Jackass Frigate

by Alaric Bond

  “I’m on!” Flint shouted, as he wound the rope about his wrist, and waited for another call. If no one else caught hold he could well be plucked from the boat.

  “And here!” Lawlor yelled. The boat increased in speed and Jameson and Cobb also caught hold of a fall. A boathook snaked down and snagged their bow as the bare head of an officer peered out above them, the single epaulette on his shoulder marking him as a commander.

  “We’ll not take your boat. We can send a line down if your man’s injured.”

  “Aye, sir,” Cobb yelled back without reference to Bennet. “That would be welcome.”

  “I don’t need no line,” Bennet grumbled, although his face was still deathly white.

  “You’ll take one and be glad of it,” Flint told him, as he tied a bowline with one hand. “It’s on account of your lubberly ways that we’re ’ere.”

  The rope was passed under his arms, and soon Bennet was soaring up the side of the two-decker. The boat lightened with his leaving, making the job of holding her against the side easier. It grew easier still as Jameson, Lawlor, Wright and Crowley took turns to clamber up to the entry port. Within three minutes of their being hooked onto the seventy-four, only Flint and Cobb remained, although now the boat was backing about in the wash from the liner.

  “Lines for you two,” the commander told them from above. “And make sure you both leave at my count of three.”

  The men were quickly secured and as the officer spoke they rose up from the boat, which was left to fall away in the wake of the ship.

  Flint fell against a parbuckle strip, bruised his shoulder but righted himself. Soon he was struggling across the hammock netting and into the arms of the seamen who carried him over and onto the deck.

  “Welcome to Captain,” the commander told him. “Always glad of a few extra hands; there’s likely to be a mite of work for you afore the day’s out.”

  “All aboard, Mr Berry?” The commander turned to where Captain Miller was standing next to Commodore Nelson at the break of the quarterdeck.

  “Aye, sir. Safe, and sound.”

  “Sir Richard will be deprived of your presence, I fear,” the commodore told them. “Still, his loss is our gain, and I am sure you will have no objection to fighting with the Captains?”

  Cobb shook his head and spoke for them all. “No sir, we’re more than ready.”

  “Very good.” Nelson flashed a smile at the men. “You will be issued with pistols and cutlasses, be’chance we’ll get to grips with the enemy sooner than any of us think.”

  *****

  Their rescue was witnessed by all in Pandora, although soon a fresh signal was breaking out on Victory, and in no time their thoughts had turned away from Bennet and the fate of the jolly-boat.

  “The admiral means to pass through the enemy’s line.” Dorsey read out the signal in a monotone, before ordering the same hoist repeated to the rest of the fleet.

  Fraiser walked to the break of the forecastle and peered forward. By now the enemy ships were in clear sight; they had broken into two distinct groups, and it was Jervis’s intention to place the British fleet between them.

  “It’ll be a close one,” Caulfield said, standing a few feet away. “If that line forms up before Culloden arrives we’ll all be running into a solid wall.”

  “Aye, a solid wall that shoots thirty-two pound round shot,” Fraiser added.

  More canvas broke out on the line ships as the British raced for the gap. By now every battleship was carrying more sail than was wise in such fluky winds, causing Banks to order topgallants to enable Pandora to keep her station. The frigate surged forward as the wind bit into the new canvas and all on board were charged with fresh energy as the British line bore down upon the enemy. Caulfield and Fraiser said nothing as Culloden closed with the first of the Spanish. As time wore on a collision appeared inevitable, but Troubridge held his course until finally, in a blaze of fire, he despatched a double-shotted broadside directly into the hull of the Spanish ship.

  The enemy battleship veered away and could be seen to be in irons as the noise of the first broadside reached Pandora. Caulfield drew a quick breath, and in what felt like the same second Culloden fired again, this time causing obvious damage. The men were cheering now, although the officers were too intent on what was happening to notice, or control them.

  Fraiser’s eyes flew back to the flagship. “He’ll tack,” he said aloud, but there came no signal in confirmation.

