Flashman and the Emperor

by Robert Brightwell

  I had been a young man when I saw that ship blow up – in fact, there were two of them, the largest ships afloat at the time. Now I was older and, I thought, a little wiser. No braver, perhaps, but I think a little better at assessing a situation. Leaving the Portuguese in charge of the magazine was likely to spell disaster one way or another. On top of that I was not convinced that the Portuguese would blow themselves up when the time came. Men who really want to kill themselves just get on with it. Those that talk about it are generally having second thoughts. I had contemplated killing myself on several occasions to avoid long drawn-out agonies, but it takes an awful courage to commit suicide, not something that I possess. Lastly, I realised that I had the perfect means of taking back the magazine.

  I turned back to the marines on the steps behind me. “Listen,” I whispered. “You are going to get the chance to break some Portuguese heads, but you must only use your wooden weapons. If there are any sparks in the magazine, the ship will blow up.”

  “Why should we do it?” asked a sullen voice from the crowd above me.

  “Because it’s your damned job,” I hissed in exasperation. Then, having taken a deep breath, I continued. “You are the only ones who have trained with wooden weapons and if you do not do it, then they will probably blow up the ship anyway. If you want to live, we need to take that magazine.”

  “I will do it,” a deep voice growled and a man pushed his way through the throng. It was the tall marine who had resented not having proper weapons, but in his hand he now hefted one of the wooden swords.

  “See, I told you that would come in useful,” I grinned at him. More men were coming down the steps, but I stopped them when we had six. “Three on each side,” I ordered. Get close to the magazine door. Wait until I draw one of them out and then move fast. There are powder boys in there as well, so don’t hit them by mistake.”

  The big marine led two others to the far side of the space and quietly they moved forward from one of the big ribs of the ship to the next, until they were crouched by the curtained opening. I waited until the other three were also in place on the other side then I bent down so that one of the big ship’s timbers was between me and the magazine.

  “You in the magazine,” I yelled. “We are willing to talk terms. What do you want?”

  The curtain did not move but a voice called out, “No more powder is going to be used against His Majesty’s ships.”

  “Agreed,” I replied. “We are already sailing away from their fleet and if you let the boys go, the admiral will put you and anyone else who wants to leave in a cutter to join them.”

  “You are lying!” the man shouted but still he did not move the curtain.

  “I’m telling the truth and I also have this for you.” Curiosity is a terrible thing and as I watched I saw the side of the curtain move as the man behind it peered out.

  “What is—” the man started before a big black hand grabbed him by the throat and pitched him out into the passageway. Three or four men were now pushing their way into the magazine, but I did not see any more as I pressed myself tightly against the wooden rib of the ship and briefly wondered if I had breathed my last. At least death would be quick in a searing explosion. But instead of oblivion, I heard the crack of wood on bone and screams and yells from inside the magazine.

  “We have them,” called out the big marine. Now it was safe, I was up and quickly pushing my way past the curtain. Grenfell appeared in the opposite doorway at almost the same moment and between us we stared at a scene of danger and destruction. When I saw how much loose powder was lying about I was appalled. It was more than ankle deep in some places and a miracle that some loose spark from the discharged pistol had not set it off. The Portuguese had been busy, slashing with knives most of the pre-weighed sacks of powder that made up the charges for the cannon. The powder boys sat down one side, some half buried, staring wide-eyed at the marines as they roughly manhandled the remaining Portuguese sailor from the room.

  Grenfell was the first to react. “Right,” he ordered, pointing at the boys. “Get as many intact charges as you can in your canisters and up to the guns. Don’t take any charges loose –I don’t want you leaving a trail of powder through the ship that leads back here.” Several of the boys blanched at the thought, but they sprang up and were soon rummaging for sacks that were not split or pushing bags that had not spilled much powder inside their wooden tubes. Grenfell turned to me. “God, what a mess. Smart work with your marines, though.”

  “We are not out of the woods yet,” I replied. “I had better get back up on deck to let the admiral know what’s happening. Keep an eye on those gunners,” I told him. “Far too many of the bastards seem to be deliberately missing.” With that I pushed out past the curtain, just behind the first powder boy, who was running to the ladder with six canisters in his arms. My marines were all standing around the two prone Portuguese sailors. One was unconscious but the other was groaning loudly and clutching a broken arm. “Well done, lads,” I told them. “Bring those treacherous swine up on deck, will you?” And with that I ran for the ladder myself.

