by John Drake
The other marines were badly shocked by this but they copied me and cleared the fo’c’sle of the scattered pieces of their comrades. I saw the value of the practice in that instant. No good came from looking at such things. I realised that the marines were looking to me for orders. Their corporal was dead too.
“You!” says I, to the nearest redcoat.
“Aye aye, sir!” says he, without thinking.
“Take hold of your men,” says I, “you’re rated corporal and in charge.”
“Aye aye, sir!” and he actually saluted me with his musket before setting to, yelling to the others and pointing out targets through the smoke.
The murk had cleared enough for Taureus to be visible. There were shot-holes in her hull and damage to her sails but no sign of the devastation we had wrought aboard Thermidor. She was fighting mad with her teeth intact. Meanwhile, my own gun was in range and I fired again. And so did our main-deck. Phiandra was enveloped in smoke and so we all worked blinded. You’ve no idea just how much smoke pours out from a battery of guns. One or two broadsides covers a whole ship in a gritty white fog-bank.
In the midst of our reloading came a tremendous roaring of guns as Taureus fired. To my horror, a crackling and rending of timber came from over my head, then a mad chaos of screams and something rumbled down upon me and smashed me to the deck. Something massive and irresistibly heavy. It laid me flat, grinding my nose into the planks. The smell of canvas and tarred rope was all about me and something pressed cruelly into my back. It was hard even to breathe and a weaker man would have been smothered. But I’m not weak. I’m extremely strong and by heaving mightily I was able to get free of the wreckage of the foremast, which lay with its yards, shrouds and sails in horrible ruin all across the fo’c’sle.
I staggered to my feet and looked around me. Everything was shockingly changed. Twenty feet above the deck, the broken stump of the mast jutted out like a shattered limb where the enemy’s shot had severed it. Worse still, the useless sails hung over the starboard rail trailing into the sea and obscuring a good quarter of our starboard battery. The gunners dared not fire for fear of setting wreckage and ship ablaze together.
I must have been dazed for I staggered about aimlessly until I heard a voice.
“Fletcher!” it cried. “This way, man!” and there was Williams and a dozen men hacking their way with axes into the crazy jumble on the fo’c’sle.
“The shrouds!” says he. “Cut the bloody shrouds!” I looked about and realised what he was at. The damage was indescribable. The neatly-ordered fo’c’sle was a jungle of fallen sailcloth, heaving spars and splintered timber which shifted and grumbled with each roll of the ship. Williams and his men had come up the larboard gangway and were trying to get at the larboard shrouds which were still unbroken and were binding the wreckage to the ship. These must be cut for us to have any chance of survival.
They couldn’t get at the shrouds but I thought I could, and I pushed and scrambled across the wreckage. The shrouds were under fearful strain, pulled taught as bowstrings by the hanging mast and canted crazily across the deck, almost parallel to it.
As I came within reach, I hauled out my cutlass and fell upon the thick, tarred lines with all my might. A cutlass was a poor tool for the work and a heavy axe would have been better, but I laid on like a mad thing and the lines parted, one after another, with terrific snaps. The last line of all went without my even touching it. At once the mass of wreckage heaved like an earth-quake and sent me spinning over as it scraped and groaned its way over the starboard bulwark. It took the hammock nettings and all their contents with it, and ripped out like cottons the few strands of rigging still holding the mast. Finally the forestay itself parted with a twang like the devil’s banjo and vanished over the side.
That cleared the fo’c’sle and opened the way for Williams and his men. They pressed forward and completed the job of heaving useless wreckage overside as the foremast fell slowly astern of the ship. Williams himself nearly ran into me in his haste to come forward.
“Good man, Fletcher!” says he, panting, “I trust you’re not hurt?” And this from the man who’d wished me blinded and crippled last night! Don’t ask me why he said it, but I’m sure he meant it. The heat of the moment, I suppose.
“No, sir,” says I, “I’m not hurt” and I looked down at myself to see if this might be true.
