Fletcher's Fortune

by John Drake

  “With me, lads!” says he, and he was off like a greyhound. Leaping into the Frenchman’s fore-shrouds and down on to his fo’c’sle. I went with him and the hands poured across in a wave, screeching and roaring, half-naked and filthy, ripping and slashing like mad dogs. Talk about your wild Turks or American Indians! You should have seen a British boarding party of my young day. Most of the time they were screwed down so hard by Naval discipline that the chance to pay someone off for it, hand-to-hand with the cutlass, was like a holiday to them. I’ve seen it. I know.

  For a moment, though, even this was checked as we scrambled over the remains of the French boarders. A horrid mass of bleeding bodies piled in a heap and some with life still in them. But we shoved through and raced up their larboard gangway between the rail with its tight-packed hammocks and their boats stacked over spars in the waist. A spatter of musketry came down from their tops and a dense body of men formed on their quarterdeck, led by an officer in a plumed hat. These men hurled themselves at us with a roar.

  Half way between the fo’c’sle and the quarterdeck we clashed. The gangway was no more than eight feet wide and in that narrow space, some two hundred men jammed together in deadly combat. Carried forward by a howling mass of our men, I was in the front rank with Captain Bollington on one side of me and a couple of his “excused fighting” Sicilians on the other.

  The impact as we met drove the breath from my body and for some seconds I was packed too close to move, let alone to fight. The officer with the hat was struggling to bring up a small-sword to stab me. He yelled something, spraying me with spittle and I could smell the sweat on him. I couldn’t do a thing. My arms were held somewhere and I cringed in every muscle with anticipation of the blade. Then I hauled my right arm free and raised my cutlass in the air. Jammed nose-to-nose I could strike with neither edge nor point so I beat the iron hilt down on his head, again and again in my terror. The hat collapsed and the man went limp but he couldn’t fall with bodies all round him so I shoved him aside. Then a pistol came and put its muzzle under my nose. I punched it away with my cutlass hilt and sliced the blade down the hand that held it, like carving roast beef. Bang! The ball went nowhere and a voice screamed.

  Then the press eased and the fight proper commenced. A soldier in a grey coat lunged at me with a bayonet and I cut at his head. Clunk! The cutlass jarred on his musket-barrel as he swept up the weapon to save himself and clouted me viciously in the ear with the brass butt-plate. The blow left me sick and dizzy and I staggered back as he moved on, jabbing down at an officer who’d tripped over and was on his back, gasping like a landed fish. It was Captain Bollington. The Frog missed once and the Captain slashed at the bayonet with his sword, but the fellow stamped down, pinning the Captain’s arm, and drew back for a thrust that would nail Harry Bollington like an entomologist’s moth. I leapt forward, stumbled, made a bodge of my sword-stroke, lost my footing and cannoned into the Frog. Somehow I kept upright and grabbed him. Instinctively, I locked hands and squeezed with all my might. I felt ribs crackling and soft things bursting within him. He rattled in his throat like a hanged man and I dropped him dead on the deck.

  After that I got more room to move and did what came naturally, which was to grab my cutlass and slash with all my might at anything French, as fast as ever I could: left-right-left! Over and over again.

  (If ever you have to fight with a cutlass you should try to do the same. It’ll keep the bastards off you for a bit and there’s even the chance you might hit one of ’em. Shout as loud as you can, it doesn’t matter what, and just keep going. It works as long as your strength lasts. Fortunately it actually helps to be terrified ’cos that makes you work all the faster and harder. But above all, don’t start prancing about, trying to fence. That’s certain death.)

  There were more of them than there were of us, and sheer weight of numbers was driving us back towards the fo’c’sle, when a roar of British cheering came from behind them. At almost the same instant, our starboard watch reached Taureus’s quarterdeck and Lieutenant Bollington and his “Ladybirds” came over the rail. Heads turned in horror as the French found themselves attacked from the rear.

  Williams was in the front of the fight, chopping men like a meat-grinder. His speed was uncanny and he was every bit as deadly at the real thing as he was at practice. That finished it. Taken from two sides at once, Taureus’s crew caved in. Some ran below and had to be chased out of dark corners but most dropped their weapons and threw up their hands. An instant later, Captain Bollington was accepting the Frog officers’ swords on the quarterdeck and Percival-Clive was hauling down a Tricolour to replace it with British colours. (What a handy lad with flags he had become.)

