The convoy conference was held on board the Thetis the day before sailing, her captain, Ainslie, short, thin, balding in his late twenties, an energetic man with several minor actions to his credit, and bustling about his role as host.
“Athene! Welcome, gentlemen. Captain Atkinson and Mr Harris, gentlemen!” There was a brief mutter of courtesies around the big table. “Captain Atkinson, a pleasure to have you with me, sir, I know you have been very active on station this year, and Mr Harris! Was it not you, sir, who brought Athene into Pompey last year after a very tidy little action off Brittany?”
Frederick bowed, too junior to speak unnecessarily in this company.
“I thought it was! Attracted very favourable attention, too!”
Welcomes for the smaller ships, in strict seniority, then on to brief and exact orders, discussion not invited.
“The two brigs to lead the convoy, larboard and starboard; schooners to range freely, informing Thetis if they intend to investigate distant sightings. The Athene will bring up the rear, tickling up stragglers and holding close escort. The frigates will station themselves in company to windward, able to respond as necessary to any situation that develops.”
Ainslie glanced about, not expecting comment on such an obvious set of dispositions, convoying a familiar task to them all, one in which the navy had developed long expertise.
“Schooners, then, scouts: relaying signals, retaking any ship prized, tackling smaller privateers. Hornet and Billy Pitt, you will engage privateers as and when the occasion arises, and you will sink them – no surrender, no prisoners, they are all no better than pirates in the Caribbean. Do not get involved with national ships unless I so order, or unless it is necessary to save a merchantman. Your job is to protect the traders, gentlemen, first and foremost – take a sloop and lose a merchantman and I will see you broken, however dashing your conduct may have been.”
The two captains, one a Master and Commander, the other a lieutenant, acknowledged the order sulkily – they wanted glory and promotion much more than they wanted to protect commercial sailors.
“Athene will use her discretion but will seek out national ships if practical. If not practical, but necessary, I will give you the order – suicide is a sin, after all!”
Atkinson smiled, murmured his acknowledgement.
“At all times, gentlemen, remember that this convoy is worth not less than two millions sterling and must not be lost. Trade provides the gold that builds the navy, gentlemen – no trade, no navy! Oh, and the war will be lost, too.”
A day of light winds, the convoy wallowing out, ships and barques and barquentines, brigs and brigantines, the Atlantic rigs, fast and slow intermingled and forming up into a more or less organised mass of rows and columns, all to be held to the speed of the least handy, all expected to hold their station for the next two months, to tack together, despite their varying leeway, to be alert to signal and command. On each ship the masters noted the vessels surrounding them – they were well aware that in past wars daring corsairs had been known to infiltrate a convoy, inspect it at leisure over a few days and then sail off quietly into the night with their selected victim; sight of a strange ship and the yellow fever flag was to be raised, bringing instant aid from an escort.
The whole day was taken in working the convoy out of harbour, the escorts doing nothing but chivvy recalcitrants into line, persuading them to set topsails and then to crowd in closer when their every instinct was to gain sea room, well clear of other vessels. It was regarded as a good start that the last to sail was clear of the land before the quick tropical darkness fell – they had heard of convoys taking a week to get out of port before.
“Could have been worse, sir, no doubt would have been, except that they have heard the rumours, too,” Paston declared.
“We should make allowances for them, Mr Paston,” Atkinson replied. “They know, none better, that merchant hulls have too few men aboard, to save their owners a few pennies. And they know as well that they were all pissed last night and half the buggers can’t see straight today. Beside, they don’t like taking orders. Why should they, master mariners all, and most of them old in their trade, and looking at us with a bunch of boys – as they see us – strutting in pretty uniforms on our quarterdecks?”
Paston grunted, the nearest he could come to a laugh. “True, sir, yet you watch them huddle up together the first time a strange sail is sighted, and wait for us boys to go forward and die for them!”
“We will not have a long wait, Mr Paston, for they will see strangers enough. Bad news is never wrong – it is only good rumours that fail to come true.”
