by Jay Worrall
She was silent for a moment, then asked, “What would thou do if I were not present?”
“If you were not on board?” Charles did not have to think long. “In that event, I would attack her directly to be certain of stopping her, regardless of the consequences.”
“Then do that,” she said. “I expect thou to do nothing different on account of me.”
“No,” he said. “It is too dangerous.”
“Too dangerous for whom?” she persisted. “Thou or Daniel Bevan?”
“For you,” he said in frustration. “If we are defeated, you may be killed. If not killed, you will surely be captured. I do not know what would happen to you then, and I do not wish for either of us to find out.”
“Would it be different for Daniel and Molly Bevan?” she said.
“No,” Charles said reluctantly.
“Thy ship is larger than Daniel’s,” she said quietly. “Surely we have the better opportunity.”
Midshipman Sykes interrupted: “Pylades has signaled Interrogatory, sir.” Charles had expected some such response. Bevan was protesting his orders.
“Repeat the signal with an imperative,” Charles said, “then ignore him.”
The frigate fired her bow chasers again, one ball screaming loudly through the air close above their heads.
Turning back to his wife, Charles said, “What about your Quaker beliefs? Do you really want me to attack?”
“I abhor violence in every form,” Penny said, her expression anguished. “But I cannot allow others to be sacrificed for my benefit.” She hesitated, then added, “Perhaps thou can only damage it and sail away?”
Charles smiled thinly. “I would be pleased to do so, were it possible. Once we begin, it will not likely end until the thing is finished, one the victor and one defeated.”
She nodded silently in what he took to be approval, or at least resignation.
“All right,” Charles said. He glanced across at Pylades, even farther behind. He turned to Winchester. “We will soon present the armament on the starboard side.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do not have the gunports opened until we begin to turn. I want the first broadside to be chain shot. Aim high for her rigging. The range will be about four hundred yards. Tell me when we’re ready.”
Winchester called down the orders to Talmage, who commanded the gundeck. The round shot in the guns would have to be drawn, then replaced with specially manufactured projectiles consisting of two half-balls connected by a yard of medium chain. Their purpose was to wreak havoc among an opponent’s lines, cables, yards, and canvas aloft. Chain shot was notoriously inaccurate at long range. If he was lucky, very lucky, Charles thought, he might sufficiently damage the frigate’s upper works to effectively disable her in a single salvo. If so, Louisa might turn again and resume flight before the corvette even came within range. Of course, it was also possible that daisies grew on the moon.
“Mr. Eliot,” he continued, close to completing the necessary sequence of preparations, “we will come about on the starboard side in a moment. Send no one aloft until after we begin the turn.” There was no point in giving away their intentions until the last possible instant.
Sykes approached from the forward quarterdeck rail. “Lieutenant Talmage reports that the guns are prepared, sir.”
“Thank you,” Charles said. He turned to Penny. Her gaze was directed over the stern at the following frigate. There were clouds of sail on the masts and white water curling back from the stem, the hard bulk of the hull in between. “It’s time that you go below,” he said. “We are about to begin.”
She tore her eyes away only for a moment to glance at him. “I do not wish to,” she said.
“Penny,” he said patiently, “you must. I told you, it will be too dangerous.”
“It will be dangerous for thou as well,” she argued. “I want to see that Molly and Daniel are safe.”
“No,” Charles said. “Go down and assist the surgeon. I cannot engage an enemy warship with you on the deck; I fear too much for your safety.”
Penny looked at him, undecided.
“You must go,” he said firmly.
Reluctantly, she nodded, then turned and went toward the hatchway leading below. The moment she had disappeared, Charles said, “Mr. Eliot, put the helm over.”
Louisa began her turn to put the wind behind her and the French frigate off her beam.
“You may fire when ready,” Charles said to Winchester. As he watched, the starboard gunports flipped open, the gun crews straining on their lines to drag the cannon up hard against the bulwarks. The frigate did not anticipate Louisa’s turn but reacted quickly to it, veering belatedly, her port side gunports opening.
