by Alaric Bond
“Parker’s coming to support Nelson.” Caulfield spun round to look where Fraiser was pointing, and sure enough Prince George, along with two other liners, was creeping up behind Captain and Culloden. Their presence might well persuade the Spaniards to back off, but even with this assistance the British would be heavily outnumbered. At that moment Captain disappeared amid the double smoke of exchanged broadsides and it looked highly unlikely that any help could arrive in time to save her.
*****
On board Captain at least some of the crew of the jolly-boat had found employment. Four men had fallen at one of the quarterdeck carronades, and a lieutenant had ordered them in to assist. Jameson had taken over the lambs wool sponge, and was washing the barrel free of embers after each discharge, in time for Flint to ram a fresh charge into the still warm metal. Lawlor and Wright acted as tackle-men; within two broadsides the four were working with the others of the gun crew as if they had been born together.
A master’s mate spotted Crowley, Cobb, Bennet and Dickens standing useless on the gangway.
“There’ll be close hand work afore long,” he said, pointing his thumb back over his shoulder. “You men prepare yourselves as boarders; pistols and cutlasses by the main.”
They walked across as another broadside rolled out behind them. Bennet reached in and picked up two cutlasses in each hand and held two out to Dickens and Cobb. One he placed in his own waistband, and the last was offered to Crowley. The Irishman hesitated, and actually drew back; this was not what he had volunteered for, following a man you respected was one thing, as was rescuing a fellow from certain death, but to fight for King George, that was quite another matter.
“What you worried about?” Bennet asked him artlessly. It was well known amongst the men that Crowley had come over from the French, but he was an Irishman after all; a neutral almost, and could be forgiven most things. Besides he spoke their language: didn’t he know what side he should be on?
“If you’re not willing to fight you may report to the surgeon,” Cobb said. The voice was firm, his words reasonable and belied both his age and reduced status. Crowley considered for a second; then a scream of enemy bar shot came about them, forcing all to the deck and sending a rain of blocks and shrouds down.
“Axe men, axe men, there!” A midshipman was screaming from forward where the foretopmast had fallen onto the deck. A rush of men came forward to assist, and in the confusion Crowley collected the cutlass from where it had dropped, and placed it in his waistband.
*****
In Pandora, action seemed to be taking place on every quarter while time sped past at an ever-increasing rate.
“Flagship’s signalling,” Dorsey shouted yet again, his voice growing hoarse. Banks made a note to commend him later; the lad had carried out his duties in an exemplary manner, and might even warrant promotion.
“Excellent’s number, sir. Pass through the enemy line.” It seemed that Jervis had finally recognised Nelson’s position to leeward and was sending him further reinforcement. Such had the battle moved that Captain and Excellent were barely half a mile apart now, although there were several enemy ships between them. Even assuming Collingwood could bring his ship into a position to be of help, it would not be a speedy deliverance. One of the Spanish, a massive four-decker, opened up as she moved away. The seventy-four looked almost insignificant against the mighty warhorse that loomed over her.
“There’s over a hundred and ten guns in that beast if there’s a dozen,” Lewis muttered to Conroy as they watched from the forecastle.
“Aye, but it don’t seem to cause them trouble.”
Sure enough Collingwood was replying in brisk, and definite style, sending two carefully aimed broadsides back for every one he received. In no time the damage was starting to show on the larger ship, and soon her broadside rate had dropped, eventually breaking down to individual guns being fired as they were loaded. Excellent continued its previous crack rate of fire, with every round digging deep into the very heart of the first rate.
“They’ve struck!” The cry came from Lewis, but it was universally accepted by all on board. The colours had come down, and Excellent had broached to, and was hailing her capture.
“Larboard the helm,” Banks ordered suddenly. “Lay her alongside; Excellent has her orders; we can take over here.”
The frigate moved in slowly, the wind was all but dispersed by the broadsides that were raging about her, but soon she was creeping up behind Excellent, who was moving on, gratefully leaving the job of securing the prize to Pandora.
“Salvador del Mundo,” Conroy said, reading out the name on the big ship’s counter. “There’s a mouthful an’ half.”
