by Alaric Bond
“’S’all right, matey,” Wright informed him, lifting him up by the forearm, and helping him back to his feet. “Jus’ a tumble, no damage.”
The man looked up to where his mates, still rigging the sauve-tete netting twenty or more feet above their head, were grinning and pointing down at him. “Never done that afore,” he told Wright as he limped away. “Never in more than ten years at sea.”
“Here’s Carter!” Sure enough the Londoner came running towards them, with Lawlor a little way behind.
“Bleedin’ crusher caught us,” he complained, taking the flexible rammer from Bennet. “’ad us carr’in’ cabin furniture to t’old. I says we was gun crew, but he weren’t ’avin’ none of it, not on y’r Nelly.” Lawlor took off his shirt and rolled it up into a bundle, before stowing to one side of the shot locker.
“Ne’r mind, you’re here now.” Flint looked across to Dobson. “Better nip across and help with the larboard. Wright, you go an’ all, ’though I wants you both back as soon as you’re done.”
“Out starboard tompions!” Caulfield’s voice carried along the deck, repeated by Cobb, the divisional midshipman. The gun ran in easily on the tackle, Flint pressed the quoin under the breach and Jameson whipped the wooden plug from the muzzle, before the gun was run out once more. Flint removed the lead apron that covered the touchhole, pressed his thumb over the vent and worked the gunlock twice to check the spark. Satisfied, he then went across and collected a two-foot length of slow match from a gunner’s mate. The match was lit and smouldered eerily in the dark. Flint spun the length around in the air until the red glow grew yellow and bright, then placed the match in a central tin tub, where it could serve either gun if the need arose.
When at war the guns were kept loaded at all times, but left unprimed to prevent accidental discharge. Flint attended to this, spilling a small amount of lightly mealed powder mixed with spirit from his priming horn into the touchhole, closing the frizzen gently over the powder and easing the hammer shut. Bending down behind the sight he raised his right hand and the servers moved the gun until it was pointing as far forward as the port would allow. He stood back and uncoiled the lanyard leading to the closed gunlock and looked over to Cobb. They were ready.
*****
Below them, Stuart the surgeon was missing. Before the call to clear for action, Manning, the surgeon’s mate, had organised the loblolly boys. The warrant officer’s sea chests were liberated from the forward storeroom and arranged to form two operating tables. Worn sailcloth was then thrown over, while four lanthorns were slung from the deckhead to give as much light as was possible. Manning had considered laying out the surgeon’s tools as well, but his master was known for his short temper, and he decided against it. Now though, with the ship almost ready, action imminent, and still no sign of Stuart, he began to grow uneasy.
“You there, Stamford, go up and see what’s keepin’ the surgeon.” The elderly loblolly boy digested the order for several seconds before slumping off, only to stop in utter confusion as he saw Stuart coming towards him.
He was bleary-eyed with sleep, and wore a face that was flushed and bloated. Without a word to Manning he lowered himself down to the main chest and lifted open the lid. After removing two retractors, a probe and a fleam-toothed saw, he set them on one side, then sat back and sighed, rubbing his eyes at first, then holding his face with both hands.
“All right, sir?” Manning asked after a reasonable period had elapsed. Stuart turned an angry, dilated eye upon him.
“Get on with your work!” he said, before raising his hands past his forehead, running them through his greasy hair, and releasing a generous belch.
*****
On the quarterdeck men were clearing away the carronades while two files of marines had taken up position next to the hammock-packed netting that lined both sides. Banks now paid no attention to the chaos that was erupting all about him; his mind was totally fixed on the frigate that lay just ahead. The best he could wish for was to pass as quickly as possible, then hope to lose the enemy in the night.
“Ship cleared for action, sir,” Pigot’s voice cut through his thoughts.
“Thank you, Mr Pigot.” He turned as a group of men by the forward chaser gave a small cheer; it seemed that the enemy frigate was in sight, although the forecourse still hid it from the captain’s view.
