Jackass Frigate

by Alaric Bond

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  King heaved himself up from the deck where he had fallen. His head hurt; something had struck him just above the left temple: he felt dizzy and sick. He rested on all fours, waiting for the spinning to stop. There was a loud, pitchless buzzing in his head and his tongue felt dry and too large for his mouth. To one side there was movement; he turned suddenly, the sound increased, and he had to fight to control the wave of nausea that threatened to envelop him. He pushed himself further upright, and sat back on the deck. Apart from the buzzing, there was no sound. Pandora had ceased to fight; the broadside had all but accounted for her.

  “Are you sound, Thomas?” It was the captain, very much alive, and even smiling.

  “Aye, sir. Just a bit shaken.”

  Caulfield was next to him, extending a plump hand. King took it and felt himself being heaved upwards with unexpected strength.

  “Passed you by, it seems,” he said. “You were lucky. Can’t say the same for our friend Martin, though.”

  King followed his glance to where two marines were dealing with Martin’s body.

  “What of the ship, are we bad?” King mumbled. Caulfield’s face was white with shock, but other than that he seemed unhurt. He shook his head.

  “No, like most Don broadsides, all wind and roar. Took a nasty to the mainchains; Fraiser’s seeing to that now with the bosun. The foretopmast was hit in two places but holding for now, apart from that most of the top hamper’s rather a mash; carpenter’s due to make a report on the hull presently.”

  “How long was I out for?”

  Caulfield shrugged. “Couldn’t rightly say; a fair while. Seemed better to leave you to sleep as you were judged to be breathing. We’ve had to fall back, of course, but I reckons we can let the battle wagons sort it out from here on. We’ve done sufficient for a tiddler.”

  Sure enough the frigate had fallen off the wind, and now wallowed on the swell. What sails she had left were mostly holed or torn, and flapped impudently in the breeze. At a glance her damage did not seem bad, she might even be expected to take sail right away, although the fore topmast could withstand very little strain and, without the support of the chains, the main would be almost as unstable.

  “I see.” The wind was suddenly very cold, and for the first time since they were hit the sounds of the battle came to them. King rubbed his arms with his hands. A trickle of blood came down from his forehead, and when he reached up he found an open cut that was bleeding steadily. Having fallen back, Pandora was effectively left behind, the battle continuing ahead of them. They could see Victory along with other British ships as they continued the fight. Over the starboard bow a small huddle of ships were lying in silence. Two appeared to have struck while in the distance ahead and to larboard, the rest of the Spanish were stoically making for Cadiz.

  Britannia, with Thompson’s flag flying proudly, was the nearest British ship. Delayed by her late tack, she had all plain sail set, and was heading for the enemy with the obvious haste of a latecomer. As they watched a flurry of bunting broke out at her yard; presumably she was enquiring after Pandora, or the state of the battle. Dorsey rushed forward, but he had lost his signal book, along with most of the flags. Five men from the afterguard turned up and began clearing away the debris that still crowded the quarterdeck. Lewis appeared in a torn jacket and began to organise the waisters into working parties. A nine-pounder that had been blown free of its tackle was being secured by a group from the forecastle, while two men who had been knocked unconscious by falling tophamper were carried down to the cockpit. Below, the carpenter and his team had already started work on the three jagged holes that had pierced the hull just above the waterline and the sail maker was rousting out fresh canvas ready for the time when they could set sail once more.

  The petty officers did what they could to allocate the work, bearing in mind the relative urgency and each man’s individual skills, while the men pulled together in such a way that any shortfalls or omissions in one was more than made up by his fellows. A ragged cheer came from the British ships ahead, followed by several cracking broadsides; clearly the action was still raging, although the men in Pandora were fighting their own private battle. Whatever Caulfield might have said, no frigate faces the broadside of a first rate without sustaining serious damage, and it was with care, skill and not a little love that they nursed their ship back to life.