  Caulfield shook his head. “Jervie’s not one to make a point and walk away, he’ll keep this course until the Dons are well and truly separated.”

  “Aye, that’s as maybe,” Fraiser turned to starboard where the main body of Spanish ships were already speeding for Cadiz and safety, “but if he takes too long that wee lot will be home in time for supper.”

  “Blenheim’s opened fire!”

  The two turned in time to see the last of the smoke wisp away from the second ship, as the British line cut deeper into the enemy formation.

  “Watch for a signal, there!” Fraiser called to Dorsey, although the lad was dutifully keeping his eyes on the flagship.

  “Dollar to a guinea he’ll tack in succession.” Caulfield’s voice was light, knowing well his friend, a solid Presbyterian, would ignore the bet.

  Fraiser treated him to a scowl. “I may not be a great believer in your fighting ways, but even I know the rudiments.” They both looked again towards the flagship, but still Victory remained mute, and still the mighty battleships thundered on relentlessly.

  The awaited signal came just after noon and Caulfield would have won. Culloden tacked almost as the flags were broken out, and soon was heading north-west, close hauled and so near to the wind that her bowlines were as taught as fiddle strings.

  Blenheim tacked on the same spot as Culloden, and soon Rear Admiral Parker’s flagship, Prince George, was putting her helm over. As she did ships from the Spanish lee division turned towards her.

  “They’ve smoked us,” Fraiser said. “We’re tacking in succession, so they’re gathering to meet each ship as they come down.” The enemy force was large; one, a powerful first rate, far bigger than anything the British held. Orion the fourth ship tacked safely, but as the fifth, Colossus, approached the spot, she met the full force of Spanish broadsides. The shots rained about her, throwing up deep splashes around the ship as her foremast shook, and her foreyard fell, taking the foretopsail with it. Deprived of pressure from her headsails, the battleship missed stays and lay hopelessly in irons as the Spanish closed in about her.

  “That’s it, she’s lost. One to the Dons.” Fraiser’s voice was low, but it echoed the thoughts of every man in Pandora. On board the Spanish flagship men could be seen cheering, whilst others prepared to take the British ship in tow.

  Irresistible, the sixth ship in the British line was up with her now, and began to fire into the Spanish flagship as Saumarez, in Orion, backed topsails and covered the stricken ship with his own broadside. Pandora, sailing alongside Victory, was almost on them, and preparations were being made to tack as Victory bore towards the Spanish lee division. A roar of cheering came from the flagship’s crew as she passed Colossus, her crew struggling to secure their ship, then a roll of thunder erupted and the heavy three-decker opened fire for the first time. The well-timed broadside seemed to stun the air for a second or two as the target, a Spanish two-decker, reeled under the shock. She veered away, almost colliding with another in her eagerness to avoid a second dose from the British first rate.

  The Spanish flagship was less reluctant and led a second attack, centring on Victory as she prepared to tack. Clearly Jervis was expecting trouble and backed topsails, stopping his ship almost directly in the Spaniard’s path and forcing the enemy to bear away. Her second broadside rolled out, sending up a cloud of splinters from the enemy flagship’s bow, and for several seconds afterwards the crash and clatter of falling tophamper could be heard.

  “And again lads!” Caul
field’s voice was almost hoarse; he realised he had been screaming with excitement for several minutes. The third broadside was fired; now the Spanish lee division was in total disarray.

  Victory and Pandora tacked almost simultaneously and it was then, with both ships on a north-westerly course, that realisation struck. The wind had backed and was now coming across their larboard quarter, giving the square rigged ships their optimum point of sailing, but the Spanish had the same advantage, and were a good distance ahead of them. Despite the fact that the British were faster, it would be a long chase, while the heavier enemy force would be able to take turns in veering to present their full broadsides to the oncoming British.