“Good,” says he. “Then you must bring your gun into action at once. The main deck is free to fire and we must have every gun served.” But I saw the remains of the fo’c’sle. It was swept bare. Even the belfry and the cook’s chimney were gone and, of course, the towering mast with its sails was no more.
“Christ!” says I. “How shall we manage?”
“Belay that!” says he. “We’ve the mizzen topsail drawing and the main deck’s intact. Man your gun!”
“Aye aye, sir!” says I, and looked for my gunners. They were gone. Kate and all the others. There were only ugly stains on the deck left by our dead. Williams followed my eyes and called three men to join me at the carronade.
“Fall to it!” says he, and dashed off along the gangway to the quarterdeck followed by the rest of his men. I stared across the water. Taureus was really close. Twenty yards away and blazing gunfire up and down her length.
“You!” says I, bawling over the din, and pointing to the nimblest-looking of my new gunners. “You’re powder-man. Down to the magazine at the double. I’ll have a one-third charge to throw off splinters.” He was off like a hare as I gave the others their duties.
“You ... You’re loader! You ... you’re sponger! Fire double-shotted ’til I say otherwise.”
Soon the squat gun was pouring out its forty-eight pounds of iron at every discharge. It was pure heavy work at range too close to miss. Everything reduced to a race of smoking bores and spurting firelocks in a continuous roar of cannon, in a bank of smoke, with death whistling past our ears. On either side, spars and wreckage thundered down like rain. It was a hammer-and-tongs contest to decide who could stand it the longer: them with their bigger ship and heavier guns, or us with our faster firing.
Then Kate Booth was beside me, shouting into my deafened ear.
“Jacob! Jacob!” says she. “They’re hauling off!” I was so dazed and exhausted that I hadn’t noticed. Through the smoke, I saw Taureus drawing away as her fire slackened. She was trailing her mainmast over the side and her sails were in tatters. But she still had more canvas aloft than Phiandra and I wondered if she was simply pulling ahead of us. Then a thought struck me.
“Kate!” says I. “I thought you were gone.”
“Well, I ain’t,” says she. “I was thrown into the waist with the others, that’s all. And you’re to cease firing at once, Captain’s orders. He’s going to make repairs. Look! They’ve all stopped, see? You’re to give a hand with repairs ... ”
She was right. We weren’t firing and were drifting away from Taureus. Both ships were so badly damaged aloft that they could hardly make way. Captain Bollington and the unknown French Captain must have decided at about the same moment that repairs to the rigging were in order.
On both ships men abandoned the guns and set to with spars and rope and tackles, and brought up new sails from the lockers. I helped rig a jury foremast. Fifty men were needed for this monstrously heavy work, manhandling a spare main-yard and raising it to be lashed vertically to the stump of the old mast. Then new shrouds and stays were rigged, and a yard hung in place to support a sail with its tacks and sheets. Everyone aboard, from the lowest ship’s boy to the Captain himself, joined in the work. It was another race, equally deadly, equally urgent. For these weren’t just running repairs. Whichever ship, Phiandra or Taureus, completed the work first would bear down upon the other while she was still unable to manoeuvre, lay under her stern, and pound her into a wreck. The battle was by no means over. It was only now becoming serious.
30
Fortunately for us, the worst did not happen. The Fren
chman did not catch us without steerage. By the time she resumed the fight, we had sails set on all three masts and were ready for them. I suppose that was another sign of the superiority of British seamanship, as Phiandra had been a damn sight more damaged aloft than they had. But all credit to the Frogs, she came on like a good ’un, with drums rolling, bugles calling and the hands cheering at their guns.
Standing waiting at my gun with Kate and the gunners round me, I got new orders. Mr Midshipman Percival-Clive came pounding up the gangway from the quarterdeck, waving a cutlass wildly in excitement.
“Mind that, sir,” says I, taking hold of his sword-arm before he did someone a mischief.