Noon, two days later, the light winds still prevailing and the more nervous starting to wonder if this was not the calm before the storm, if there might not be an early hurricane brewing up to the south. Less than one hundred miles made good in the day, the clump of sextants pulling down the sun and coming to their gloomy conclusions.
“Make it noon, Mr Harris.”
The bell rang exactly as the lookouts shouted.
“Schooners are signalling, sir!”
The flags were unreadable from Athene, blowing away from her.
“Schooners have changed course, sir, both falling back on the convoy, sir, tacking hard, spreading the square topsails, sir, really cracking on!”
“Watch Thetis, Mr Rowell! Hands to dinner, I think, Mr Harris, get the men fed first. One half of their rum issue only, but they will get another full issue after the day’s activities. Pass the word, Mr Porson. Clear for action after the men have eaten. I suggest officers take a snap early, Mr Harris – dinner may be late indeed, this day. Tow the boats astern after we clear.”
A busy half an hour, the light winds giving them time before the enemy could close.
“On deck! Several sails just in sight beyond the schooners, sir. At least one set seem to be a ship, sir.”
The thumping stampede of bare feet on hollow wooden decks as the bulk of the men sat down together to their meat. It was a beef day, and a pair of shaddocks was issued to each mess as well, thick skinned red citrus fruits, rather like a big grapefruit, sharp and tangy and going well with the bland boiled meat. The rum issue came, greeted with groans at its small size, the spirits watered down with the same amount of water and lemon juice as normal, the only way of ensuring the men took their anti-scurvy protection.
“On deck there! Ship is a two-decker, bows on. A second ship, single deck, a small frigate. Three brigs and what looks like a xebec.”
Silence, eyes turning to Atkinson. “Two national ships and four privateers, from the sounds of it, gentlemen. Masthead! Keep a lookout in all directions!”
Atkinson picked up his telescope, passed it to Arkwright, pointed to the mainmast, waited as the young man ran to the topgallant yardarm, wedged himself against the pole and focussed far downwind.
“Third rate, sir!” Arkwright called. “Smaller ship is a corvette, a twenty gun ship. The privateers have only four or six guns apiece. Tacking, sir! She’s a seventy four, sir.”
“Thank you, Mr Arkwright. Come down.”
“From Thetis, sir,” Rowell called. “Engage post ship.”
“Acknowledge. Mr Paston?”
“We got the wind, sir. Five miles distant, run straight down on her. Nothing fancy, sir, straight in is best.”
The surviving crew of the Citoyen Paine, the surgeon especially indignant – they had refused him specimens for dissection - had told how the French Navy in the Sugar islands had republicanised itself, had chopped the heads off all officers failing to display enthusiasm for the new order. Citoyen Paine’s captain had previously been her cooper, which might explain why he had made errors in his one seafight in command, revolutionary zeal alone insufficient. The officers of the corvette would probably be no more experienced, could be relied upon to be inadequate – or so Atkinson hoped, there would have been no time for officers to come out from France, even if such were available – he would risk the three unoppos
ed broadsides the corvette should be able to get in before Athene’s carronades could be brought into range – they should be ineffectual. It was worth the risk to do the job quickly, to get the corvette out of the way and assist the Hornet and Billy Pitt as needed. The convoy came first, after all, was worth taking a chance.
“Let it be so, Mr Paston. Load both sides. Chain to all guns against need, but load ball.”
Forty five minutes, thereabouts, Frederick thought, the men with nothing to do except watch and wait.
“Smudger Smith, get your trumpet, up on the capstan, man.”