  In Captain, five ships behind Victory, and only now preparing to tack, the situation appeared far worse. Ahead of them the Spanish lee division had backed away, and was working to windward, clearly intending to meet up with the main force without further attention from the British. Jervis, in Victory, was heading hell for leather in chase of the larger Spanish force, but the wind backing to west south-west meant that Captain, and the remaining ships still waiting to tack, had had to alter course to the south, taking them further from the enemy. Nelson, standing with Miller, his captain and Berry, formerly his first lieutenant, now promoted to commander, watched as the British fleet slowly broke into two divisions. There was a very real danger that either one could be overcome by the Spanish. The entire battle might be over in a matter of hours, with little chance of any British ship seeing a home port again. A signal broke out on Victory, instructing Britannia, flagship of Vice Admiral Thompson, to tack immediately with the remaining ships to follow in succession. They were to maintain a course that would take them to leeward of the Spanish force. Jervis then instructed the van division to alter course to windward, clearly attempting to benefit from having a divided force, and effectively trapping the Spanish between two fires. All well in theory, but the remaining ships waiting to tack were making slow progress; it would be some while before they were even heading in the correct direction for the manoeuvre.

  All eyes switched to Britannia, where Thompson was taking his time, and had yet to tack. Miller and Berry watched in silent agony, not wishing to criticise a superior officer in the presence of the commodore, yet unable to contain their feelings as the British force was steadily led in the wrong direction.

  “Has that fool, Thompson, no eyes in his head?” Nelson, less restrained and with more excuse than most to miss a signal, bellowed. The repeated signals were clear to read on Pandora but already the second ship, Barfleur, had reached the spot where Britannia had been ordered to tack. With an element of relief they watched as Waldergrave pushed his helm over, leading the remaining ships on the correct course, leaving Britannia, a powerful three-decker, and a significant part of the British fleet, to sail on to the original tacking point, and effectively out of the battle.

  Nelson looked to the main Spanish division, where several ships were starting to push east, clearly to begin a concentrated attack on Culloden, and her fellows, currently exchanging rapid fire with the rearmost enemy ships. Victory was also in action and could be seen amid a haze of grey smoke as her broadsides rolled out with clinical efficiency.

  “The admiral is mistaken,” he said, with classic bluntness. “If we wait to tack in succession there will be no time to lend support.” He shifted his weight from one foot to another, clearly undecided, then added, “Unless we can attack from another point, the Dons will centre on our van and all will be lost.”

  There was absolute truth in what he said, although Jervis, in the thick of action, and from a different viewpoint, would be unable to appreciate the situation.

  “Do you wish to signal the admiral, sir?” Berry asked. The commodore shook his head.

  “It might be of little consequence, and would waste what time we have.” Certainly to accurately convey the complex situation to his commander in chief was well beyond the limitations of the signal book. Nelson shook his head, and thrust his hands behind his back. “No, if it is to be done, it is to be done now. Mr Miller, I require you to wear out of formation.”

  Miller jerked to attention; the command was in direct contradiction of the admiral’s instuctions. “Wear sir?”

  “If you please.”

  For a moment there was silence, all on the quarterdeck were aware of the situation, and the commodore’s order, although no one seemed eager to act.

  “Captain Miller, there is no time to waste, the Spanish must be stopped, and it is up to us to stop them.”

  “Sir, it will mean that we…”

  “No, not we, it will mean I, sir. I am ordering this ship out of formation, and I will take any blame that is coming, is that perfectly clear?”

  Miller opened his mouth to say more, then caught the look in the commodore’s eyes. “Very good, sir,” he said, and turned to the first lieutenant.