“Fire,” Winchester shouted.
The deck erupted in a deafening blast, half hidden in billowing smoke as the guns lunged inward on their breechings. The gun crews were already at work sponging out as Charles looked for the trajectory of the shot descending toward the Frenchman. Even as he watched, he knew that his gunners’ aim had been thrown off by the frigate’s turn, most of the shot falling into the sea, although one or two ripped through the mizzen sails, causing the canvas to jerk and tear. No mast tilted; nor did he see any yardarm snap. Louisa’s guns were just being hauled back out when the frigate produced her own billowing gray broadside, the orange flash of the explosions stabbing through. A second later, round shot screamed across the deck and through the halyards and stays.
Louisa’s cannon fired again, this time with solid shot. The salvo told against the Frenchman’s hull, striking a gunport and pounding her bulwarks. The two ships angled closer as they exchanged broadsides. Four hundred yards became three; three hundred, two. Charles concentrated his fire against the Frenchman’s gundeck, the frigate mainly toward Louisa ’s masts. He thought to search for the corvette, but a quick look yielded nothing, and he decided she must be somewhere behind the frigate.
Another increasingly drawn-out broadside, as the faster gun crews fired early, the slower later; and another, with the carronades barking sharply in between. The distance closed to a hundred yards, musket range. So far all of Louisa’s masts still stood, although the sails were punctured in dozens of places, and strings of severed rigging swung like vines in the wind. The French frigate’s hull had taken some damage, with gaps in her railing and her sides along the row of gunports pierced and scarred.
Charles was not pleased. His ship and crew were holding their own against the more powerful Frenchman, but he could not keep it up indefinitely. All he had wanted was to rob the frigate of her speed until he and Bevan could escape into the darkness of night. Now he had been forced into a grueling match, like two bare-knuckle fighters facing each other tied to a bench at half arm’s length, until one beat the other insensible. Charles did not wish his ship to be pounded into the equivalent of insensible; nor did he need to subject his opponent to such treatment. He would like it better if he could get up off the bench and run, but he couldn’t with the French ship intact.
Louisa’s broadside thundered in a long ragged discharge, sending fresh clouds of dense smoke along her deck. Charles smiled as he saw the frigate’s mizzen shiver and then twist sideways, straining the main topgallant backstay and pulling the mast section with it. The ship’s crew gave a loud cheer. They’d wounded her, he should take the opportunity to run, he thought. But with a little more damage, he could take her. If he could bring down one more mast, she could not maneuver and would have to strike. To Winchester, he ordered, “Keep the men about their business.”
“Silence on deck,” Winchester shouted. “Attend to your guns.”
The Frenchman fired her broadside together. Someone must be calling out the firing sequence, probably to make sure it was done correctly in the heat of battle. Two of her gunports, Charles noted, had remained empty. If he had wanted to carry her, it would be best to close now and board. No, that would be risky, she would have a far larger crew. If he could knock down one more
mast, he could cross her bow and rake her. He thought about the options. Did he really want to be encumbered with the badly damaged prize? It would be better to run while he still had the masts to do it. He hesitated, trying to make up his mind. Where was the corvette? Louisa’s cannon fire was becoming almost continuous. He quickly looked around the surface of the sea and found the smaller French warship in an unexpected place, beating up to get windward of his stern. That was enough; it was time to break it off and flee. Only the corvette could follow, and he could deal with that.
The frigate fired again. A loud rending crack came from above, and Louisa’s foretopmast and main topgallant mast came crashing down. The main topgallant landed in a heap of rope, mast, and yard on the deck; the foretopmast fell over the starboard side of the bow and splashed into the water.
“Damnation,” Charles swore, furious with himself. “Clear that wreckage forward,” he yelled to Talmage in the waist. He had hesitated, greedy for a prize. The moment to escape had passed.