  King had done his best to ignore his wound and had been helping to remount one of the quarterdeck carronades. He turned to Fraiser who had returned from securing the main chains and now stood watching the battle with the air of a dispassionate spectator while one of Stuart’s loblolly boys who had been sent up for the purpose, strapped a bandage about his injured forearm. “Surely the Spaniard had struck?” he said, feeling not a little foolish as he did; so much had happened in such a short time that he was starting to doubt his sanity.

  “Aye, she’d struck all right, but then she took a change of heart.”

  King was puzzled. “No, but that’s wrong, she can’t do that.”

  Fraiser gave a sudden and bitter smile. “Some might say she could, and some might say she could’ne; fact is she did.” He winced suddenly as the bandage was pulled tight. “And as to the rights or wrongs of the matter, war’s a barbaric act however you look at it, and certainly not something to be governed by rules or honour.”

  They could both see the four-decker now, Victory, and a seventy-four were close to her, and from the look of the punishment they were handing out, she would be striking for the second time before very long. King supposed Fraiser was right, there was little point in looking for reason when men choose to kill one another as a means to an end.

  “Hey, laddie, you’re shivering.” Fraiser turned to him. “Reckon you’d better get below and let the doctor take you in hand.”

  King shook his head, the dizziness returned and he felt the world grow slightly hazy. The loblolly boy caught him as he was about to fall and, as if in a dream, he found himself being helped below by two unknown bodies. They left him lying on a patch of canvas roughly three feet away from where he usually berthed. After lying still for a moment he felt his strength return, and pulled himself up to lean against the spirketing. To one side, Dupont, the captain’s servant, was waiting patiently, one hand clapped about a wound on his left thigh; opposite there were several seaman and two marines who were also supporting minor wounds, while further on less distinct shapes lay prone and unconscious. To his right he could see the surgeon’s mate silhouetted against the swinging lamps as he worked. There was a sudden shout from his patient, instantly stifled by Soames, the purser, who appeared to be assisting. As he watched, Manning straightened himself up and said something to Soames as the patient was carried away. Their eyes met as he looked back to see the number waiting and Manning gave him a tired smile. Cleaning the worst from his hands on some tow, he walked away from the makeshift operating table and over to where King lay.

  “Done for you at last, have they, Thomas?” he asked.

  “Not yet, belike that job’s been left to you and Mr Stuart.”

  There was a flash in Manning’s eye, and he indicated behind him with a shake of his head. “The latter I would certainly not recommend.”

  King looked at the line of waiting wounded, and was horrified to see the surgeon amongst them. Apparently comatose, he lay in a foetal position, his arms gripping something tight to his belly.

  “I took him for a stomach wound,” King said, the surprise evident in his voice.

  “Brain more like. Our friend has allowed two bottles of spirit into a belly already filled with the dear knows how much laudanum.”

  “But that will kill him, surely?”

  Manning snorted. “In a normal person, doubtless. A lot will depend on what he’s made himself accustomed to,” he sighed. “But we live in hope.” King was struck by the strain that was evident on his face; it was a look that even the poor light could not hide. “At least most of the dange
rously wounded have been attended to, so there’s no real trouble.” As he talked he wiped his hands unconsciously on his apron. “A couple of hours will put this little lot back on their feet, and by then Stuart should either be sober or dead. Either way I wouldn’t expect him to hold his warrant for much longer.”

  “Does the captain know?”

  “Doubtless the captain has more important things on his mind at present, but I dare say he will get word.”

  King nodded, and the pain and dizziness returned. Manning noticed this and placed a restraining hand on his shoulder. “Hey, I won’t be tiring you.” He brought his hand up and felt about King’s scalp, exploring it with his fingers before standing back, and smiling once more. “It’s not a bad one, a bit of stitching should sort you. Take your place with the others; I’ll give you a proper eye afore long.”

  “I’m fine, just a bit shaken.”