“Captain’s orders!” says he, and pointed at the enemy. “He will lay us alongside of her!” He took a deep breath and spoke, his words coming out in a rush. “The Captain says to take up small arms, every man. He plans to bring her round by the head to engage the starboard battery which has less guns unseated than the larboard. We’re to give ’em double shot and canister from every gun as we lay alongside.” He blinked at me, awaiting some response.
“Aye aye, sir!” says I. “But why the small arms?”
“Oh,” says he, recalling his lines like an actor, “cutlass and pistols for all hands.” He pointed at the Frog again. “The Captain is resolved to conclude the battle hand-to-hand. We shall go across in two divisions, Mr Williams shall lead the larboard watch from the fo’c’sle and the Captain shall lead the starboards from the quarterdeck. Carry on, Mr Fletcher!” says he and ran off.
It was only as he went that I saw we could not obey his orders. Our starboard carronades were dismounted. It must have happened when the foremast went.
“Damn,” says I. “Down to the gundeck, lads. We’ll lend a hand there.” So off I went with my band of followers. The first time in my life that I led men forward in action. This was an event, even if there were only four of them and one a Portsmouth doxy.
On the gundeck there was furious activity. Three things were going on at the same time. Lieutenant Haslam and the Mids were dishing out small arms to all those who hadn’t already got them, the sail-trimmers were racing to their duty as we came about, and Lieutenant Seymour was dividing up the surviving gunners to man as many as could be of the starboard guns. He was standing with his back to me, leaning on Percival-Clive in a puzzling fashion.
“Mr Seymour, sir!” says I, pushing forward. “I’ve four men here and no gun to serve on the fo’c’sle. Where shall ... ” And my heart jumped in my breast. As the Lieutenant turned to face me I saw that his left arm was off at the elbow and ended in a mass of bloody rags that had been clapped on for bandages. He was grey as death and Percy was holding him up.
“Fletcher ... Fletcher ... ” says he, straining to think. He looked along the gundeck. Of the sixteen starboard guns, all but four were serviceable. “There!” says he. “Number six has no crew. Take your men there ... ”
So off we went across the wreckage and splinters and smashed gear.
“Jacob!” cries a voice, and there was Sammy Bone grinning at me from number eight. “Are you all right lad?” I couldn’t see Nimmo or Thomas but Norris, Johnny and the others were there. “Didn’t we give it to that first bugger though, eh? An’ two broadsides was all it took!” I nodded at Taureus.
“We’re going to board that one, Sammy,” says I.
“Aye!” says he, and pointed at number six. “Best serve your gun while you can. She ain’t loaded.”
It wasn’t either. God knows how he’d time to notice such a thing, in the heat of action, but that was Sammy Bone. So we loaded double round-shot and a bag of bullets on top and waited for the fun to start again.
Lieutenant Seymour just had time to come round with a final word. The poor devil was barely conscious and staggered like a drunken man. He addressed every gun-captain by name.
“Good man, Fletcher,” says he faintly, swaying on his feet. “One round all together then over the side we go!” And off he went, clinging to Poxy Percy. The youth looked as bad as he did, near rigid with terror.
As far as I could see, the Frog Captain had the same idea as we did and the two ships came slowly together to finish the business one way or the other. At pistol-shot range, Taureus ripped off her broadside in a simultaneous roar. But we fired as each gun-captain thought best.
At least, that was our intention, for the Frogs aimed squarely into our gundeck and at too close a range to miss. The impact was terrible. Men went down left and right about me. They went down smashed and split and shrieking. Timbers shattered with murderous cracks and shot scoured along the deck throwing over guns and carriages like toys. One of my gunners suddenly shot back past my arm and his bare foot kicked me as he passed. God knows what had hit him or where he came to rest. I jolted with shock and jerked my lanyard, wasting my fire without thought of aim.
Then came a thunder of feet and a pandemonium of voices with men elbowing each other aside. Above it all came Lieutenant Seymour’s voice, still with enough strength to make it carry.