  By the time I reached the first gun deck, the boy in front of me had seen his powder canisters snatched away by eager gunners and was heading back down to the magazine for more. I pushed past him and continued up. Men on the next deck shouted at me, asking what was happening, but I just told them that powder would be coming shortly and ran for the next ladder. As I did so I heard the thump of a cannonball slamming into the side of the ship. Men ducked and shouted in alarm, but it had not punched through the ship’s thick timbers. Surely, I wondered, the flagship had not reached us already. As I emerged into the sunlight I stared about me to get my bearings. On one side was the transport we had battered before; it still had two masts and was using all sail to pull away to the south-east. Beyond her I saw the Portuguese flagship, just five hundred yards off now and still pulling strongly towards us, ready to cross our stern. Whirling around, on the other side of the ship I saw the small corvette. When I had last seen her, she had been trying to pull away. However, she must have realised that we could not fire and had recklessly come alongside to pound us with her small six-pounder guns. As I watched, her brave captain realised his error, for one of the big thirty-six-pounders on our lower deck was finally reloaded and boomed out. It smashed a hole in the side of the corvette and from the storm of splinters it created, I suspect that the ball must have passed straight through and out of the other side of the vessel. All this I took in during that first second or two on deck as I whirled about to see what was happening. Then I heard Cochrane calling my name from the quarterdeck.

  “It’s all right, sir,” I shouted, conscious of the dozens of people watching me curiously as they stood about their impotent guns. “More powder will be on its way from the magazine directly.”

  “Thank God for that,” cried Cochrane as I ran up the ladder towards him. He was giving orders to brace the sails to catch more wind as I reached him and he slapped me on the back. “I knew I could rely on you, Flash. That flagship will be up with us in a minute and I want this corvette between us by then.” He pointed to a Portuguese frigate that had been the last ship in the Portuguese line and which had now broken formation and was on a course to block our escape. “That is the terrier we need to watch. If it slows us down it will give their flagship time to close up. But now we have our guns back, we should be able to see them off, eh?”

  I pulled him to one side, out of the hearing of the other seamen and officers on the quarterdeck. “You only have a few charges for your guns,” I whispered to him. “Fifty or sixty charges at most.”

  “What’s that?” he asked, confused.

  “Portuguese sailors have slashed nearly all of the cartridge sacks. The magazine is like a floating bomb, full of loose powder.” I grabbed at his arm and looked him in the eye. “We need to get out of here now.”

  I will say one thing about Cochrane, he did not waste time asking pointless questions. With
a quick glance around to check on the position of ships, he was giving orders. “Crosbie, make all sail and set course to the south-west.”

  The flag captain started yelling commands and the ship heeled round slightly as we caught more of the easterly wind in our sails. A cannon boomed out from our port side, to send another ball into the transport ship, but Cochrane gave the order to cease fire. “We might need all the charges we have later,” he muttered to me.

  As I turned back to stare at it the first guns from the Portuguese flagship opened fire. But only half a dozen of the cannon in the upper tier fired and there was a strange whirring and whistling sound overhead. “What the deuce was that noise?” I asked. It had sent a shudder through me as it was similar to something I had heard at Waterloo: the sound of canister shot coming straight towards me.

  “Chain shot,” announced Cochrane. On seeing my puzzled expression, he added, “Lumps of metal joined by chain. They are trying to cut our rigging and slow us down.”

  I stared aloft but to my land-lubber’s eye everything seemed intact. In a moment, the corvette would be between us and the flagship, but the latter was already changing course to come after us. Once she was past the corvette, there would be nothing to stop her raking our stern with a full broadside. We were bound to lose masts and rigging then, which would slow us. Then the rest of the enemy fleet would close in on the Emperor like hounds on a wounded stag. If we turned to fire back, then it would hinder our escape and we would only have enough charges to fire once. We just had to try to get away as fast as we could.

  The first lad with powder was now emerging from the hatch on the upper deck. The gunners ran forward, like burly drunkards after the tavern pot boy. They snatched the cartridge boxes from the boy’s hands and sent him down for more. I watched the nearest gunner pull open the wooden box and swear loudly when he saw the contents. The sack inside had been slashed. The crew raised the end of the barrel as far as they could, to tip the powder inside. At least a cupful must have fallen on the deck in the process, with more on the gunners’ hands and clothes. I guessed that there must be similar spillages all over the ship. I shuddered at the thought of being overtaken by the Portuguese vessels. Their balls would smash their way down the length of the Emperor, knocking over lanterns and starting fires. With all that loose powder, the flames were bound to take hold. It would be hell below decks.

  I doubted that many of the crew would be any more enthusiastic about fighting the fire than they would be about fighting the enemy; especially with Portuguese ships on hand to rescue them. Many would jump overboard while the fires would creep inexorably lower in the ship, until at last they found the magazine. I glanced once more behind me. It would only be another minute or so before the Portuguese flagship was past the corvette. Then it would have a clear field of fire towards us, and at that range they would struggle to miss.

  Cochrane followed my gaze and grimaced. “We will have to take our punishment from the flagship in a minute. I dare not slow to turn our guns to her now; we will have to hope her gunnery is poor, or at least not sufficient to slow us down enough to overhaul us.” He gestured to the Portuguese frigate he had pointed out earlier. It was still a good distance away but angling to cut across our course. “That is the real danger. It can outrun us and sail closer into the wind.”