  “There’s a few down here like that, but it’s best to be safe.” A loud crash from above told how the foretopmast had finally fallen. A rumble of feet, followed by several shouts followed. Manning raised his eyes. “’Sides, there’s no telling what’s going on up there. Best keep out of it.”

  *****

  By twenty-past four Jervis decided he had exposed his fleet for long enough and ordered all ships who were capable of it to come onto the starboard tack. Enemy reinforcements could be seen to the north, while eight ships of the Spanish lee division were now approaching from the south. Nine minutes later a second order to form line ahead in close order came, frustrating Saumarez in Orion who, along with Collingwood in Excellent and Frederick’s Blenheim had been battering the Spanish flagship Santissima Trinidad for the best part of half an hour. To them it seemed they were being called away just at the point of victory, yet Jervis was conscious that, however well the British fleet had fared, they still faced a force considerably larger than their own. Most of his ships were now weakened by several hours of action, action that had also severely depleted their store of powder and shot. To continue would be foolhardy; now was the time to close ranks and protect their prizes.

  As dusk fell Commodore Nelson finally quit the battered Captain, temporarily transferring his pendant back to the frigate Minerve, that brought him to meet with Jervis in Victory. Despite taking two prizes, one of which being a first rate, Nelson was very well aware that he could not expect to be in favour. At best he had acted on initiative; at worse, by wearing out of line, he had weakened the British force at a time when it was already separated. Worse, he had wantonly exposed his ship and men to devastating odds; it might easily be said that luck alone had kept both from being taken by the Spanish.

  They met on the quarterdeck, the commodore dressed in the torn jacket he had worn before boarding the San Nicolas. In turn, Jervis’ face was blackened by smoke, his uniform bore the record of a marine who had fallen next to him, and his red rimmed eyes betrayed the lie that an elderly admiral could stay awake for over forty hours, then fight a battle, without it affecting him. Nelson removed his hat in salute to his commander in chief, who promptly encased the younger man in his arms, hugging him as if he were a much loved son.

  “Tremendous work, Horace, tremendous.” The admiral’s tone was almost tender, and he used Nelson’s familiar name like a father. Hallowell joined them, adding his own congratulations, along with a bear hug that caused the commodore to wince and pull away.

  “Are you hurt, sir?”

  Nelson straightened up and shook his head, but his hand went down to his belly and he was clearly in pain. “A strain, no more, it will pass directly.”

  “What of Captain,” Jervis, once more the admiral, demanded. “Can she be made fit for port?”

  “Yes, oh yes, with care she will see England, although her people are fagged at present.”

  The admiral glanced about the darkening horizon. “Martin’s Irresistible is relatively unhurt; transfer to her directly, we will make for Tagus as soon as the last close up.”

  Never one who sought delay, Nelson made to go at once, pausing only to take the cold hand of Calder who wished him joy of his captures in a voice innocent of emotion. Jervis watched him leave, a fond, paternal smile upon his face. Calder turned to him.

  “The commodore holds luck close to his chest.” He gave one weak, condescending, smile. “Belike he should be more careful when exhibiting initiative in future. Certainly when that initiative is so contrary to fighting instructions.”

  Jervis eyed him with ill concealed contempt. “It certainly was so, and if you ever commit such a breach of orders, I will forgive you also.”