From the forecastle, Lewis gave a sigh as he peered under the roach of the sail. “She’s a big one, a right thumper, an’ no mistake!”
Caulfield clambered up to the main chains and looked out. Twenty great guns a side at least, he reckoned, and eighteen-pounders, that’s if they weren’t twenty-fours. At least twice the weight of Pandora’s main armament, and far more of them; they would be lucky to get past without severe damage.
Pigot also considered the ship and swallowed dryly. He had been in action before, twice in fact, and both times survived without harm. Still, this was not the way he preferred to spend his nights, and he would be mightily glad when it was over.
Two yellow flashes spat almost simultaneously towards them as the enemy fired off her bow chasers. One shot splashed off their starboard beam, the other fell without trace.
“How are you loaded, Mr Caulfield?” Banks’ voice came from the quarterdeck.
“Single round shot, sir. Do you want the guns drawn?”
Banks shook his head; there was no time. If he was to carry out what he had in mind a large proportion of the gun crews would be needed to help manoeuvre the ship. He walked across to the quarterdeck rail, leaned over and spoke more quietly to the lieutenant.
“Are you able to provide me with both batteries in action?”
“Both batteries? Yes, sir.”
“And I require those of your men who are designated trimmers to assist in manoeuvring the ship.”
“Sail trimmers, very good, sir.” Caulfield’s reply came without hesitation. Banks nodded briefly, before turning back to Fraiser and Pigot.
“Gentlemen, I intend to steer to larboard. Fire the starboard guns, and continue round, is that clear?”
“Pass him to starboard, sir?”
“No, Mr Pigot, I expect him to turn to meet us. But we will continue round, tack, and pass to larboard. There’s still a deal of cover off our starboard bow; with luck we should lose him.”
“But that’ll present our stern, and we’ll be dead in the water!” Pigot’s voice held just a hint of panic.
“No, beggin’ your pardon, I think we can do it, sir.” Fraiser’s voice was quiet but positive and Banks looked his gratitude. Of course Pigot was right; to even think of attempting such a manoeuvre with a fresh crew was asking for trouble. In less than a quarter of an hour Pandora might easily be in irons and ripe for a pounding, although if he could pull it off they should slip by with just the one, or maybe two, broadsides to weather.
“Mr Fraiser, you will conn the ship, to allow Mr Pigot to take over from me should I fall.” Banks had no intention of allowing Pigot control when Pandora tacked. Beside the fact that Fraiser was the better seaman, the captain had a low opinion of the first lieutenant both as an officer and a man. “Are you both clear about what I have in mind?” They nodded in the darkness; there was little time for argument.
Two more stabs of light from the French frigate followed this time by the crash of wood being struck, and a slight jolt from the deck beneath them. Banks ducked down and stared across the forecastle to where the Frenchman’s hull could just be made out. They were still three or four cables off, but he wanted to have enough room for the turn. “Very good, take her round, Mr Fraiser!”
The ship healed and wallowed slightly as the rudder kicked over, forcing her into a savage turn. Yards creaked as they were pulled round, desperately trying to keep pace with the wind.
“Fire as you will, Mr Caulfield!”
Caulfield had his sword raised as he looked along the line of gunners; some he knew, though the majority were still relative strangers: the next few minutes would
tell a lot more about Pandora’s men than he had learnt so far in the commission. “Starboard battery, ripple fire broadside from number one, on my word!” He caught the eye of a gun captain, who nodded confidently in return.
The enemy was still heading straight for them, although Banks thought he noticed a slight heal. Yes, she was turning also, but not fast enough to avoid being raked by Pandora’s broadside.
“Fire!” Caulfield’s voice rang out, but there was no answering shot from the first gun. A misfire, by God; if they left it too late the moment would be lost.
After no more than a second, number two fired, and the broadside continued, ragged and with little attention to accuracy, until the last quarterdeck carronade had done its work. The captain turned away from the final shot that fell a good eighty feet from the enemy’s bow. There was nothing to be said; the men were untrained and he was asking a lot of them. It had been impossible to detect any damage to the Frenchman but, with luck, they would have caused enough of a stir to allow the ship to survive the next five minutes. Fraiser was looking up at the sails with cautious apprehension. “Very good, Master, carry on.”
