Jackass Frigate

by Alaric Bond

  In the great cabin, poorly lit by the single glim that still burned, Banks wrote a long, disjointed letter to his father, while his mind wandered over the possibilities of the next day. As a frigate Pandora would play only a minor part in the fighting. It was even possible that her guns would remain unfired, although her value was every bit as great as any of the more solid seventy-fours that would take the line. Accurate and fast communication would be called for from the flag, and it would be down to Pandora and her like to provide this. Should the British prove victorious, she may be despatched to secure a surrendered vessel, otherwise it would be the less glamorous but vital tasks of towing disabled ships, rescuing survivors and transferring flag officers. When heavy ships fought, frigates rarely distinguished themselves, but missing stays at the wrong time, or a signal relayed incorrectly could easily bring shame upon her, and defeat for the British.

  And the men; those who would serve the guns and tend the sails: the lifeblood of the ship who may soon be shedding their own for her safety. A mess night had been called for the watch below and all sat yarning and drinking small beer, determinedly unconscious of the tension as it slowly grew about them.

  Flint was cautious; despite being in action twice since the time he had all but lost his nerve, thoughts of the following morning brought images of terror and humiliation. He had never witnessed a fleet action, but could readily project the carnage and confusion of smaller engagements. Ever since first meeting the abject terror that could take a man in its grip and determinedly squeeze the fight from him, Flint had changed. Gone was the dashing young fellow who thought nothing of leaping aboard an enemy ship armed only with a cutlass and belief in himself; a slower, more careful man had emerged, one who considered the consequences and was silently terrified by them.

  Jameson was less concerned. He too had known terror in the slaughterhouse that had been Vigilant’s ’tween decks but he was still young enough to require no absolution. The two times Pandora had been in action had been enough to whet the appetite of a young firebrand, and he looked forward to the coming conflict with all the unsound confidence of his youth. He had seen men die and knew that, in theory at least, it may happen to him, but just as the gambler tenders his stake, Jameson thought of the glory the next day was bound to bring, and nothing of what could be lost. Flint considered him as he threw the dice, immersed in the tenth game of Crown and Anchor, and roared as he triumphed; the older man envied this beautiful confidence, while wondering privately how long it could last.

  Darkness came, and the fleet formed into its night-time cruising formation of two close formed columns. The British numbered fifteen line of battleships ranging from the mighty three-deckers, of which there were six, down to Diadem, built in 1782 and a mere sixty-four. In the great cabin of Victory Jervis was wide-awake, as he would be throughout the night. He had taken command of the Mediterranean fleet just over fourteen months ago, and since that time he had prepared for the battle that was about to begin. Strong willed, and highly opinionated, he ruled his charges with a rod of iron. But it was iron tempered with regard and foresight. Bad officers would evoke his extreme displeasure, and could be expected to be exchanged or recalled almost at once, whereas the good received his trust and no man would want or expect a greater compliment from this tough, but strangely understanding man. He had fifteen ships of the line to command, and they were the best he could make them. They carried his confidence and his hopes. Of all people, he was most aware how desperately a victory was needed. In those fifteen hulls the destiny of Britain itself was staked, while over the south-western horizon a force of no less than twenty-nine Spanish line of battle ships lay waiting for them.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The British fleet maintained close order throughout the night and as dawn broke, misty but fine, Pandora was at her correct station off Victory’s beam, ready to repeat signals to the other frigates that ran to fore and aft of her. The wind, which had now come right round to the south-west, was hardly strong enough to disperse the early fog, which slowly revealed the British fleet to the expectant officers.

  “Culloden’s made smart work,” Fraiser commented dryly, as the leading ship was finally unveiled.

  Caulfield nodded. “Aye, and a fair job of that jib boom. I fancy Troubridge’s had them at it double tides, wouldn’t miss a day like this for want of a spar.”

  They watched as a line of signal flags broke out on the seventy-four.

  “Culloden’s signalling, strange sail in sight.” This was Cobb’s voice. Following his recent demotion he had been transferred to signals and was now facing the added ignominy of working under Dorsey, his friend and recent equal.

  “Very good, repeat to the flag.” Dorsey ordered the hoist while Cobb entered the time in the signal log. It was forty minutes past five.

  Captain was next with a similar message then, at just gone seven, Niger and Lively in the van signalled a fleet, and the sloop Bonne Citoyenne was sent for a closer inspection.

  The waiting was now getting positively painful. Officers began to pace the deck while the men grew restless and argumentative. Banks looked at his watch just as seven bells rang. It was half an hour before the end of the morning watch, but with the ship poised to clear for action at any second, and with every hand alert and waiting, there seemed little point in holding out the extra thirty minutes until breakfast. The signal finally came at eight-twenty, when the men were resting after wolfing down their burgoo and small beer. The marine drummer began to beat out a rousing tattoo on the quarterdeck as the entire ship was raised to the final pitch of readiness. By nine-fifty Bonne Citoyenne returned with the news that eight strange sail had been sighted. Jervis had already ordered his leading ships, Culloden, Blenheim and Prince George to intercept and on receiving this news sent Irresistible and Colossus after them.