“Cutter’s away, marines and boarders.” Banks took a pace or two towards the fife rail, “Mr King, you have experience of these matters, I collect?”
King glanced back and smiled ruefully, remembering so well the shattered remains of Aiguille. He exchanged nods with Rose, who moved to the centre of the deck, and made his way aft to the quarterdeck. Lieutenant Martin was preparing his marines to board the larboard cutter as Pandora drew level with the silent Spanish battleship, now wallowing with the swell less than half a cable away. There was little movement on board and all thoughts in Pandora were for how they should deal with securing her.
Banks was on the quarterdeck; next to him stood Caulfield and Fraiser. King turned and caught the eye of Dorsey, at his signal station. “Don’t feel like coming along this time, then?” he asked. The lad grinned and shook his head. Then there came the unexpected crash of nearby thunder. The noise continued, growing in intensity and volume, gathering power with every fraction of a second until the world went black as the Spanish ship released a full and deadly broadside directly into the British frigate.
*****
HMS Captain, a seventy-four, was now engaged with the San Nicolas, who mounted more than eighty-four guns and the San Josef, a first rate of over one hundred and twelve. On the quarterdeck carronade Flint, Jameson and Wright had been joined by Cobb and Bennet, who replaced two further casualties. Lawlor was one; in the midst of a broadside a twenty-four-pound shot had accounted for him. It had been horrific in its simplicity; one moment the Welshman was there, hauling on the train and grumbling about the work, and the girls that would be missing him in Gibraltar, the next he lay dead, barely recognisable as human, let alone a friend. And now he was gone, swabbed over the side like so much waste. Bennet had taken his place, and to the men who worked the carronade it was almost as if he had never been.
They moved with the regularity of machines and in total silence, albeit the roar of battle was all about them. Captain had been severely mauled, and was now little more than a wreck, although she had caused serious damage to both ships, and her broadsides still rolled out with parade ground regularity.
“Excellent’s coming to larboard!” the dry voice of a lieutenant croaked, and sure enough the bulk of Collingwood’s ship could be seen as she squeezed between Captain and the San Nicolas.
“Cease firing, Check, Check, Check!” the lieutenant yelled again. His words appeared to have no effect as all crews continued to load their weapons. Bennet heaved the carronade forward in its slide into the firing position, before slumping down on the deck with his fellows. Excellent was now level with them and pouring fresh broadsides into the enemy, giving the crew of Captain a chance to rest and secure their ship.
On the quarterdeck the commodore exchanged salutes with Collingwood, captain of Excellent, and a friend of many years, before turning to assess the situation. Miller was deep in conversation with the first lieutenant; only Berry had time to talk.
“I could make a signal for a frigate to take you off, sir?” he suggested.
Nelson looked back to where a heavy pall of smoke covered the last sighting of HMS Pandora and shook his head. “No, Edward, there is fight in the Captain left. And when she is finished we’ll raise some more for boarders.”
Excellent’s broadsides
continued to pound into the Spanish ships, and it was difficult to note any returning fire. The officers peered through the dense grey smoke.
“Stand by your pieces, there!” Collingwood’s ship was still moving, indeed, would be clear of Captain in no time and they would have to start work again.
“I believe the enemy have run aboard each other, sir.” Berry said in a tone that was almost conversational. Nelson peered through the smoke, but what sight he had in his undamaged left eye was not good and he could make out nothing definite. Then a gust of wind cleared the air for a second, and the two ships were revealed. It was just as Berry had said, the San Nicolas must have luffed away from Excellent’s relentless fire, and now stood almost broadside on to the flagship, their yardarms deeply enmeshed.
“Captain Miller. The enemy is disabled. Chance that you could take us alongside?”
Miller looked at the two ships, then up at the tangle of rags that was all Captain now possessed in the way of sails.
“Aye, sir. We can luff up and broach her starboard quarter, if that would suffice.”
Nelson nodded. “Make it so, and call for boarders.”