  So there we stood, panting with the sheer physical effort of it, and glaring at one another, we in triumph and them in dismay. And what a butcher’s yard it was! No one can say they gave up easily. They’d lost at least thirty, killed and wounded by our boarders, not to mention those mown down by our carronades.

  But with the battle over we had more to do than ever. Phiandra and Ladybird rolled helpless against Taureus’s sides, with hardly more than their ship’s boys aboard. There were nearly 200 prisoners glaring in sullen hatred at the bayonets of our marines, and the wind was rising. Captain Bollington gathered his officers on Taureus’s quarterdeck for an instant conference. This included me, as sole-surviving Bosun’s mate — Acting Bosun in fact.

  “Gentlemen,” says he, “well done! I rejoice to see you. My only sorrow is for those who are lost.” We looked round to see which familiar faces were gone: Lieutenant Bollington, Lieutenant Haslam, Mr Shaw, Sergeant Arnold, and Lieutenant Seymour (though he was alive and nursing his mutilated arm aboard Phiandra). I was sorry to see that Williams was intact and unscratched. I caught his eye and he smiled at me as if nothing had ever passed between us. The Captain continued.

  “We must leave this place at once, for the French must have observed a battle so close to their shores and we shan’t be left alone for long. So! We have prizes to man, and prisoners to deal with, even though we have lost men. We must make shift! I shall place the prisoners in Ladybird and let them take her. We cannot guard so many and bring the other vessels home to England. As to command, I shall stay with Phiandra and Mr Golding shall take Taureus.”

  He paused and looked at Williams whose face had fallen like a dropped round-shot. “She should be yours, Mr Williams, as First Lieutenant. But you must take the merchantman. She’s holed beneath the water-line and I need your seamanship to keep her afloat. Even more, I need your leadership to keep the men from what she’s carrying. She has thirty tons of brandy aboard and I doubt any other of my officers could keep the men sober. You may take Percival-Clive as second in command and a dozen others. Take any you chose.” Williams nodded and looked thoughtful.

  “Thank you, sir,” says he, “I’ll need less than that, and I won’t take Mr Percival-Clive ... ”

  “Won’t you, though?” says the Captain, irritated.

  “Forgive me, sir,” says Williams quickly, “what I meant was ... ”

  “Damn you, sir!” says the Captain. “Do as you’re bid! I’ve no time to argue. You need another officer and you’ll take him!” And that was that.

  Then, tired as we all were, we had to pitch into the heavy work of redistributing men and gear among the four ships.

  A dozen things went on at once. The dead went over the side in cascades, the wounded went to the Surgeon and the prisoners were herded into Ladybird, even as her crew were handing out their belongings to move across to Phiandra. The Frogs were delighted to be escaping imprisonment, perhaps for years, in England.

  Or rather, the men were pleased. I think the officers would have preferred to be made prisoners. They were all worried about what their precious revolutionary masters in Paris would make of their defeat: Phiandra’s 250 men with thirty-two broadside guns had beaten Thermidor and Taureus with 600 men and eighty guns between them.

  As for me, I was glad to
be alive and unwounded and to see that Sammy, Norris and Johnny were, too, even though Thomas, Jem and Nimmo had all been killed. Also, I saw Kate Booth on Phiandra’s fo’c’sle. She waved to me, though without much enthusiasm. Then I got a shock when Captain Bollington turned his attention to me.

  “You must be Bosun, Mr Fletcher,” says he. “Take the starboard watch and secure anything parted or sprung aloft!” That meant command of half of our seamen in the vital task of repairing Taureus’s masts, sails and rigging. Much to my surprise, I found I could do it. I’d taken no real interest in these things, but my months aboard ship had taught me more than I realised. The intricacies of lifts and halliards, tacks and sheets, were a mystery no more. Like anything else, once you know it, it’s obvious.

  I even set Sammy and Norris to work, and they jumped to it as if I were a real Bosun. And in the middle of this, up comes Williams all bright and cheerful.