  *****

  As the following morning broke the Spanish fleet was still in sight. Hull up to the north-west, they lay in an untidy group. Several had lost masts, and one, the Santissima Trinidad, was little more than a hulk. King took over the forenoon watch at eight and stood looking back at them, fascinated by the sight of so powerful an enemy lying close by. His head was bare, the bandage Manning had used being too large to accommodate his hat, and he wore a heavy watch coat that almost covered the fact he was otherwise dressed in purser’s slops. The ship was still cleared for action, and he could see little chance of reaching his chest for fresh clothes until they raised Portugal. As the watch ran on Lewis came to join him; he too was dressed very much as a scarecrow, the effect being heightened by his face, which was dark with grime. All on board had spent the night securing the ship; as a result she now appeared in remarkably good order, with a brand new spar to take the place of the foretopmast. The fleet was still at their night stations, with Pandora lying two cables off Victory, once more ready to relay any signals. Ahead their four prizes; prime Spanish ships, one a first rate, were being taken under tow. The fire that had threatened to claim the San Nicolas had been successfully dealt with, although there would still be much to do before any of them were able to sail unassisted. From where he stood King could see the lines of British infantry, men of the 69th who had stood in place of marines so handsomely, as they organised the prisoners. He remembered, only too well, the scene on board the Aiguille, and was not sorry to be watching from afar.

  At five bells a commotion from the waist caught his attention. The men were peering over at something in the water close by. King followed their gaze, and saw a ship’s cutter drawing in her sails as she came alongside. Dorsey hailed the boat, then stood back; both watches were on deck and a mixture of cheers and catcalls erupted from them as the cutter’s crew began to disembark. Flint was first, followed by Jameson, who had a bandaged arm. Then Crowley. Their eyes met and the Irishman gave King a grin and an offhand salute as he clambered up the side. Bennet came next, the cause of the trouble in the first place. Hoots of mock derision greeted him, along with a half-eaten orange that someone had thrown for good measure. Then Wright, who looked tired, and smiled weakly at his reception. Cobb was the last; the lad also appeared weary and almost shy as he boarded Pandora. His reception was different, no one was quite sure of his status and what had been a roar was suddenly muted, before dying away to nothing at all. The lad stood upright on the gangway looking down uncertainly at the people. He appeared to be about to say something, when Wright turned back, reached for the lad’s arm, and held it aloft. The men from the boat cheered and clapped, followed, after the shortest of pauses, by the entire ship’s company. Lewis turned to smile at King as the chaos finally died away and the ship returned to normality.

  “Appears the lad done well,” he said. “Captain’ll make him back to midshipman, sure as a gun.”

  King nodded. He held no personal animosity for the boy; a prank was a prank after all. To take Pigot’s clothes and play the fool was really quite enterprising; it was only his timing that hadn’t been quite up to the mark.

  The diversion over, all eyes went back to the Spanish fleet.

  “Think they’ll give us trouble?” Lewis asked.

  King sighed. “Who can tell with the Dons? We have one of their admirals, though doubtless there will be others to take his
place.”

  “He died in the night.”

  “In truth? I had heard him wounded.”

  “Maybe they’re after revenge, an’ and maybe they aren’t. The next few hours will tell.”

  *****

  The bell rang six times, it was eleven o’clock, an hour before the end of the forenoon watch, an hour until up spirits and dinner, though little could be expected of the latter with the ship cleared for action and no meat in the steep tubs. The sentries called out their statutory “all’s well” and when the last cry had died away, the masthead lookout reported a change in the Spanish fleet.

  “Enemy appears to be forming line of battle.”

  At the words the tired men looked to one another. To fight again, to repeat all that had gone on the day before, seemed totally impossible, and yet as the lookout reported the Spanish ships advancing, every man automatically took up his action station without comment.

  “Victory’s signalling, sir,” Dorsey’s voice rang out just as Banks appeared on deck. “Close about flag and form line of battle.”

  Banks nodded, and watched as the hoist was repeated to the fleet. They had fought well, and given the Spanish a terrible drubbing, but the British were in poor shape for a second bout. Slowly they took up their positions in the line, some under jury rigs, and more than a few sending clean jets of water from the dales as their people desperately fought against the shot holes that were threatening to take their ship from under them. The Spanish had certainly received reinforcements yesterday evening. More may well have joined them in the night; fresh ships, manned with men eager to avenge the day before; the more he thought about it the more an uncomfortable feeling inside told him that the battle would finally be seen as a British defeat.