The men from Pandora’s jolly-boat heard the cry, and fired off the last charge from their carronade before abandoning the piece. Two men were handing out further small arms; Bennet collected a wicked looking tomahawk, while Cobb took a boarding pistol, and two charges. Crowley also helped himself to a pistol, and loaded it with care. He would go with the boarders because that was what everyone else was doing. All about him men were fighting and dying, for whatever reason he had placed himself on one side and this was not the time to change coat, or turn neutral. He loaded the pistol carefully, over filling the priming pan and closing the frizzen, before throwing the second charge away. There was no room in his mind for any other thoughts.
“On the forecastle, form up.” Two infantry lieutenants were organising the boarding parties; the Pandora’s picked their way along the battered gangway. On the quarterdeck Captain Miller removed his coat and went to follow. The commodore stepped forward, and placed his arm on the officer’s shoulder.
“No, Miller, I must have that honour. Look to your ship.”
Nelson had already thrown off his coat and now wound the lanyard of his plain but functional fighting sword about his wrist. The forecastle was filled with men, but a path cleared as he approached and there was a murmur of approval as the commodore made his way to the very front. For a captain to lead a boarding party was rare enough, for a commodore of the first class, one due to be gazetted admiral any day, was quite unheard of. The ships were drawing closer and the dull thud of small arms fire could be heard as the Spanish attempted to pick off the British before they attacked. Dickens fell, struck in the thigh by a musket ball that knocked him off balance and sent him into the dark waters beneath. Without a conscious thought those behind took one pace forward and filled his space.
“Take the poop, Berry,” Nelson shouted to the commander, who was standing farther forward on the trunk of the bowsprit. “My party will move through the stern. Berry nodded, and Captain’s sprit yard passed over the Spanish ship. Then the two met with a slight jolt and the crash and grind of splintering timbers.
The first across were soldiers of the 69th regiment, led by a lieutenant who bellowed orders even as he leapt. Bennet found himself next to the rail and jumped the short distance to the shattered stern windows of the battleship. He half fell, half tumbled over the ledge, only to be trodden on by Cobb, who came immediately behind him. Wright was next, taking a more sedate route over the larboard bower anchor, which was wedged tightly against the enemy’s starboard quarter-gallery. He gripped hold of a piece of timber, and swung himself though the shattered window, landing inside the quarter-gallery itself, right next to the captain’s privy. Crowley followed him, and the two pushed the small sliding door to one side, and moved out into the cabin that now seemed to be filled with shouting men.
Watching from behind, Flint felt his bowels turn to water. The sudden urge to bolt was all but quelled by the knowledge that there was nowhere to run; on either side men were pushing him forward, the only option was to drop down between the two ships, and that would mean certain death. A scream gathered in his throat, and as he made the leap with Jameson, it came out in a horrible blood-curdling cry.
Then they were in the Spanish captain’s cabin. Jameson turned to grin at him, but Flint did not respond. The only thought in his head was to move, to quit the room as fast as possible. Behind him more men were pouring in through the opened windows, his only escape lay in the doors at the end of the cabin.
Nelson was standing in the centre talking to one of the infantry lieutenants. A shot came in through the shattered skylight and struck a soldier next to him. Crowley looked up to see several men on the deck above pointing muskets at the intruders below. Without further thought he raised his own pistol and shot one of them dead. Then the crowd dispersed, presumably by the arrival of Berry’s men as they attacked the poop. Crowley considered the pistol for a moment; the shot had been instinctive, one of self defence almost, but now that it had been fired there seemed no going back, and he pressed on with the crowd towards the doors that would lead them out onto the quarterdeck.
“Forward, forward and on!” Nelson’s voice roared out, and they made their way as one body towards the double doors.
Bennet, near to the front, was horrified to see dark jagged holes appear in the panelling. “They’re firing through!” he yelled, ducking down. An officer bellowed an order, and musket shots began to rain down on the doors as the British soldiers responded.
The commodore was there again, moving forward, leading from the front. “Axe men, take out those doors!”