Fraiser touched his hat before leaning back to bellow. “Bring her round, lads. All hands to tack!”
*****
At Flint’s gun Carter and Lawlor, who were nominated as trimmers, clambered up to the forebraces. Flint and the rest attended to the gun, swabbing out and reloading the warm barrel. To their left the crew of number one were also working with singular deliberation, keeping their eyes on their work, and preparing to meet the inevitable reprimands, official from the officers and, far more wounding, the jibes of their fellow men. The linstock flint had failed: split in half when it hit the frizzen, and the gun captain was slow in following up with the match. Their gun had only fired towards the end of the broadside, and by that time the shot had probably gone very wide, although in the confusion, no one could be absolutely sure.
“Well that was a right bloody shower!” Cobb’s voice cracked near to them, but his remarks were directed at the entire battery. “That your idea of frightening the frogs - make ’em think they’re fighting lunatics?” He caught the eye of Caulfield, looking from his station by the mainmast, and continued in a more official manner. “Secure your pieces, and prepare larboard battery.”
Flint nodded to his men as the gun was pulled up tight. They moved across to where Dobson was ready with the larboard gun. Now the action had started the only doubts in Flint’s mind were not for himself. The crew was untrained, the biggest bunch of lubbers he had ever sailed with. He could only agree with Cobb; the last broadside had been a proper mess, even though everyone was prepared for it. Heaven alone knew what would happen if the action continued for any length of time.
“We’re going about, all right,” muttered Dobson, handing the powder horn across. He had heard the orders, and watched as the men ran to the braces, but still the idea of tacking in front of the enemy seemed unbelievable.
“Captain don’t mind stretchin’ the men,” Flint commented, shortly.
Dobson nodded. “God help us all,” he said, and the ship continued to turn.
Thankfully the majority of the topmen and petty officers were experienced enough, if not to read the captain’s mind, then at least to understand and follow orders. As the quartermaster took her round, keeping every breath of wind for the final ounce of impetus, Banks felt his shattered confidence recover slightly. But now they were stern onto the enemy, stern on and facing a broadside of twenty or more heavy guns.
The flash, seen from their angle, was almost blinding in the black night. Banks found himself ducking down beneath the taffrail, as if a couple of inches of oak would hold back what was heading for them. Pandora seemed to slump lower as the shots slammed into her timbers. Her stern windows disappeared, along with the flag locker and two lanterns. The aft starboard carronade was also hit and rolled off its slide onto the healing deck. Men were screaming on all sides, and Banks caught sight of Pigot, peering from behind the relative safely of the mizzen mast.
“Do you have steerage?” Banks shouted back to the quartermaster.
“Aye, sir,” the man’s tone was completely untroubled; it could almost have been the captain’s grandfather speaking. “Rudder’s safe, never you mind.”
They had lost a good deal of momentum, although the ship was still turning.
“Meet her, meet her.” The voice of Fraiser was also reassuringly calm.
Now they were passing the eye of the wind. Banks swallowed. Two, maybe three minutes should see them under sail; otherwise they would stay as they were until the enemy destroyed them. He looked back to the heavy frigate, a line of dim lights showed where her stern ports had opened to allow the guns to be swabbed out and reloaded. It would have to be soon, very soon.
“That’s it, bring her round!” Now Fraiser’s voice rose, although he was still in complete control. Banks breathed out; Pandora was moving again, moving and moving faster than he had expected.
“Forebraces, there!” The yards of the foremast were hauled round to catch the wind once more, and the ship’s momentum increased.
“Larboard battery, broadside on my word!” Caulfield’s voice came up from the waist; clearly he had no intention of trying a ripple fire again.
A small fire had started at the break of the forecastle. Caulfield would be more than able to cope with it, but Banks was strangely eager to get rid of his second in command.