He looked about him, the busy clearing for action, boatswain rigging chains to the yards in place of the ropelifts, the great nets spread and lashed a couple of fathoms above the deck to keep falling debris off the crew’s heads, a water butt and pannikins at each mast so the men could drink, marines in place. There was the gunner’s party now, running with the carefully made up canvas parcels of chain, two to each broadside piece. Chain consisted of an iron ring of about four inches diameter with six lengths of iron chain, each about a fathom long, welded on and wrapped tight to the bore of a thirty two. The canvas burnt off in the barrel and the chain flew as a whirling, whistling star to cut through rigging and sails. It was effective only over short range, but very effective in that range; it was old-fashioned now, being replaced by bar which had the advantage of being useful at up to two cables distant.
The first bars of ‘An Alehouse in the Town’ and the men glanced at Frederick, saw his nod, started on the refrain.
‘There is an alehouse in the town
Where my false lover do set him down
And takes another girl on his knee
And don’t you know
He never thinks of me.’
On to ‘Barbry Allan’ and then the favourites of the last war, ‘The World Turned Upside Down’ and ‘Lilliburlero’; the topmen packing on sail, Stewart with his party clustered round the chaser.
Smudger Smith taking a break and the Welsh chorus beginning, as ever, with ‘The Ash Grove’, lewder spirits singing other words to the tune. ‘Men of Harlech’ ringing out and Atkinson waving to Stewart.
“As you will, Mr Stewart.”
A minute and the deep boom of the chaser, a splash about a hundred yards short, well on line.
“At a mile range they’ll not have been expecting that, Mr Harris.”
Paston called orders to strip to fighting sail and their speed began to fall away. Three minutes and the chaser fired again, hit high on the hull towards the bows.
“That will have spread splinters across the whole of the foc’sle, Mr Harris. Nine pounders, by the looks of it, running out now, too early, he should have kept that one for another cable.”
The French broadside fired, two balls came aboard, holes in the sails, nothing more.
The chaser fired a third round, screams audible, unending, high-pitched.
“Ship’s boy copped it from the sound of things, Mr Harris.”
“Not very musical, sir, he can’t hold a note at all.”
“Larboard broadside, Mr Paston.” Atkinson waved his hat in the air as another French broadside came in, high through the rigging, most of the balls well astern, the firing uneven. The Athene curved across the corvette’s quarter at little more than pistol shot, small arms fire now, men dropping. “On the down roll! Shoot!”
The carronades reloaded, fired individually, swivels banging much higher notes, the rank of marines volley firing, Bosomtwi reloading his musketoon.
“They ain’t firing they number one gun no more, isn’t it, sir!
Fire slackening from the French ship, massively outgunned at close range, her crews starting to run from her cannon, down by the head, listing.
“Cease fire! Load!” Atkinson bellowed. Hands went up one after another, less than a minute. “At the hull, together, wait … shoot!”
No more than thirty yards distant, the corvette shook, lurched, began to roll. They could hear water rushing into the broken hull, carronades smashing and splintering the timbers where shot from long guns tended to penetrate and do less structural damage.
“She’s going. Boats’ crews.”
They swarmed down the rope to the towing longboats, started to pick up swimmers, listened to the creak and groan of the flexing timbers as the corvette shuddered and suddenly disappeared.
“Thetis, sir!” Rowell calling, shouting off the flags as he read them. “Engage bows, sir.”
In the cessation of their own noise they heard the crash of William’s nine pounders as she ranged up on the line of battle ship’s stern then spun away before the clumsier ship could bring her broadside to bear, watched Thetis swoop in on the other quarter, taking fire only from the two or three aftermost guns on each deck.
“They might cripple her rudder, sir.”
“One unlucky ball and they lose a mast and the broadside guts them a minute later.”
Lighter crashes astern as the small vessels fell viciously on each other, the schooners together slashing at the xebec, Hornet between two of the brigs and fighting both sides, Billy Pitt crossing the stern of the largest brig, the Frenchman dying under the grape from the carronades.
“Provided Hornet ain’t boarded they’ll put all four away, Mr Paston.”
“They will, sir.”
“Good – speed, I think, Mr Paston, tack away, out of broadside range, onto her bow quarter, cross the ’T’, chain at pistol shot into her bows, try to take her foremast.”