  All this passed through Pandora’s signal log, while the officers stood on the quarterdeck watching the young men work and silently envied them their employment.

  “See there, Orion’s breaking line!” This was Banks, stirred from his usual silence by the sight. “Dorsey, what orders for Orion?”

  The lad looked at his signals crew and back at the flagship. “None sir, the admiral’s not sent her.”

  Banks grinned at Caulfield. “It appears Captain Saumarez is spoiling for a fight.” So typical of the feisty Channel Islander to want to get into the action and it was reassuring to note that others were finding the inactivity frustrating.

  “Minerve’s signalling, twenty sail, bearing sou-west.” Dorsey’s voice rang out in the silence. This was the first official indication that they had truly encountered the Spanish fleet and, to many, that the enemy force might be considerably larger than their own. King considered the men, still waiting to be called to quarters as they sat yarning in groups about the guns and on the forecastle. Occasionally a wandering boatswain’s mate or corporal had to order silence when their conversation or laughter grew unacceptably loud. They had full bellies and the ship was cleared for action; all that they wanted now was a chance to close with the enemy and that, they were certain, would come in time. Gone were outward signs of uneasiness, and when Bonne Citoyenne reported ‘strange sail are of the line’ a cheer rose up that was all but impossible to quell. Amongst them Jameson grinned at Flint, who had just returned from one of his frequent visits to the heads.

  “Reckon we’re in for a bit of a scrape,” he said breathlessly.

  “Aye, Matthew,” the older man’s voice was heavy with sadness, “I reckons we are.”

  *****

  In Victory the atmosphere was just as tense; Jervis, his face drawn from the sleepless night, hobbled painfully about the deck while Calder followed, his constant observations made in a thin, whining treble, grating as the admiral assessed the situation. On one occasion Hallowell had attempted to relieve Sir John of his Job’s comforter, but Calder had rounded on him, pointedly reminding the captain that his position in the ship was merely as an onlooker.

>   “Not so, sir, not so!” Jervis raised his voice in a roar that caused all on the poop to turn to him, and then quickly away. “Captain Hallowell has more reason to be here than most, and I value his comment!” Calder blushed, and briskly withdrew as Jervis continued. “Walk with me, sir. A gentle piece of exercise before we start on the Dons, what?”

  But Calder was not deterred for long. Further reports of the force that would confront them began to come through, although Jervis appeared not to notice. The captain of the fleet relayed the increasing number to his chief with every appearance of dire despondency. At the final count, when the enemy was reported as twenty-seven sail of the line, “near double our own”, as Calder triumphantly declared, Jervis finally snapped.

  “Enough of that, sir! If there are fifty sail I will go through them. England badly needs a victory at present.”

  Watching Jervis turn on Calder, rather as a bull might a particularly annoying terrier, Hallowell could contain himself no longer, and slapped his commander in chief heartily on the back.

  “That’s right, Sir John, that’s right. And by God we shall give them a damned good licking!”

  The Canadian’s paw brought a cloud of dust from the surprised admiral’s jacket: Calder looked on, speechless, although his expression was that of abject hatred.

  *****

  Rose stood at his action station towards the forecastle, in nominal command of guns one to seven. He was pacing the deck under the skids that held spars and larger ship’s boats, with his hands set behind his back. He wore a round jacket and had a smart, but impractically ornate dirk at his waist and was trying very hard to remain calm in a world that was still relatively alien to him. Watching, King considered walking across for a brief word, but decided that even that small amount of stimulation might prove too much for the young man.

  The waiting was probably the hardest part to bear; it would be all right once the action began. As soon as the guns started to speak and the ship was properly in the thick of it there would be no need to think. There would be no need to worry, to project the future in all of its myriad possibilities. To ponder on your own death, as well as the death of those about you. To wonder about the chances of survival, the thought calling forth visions of long distant friends and family; visions that must be put aside instantly if any show of composure is to be upheld. Images that determinedly repeated themselves in a different order, as soon as they had finally been cast out, until the mind became one continual spiral of jumbled yet recurring thoughts.

  It would be all right, once the action began, it always was; the hardest part to bear was probably the waiting.

  *****

  “Flagship’s signalling,” Dorsey’s voice cut through, edged with excitement. “Form line of battle, sou’ sou-westerly heading, ahead and astern of the flagship as convenient.”

  Banks glanced at Fraiser, who bellowed out orders that set Pandora on the new course. The enemy fleet was still hidden from the men on the quarterdeck, although that did not stop every eye straining to make them out.

  “Jervie must know something we don’t,” Fraiser muttered to Caulfield.

  “Hardly surprising, her lookout’s a mite higher than ours.”

  Still, in Pandora, the waiting went on, while the mighty battleships jockeyed for position. Their usual sailing order went completely by the board, and yet each was disciplined enough to sort out their own place with the minimal loss of time. Once set, and the line of battle established, they began to pile on more sail, wringing whatever they could from the light and fluky wind.

