The Odd-Job Man (The Duty and Destiny Series, Book 7)

by Andrew Wareham

  Euripides began to pull away from the ship coming down from the north; as Frederick had hoped, she was under fighting sail and cautious inshore at night, working the lead and crawling at two knots probably.

  A lookout called. “Ship due east, sir, be a three-decker, sir, so I reckons, coming round broadside on, I can see they linstocks they uses for firing they old guns, sir, three tiers of ‘em.”

  Few Spanish ships used flintlocks to discharge their cannon.

  The chasers fired, the muzzle plumes giving an aiming point for the three-decker. There was a delay as the Spanish captain brought his ship onto the mark, preferring not to trust the ability of his gunners to point the cannon.

  “Cease fire, Mr Weare!”

  There was a good chance the Spaniard would expect them to be under fighting sail, topsails only and making four or five knots at most; Euripides felt as if she was making eight already.

  It was an interesting calculation; Frederick occupied the waiting minute in explaining his guess to Captain Murray.

  “There she goes!”

  The massive broadside flamed in the night; the sea a cable behind them erupted, half an acre or more of waterspouts.

  “Sixty guns, more perhaps, on the broadside. Thirty-twos on the lowest deck, possibly on the middle as well; twenty-fours on the upper. Nearly three parts of a ton of metal, sir. The Spaniard will be blinded by the flame and the smoke, will be two minutes and more before he can search for us. If we are lucky it will happen as occurred at Algeciras in the last war…”

  “On deck, sir! Ship directly ahead, sir, at three cables, sir.”

  “Mr Oates, we can achieve two points inland, I believe?”

  “We can, sir, but that will put us in shoal water within two minutes at most.”

  “Excellent! Helm down, sir, now! Count thirty seconds and return to a safe course!”

  There was the roar of a broadside from the three-decker; nothing fell near them again and Frederick was too busy to look.

  “On deck, sir, ship on our bows is tacking. Offshore, sir.”

  “Mr Blenkinsop, point the guns!”

  A delay of a few seconds, the gunners having anticipated the order.

  “On the roll!” Frederick closed his eyes. “Shoot!”

  Frederick ran to the rail, peered out into the night, his night vision unimpaired.

  They had hit the Spaniard hard, at two cables and her tack still incomplete. She was in irons, drifting, caught in the current and the making tide, closing the shore hopelessly. She fired her broadside as he stood watching.

  Twenty or more of roundshot ripped into Euripides’ hull and rigging, a parting gesture that almost finished them. The foremast folded, toppled in a moment, mast hit and rigging almost wholly destroyed.

  “Point her up, Mr Oates!”

  Frederick ran forward, Kavanagh and Bosomtwi at his shoulder, calling men to him from the guns, grabbing at an axe as he went.

  “Cut the mast free!”

  He slashed at a trailing rope, severed it, moved to the next, was forestalled by the surviving hands from the carronades.

  “Mr Weare?”

  “Gone, sir. I’m senior, sir. Captain of the Foretop, sir. Mast’s loose, sir; gone, sir. I will finish this, sir.”

  “No need to stay here, isn’t it, sir!”

  Frederick was in the way, he realised; he ran back to the quarterdeck, Blenkinsop calling across to him.

  “Spaniard’s aground, sir. Seventy-four, sir. She is lost.”

  “Where is the three-decker?”

  “Fighting t’other one what was north of us, sir. They’re both in a cloud of powder-smoke, sir, can’t see nothing but the flame of the other broadside, sir!”

  “Just like Algeciras, Captain Murray!”

  Frederick looked round, saw no Murray.

  “Splinter, sir. Taken to the sickbay, sir. Done his arm a power of no good, sir.”

  “Mr Oates!”

  “Dead, sir.”

  “Mr Blenkinsop.”

  “Sir?”

  “Make such sail as you can until daylight, course south-east – lose ourselves away from land, I think, for an hour or two. We will attempt a jury foremast at first light, enough to put up a jib or two so as to point up.”

  “Mr Airey?”

  “Sickbay, sir. Not much chance, splinter opened his head, sir.”

  “Who is here? Olsen! Is that you?”

  “Yes, sir. With Mr Bosomtwi, sir. Thass my place, sir.”

