Carver expected the man to be put in his place, and was as nonplussed as everyone else who had ever witnessed such behaviour when Nelson ignored it.
‘Your vessel Harmony. Is she part of a fleet?’
Carver emitted a deep, humourless chuckle. ‘I was spawned without much, Captain, and have worked my way up to that ship. Everything I have in the world is tied up in her.’
‘Your antecedents are English?’
‘Welsh.’
That brought another growl of dissent from Lepée, who considered anyone not pure English to be of mongrel blood. This time Nelson threw him a look designed to silence him. ‘Would that you were loyal to King George, sir.’
Carver squared his shoulders. ‘Would that King George could put aside tyranny, and accept that we have a right to determine our own future.’
Nelson smiled. ‘It is as a serving officer of my sovereign that I am here, sir. And I know Mr Carver that such a sentiment applies to many of my fellow officers. Yet that is sorely tested when the French fight alongside you. Can you not see a way to make an accommodation?’
‘I’m a fisherman, Captain, not a politician.’
‘You are also a gentleman, sir.’
‘I hardly qualify for such a title.’
Nelson felt weary, the wine acting on an already debilitated constitution to bring his tiredness into the open. He had to lean forward and rub his eyes before continuing. Carver had the good manners to look away so that his host would not be embarrassed.
‘Many think it is an estate conferred by blood or money. But I know better, Captain Carver. It is a cast of mind and you have it.’
‘Why, thank you, Captain.’
Nelson stood up, picked up a piece of paper and led Carver out on to the deck. There, watched by every unemployed member of the crew, he handed it to the American.
‘You shall also have this.’ Carver took it, nonplussed. ‘It is not in the nature of British sailors to be ungrateful, sir.’
Then Nelson raised his voice loud enough to carry to the whole busy deck. ‘You have behaved in a most exemplary manner, carrying us out of danger without a thought to your own loss. I therefore return to you your ship and cargo. That paper you hold attests to your good character, and it is my fond wish that should any of my fellow officers apprehend you in the future, they will respect the sentiment it expresses and leave you free to go on your way.’
‘Captain Nelson, I don’t know how to thank you.’ Confusion mingled with hope and gratitude chased each other across Carver’s features. Observing it increased Nelson’s feeling of self-satisfaction, and the knowledge that what he had done was right and proper. ‘That is simple, sir. Boston is under our lee. Make a happy return to that harbour and my crew and I will be content.’
They cheered Carver over the side, which confused the crew of his own ship. That is, until Carver told them what the piece of paper said. Nelson had the satisfaction of looking along his own deck, and observing that his action had caused just as much joy aboard the Albemarle.
CHAPTER 31
Another dawn, and another coastal fog, but Nelson reckoned that this one, too, would burn off with the morning sun. He also knew that he was in a safer part of the bay that marked the approach to Boston, with plenty of water under his keel That was very necessary, given the reduced state of his crew. They had been at sea too long, and the effects were now increasingly obvious. To slack behaviour and smelly breath had been added a miserable cast to the eye, spongy gums and constant aches from deprived muscles. He and Bromwich suffered more than anyone, forced by the lack of officers to stand watch on watch.
Bromwich longed particularly for the return of his superiors, the ship’s lieutenants who had been sent off with the captures, tasked to take Nelson’s prizes into Québec where both the hulls and the cargoes could be sold at auction. In his present state moving his large frame around had become a real test of character. His captain worried for a different reason: if the prize crews had not returned to the ship, there was a strong possibility that they had never reached Québec, either falling to American privateers or, even worse, recaptured by the French ships known to be active in these waters. All the money Nelson had imagined would accrue from his captures might have evaporated. Worse, his sailors, officers and men might be prisoners.
‘Holy Christ almighty,’ called the lookout. The blasphemy would have annoyed Nelson if it had not been immediately followed by words that portended enough danger to warrant them. ‘Four – belay that, five sail off our larboard quarter.’