“Away boarders!” says he. “Larbo’lins to the forecastle, Starbo’lins to the quarterdeck!”
“Boarders ... boarders ... ” I thought. “Come on Kate ... Sammy!” And I searched out these two and dragged them behind me as I pushed through the stream of men. Together we struggled across the wreck of Lieutenant Seymour’s beautiful gundeck, over men and pieces of men and spars and rope and spent shot still hot from the gun. Then up the ladders to the fo’c’sle, to join the men of the larboard watch.
“Fletcher!” booms a voice in my ear. It was the Captain with his coat thrown off and a cutlass in his hand. He nodded at me in satisfaction and reached out to thump my shoulder. “Now then, Mr Champion Cudgeller, you shall stand beside me when the time comes!” He was actually smiling. Sammy was right as usual, he was a mad bugger. He actually enjoyed fighting, buying special guns with his own money and paying for powder and all the rest of it. Over the years I’ve met others like him, and a fine, bold set of fellows they are too. Just the sort to let loose on anyone who gets in England’s way — Frogs, Dagoes, Hottentots, whatever — if only you could leave ’em to it and not get involved. “Shoulder to shoulder, eh Fletcher?” says he.
“Aye aye, sir!” says I. What else could I say?
“Good man!” says he, and turns to the men gathered all around him. “See there!” he cries, jabbing his cutlass at the quarterdeck carronades. “We take our time from those guns. The Frenchie’s coming down to board but he’s heeled over with his decks laid open and he’ll get double canister into his boarding party as he comes alongside. Then every man after me!” This raised the expected cheer from the men and then he made them all lay flat behind the bulwarks to be out of sight of the French small-arms men. I made sure that Kate was out of the way. She wouldn’t go below but I told her I’d brain her if she tried to go with the boarders.
And then ... well ... in for a penny in for a pound, I went and stood beside the Captain. He expected it and I hadn’t the strength of will not to.
“See, Fletcher,” says he, “look how she comes, they’re massing on the fo’c’sle just as we are.” He laughed and waved his cutlass in the air. And coming they were. With her gundeck silent, the Frenchman had brought up his crew to carry the day by boarding. There were drummers and seamen, and there were officers leaping about with their hats on the ends of their swords. I looked back at our quarterdeck and saw the snouts of three carronade twenty-four pounders training on the enemy’s fo’c’sle. Six bags of shot. 2,400 musket balls.
At less than twenty yards, Taureus gave us her quarter-deck guns. Five brass nines threw their shot across the brief gap. One ball burst through the fo’c’sle bulwark and killed three men. Badly aimed, the others whizzed overhead or hammered uselessly into the empty gundeck. But a great cheer rose from their boarding party, now only yards away. She was coming to strike us a glancing blow, fo’c’sle to fo’c’sle. I saw faces, weapons, even buttons on their coats. Many were
soldiers with muskets and they were crammed densely together and yelling wildly. They didn’t look a bit like frogs, or crapauds or anything less than men.
Finally, at such a range that I could have spat across the gap, our three carronades fired directly into the French boarders. I have never seen such a sight as the result. Men struck by small shot are not thrown down as they are by a cannonball. Rather they crumple as their legs go weak beneath them. Thus, some hundred men suddenly swayed back all together, like corn in the wind, and fell down upon their deck. Then the two ships rumbled together with a jarring crash as the mass of Taureus’s bowsprig and fore-rigging towered across our fo’c’sle. The impact hurled me over and laid the Captain on the deck beside me. I leaped up and hauled him to his feet.
“Grapnels away! Lively now!” says he, and the men told off to secure the ships sent their grappling tackles curving away. Clunk! Thunk! Clunk! The heavy hooks took hold and our men hauled on the lines. The wind and the rolling waters ground the vessels together so first we rose over their bulwarks and then they were high above ours. But Captain Bollington didn’t hesitate an instant.
