Fletcher's Fortune

by John Drake

  Up in that fort were men in perfect security, not threatened by any danger, and provided with heavy guns on a steady platform. Unless they were profoundly incompetent, their fire must be far more accurate and deadly than any gunfire from a moving ship. And all we could do was wait for the tide to drift us clear. Without a decent wind, the ship didn’t have even sufficient way on her to give effect to the rudder and she progressed crabwise, with her starboard quarter slewed round to the fore. Boom! Boom! Boom-boom! And the third salvo dropped into the waters of the Passage D’Aron close enough for us to hear the hiss and splash of the upthrown water as it spattered back on to the waves. They were getting closer.

  A sixty-eight-pound shot, French measure, is a great iron ball nearly eight inches in diameter. Such a missile, coming from a gun sitting fifty feet above the sea, would smash right through Bonne Femme Yvette with a downward angle, tearing a ragged hole through her bottom on its way out. A few such hits would undoubtedly sink her. Even one alone might do it.

  “Should we not take the ship in tow, sir, with the launch?” says Lieutenant Seymour. “We’d be away all the faster.”

  Captain Bollington shook his head. “I seriously doubt it’d be worth the effort, Mr Seymour,” says he. “Go ahead, if you wish, to keep the men busy, but the thing reduces to a matter of arithmetic. I time the fort at six minutes to reload and aim — a poor performance, don’t you think?”

  “Indeed, sir,” says Mr Seymour, “they’re delivering controlled salvoes to increase the chance of a hit, which is very proper of ’em even if it’s slower. But they are slow! I can only think they’ve neglected their drill. I venture to think I could improve their speed, given the training for ’em for a week or two.”

  “I’m sure you could, Mr Seymour! However, to pass beyond their effective range, we must move at least a mile down-channel. Now, the tide here runs at three knots per hour. That will carry us a mile within twenty minutes and towing would not much improve that.” He waved his watch at the fort. “Our friends must hit us with their next three salvoes or they’ve lost the game. And if their accuracy is equal to their speed of fire, then my estimation is that they’re not good enough to do it in three.”

  “Quite so, sir,” says Lieutenant Seymour, “though if I might make so bold, that is strictly according to calculation and makes no allowance for a lucky shot.”

  “Precisely!” says the Captain. “Then let us see what French gunners can do in reality.” And he and Seymour stood together, hands clasped behind their backs, calmly facing the battery. Lieutenant Clerk joined them. They were fellow members of a caste. Officers born and bred, all three, who’d known no other life. They’d been trained to look the enemy’s guns in the eye and that’s what they did. Percival-Clive copied them, learning as they had learned, though his knees were knocking furiously. Mind you, they all ducked as the next salvo roared overhead, missing us by inches ... WHOOOOOSH! The five big round-shot dropped so close that water from the splashes came aboard and soaked the quarterdeck.

  Six minutes later, by the Captain’s watch, we were hit. Bonne Femme Yvette shuddered as a shot tore into the fo’c’sle by the larboard rail, right at the feet of one of the marines. He dropped stone dead on the deck, without a mark on his body, killed by the wind of the hurtling ball. His mates clustered round him, gawping in horror.

  “Mr Percival-Clive!” cries the Captain. “See if we’re hurt below, and take any men you need for the pumps or to plug the hole. At the double!” The lad dashed off, yelling at the seamen on the fo’c’sle to follow him. In his excitement he seemed unable to open the hatch in the fo’c’sle bulkhead, and he seized an axe from one of the men and laid into the woodwork with a rain of blows.

  “What is that boy doing?” says the Captain. “That hatch ain’t barred, is it?”

  “Don’t think so, sir,” says Lieutenant Seymour, and the Captain sighed deeply.

  “It sticks, sir,” says Lieutenant Clerk, “it just needs a sharp pull, that’s all.”

  “Just look at him!” says the Captain, as young Percy, yelling wildly, sent splinters flying in all directions. “God knows I’ve tried with that young gentleman, but I despair of him, I really do! What frightens me is that his family’ll give him command of a ship before long. Mark my words, gentlemen, he’ll drown more British seamen than ever the French will.”