The mist was lifting like a stage curtain, and within half a minute that warning, alerting him to such a danger, seemed inadequate. What he saw, too close for any sense of comfort, was a strong squadron of warships: four line-of-battle ships, a 60-gunner and three 74s with a frigate in company.
‘Part of Monsieur Vaudreuil’s squadron, I presume,’ Nelson said calmly, as a signal went off in the flagship and all four battle ships obeyed the instruction to tack in succession. A different set of orders had obviously gone to the fifth enemy vessel, the accompanying frigate, which was piling on sail and coming round to close with Albemarle. ‘Mr Bromwich, an appreciation if you please?’
Bromwich swallowed hard and his normally ruddy face, now pale, looked so weary in his musings that his captain nearly answered for him. But he managed the words before aid was provided. ‘The frigate will seek to close with us and engage, sir, allowing the line of battle ships time to come up and force us to strike.’
‘Correct. I will note the accuracy of that assessment in the log.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
That reply was more animated, as befitted a midshipman who would dearly love to be a real lieutenant. Which he would be, if ever he could sit the examination. His captain never ceased to test him, preparing him for his interrogators. There was nothing he didn’t know about single ship actions, lee shores and fires on board line of battle ships.
‘The next question, Mr Bromwich is, what do we do?’
‘We must run sir. We can’t face one ship of the line, let alone four.’
‘I remind you of the sailing qualities of Albemarle.’
Bromwich shook his head then, loath to speak the word ‘strike’. In his opinion his captain should not be calmly standing here discussing tactics, he should be getting everything aloft he could and running for safety.
‘Forget the capital ships. We would never get away from that frigate in open water, Bromwich. She is, I think, the Iris of thirty-six guns and from what we know a fine sailer. She would close on us and force an engagement that could only end in one result, especially with us carrying a crew that is well below its best.’
‘I cannot believe you contemplate surrender without a fight, sir.’
‘Surrender, Mr Bromwich!’ his captain snapped. ‘Never in life!’
Nelson felt animated now, his love of action stimulating him, and if his eyes were not exactly alight, they had a flicker of excitement in them that had been absent recently.
‘You will oblige me by letting fall the fore and main course so I can get some way on the ship. We will require the topsails to be loosed and drawing in the light airs as well, but with the shortage of hands and the condition they are in we must show care. Only when the sail plan is complete can we ask them to clear for action.’
Scanning round the bay Nelson’s glass swept across the roofs and spires of Boston. There would be a crowd gathering already, appraised of the possibility of a sea battle on their very doorstep, a mob aware of the odds and keen to see perfidious Albion trounced and taken prisoner. What flags flew were blowing towards the north on the light southerly wind. Nelson had to find a way to confound them and the only one that presented itself was a reduction of the odds. To stay in deep water was to invite the line of battle ships to partake in his inevitable surrender. He must change the nature of the engagement, find water shallow enough to make pursuit by such deep-keeled vessels impossible.
He forced himself
to appear calm, to reassure his troubled crew. It was agony to observe the way they moved, lassitude more obvious than effort. The time it took to loose the sails seemed like an eternity. In truth, there was no point in fretting. The Iris was closing fast, everything aloft that she could safely bear. Anxiety, however, would aid neither him nor his intentions.
That steadiness was maintained as he gave the orders to the helmsman to come round, personally calling for the yards to be braced then sheeted home. His ship was moving, slowly but perceptibly, but never fast enough to outrun the enemy. He set her bowsprit for the shore to the north of the town, heading for the shoal waters of St George’s Bay. Then he retired to the master’s day cabin, right by the ship’s wheel, using the charts and tables to calculate the tidal times and the possible depth of water he would encounter.
