universal disdain of his fellows. He might feel no particular claim on any country, but even a temporary loss of friends was surprisingly painful to him, and he longed for a way to make amends.

  The gun roared out yet again, and they went through the routine of clearing the spent charge and sponging out the barrel, but there seemed less need for haste now, and hardly any to even continue fighting. The soldiers, still formed in ranks along the deck, were maintaining a steady rate of musket fire, but all seemed to know instinctively that defeat could only be a short wait away. A further charge eventually arrived, this time carried by a different lad, and the cannon fired again. Her crew went through the motions of clearing once more, and fired without even bothering to look for a result. Then they waited for more powder, but none was forthcoming. Crowley caught the eye of MacArthur; the man sighed and pursed his lips.

  “Reckon we’re done for, Michael,” he said sadly.

  Crowley nodded, stupidly grateful for even this small amount of human contact. “Aye,” he replied. “Reckon we are.”


  * * *

  It was yet another gamble, but Banks, still mildly elated from delaying the three frigates, felt there was little he and his ship could not achieve. Of course Hoche was far larger than Scylla, and boasted two full gun decks containing cannon half as large again as any his fifth rate carried. And she would be packed with men; in addition to a compliment of seamen that probably outnumbered the British by more than two to one, there would be soldiers: the nucleus of a small army. But then the Hoche had been under constant fire from another line-of-battle ship, with a heavy frigate and a further fifth rate also joining in. And she was visibly sitting lower in the water, with her tophamper all but destroyed. Banks was betting that Scylla‘s arrival would come at a time when her commander was considering surrender and his frigate, already demonstrably successful against three of her kind, should be excellently placed to deal the final blow. With their flagship gone, the remaining French could hardly hold out for very much longer and the entire action would be over. A gamble it may be, but he was growing increasingly certain it was one worth the taking.