Bennet looked stupidly at his hand that still held the tomahawk, before stepping forward. There were three other men with far larger axes, and between them they hacked out the hinges, pressing the ornately panelled doors down in front of them. The shout to secure themselves came just in time for Bennet’s party to drop to the deck, as a second volley of musket fire bit into the crowd of Spanish that were waiting for them. Bennet stayed where he was and the boarders charged over him. Flint, Cobb and Jameson went next to Commodore Nelson as they barged through to the quarterdeck. Wright was midway in the throng, while Crowley, who had tripped in the crowd, arrived with the last of them.
A Spanish officer, brilliant in his crimson and blue uniform, stood in front of Cobb. Without a thought the lad brought up his pistol. He squeezed the trigger; the pan flashed impotently and there was no shot. Flinging the useless weapon away he went to raise his cutlass, but the man had already disappeared.
“Deck clear, sir!” Nelson turned to see Berry standing by the poop ladder, a grin on his blackened face. Forward the Spanish crew were retreating from the guns on the upper deck, taking refuge in the forecastle. More men were coming across from Captain, and it would take little effort now to secure the entire ship.
“Very good, Edward. Take down the colours, if you please.” Berry raised his hand to touch the hat that had fallen off some while ago, and grinned foolishly.
A Spanish officer stepped forward and offered his sword to the commodore. Two more followed, one of whom looked no older than a boy. The deck shuddered as the Spanish thirty-two-pounders opened fire on the lower deck. Forward the Prince George could be seen off the starboard bow. Nelson turned to one of the infantry lieutenants. “Take a party and one of these officers below and inform the people their ship has surrendered.” The lieutenant unceremoniously dragged an officer away, and thrust him down the nearest companionway.
After the brutality of the battle there came an uncertain pause; then shots started to rain down from above, and men began to fall.
“The flagship!” Berry yelled from the poop, pointing up to the tangle of spars and rigging that had caused the ship to be taken. Sure enough Spanish marksmen on the tops of the first rate were firing down on the British. The San Josef towered above them, and was perf
ectly placed to send boarders across to retake the prize.
Nelson brought his hands up and bellowed across to Captain. “Mr Miller, more boarders, if you please!” Then raising his sword once more, he turned towards the Spanish flagship.
Crowley and Wright, their blood up from the fighting, followed Nelson’s lead without hesitation. The commodore was one of the first across, accompanied by his coxswain, John Sykes, who parried a cutlass swipe that would have ended his commander’s career in decapitation. A short climb, then up and over the rail; the men clambered, cursing and screaming, while shots from the British soldiers flew up above their heads, knocking down the marksmen in the tops.
Cobb made his way across without difficulty, and soon stood on the deck of the Spanish first rate, a blooded cutlass in his hand. He looked about, somewhat bewildered. Rather than the rush of fighting men he was expecting, the ship appeared deserted; presumably the crew had taken refuge below once they had considered boarding to be inevitable.
Above them, on the quarterdeck, a Spanish officer brought his sword up high into the air, only to toss it down, hilt first, at the feet of the British. Cobb picked the weapon up; it was jewelled and heavily ornate; a splendid exhibition piece, but not a fighting weapon. He looked back to where Nelson was collecting more swords from the vanquished officers, passing each back to a seaman who stuffed them under his arm like so much firewood. One of the officers was speaking in broken English. The admiral, Don Francisco Winthuyen, was wounded below. It was considered that he would die, and he sent his compliments to the victors, together with his sword, to be surrendered with the rest. Cobb heard the words as if in a dream. He turned to see Jameson and Flint, squatting down on the deck. The younger man was bleeding from a wound in his left forearm, and Flint was tying his own shirt about it. Men of the 69th had assembled the Spanish crew next to the larboard rail and were standing guard while two corporals searched them. Bennet was nowhere to be seen, neither was Wright, but more men were coming across from the San Nicolas now, and the Prince George was athwart their bow, her guns still pointing at the vanquished ships, and her decks teeming with men eager to help secure the prizes. About them the battle continued. He had not seen Pandora for some while, and there would be a lot more fighting before the sun came down to put an end to the action. But this particular episode had drawn to a close, and the lad was not sorry.