  “Fletcher!” says he. “I’m taking you aboard Bonne Femme Yvette as Bosun. Gather your belongings at once like the good fellow you are.” I didn’t know what to think. He was just the way he used to be. Had something changed?

  “Aye aye, sir!” says I.

  “Good!” says he. “I’ve picked you and six others.” He paused and watched my reaction. He was waiting for me to speak.

  “Which others, sir?” says I, and he exploded his mine.

  “Some friends of yours, Fletcher. Billy Mason and his mates. We’ll make a tight little company, don’t you think?”

  31

  Percival-Clive was my lifeline. Without him I was dead meat. I realised that as soon as I got aboard Bonne Femme Yvette. I came over the rail with my hammock and a bundle of belongings and there was Billy Mason waiting for me with Barker and another of his chums. The others were below and I heard thumping and hammering as they worked to strengthen the repairs to the hole knocked in the ship’s side by the Frog fort. Mason swaggered up to me, full of bravado.

  “Look’ee here, lads!” says he. “Just look what we’ve got for a Bosun!” His mates sniggered. I wasn’t standing for that. I clenched my fist to knock him down and show him what was what. I didn’t give a Chinaman’s fart for Mason. Compared with what I’d faced in the last few hours, he was nothing. But he saw the movement and skipped back.

  “Don’t you fuckin’ try it, my cocky!” says he, and reached for the pistols stuck in his belt. That gave me a jolt. I knew he hated me and I was ready to fight him. In fact I expected to. But he wasn’t looking for a fight, he was threatening murder! His mates gathered round to watch. I was at a loss. I had no pistols. Should I use my cutlass? Should I leap at him before he could draw? Or simply back off and let him win? I didn’t know what to do. Then I got help from an unexpected quarter.

  “Mr Fletcher?” calls Williams, from the quarterdeck. “You may secure small arms from the hands. There’s a locker in the Master’s cabin. Bring me the keys when you’re done. Lively now!”

  Mason and the others looked at Williams and handed over their weapons. It was too easy. Seconds before, they’d been threatening outright mutiny, and now they were obeying like lambs. Were they his men, in his plot, whatever it was? I didn’t know. Meanwhile, the boat that had brought me the short distance to Bonne Femme Yvette was gone and the frigates were filling their sails. I was on my own.

  Then I saw Percival-Clive, with his index finger busy up his left nostril, peering across at the Frogs as they tried to get Ladybird under way. The wind was a dead muzzler for them, and in an unfamiliar ship, over-crammed with men, they were making a hash of it. Angry shouts drifted across. Percival-Clive laughed as she missed stays and hung in the eye of the wind, with her mainsail flapping. In that moment I saw why Williams hadn’t wanted him aboard and why I couldn’t just be shot like a dog.

  Poxy Percy was the very last of Phiandra’s crew that I’d have chosen as an ally. But as long as he was there, Williams had to avoid anything outright illegal. Or, at least, he had to unless he was prepared to kill young Percy into the bargain. And I didn’t think Williams’d do that to the nephew of the First Sea Lord and the Prime Minister. I hoped not, anyway.

  So I made the best of it. I gathered in pistols and cutlasses, not forgetting the working party in the bows, and locked them in the Frog Master’s cabin. I thought of hiding some pistols away for myself but Barker was sneaking about, keeping an eye on me. Then I found myself a cabin to put my things in. The crew live under the fo’c’sle in a merchantman but I wasn’t slinging my hammock beside Mason and his pals. I didn’t want to wake up with a cut throat.

  When I came on deck again we were kept busy making sail. Captain Bollington was signalling for Taureus and Bonne Femme Yvette to follow in line astern of Phiandra. But with our small crew we were slow and clumsy and we fell behind the other ships even though they were jury-rigged. This wretched performance brought a sharp signal from Phiandra, telling us to keep better station. At this, and much to my surprise, Percival-Clive ventured an opinion.

  “Please sir, Mr Williams,” says he, “wouldn’t she ride better with the fore staysail set?”

  “Ah!” says Williams, smiling. “So you’d have her a little more down by the head, would you?” The Mid nodded eagerly. “A common error,” says Williams. “She’s too full in the bow for that, but I appreciate your suggestion none the less. It shows that you are attending to your duties.”