  As he spoke, Percy burrowed through the remains of the hatch and vanished below decks. But he was back in seconds, scuttling along with his gangly limbs working like a manic spider. His eyes were as round as cannonballs.

  “It’s gone straight through, sir,” says he, his boy’s voice cracking with excitement. “Through the deck and out the hull. There’s a great big hole.”

  “Damn your eyes, boy!” says the Captain. “Give a proper report. Is she taking water or not?”

  “No sir, it’s all right, sir. The hole’s a foot above the waterline.”

  “Is it now?” roars the Captain. “Then so soon as we’re on a larboard tack ... THE BLOODY THING’LL BE UNDER WATER! It’ll come in like the Thames under London Bridge! Do you know nothing? Find the carpenter’s tools and get it plugged. Move yourself, you slovenly puppy!”

  And having damned the Mid up and down, Captain Bollington resumed his contemplation of the fort. He was all the better for the chance to curse someone in that tense moment. Personally, I was shrivelling with fear. Like the French privateersmen I’d seen drowning alongside Phiandra, I couldn’t swim, and I was wondering how long I’d last in the Passage D’Aron without a ship. As far as I could tell, the Frog gunners had got our range nicely. Within a few minutes they would drop four or five shot on to our deck and Bonne Femme Yvette would go down like a paving slab. Then the luck that Mr Seymour had mentioned took a hand. A south-easterly wind got up that filled our sails and set the rigging creaking.

  “She’s answering the helm, sir!” cries the quartermaster. “Very good,” says the Captain, “steer for the open sea and keep the centre of the channel.”

  Under sail, Bonne Femme Yvette made four or five knots which, together with the tide, soon took us beyond reach of the fort. They fired again once or twice, but their shot came nowhere near us.

  Soon after that, with the Passage D’Aron yawning wider and wider, we all cheered with relief as the foretop hailed the deck. “Sail-ho! Phiandra in sight off the Aiguilles point!” Lieutenant Williams was under orders to hold Phiandra and Ladybird on the seaward side of the Aiguilles sand-bank to be out of sight of French shipping in the Passage. But he was to enter to meet any ship coming out under British colours. As we saw Phiandra her look-outs saw us and she made sail on the instant and steered to converge with our course, with Ladybird following astern.

  By half past eight, our cutting-out expedition was complete, with Bonne Femme Yvette hove to alongside the two British ships a few miles off the mouth of the Passage D’Aron. A busy traffic of boats followed as our boarding party and their wounded were returned to Phiandra and a prize crew under Mr Webb was put aboard the merchantman. Finally, the little bald-headed French Captain and his crew were set free to row ashore in their longboat. The sea was calm and a few hours’ hard labour at the oars would see them in Beauchart. But that Captain was not a bit grateful and he stood up in the stern sheets and cursed us to the last as his men bent to the oars.

  Then, as the three ships filled their sails and headed out to sea, still in close company, we began to think what fine fellows we were. After all, we’d brought out a ship from one of the best-protected anchorages the French possessed, and if we’d lost men killed and wounded, well that was the price that had to be paid in war. Besides, Bonne Femme Yvette was a fine ship and proved to be laden with brandy, wine and cheeses. An expensive cargo that would add greatly to her value before an Admiralty Prize Court. We thought we had carried off the thing splendidly and escaped the risks of the operation.

  I found Sammy and Kate on Phiandra’s gundeck with the rest of my mates. Sammy was dancing about with the others
singing and clapping their hands to keep time.

  “Shall we be rich, Sammy?” cries Johnny Basford.

  “God bless you, lad,” says Sammy. “Spanish dollars and a bottle of rum for all hands!” And he danced round the shot garlands.

  “Yo-ho, Sammy!” says Norris. “Here’s Jacob.” Sammy turned and grinned at me.

  “Now then, Mr Counting House,” says he, nodding at our prize, “what d’you think of the King’s Navy now?”

  “Depends what she’s worth, Sammy,” says I happily. “What do you think?” He gave Bonne Femme Yvette a careful eye. “Well,” says he, “depends what the Prize Court thinks. It could be two and a half, maybe three thousand pounds for the ship, and for the cargo ... ”

  “Will it be Spanish dollars?” says Johnny, and we all laughed.