“Mr Pigot, supervise the fire party forward, if you please.” Pigot paused for no more than a second, before leaving the quarterdeck.
Now the enemy was off the larboard quarter, and would be in range within seconds. Banks noted that she was attempting to pull back round to meet them, but it would be too late to use her full broadside.
A shot rang out from Pandora’s side.
“Wait for it!” Banks all but screamed.
“Check, check, check!” Caulfield’s voice this time, but not fast enough to stop another gun firing, and another after that; by the time he had the remaining guns under control the ideal moment had passed.
“All right, Mr Caulfield, fire as you will!” There was no point in trying for a controlled broadside now; the only important thing was to hit the enemy before her vulnerable stern moved out of their sights.
The ragged salvo sailed towards the frigate. Those that had not been let off early were poorly aimed, and any that hit did so to little effect.
Banks watched without emotion; the most he had dared to hope for was to get free without important damage. They had hit back to some extent but now the main thing, the only thing, to do was run. Pandora moved away into the night, her speed increasing as she went, and soon the fog began to thicken about her.
For a moment Banks considered setting topsails, but decided against it; with the wind as it was they would do little good and the extra pressure would force the hull down, while straining the yards and making Pandora more obvious in the mist.
The wind was growing steadily, taking what cover there was, but giving them extra speed; with luck they should be free of danger before long. Then the night was split with the flash of another broadside from the French, but either it was badly aimed or simply let off for good measure as no shot came close to them.
Fraiser was looking at his captain expectantly. Banks shook his head. “Keep as she is, Master.” There was little point in changing course; he didn’t feel the Frenchman was likely to chase after them. The crack of a shot rang out forward, followed by the slump of something heavy hitting the deck. Some fool of a marine had let his musket off, no doubt. Banks hardly cared at that moment. He looked back over the shattered taffrail. Somewhere out there was a powerful fleet, and somehow they had to be stopped. Later he could decide what to do; probably head for the Brest offshore squadron, either that or make for Plymouth or Torbay. First he must attend to his ship, but before that a moment or two for himself. He closed his eyes and felt the tension ebbing from him as he breathed in the co
ld night air.
After several minutes Caulfield approached, his face blackened with burnt powder. He looked apprehensive. Banks opened his eyes, gave him a brief smile and nodded. “Had a few problems, I collect, Mr Caulfield?”
“Yes sir. I’m sorry; the hands are not as practised as I would like.”
“It is to be expected, and I’m sure you did your best.” He moved away from the shattered taffrail and looked about the quarterdeck. Fraiser was standing next to the mizzen mast looking up to the sails. The fire at the forecastle had been stifled, although Pigot had yet to return. Banks remembered him with a stab of conscience; it had been a selfish action, to send his first lieutenant off like that. The man had every right to walk the quarterdeck; he was hardly to blame if his captain couldn’t stand the sight of him. He turned to Dorsey, the beefy Irish midshipman standing near by.
“Mr Dorsey, present my compliments to the First Lieutenant. If he has finished his duties, perhaps he might join me for a glass of port.”
The master looked around and caught his captain’s eye. Was he mistaken, or had the frank, honest look suddenly disappeared from Fraiser’s face?
“Mr Pigot, sir? I’m afraid he was wounded.”
“Wounded?”
“Yes, sir. Shot.”
“That last broadside, I suppose?” Banks was guiltily aware of no great feeling of concern about his second in command.
Caulfield broke the silence. “I think it was small arms fire, actually, sir.”
“He’s been taken below.” Fraiser again, and again with a touch of uncertainty. Banks tried to clear his mind. The sighting of an enemy fleet, followed by a sudden action, had all but deprived him of the ability to reason.
“That’s right, sir.” Caulfield this time. “I saw him being carried down.
But this was madness; Banks was certain Pandora had been well clear of anything other than the frigate’s heavy guns throughout the action, and there had been no scream of case or grape; round shot had been used throughout.