With the foremast acting as a sea anchor, Louisa slowed, her stern swinging to port. The Frenchman, with her mizzenmast dragging astern, could not maneuver. Of her own volition, Louisa drifted sideways across the enemy’s stern.
“Belay that!” Charles screamed down at Talmage. “Leave the mast where it is. Rake her!”
Charles stared at the frigate’s stern directly across from him. The maindeck twelve-pounders crashed out as one into the undefended after-structure of the frigate. Charles saw briefly that her name was Félicité before the thunderous barrage smashed gap after gap in the transom and exploded the stern windows. A second broadside widened the holes so he could see the men inside running from their guns, some trying to drag wounded shipmates below. After a third broadside, her mainmast, repeatedly struck between decks, broke and fell forward. The fourth sent ball after ball screaming the length of the deck, upending guns, smashing timbers, and killing almost every remaining living thing. He saw a man with both legs blown off attempting to crawl to a hatchway.
Something pulled violently on Charles’s arm; a small fist beat frantically on his back. He turned to see his wife wide-eyed in horror. When the French ship had stopped firing, Penny must have come back on deck to see what was happening.
“Stop, you’ll kill them all. They cannot even defend themselves,” she screamed at him. Tears welled in her eyes and ran down her cheeks. “Look, look,” she said, pointing into the void of the stern galley. “Look how many are dead.”
Charles rubbed his palm across his eyes. He could see the length of her gundeck, a scene of hellish carnage, the deck awash with blood and deserted except for unmoving forms, and parts of forms, lying by overturned weapons. A revulsion came over him. He had not wanted to fight the frigate at all, and now he was shocked by what he’d done, saddened that his wife had seen it. He should have stopped it sooner. He temporized that the French ship had not struck her colors; of course, with two masts gone, she had no obvious flag to strike.
“Cease firing, Stephen,” he said. “Send Talmage across to see if she will yield. Send him with enough marines to encourage her to do so.”
Charles quickly looked to windward for the corvette. He found her lying to just out of cannon range, as if undecided what to do. Behind her, he saw Bevan’s Pylades closing to attack. He sighed.
“We have to help them,” Penny said, pulling on his arm to attract his attention. “There must be very many injured.”
“We will,” Charles said, trying to order his thoughts. “I am just now sending Lieutenant Talmage to ask if they will permit it. Mr. Sykes!” he yelled.
“Yes, sir?” the young midshipman answered, skidding to a halt in front of him.
“Signal to Pylades, please, Maintain position.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then run up a white flag on”—Charles looked upward and surveyed the damaged rigging”—the highest mast we have.”
“A white flag, sir?”
“Yes, a white flag, a big one. Quickly, please.”
“Why a white flag?” Winchester asked. “A truce?”
“A parlay,” Charles answered. “I want to talk with the captain of that corvette before Daniel does something foolish, like sink her. Will you please hoist out the cutter with another flag and go over. Invite her captain on board with my compliments and my guarantee of his safety. I have a proposal to make.”
“What can you possibly need to ask him?” Winchester said.
“I require his assistance,” Charles answered. He had to force himself to concentrate. How many officers did he have left? “Mr. Beechum,” he called, seeing the young lieutenant in the waist, supervising the clearing away of the remains of the topgallant mast.
“Sir?” Beechum yelled back.
“You will please see that the starboard guns remain manned and run out.” This to emphasize the desirability of Félicité’s surrendering without further argument. He saw Talmage, Cooley, and the marines climbing down into the ship’s cutter.
“Mr. Keswick!” Charles was beginning to feel that he was trying to deal with too many things at once. “Someone pass the word for the boatswain.”
“The signal to Pylades has been acknowledged, sir,” Sykes reported. “I’ve sent a white flag up the mizzenmast.”
“Very good,” Charles said. “Get you down to the surgeon with my compliments. Request a report on our dead and injured. Would you also ask when he will be free.”
“Yes, sir,” Sykes said, and departed at a run. Charles wished he had half as much energy. He felt drained, tired, disgusted with himself.