‘Stern chasers first, Mr Bromwich,’ he ordered, as he rejoined the small knot of people on the quarterdeck. He was assuming that Lepée was sober enough and had had enough time to clear his possessions below. Those guns were in his cabin. ‘You will aim them yourself and only fire if the chance of striking the target is high.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
‘If you can wound her masts I’ll see you get a gazette.’ He gave orders to his warrant officers to clear for action. ‘But with care, gentlemen. I would not want to see any of our men suffer injury through unnecessary haste.’
They were looking over his shoulder at the French frigate, clearly less certain than their captain that time was available. The next task was to get the best eyes on the ship in the right places: two on either side of the foremast and one right out on the bowsprit, men who could not only see but shout loud and soon enough to let him change his course.
‘Thorpe, I want you as far out on that pole as you can go. And I want to hear you shout as loud as you did when we spotted that fishing boat.’
That made the sailor hang his head. He had disobeyed a standing order by not sending the boy down as he had been instructed, and had been expecting to be chastised immediately after. But with time elapsed and nothing said, he had thought himself safe. He should have known that Nelson, with his sharp eye and memory, would forget nothing.
‘’Bout that, your honour.’
‘Hold, Thorpe,’ Nelson said, his eyes wide with shock and a friendly arm on the able seaman’s shoulder. ‘I recall, to my shame, that I forgot to thank you for that. Forgive me.’
‘Thank me, your honour?’
‘Of course. It’s a bold man that has the sense to know when to disobey his captain. Had you delayed we might have run foul of our quarry and that would have ruined me. Now, get out on that bowsprit and save me from my follies again.’
Back on the quarterdeck, he addressed Nichols, the quartermaster’s mate, who had taken his station on the wheel. ‘I may have to attend to other matters when our lookouts call. Obey them, and use your own instincts, d’ye hear?’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
Looking over the side, he saw pea green choppy water, reasonably calm; he hoped that on any shoal or bank the difference would show, either through sudden calm patches where it eddied or in increasing white caps where it broke over rocks. One thing he was sure of: if capture threatened he would run her hard onto something. She might be useless as a ship but Albemarle was important as a trophy, so he would wreck her rather than strike. But before that happened he would fight.
‘Ship cleared for action, your honour,’ the master at arms called.
‘Note the time,’ he said, before he realised that he was the only person present to do that. Just then Bromwich fired his first salvo, two shots from the stern chasers that fell well short of the target, sending up twin plumes of water that spread out and stayed in the air long enough for the Iris to sail through them.
‘Roberts,’ he called to a ship’s boy, ‘my compliments to Mr Bromwich and tell him his range finding was excellent.’
The boy rushed off, and Nelson smiled to himself. Bromwich would accept the compliment but he would also get the message.
‘Water breaking two points to starboard.’
Nelson looked over the side, using his telescope to see what the man aloft had identified with the naked eye. He caught sight of the white water quick enough, caps breaking over what should be rocks. His instructions to the helmsman were to ease towards it not away. He wanted his pursuer to see it close, and perhaps to include an extra degree of caution into the chase. Behind the French frigate, two of the 74s had come round to pursue. Those rocks alone would take care of them. Monsieur Vaudreuil would not risk a capital ship to catch a sprat like him.
It was a tricky manoeuvre in a crank vessel, to ease it close enough to imply another hazard to starboard. But he had the wind and the leeway to aid him and to carry him away if it all became too critical. Iris tried the range with her bow chasers, likewise falling short, the disturbed plume of water thrown forward on the breeze.
The next hour was a constant triangular perambulation between the wheel, the master’s cabin for another look at the charts, then forward to check on his lookouts. In between, Bromwich blasted away, with the enemy now in range, no doubt wondering why his French counterpart didn’t reply. His captain knew: they were far from their home shore these Frenchman, in a land that had only the capacity to build small ships for fishing and whaling. A frigate, even a converted merchantman, was a prize worth having intact.