  Percy beamed stupidly at these kind words. But Williams was talking nonsense! Bonne Femme Yvette was badly trimmed. The fore staysail would have eased her passage and given her another knot or two and enabled us to keep up with Phiandra and Taureus. And if a relative novice like me could see it, then Williams certainly could. So why was he sailing her like a pig? Obviously he wanted us alone on the ocean.

  For the rest of the day I kept as near to Percival-Clive as I could and wondered what would happen next. Mason and his collection of pimps and pick-pockets sneered at me and muttered among themselves, but did nothing, and Williams went through the motions of command. He divided us into watches, and appointed a cook to feed us from the ship’s stores. Then it got dark and the fun started.

  Williams was easily the best quartermaster among us and he had the wheel himself. He stood swaying with the motion in the dim light of the binnacle. We’d eased down sail for the night, leaving enough canvas aloft to give steerage way, and Mason and his mates were dark figures lounging about the waist, occasionally peering expectantly towards Williams.

  There was enough moonlight to see beyond our bows and some way across the waves. The horizon pitched and rolled and the stars turned above our heads. I stood beside the Lieutenant with Percy dropping on his feet with tiredness. I was dreading the moment when he should fall asleep.

  “Mr Percival-Clive!” says Williams, in a kindly voice. “I think you’d be all the better for a night’s rest. You may go below.”

  “Aye aye, sir!” says the Mid gratefully, and promptly disappeared down the nearest hatchway. The hands stirred in anticipation and my heart started to hammer against my ribs. This could be the moment. I looked about for something to fight with. The ship had a few small guns and beside the nearest one was a handspike: an oaken lever five feet long with a steel tip. I couldn’t win against seven, but I could mangle one or two of them with that — starting with Williams. Then I jumped as he spoke to me.

  “Mr Fletcher!” says he. “I’d be grateful if you’d keep an eye on that shot-hole. I don’t want water coming aboard us in the dark. I’ll send one of the hands to relieve you presently.”

  What was this? He was separating me from him and the others. Why should he do that? Would it be better or worse for me to obey! I didn’t know, but to refuse an order would be an instant spark in the powder-keg. So I took one of the lanterns hanging on the quarterdeck rail and went forward. Nobody tried to stop me.

  The shot-hole was in the hold, under the main deck, under the fo’c’sle. But I ducked into the fo’c’sle and stayed there with the light hidden, peering back along the deck th
rough the hatchway in the fo’c’sle bulkhead. I considered barring the hatch to stop them creeping in on me but, thanks to young Percy, the hatch was no more. There was another hatch inside, in the deck. It led to the companionway to the deck below. That one still had its cover intact. Perhaps I could secure that and leave them only one way in. Then I heard voices from the stern.

  I looked through the bulkhead hatchway. There was a big windlass immediately aft of the fo’c’sle, then a boat secured in the waist, and the towering mainmast aft of that. So I couldn’t see clearly what was happening at the wheel, but I could hear Williams’s voice speaking softly to the hands. I couldn’t quite make out what he was saying.

  Suddenly a figure flitted past and feet padded over my head as a man ran forward across the fo’c’sle. It was Barker. He was silhouetted against the sky and you couldn’t mistake him, long and thin as he was. I stuck my head out and listened intently. He was moving about in the bow and nobody was with him. He was using the heads. I crept out and on to the fo’c’sle and caught him just as he came back fastening his belt. He nearly jumped out of his skin when he saw me looming up on him.

  “Gawdamighty!” says he.

  “What are you doing?” says I, and stood in his way as he tried to pass me. He was nervous and wouldn’t meet my eye.

  “Took short. I was took short, that’s all,” says he. As he fumbled to hitch his belt buckle, something rapped against my leg. He had a cutlass! But I’d locked the arms away myself and given Williams the key ... We reacted together. He tried to cry out and I drove my fist into his belly so he couldn’t. The breath went out of him in a wheeze and he went limp. I grabbed him and whipped him off his feet like a dead worm. I scragged him by the neck and the seat of his breeches and hauled him into the fo’c’sle. He was half-stunned with the blow and by the time he’d got his breath I’d bound him hand and foot with hammock lashings.