  *****

  “Strewth, we’re pulling out of line,” Flint muttered. Strangers in a ship at action stations, they were somewhat at a loss and the former crew of Pandora’s jolly-boat had gathered at the break of the quarterdeck, awaiting employment. They watched as the ship was taken out of line, and turned with the wind. They passed in between Excellent and Diadem, noticed the surprised faces of the crew of both, and before long were heading at ninety degrees from the line of battle. The seas began to fly as Captain gathered speed, and soon they were entirely alone, the nearest British ship to windward being some three miles off, while directly ahead of them lay eighteen heavy battleships of the Spanish Navy.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  In the very midst of a fleet action, with heavy battleships exchanging mighty broadsides all about her, Pandora sailed with impunity. Partly it was the universally agreed convention that a ship of the line shall not fire upon a frigate, unless the smaller vessel has been rash enough to fire first. And partly it was the more realistic notion that a broadside from a two or three-decker, one that might have taken four or five minutes and up to three hundred men to load, would be wasted on the frail hull of a ship that could do negligible damage to the sturdy frame of a liner. Still, amid the carnage, the crew stood to quarters. Both cutters swung from the quarterdeck davits, prepared to lower at a moment’s notice and the launch and barge connected to their tackle, ready to swing out and manned for boarding or rescue.

  Below, in the cockpit that was quickly becoming a mixture of dressing station, operating theatre and morgue, Stuart and Manning were already at work. Pandora had been hit by a stray thirty-two-pound round shot from a Spanish three-decker. She had suffered no material harm, but three members of the larboard forecastle carronade had been struck. One, Tunstill, a former weaver, was killed outright, and duly despatched over the side. The other two, the Morris brothers were now below, sharing their fate under the hands of the medical team, just as they had shared their lives. The older man by three years who was known as Pug, for reasons long forgotten, had been wounded on the shoulder, the shot passing on to hit his brother’s right arm, which now hung by a thread as Manning prepared to finish the work. At the same time Stuart considered Pug’s blistered and partly opened chest. The shoulder was shattered and most of his flesh across to the sternum was torn. Little could be done to save the left arm, but neither could he remove it without disturbing the already damaged muscles of the chest, and encouraging further blood loss. Pressing the flesh back as best he could, the surgeon wrapped the entire torso in a wide bandage, trapping the arm against the chest, and pulling the windings as tight as possible to restrict the blood letting. When he had finished the man looked almost presentable and, trusting Stuart far more than was his due, took his laudanum and rum, before falling into a deep and final sleep. Manning was fairing better with Michael; the arm was strong, without fat, and came away cleanly. He tied off the arteries efficiently enough, even though it was a relatively novel procedure for him. The stump was also stitched neatly, and the wound sealed with turpentine and the pledget set before the leather tourniquet was
released. Throughout the operation he spoke in a soft, but often distracted tone to the man who, wide-awake though shivering horribly, listened with an air of hope and wonder.

  “You finished with your mutterings?” Stuart asked sharply, as Michael was laid next to his brother, and the two left to ride out their own personal battles. “’Cause if your prattle don’t kill half the people, it’s knocking seven bells out of me.”

  Manning watched as the surgeon turned from wiping his hands on his already soiled apron, to swig from the obligatory bottle of Hollands. He decided that no reply was called for and, as a topman was brought down with a bruised head and a broken arm, he attended to him with no further thought of Stuart.

  *****

  For some while Fraiser and Caulfield had been watching as Captain carved her lonely course towards the enemy. The seventy-four was almost level with them now, and must be obvious to Victory, currently in the thick of action with two Spanish ships, the signal ‘engage the enemy more closely’ seemingly nailed to her yard. Captain should be in action within minutes and some support would be needed if she were not to be lost within the hour. Directly ahead of both Victory and Pandora, Collingwood, in Excellent, had joined the admiral’s line to the windward side of the enemy, while Diadem and Irresistible were equally engaged to leeward, their shots occasionally hulling, or passing over the Spanish, to fall perilously close to Victory.

  “Hot work,” Caulfield commented briskly, then looking across at Captain, whose first broadside had just been released, “and hotter soon for some.” Culloden had come across and was now in a position to support the commodore, although they were woefully ill matched compared with the heavy warships they would engage.

  “Flag’s signalling!” Dorsey sang out, before writing down the numbers on his pad. “To Diadem and Irresistible, sir. Restrict fire.”

  Sensible words, clearly the two British ships were oblivious to the risk they were running to their own flagship, and had not ordered first reduction on their powder.