Of a dozen salvos, only one ball had struck home, catching the Frenchman on the waterline and extracting a weary cheer from the Albemarles. And up ahead, his lookout continually warned him of hazards under the surface, sandbanks and reefs that forced him to alter his course, and to ease his sails to take the way off the ship so that the manoeuvre could be successfully completed. The French captain would have his own lookouts. But he would also be taking a close observation of his quarry’s course, knowing that he had only to follow it to maintain safety.
Eventually they were crawling along, under reefed topsails, hardly making any way at all. The obstacles to a smooth passage had increased substantially, and the lookouts were hoarse from shouting as each new risk was identified.
‘Roberts, my compliments to Mr Bromwich again, requesting him to desist and secure the stern chasers.’
By the time the tall midshipman had reached the deck, still wearing a bandanna round his ears, black from head to foot with the powder that had blown back through the portholes, his captain had slowed the ship to a mere crawl. Deafened by cannon fire, Nelson had to shout to make himself comprehensible to his junior. ‘Mr Bromwich, you will oblige me by breaking out our stern anchor. I will also require a spring on that hawser so that we can haul our head round. Once that is completed you may display to our friend yonder the muzzles of our maindeck cannon.’
The Frenchman had matched his pace to that of Albemarle, not coming on any faster than his enemy, which to Nelson was a failing. The gap that existed between them was so great that it would take an hour to close at the present rate of sailing. That would be an hour when the Iris would be exposed to a great deal of fire from the British ship.
‘You see, Bromwich, we have turned the tables on them. The deep-keeled ships, for all their power, dare not approach us for fear of running aground. Now, imagine yourself on that French deck. Our friend will see us work our spring to come round beam on to his bowsprit. Then he will observe us drop a bow anchor to hold us in position. He will see our cannon run out, a dozen guns of which he must run the gauntlet for some time before he too can anchor and turn to oppose us on equal terms.’
‘Is that what you think he will do, sir?’
‘No, Bromwich, I don’t. If he were a British naval officer, I would not only anticipate such behaviour I would expect it. But observe his admiral, standing well off, and imagine his thinking. To capture a frigate is all very well, but not at the risk of so damaging one of your own, so far from home waters and a decent dockyard that your strength will not be augmented but weakened.’
‘Yet he comes on
.’
‘He does so when the risk is slight, but in a few minutes’ time that will cease to be the case. The fellow will be within range.’
Nelson looked along his deck to where his gun crews waited, kneeling by their cannon, some so fatigued that they were resting their heads on the cold metal. He was almost loath to make them stand, but it had to be done. He called the orders softly, allowing them time to obey, then waited a whole minute before giving the order to fire.
The waters around the bows of the Iris boiled as the shot struck. A few balls hit wood, sending the audible crunch of cracking timbers across the calm intervening waters. The reloading was slow and laboured, but before the guns could be run out again a single, distant shot punctured the silence. A stream of pennants streamed aloft on the flagship, and it was not long before the order they relayed became obvious. The yards on the Frenchman suddenly went limp and his head began to haul round.
‘We must gift him something to see him on his way, lads,’ Nelson shouted. As soon as Iris was beam on, the Albemarles let fly with a second salvo. Given a bigger target, they enjoyed a degree of success, removed several stretches of the bulwarks, which flew up in the air to cheer the crew. Another salvo or two would have been possible, but Nelson decided against it. His crew was too tired and ill to be so employed. Besides, at this range the damage they could inflict was not sufficient to disable the enemy.
‘Secure the guns, Mr Bromwich, then get the ship back to rights.’
‘Ahoy, Albemarle.’
The shout, two hours after the action had ceased, with Albemarle still anchored in the shoal water of Boston Bay, caused some panic. It was evidence of their state that, in the failing light, a ship had got close enough to hail them without being seen. The voice was American too, which had the more alert crew members rushing to cast off the guns. Others stood open-mouthed and shocked at the thought that they might be taken.
‘Who are you?’ demanded Bromwich, who had the watch.
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