  On the foretop Ford, Bennet and Lawlor were with the other topmen, sitting nonchalantly on the folded studding sails and waiting until they were needed again. Ford and Lawlor were quiet, although Bennet was still visibly excited, and was having to curb his almost insatiable need to chatter. Hunter, a former upperyard man who had been appointed acting master’s mate, sat with them, but slightly apart. Hunter was a promising hand who had recently been rated to the top and was taking the responsibility very seriously indeed. He glanced across to the southeast, where enemy sails could be made out through the lifting mist. It appeared to him that the fleet had separated; only a few days ago, he would not have hesitated to give voice to his thoughts. Yet now, with the added weight his position gave him, he remained silent. Instead a flutter from the top of the main course caught his eye.

  “Stuns’l boom’s loose on the larboard arm,” he said, almost to himself. The topmen looked across; Ford nodded.

  “Aye, that’ll run and catch the sail if we don’t look to it. Want me to take a hand, Mr Hunter?”

  “Do that, would you, Ford?” Two nights back he and Ford had tied the other’s queue during the second dogwatch.

  Ford hauled himself up, pleased to be given a job, but Bennet was too fast for him.

  “Not to worry, I’ll sort it. Settle that in a jiff.” Bennet was still fresh to the tops, and keen for any opportunity to practice his new found skill. Ignoring Ford he skipped out on to the yard, his feet feeling for the footrope, and began to heave himself along the spar.

  “That one’s a mite too keen for my liking,” Church grumbled. At thirty he was getting rather too old for his post and was inclined to resent younger men. Ford said nothing as he watched Bennet attend to the boom in a reasonably seaman-like manner. Once done the man stayed where he was for a moment, enjoying the novelty of his position to gaze at the enemy ships, now visibly closer.

  “Come in Bennet,” Hunter called. “Stay out there much longer and the Dons’ll think we’ve got ourselves a monkey.” The rest of the top laughed; Bennet turned and beamed at them, twisting his body around and scratching under his armpit while making appropriate noises. The laughter increased, joined by some on the maintop and the deck below. Bennet became proud of his performance and failed to anticipate the sudden gust of wind that sent him tumbling off the yard, down the face of the sail and into the surprisingly cold, surprisingly hard, waters of the Atlantic.

  “Man overboard!” It was Ford who gave the alarm, almost as soon as Bennet had left the yard, but Cobb, standing by the larboard rail, was the first to act. Wrenching a tightly packed hammock from the netting, he hurled it towards the spluttering figure as Pandora shot past.

  Banks looked back at Bennet in dismay; the ship was travelling fast, a good nine knots and to turn would take her right out of station, probably for good. “Launch the jolly.” There was nothing else he could do; to leave Bennet to die would be a terrible blow to morale, yet he may well never see the boat and its crew again. “Volunteers, and mind you get a move on.”

  There was no shortage; Dickens, from the quarterdeck carronades led the rush, closely followed by Lawlor, whose descent via the fore backstays had only been marginally slower than Bennet’s, Jameson was the third, quickly joined by Flint, Wright and finally Crowley.

  “Who’s to command?” Banks looked about the quarterdeck, his eyes naturally falling on Cobb. The lad appeared eager, hungry even, and as Banks nodded, he gratefully ran from his place at the signals, and jumped into the jolly-boat. By the time it hit the water Bennet was more than two cables off, and the men threw themselves back on their oars, heading directly away from the speeding frigate, while the might of the Mediterranean fleet lumbered passed them.

  Bennet was afloat, but spluttering badly, and clinging desperately to the sodden hammock by the time they reached him. Hauling his sodden body over the stern, the men grumbled about the wetting he gave them as, for the first time, they realised the awkward position they were now in. The British line of battle was less than a cable’s length away, yet their speed would make recovering a small boat dangerous. The alternative was to try to follow the fleet in the hope that they could at least stay close enough to be noticed and picked up after the battle.

  “Make for the liners!” Cobb had lost nothing of his air of command in the few hours he had been a lower deck man, and the others obeyed him instantly.

  The nearest ship would be gone be
fore they reached her, Cobb set his sights on the one behind, a seventy-four that might be Captain or Namur. There were three ships beyond that, they could try for each and if they failed, the second option remained with them.

  They grew closer and men could now be seen gathering at the mainchains, equipped with boathooks and falls to catch them.

  “I’ll take her straight in towards the forechains, then press the helm.” Cobb was eyeing the distance as he spoke, and each man had every confidence in him. “As soon as we turn row for all you’re worth, you’ll have to keep us up with the liner so as we can hook on.

  Closer, shouts of encouragement from the battleship’s crew came to them, but every man in the boat was concentrating hard. Even Bennet, who had been shivering from a mixture of exhaustion, shock, and the effect of the ice-cold water, lay still as the small boat approached the lumbering giant that now towered above them. One wrong move on behalf of Cobb would see them smashed by the massive oak hull. Closer, the bow was pointing at a space just in front of her prow, then the ship was on them, and Cobb swung the tiller and the men dug deep into the ocean as the small boat surged forward.

  “That’s it, in oars!” Their momentum was good enough, and Cobb wrenched the tiller over, turning the slowing boat towards the hull of the battleship. The men threw down their oars and turned on the thwarts reaching up for the lines that had been dropped for them.