  And then the whole affair turned on its head. In my opinion, for all his talents and seamanship, and his passion for gunnery, Harry Bollington was a fool to take us into the Passage D’Aron. Not only was it a major enemy seaport, but (if you look at my map) you will see that the out-jutting Cape St Pierre, less than five miles to the North, was likely to hide any ships coming southbound down the coast. And with most of France to the North, that’s where their ships must come from. So it’s not surprising that Captain Bollington got the fright that he deserved, but it was hard luck on the rest of us, particularly myself.

  “Sail-ho!” cries a voice from aloft. “Enemy on the starboard beam!” The joy went out of Phiandra like the air from a pricked bladder and there was a thunder of feet across the planks as every man rushed to see what our fate was. There was a great and dreadful sound, between a gasp and a moan from two hundred men. A couple of miles astern, and off to starboard, two big ships were emerging from Cape St Pierre and cracking on sail even as we looked. The French Tricolour was straining at their mastheads.

  “Damn!” says Sammy. “Forty-gun ships. Either one’s a match for a thirty-two like us.” And we watched in silent horror as the two big frigates bore down upon us.

  “Can’t we out-run ’em?” says I.

  “Never a chance, lad,” says he. “Not under Captain Bollington. He’d not run from a line of first-rates. And he won’t strike neither.” Sammy turned to me and held out his hand. “Give us your hand, lad,” says he. He was deadly serious and I went cold all over. “You’re like a son to me, Jacob. You know that, don’t you.”

  “Yes,” says I. It was nice to know, but I wish he hadn’t said it, because it meant that in the considered opinion of this veteran, expert seaman, we were all going to die.

  God, but it was awful! There was no escape, no way out, nowhere to run. I was bottled up again. Worse than the Bullfrog, worse than facing Mason. I don’t know who I hated the most: Captain Bollington for getting his ship into this trap, or Williams for getting me personally into it. What the hell was I doing there?

  Johnny had been studying this exchange in some alarm.

  “But we shall beat ’em though, shan’t we?” says he. Sammy forced a laugh.

  “Course we shall!” says he. “We’re British tars, ain’t we? And they’re just a load of Johnny Crapauds! Nothing to worry about at all.”

  All over the ship men were muttering to each other while the enemy plunged towards us with deadly intent. They were making the ancient, traditional agreement.

  “If I get killed you can have my goods, and if you get it then I can have your’n, right?”

  Then Captain Bollington stirred himself. He gave what the world calls a display of leadership. That is to say, he cursed us to our guns and damned us for sons of bitches to be standing idle in the face of the French. We were in easy hailing distance of our two companions, so he took up his speaking-trumpet and gave them their marching orders as well.

  “Mr Webb!” he cries. “I’ve no time to take you off so you must stand clear and make your own way home if you must.”

  “Aye aye, sir!” says Mr Webb, from Bonne Femme Yvette, the disappointment plain in his voice. He was sorry to miss the fight, though you’d hardly credit it. I’d have given anything to change places with him.

  “Mr Bollington!” cries the Captain, turning to Ladybird, “Take station astern of me at once, and exert yourself to the utmost. I shall engage the enemy as he comes down, and endeavour to destroy him. Do what you may but do not try to attack alone!”

  “Aye aye, sir!” cries Lieutenant Bollington, and Ladybird fell off astern even as he spoke.

  Having disposed of the rest of his little fleet, Captain Bollington turned to us.

  “Men!” says he, in a big bold voice. “There’s no way home for us than past that squadron!” He indicated the approaching French warships. It was so quiet as the men strained to catch his words that we could hear Mr Webb and Lieutenant Bollington yelling at their men. And faintly, we could even hear the rolling of drums aboard the Frogs as they beat to quarters.

  “But I say this,” cries the Captain, “we’re Britons all, and the best damn gunnery ship in the King’s Navy. And I tell you now there shall be no hauling down of our colours while I live!” The intensity of his feelings drove home the words and he smashed his fist on the quarterdeck rail as he roared out the words.

  And the men lapped it up. Sammy, Norris and all the others, and all the officers too. Lieutenant Williams (the bastard) seemed alive with joy and threw his hat in the air as he called out at the top of his voice.