Paston called his orders, the scarred sails began to draw to take Athene away.
“What’s the bill, Mr Harris?”
“We’ve lost Ball, sir, musket fire, and Brown and three topmen were splicing when her last broadside came aboard. Besides that there’s four men in the sickbay, sir, variously hit. Jackman’s cut across the face, splinters, but is still on deck, a few of the lads have caught minor bumps and bruises. Very little, yet, nothing to hurt our efficiency, sir.”
Atkinson’s eyebrows rose at this casual dismissal of their losses. “A pity about young Ball.”
“He never really had the makings of an officer, sir – no great loss to us.”
“He is to his parents, Mr Harris,” Atkinson snapped.
Frederick shrugged – Ball’s parents did not have a ship to run.
The boats were alongside, their collection of survivors cut short by the new orders, Gleeson reporting as his men hauled a few sodden, dripping, shaking seamen aboard.
“Nine, sir. The sharks were coming in as we left, we probably would have got no more if we had stayed, sir.”
“Get them below, Mr Gleeson, you did very well, sir. Put them by the sick bay, tell off a couple of the less wounded as guards and see to a rum issue for them. Ask for their parole, tell them we are going into action again and they must behave themselves. Then go back to your guns.”
The carpenter reported, no damage to the hull, relatively little elsewhere; Porson trotted up to the quarterdeck, gave a detailed report, was prepared to go through the rigging rope by rope, was only cut short by a solemn promise to mount a detailed inspection when the day’s business was done. Paston stolidly continued his business of sailing the ship.
“I would suggest, sir, with respect, that we tack twice. A couple of minutes from now, carefully, easing her across as if we had discovered a wounded mast, say, and had decided to sheer off, to join the frigates rather than stay out here alone. Then, about a mile off her starboard bow, we spin about and close. We should be running about eight knots by then, and she will be closing at five or so, so four minutes will put us onto her.”
Atkinson nodded – it made sense, the attack should be sufficiently rapid to prevent a rational response – the inexperienced, probably, French captain concerned by the frigates’ attacks on his steering and discounting a lowly, injured sloop until too late.
“Assuming the Frog holds his course, Mr Paston – and he should because another half hour will see him into the convoy – we wil
l surprise him. He must expect to sink a dozen merchantmen before they can scatter, and drive the rest in every direction, most back to Antigua for shelter, the small ships taking all the prizes they can. He will know how close he is to success, and he will ignore us, I am convinced. If we can hurt him enough to stop that, we will have done all of our duty. Number One hats and coats, gentlemen – this day we shall discover just how much the gold and silver braid costs!”
Last minute preparations, small arms brought on deck and distributed down the centre line, a couple of extra barricoes of water in each boat; a quick tour of the deck, a few words to each gun crew, a joke.
“All ready, Mr Stewart?”
“Aye, sir. Loaded, run out, pointed. We’re going to put the first one slap into her bows, sir, into the heads, and cover those Frogs in a shower of shit!”
“Getting their own back, eh, Mr Stewart?”
A great roar of laughter, breaking out in sequence along the deck as the joke was repeated and found to be quite excruciatingly witty.
“We’ll double shot on second, sir, grape on ball.”
“Very carefully, Mr Stewart.”
“Very, sir.”
Brief consideration to double-shotting the broadside, the idea discarded, too risky with thin-walled carronades.
Paston calling the second tack, rush from guns to the braces, worried eyes on the foremast in case damage actually had been done, successfully swinging across the eye of the wind, sheeting home, feet pelting back to the guns. Atkinson stepping forward.
“Remember now, lads, we must stop her. She must be kept out of the convoy. That means we hit her high and hard – no more frigging in the Froggies’ rigging!”
Another roar at this masterpiece of wit – with a line of battle ship looming bigger and bigger every second, anything was funny – and the men turned back to their guns, repeating the phrase and laughing anew.
The Friendly Sea (The Duty and Destiny Series, Book 1) Page 13