“Yes, sir?” Keswick said, arriving on the quarterdeck and touching his hat.
“How long before you will be able to report on our damage aloft?”
“Within the half hour, sir,” the boatswain replied. “We’re working on it now.”
“Thank you, keep me informed. You may draft as many men as you see fit to effect the repairs.” Charles paused as another thought came to him. “I believe you may also be able to go across to that French frigate to take off whatever spars and cordage may be of use.”
“That’ll be a help,” Keswick said. “If I may ask, what are you planning to do with her?”
Charles considered. “We’ll burn her, I think that’s easiest,” he said. “Feel free to take off whatever you need.”
Penny overheard the exchange and reacted with alarm. “Burn that ship? Thou canst not burn the ship. What will happen to all of the people? To burn them would be inhuman.”
Charles exhaled slowly. “We will take everyone off first,” he said to reassure her, “the wounded as well as the healthy. It will be all right.”
“Canst thou do that? Canst thou just burn a whole ship?” she asked, somewhat calmer. “It seems a terrible waste.”
“I have captured her,” Charles said patiently. “I can do as I think necessary. We have no time to make repairs and sail her to a prize court. I cannot allow the French to retain her; therefore, I shall sink her. But not until the crew are taken off.”
“Where will thou put all the people?” she asked, looking around. “We are not so large a boat.”
Charles saw that Talmage and the marines had reached Félicité and were climbing onto her abandoned deck. Louisa’s gig, with Winchester and his white flag aboard, had hoisted her fore and aft sails and was standing toward the corvette.
“Captain, sir,” Sykes reported, “Mr. Lincoln’s respects. He says we have three injured, only one seriously. That’s a broken arm from when the foretopmast fell. He asks me to tell you that he will be at liberty in just a moment.”
“Thank you,” Charles said. He was only moderately surprised at how few casualties Louisa had sustained. It was well known that the French navy preferred directing their fire into an opponent’s masts and rigging, in hopes of quickly impairing mobility, while British tactics normally concentrated on an enemy’s hull to degrade fighting ability over the longer term. In such exchanges, the French frequently incurred th
e higher numbers of casualties. Charles knew that he had been lucky—his victory had, ironically, been the result of the frigate’s success in bringing down Louisa’s foremast. He saw Talmage appear at Félicité’s shattered stern. Beside him stood a very young French officer, probably the equivalent of a British midshipman, his sword in Talmage’s hand. Charles assumed that meant the higher ranking of the ship’s officers had been killed or injured. Talmage waved across to signal that all was well and that the French had officially surrendered.
“Mr. Sykes,” Charles said, “if you would assist Mr. Lincoln in assembling a party to go across and help tend to the French wounded.”
“Yes, sir,” Sykes answered, and left.
“Where will thou place those people?” Penny demanded, reclaiming his attention.
“In the last resort, on board Louisa,” he answered. He looked over his shoulder and noted that Winchester had gone aboard the corvette, the gig bobbing in the sea alongside. “My hope is to persuade the other French ship to carry their countrymen away.”
“I will go across with Matthew Lincoln to assist with the injured,” she announced.
Charles opened his mouth to object, or at least to say that it wasn’t necessary, then he shut it. He was uncomfortable with her being in the presence of so many injured men. It was a disgusting business. But it would do no harm; perhaps it would help her come to terms with what she had witnessed if she could do something useful. He felt a sadness again that she had been present to see it. “I am sure the surgeon and wounded will be grateful,” he said.
He raised his glass and watched as Winchester climbed back down into the gig, followed closely by a French officer. The ship’s boat pushed off, raised her sails, and started back. Lincoln arrived on deck with his case of instruments.
“I have hopes of transferring the French crew with their wounded into that corvette,” Charles said. “I’ll know for certain after I talk to her captain. In the meantime, do what you can.”
“All right,” Lincoln said. “I’ll have them laid out on the deck.”
“And Mrs. Edgemont will accompany you. She wishes to be of assistance.”