  “Good lad! Run below and ask Mr Doolan to join me, if you please.”

  Olsen disappeared below decks.

  “He said he got to, isn’t it, sir. He got a cutlass and a pair of pistols and he stood where he ought to be, sir.”

  "He is a follower now, Bosomtwi; tell him about the estates where he will have a cottage of his own one day. He has made himself one of us, has he not?"

  The firing came to an abrupt end in the bay, nearly two miles away.

  “Flames, sir. One of them is on fire.”

  “I hate that sight, Blenkinsop. There is nothing more frightening, I think.”

  “Doolan, sir.”

  “Mr Doolan, you are now the only lieutenant other than the First. Organise the remaining men, half to repairs and as many as possible to get some sleep. We may not succeed in outrunning that three-decker. She may be on our heels at dawn, and she will be faster than us with a mast gone.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Doolan stood for a few seconds, looking round, then moved off along the deck, calling names as he went.

  “Milliken? Where is that Carpenter? Is he gone too?”

  “No, sir, I been waiting on you to ‘ave time, sir. No shots below the waterline, sir. No need for pumps, sir. I got a couple of spars what I can fish together, sir, given an hour or two, and there be a stump of foremast damn near a fathom ‘igh, sir.”

  “Well done! Get to it, Chips.”

  “Boatswain! Rig the pole to set jibs flying?”

  “Got it in me mind, sir. Knows just what to do, sir.”

  “And a damned sight better than me, no doubt! Give me the word when you are done, sir!”

  “On deck! Three-decker is hove-to, sir, a distance off the ship what’s on fire, sir. Putting out boats, sir.”

  “Thank Christ for that! Pulled out of range of the exploding magazine and sending boats to pick the crew up, those they can. I wonder if she has discovered her nationality yet?”

  Blenkinsop shook his head.

  “On deck, sir. Ship what is on fire be a two-decker, sir. Still got a bit of way on her, sir, heading for the beach.”

  “She might save more of her crew that way, Mr Blenkinsop. With luck she will reach the sand and take water on, perhaps save her magazine. She is lost whatever happens and she may have eight or nine hundred men aboard.”

  “They say that when L’Orient blew up at the Nile, sir, it was heard fifty miles away and the fighting stopped for ten minutes, every last one of them deafened and dazed.”

  “So they say, Mr Blenkinsop. I hope not to find out.”

  They rounded the point, left the scene behind with some relief.

  “Course for Gibraltar at dawn, Mr Blenkinsop. I must go to the doctor and hear his report and then talk to my clerk while all is fresh in my mind.”

  The cockpit was, as always after a fight, a bloody mess, quite literally so.

  Frederick stood in the edge of the lantern light and looked slowly around.

  He counted eight bodies, arranged tidily along the far bulkhead. There were perhaps fifteen men laid out on pallets, spare sails folded to give them a little comfort; most had amputations.

  The legs and wings bucket contained a dozen or more limbs.

  Mr Samways the chaplain was trotting from man to man with dippers of water, holding their heads up to drink.

  There was a near naked man on the table, held down by three seamen, swearing in a familiar voice; Frederick watched as a hand and half of the forearm to the
elbow was thrown into the tub. Left arm – Murray would still be able to write if he survived the operation. He was a hard man, despite his appearance; he would be on his feet before they reached Gibraltar, if the shock or sepsis did not get him.

  Frederick stood and watched quite coldly as one of his few friends was butchered, could feel no more than distant regret; he needed a bottle of brandy, but knew that he would at most take a cup of coffee – there was too much to do. It was a hard service he reflected, as he had so often; and it was making him into far too hard a man.

  “Next!”

  Carlisle’s voice was quite uninflected – the man divorced from the surgeon while the need was upon him.

  “No more, sir. Captain Murray said he must be last, seeing as how he was not a fighting man of the crew.”

  “Well, he is a brave son-of-a-bitch, whatever he is!”

  Frederick nodded to himself walked further into the light.

  “What is the bill, doctor?”

  “Seventeen dead that I know of, sir. Eight of the men laid down here I have no hope for. Airey is gone, and so is Horner. Young Iliffe came down and was bandaged for a damned great slash across his back where a splinter just touched him; he is gone back to duty. The boy said it would hurt like buggery whether he laid down or stood up, and if he could not sleep then he would do something useful; there is good stuff in that lad, sir.”