  “Three cheers for the Captain! Hip-hip-hip ... ”

  “HURRAH!” came the thunderous bark from every man aboard.

  “Hip-hip-hip ... ”

  “Hurrah!”

  “Hip-hip-hip ... ”

  “HURRAH!”

  And I cheered too, in the excitement of the moment. You who read this will understand that I never wanted to be in such a position, but the only real friends I’d ever known were going into battle, and they weren’t going without me.

  “God bless you, men,” says Captain Bollington, deeply moved, and he raised his hat to us all. “And now, Mr Williams, bring her about and take me across the bows of that ship!” He pointed at the leading Frenchman. “And Mr Seymour ... ”

  “Sir?” says Lieutenant Seymour from the gundeck.

  “The battle is yours, Mr Seymour. I ask you to make best use of your aimed fire. We cannot stand a battering match against such odds!”

  “Aye aye, sir!” cries Seymour, as a volley of orders from Lieutenant Williams sent the sail-trimmers jumping as Phiandra was laied upon the starboard tack to meet our foe. Also, as was usual in those days, we shortened sail to go into action under topsails alone.

  The wind had come round to the east and we were steering roughly north-easterly so as to converge with the leading Frog. The intention was to give him the benefit of the larboard battery as we went past. As the enemy approached we could see that in addition to their republican tricolours they were flying great white banners with black lettering upon them:

  LIBERTÉ

  EGALITÉ

  FRATERNITÉ

  That’s what they said and much good may it do ’em. (Damn the bloody Frogs. Do you wonder I can’t stand ’em? Them and their bloody revolution?) Seeing this, the Captain ordered the Union Flag to all three mastheads and a huge white ensign at the spanker gaff astern. And reserve colours were secured in the shrouds ready to be broken out should the others be shot away. Sammy was right. Harry Bollington would sink or burn before striking to the French. And that, my lads, is a singular thing to ponder on as you go into action against overwhelming odds.

  My station at general quarters was upon the fo’c’sle where the Bosun commanded the four carronade twenty-four-pounders mounted there. The long bronze bow-chasers were left under their covers for a close action such as this must be. A full crew for these carronades was but six men and I was Captain of number one pair. In fact my crew had one odd member, being five men and one woman, Kate Booth. From the time of my promotion and winning of her, she had stuck close by me. And this included her joining my gun-c
rew. Dressed in her seaman’s rig, she ran cartridges from the magazine just as she had for her Irishman before me.

  I looked at her and noticed she seemed unafraid so I attempted a smile and said something to show I wasn’t either.

  “Shan’t be long now, Kate.”

  But in fact, with only a light wind blowing, we had a while to wait with little to do. Like every other gun aboard, our carronades were ready loaded, but since a close action was intended, we passed the time before action by ramming down a round of canister on top of the round-shot: 400 musket-balls lovingly sewn into a canvas sack by the Gunner’s mates. As well as the great guns on the fo’c’sle, there were a dozen marines under Sergeant Arnold. These were there with their muskets as sharp-shooters. Overall command was Bosun Shaw’s but should he fall, then I would be in charge.

  Mr Seymour thought of one other thing to do while we waited, and that was to train all our guns as far forward as could be. He came briefly to the fo’c’sle to give his orders to the Bosun.

  “Haul ’em round, Mr Shaw,” says the Lieutenant. “We shall take the first of ’em no more than a point off the bow, so the further forward we train, the better our chance of firing first.” He was in his very element, I suppose. Everything that he had trained us for was about to be tested.

  I threw my weight on the “monkey-tail” lever that stuck out at the inboard end of our carronade and shoved the gun round unaided. The great mass of oak and iron moved easily on its rollers. On the gundeck the larboard battery was similarly training forward. Mr Seymour’s voice rose above the squeals and groans of his guns.

  “Steady fire, lads, and double-shotted,” says he. “In your own time as your own gun bears. We shall take the first at a steep angle and your point of aim is between his first and second gun-ports. That way we shall sweep his decks on the diagonal. But wait till you’re sure, and never mind if they fire first!”

  I looked at those around me, the other men at my gun, stripped to the waist as I was, and with a cloth bound round the brow for the sweat.