  “There is a lieutenant’s commission if the Admiral will but turn the blind eye to his age, sir.”

  “Good! Have we lost others, sir?”

  “Mr Oates and Weare, both killed outright. There will be more from the forecastle, I suspect.”

  “A bad broadside, sir.”

  “Well placed, coolly aimed by an officer on a ship being driven ashore. Brave men, the Spanish!”

  “One must respect them, sir, as a general rule.”

  Frederick found Dunnett waiting in his cabin; as he had hoped there was a pot of coffee steaming on his desk.

  “Marc and Jean unhurt, Bosomtwi?”

  “Both good, sir.”

  “Can we get a count for losses on the forecastle, Bosomtwi?”

  “Kavanagh, he up there now, sir. First light in an hour, sir. Good thing, these two-deckers, sir – don’t have to clear the captain’s cabin, sir!”

  “Report, Mr Dunnett.”

  “I have presumed to write the first part, sir. The initial action in sending the cutters to the beach and their discovery of soldiers waiting there. I have spoken to one of the cutter’s crew, sir. I have times and positions for each part of the battle, sir and require only a final list of casualties, sir. Also of course, the names of those to be commended.”

  “Name Mr Weare – there might be those in England who will take comfort of it. Mr Iliffe as well, who was wounded and returned to his duty. The midshipman’s berth was hard hurt, I fear.”

  Dawn light showed a damaged ship on an empty sea.

  “Course for Gibraltar, Mr Blenkinsop, and then you must go below to your cot, sir. I have the deck.”

  Doolan walked stiffly down the deck, knuckling his back.

  “Jury mast rigged, sir, and jibs set. Boatswain is setting about tidying up the mess, sir. Chaser overset, sir, and now secured; one dead man pulled out from under, sir. Carronades are all four serviceable, sir. Not so sure about anchoring, sir. Better to tie up, if at all possible, sir.”

  “Thank you, Mr Doolan. Get some food, sir, the wardroom steward is busy, I believe. When Mr Blenkinsop wakes he will relieve you. We will be at watch and watch, I fear, until we reach Gibraltar.”

  “Olsen, would you bring Mr Samways to me, please.”

  “Funerals, Mr Samways, must be your function, as goes without saying. Please to make all ready and inform me when you wish to bring the ship to order for the purpose. There are eighteen known dead above decks, sir, and the sailmaker is doing his duty by them. What of those in the surgeon’s hands?”

  “Five more have gone, sir, and there is no hope for three. Captain Murray is awake and is showing no signs of the sepsis as yet, sir.”

  It would be another two days before they could be within reason confident of him, but it was a good first report.

  “I was very pleased with your conduct last night, Mr Samways, and I shall say so to Admiral Clerke. It is not done to name a chaplain, a man of peace, in the official report of a fight, sir – otherwise be sure that you would not have been forgotten.”

  Samways made his thanks, but he was much upset by his first experience of battle and had felt himself to be quite useless, knowing so little of medicine.

  “Speak to Doctor Carlisle, sir. He may well value the services of an educated man and will surely be willing to share his expertise.”

  Frederick stood by the wheel, taking mental stock of the condition of the crew.

  ‘Midshipmen – Iliffe to be made; only Masson remaining. Three bodies required, and that could be made five on a two-decker. Difficult in Gibraltar, though there might be the chance of one or two from other ships – captain’s servants who would take a warrant, perhaps; hopefully one or two of young seamen to bring on. The Admiral might be able to bring out a pair from England.’

  ‘Master’s mates – two needed; less difficult to replace. Monk would make one.’

  ‘A master – there would be a man on one of the small ships who was ready to take a step up to a Third Rate.’

  “On deck! Merchantman, sir, at four miles, east south east, sir. A five hundred ton ship!”

  No, not a possibility, not as badly handled as they had been… Frederick looked around, saw hopeful figures wandering towards the braces, grins on predatory faces.

  “Brace her round two points, Mr Doolan! Spanish colours!”

  # # #

  Thank you for reading Book Seven of The Duty and Destiny Series.

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  Book Eight will be released in early, 2016. In the meantime, please take look at my other novels listed on the following pages.

  Thanks once again, Andrew

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