  “One ship against an entire fleet, only charges for a single broadside and enough loose powder scattered about to choke an elephant,” I muttered with mounting horror. “Do you think we stand any chance at all?”

  “Come, Flashman,” said Cochrane, grinning. “We have beaten worse odds before.” He watched as the first gun crew to reload hauled on the ropes to run out their gun ready to fire and he stepped up to the rail to call down to the deck. “Get your guns loaded but hold your fire. I want a full broadside if we need it to see off that frigate.” He pointed to the vessel but then his eye was taken by something else. “I say, Flashman, look there.”

  I followed where he was pointing and at first I thought it was yet another Portuguese ship emerging from the mêlée of vessels around us. It was another corvette, a sleek, low vessel racing towards us over the ocean, moving as easily as a greased barracuda and with every sail set. It seemed familiar and then I saw the green and yellow flag at its peak. “It’s the Maria da Glória,” I exclaimed. “But how has it got there?” I stepped up on the bulwark and held on to the ratlines as I stared out past the nearer ships for sight of the rest of the Brazilian fleet, but they were all at least a mile downwind.

  “Look at her go,” enthused Cochrane. “She’s the fastest ship we have and Captain Beaurepaire is a fine fellow. He must have been watching and seen we needed help.”

  “But will his men fight?” I asked. “They wouldn’t earlier.”

  “The French ones he has will; the rest can go to the Devil,” Cochrane grinned, “With luck we will catch that frigate between us.”

  But we were not the only ones to have noticed the speedy approach of the Maria da Glória. “The Portuguese flagship is changing course again!” Crosbie called out. We turned and stared in astonishment. The big vessel was indeed turning once more, this time away from us and towards the western end of the line of Portuguese ships. “Why on earth are they doing that when they could attack us?” asked Crosbie, puzzled.

  There were furrowed brows all round for a moment and then Cochrane gave a cry of delight. “They think Beaurepaire is leading an attack from the rest of our fleet. The flagship is protecting the flank of their column from our other ships. They must be expecting them to follow the Maria da Glória. It has not occurred to them that our vessels simply ran away from battle.” He gave a roar of laughter. “They must think I have some cunning strategy to trap and destroy the last ships in their line. Well, that was my original plan.”

  “They can’t be,” I exclaimed. “They have thirteen bloody ships!” I thought Cochrane’s natural optimism was deceiving him. I could not believe that the enemy admiral was throwing away such an advantage. God knows if you have read my earlier memoirs, you will have seen that enemy generals and admirals are not normally in the habit of running away when they have me against the ropes. I could not conceive that I was that fortunate this time either. So to the astonishment of the others on deck, I ran again to the ratlines at the side of the ship, but this time I started to climb up the rope ladders towards the mizzen top. This was a large wooden platform a third of the way up the mast, which I thought would give me a better view of what was happening. I pushed my way through the ‘lubber’s hole’ in the platform and grabbed a rope for support. As I stood up I fully expected to see some new stratagem revealed that would result in our downfall, but instead I stared in disbelief.

  Now that I was higher up I could look over the hulls of ships and see more clearly the movement of the Portuguese vessels. The front half of the enemy column had followed the flagship in reversing their original course. Now as I watched, their entire fleet appeared to be sailing around in a slightly flattened circle. I was reminded of the merchant wagon trains I had seen in India, who used to circle their carts for defence when Pindari bandits were on the prowl. The flagship was positioning itself between the circle and the remaining distant ships of the Brazilian fleet. It was as though it was daring them to attack, when attacking was the very last thing on their minds.

  I shook my head in bewilderment. Patently, Cochrane’s reputation for cunning and trickery in battle had intimidated his opponent. Perhaps the Portuguese admiral thought that our sporadic firing of guns was a trick to lure him in. But quite how we were to spring a trap from ships a mile downwind was beyond me.

  However, not every enemy commander was in awe of Cochrane, as I discovered a moment later. There was that terrible whistling noise again. I had barely registered it before the rope I was holding went slack and the ‘top’ under my feet lurched to one side.

  One moment I was standing relatively secure on a stable platform, and the next I was pitched into the air. Everything seemed to hap
pen at once. I remember clutching on to the rope with both hands. Even though it was loose, it was the only part of the ship I could reach. I vaguely recall the sound of the guns from the Portuguese frigate and people shouting. Then I was upside down and falling. I distinctly remember looking down at the deck speeding up at me and catching the eye of some astonished sailor watching me plummet towards him. Then the rope suddenly went taught, nearly jerking my arms out of their sockets. I felt my hands burn as it started to slip through my fingers. I must have closed my eyes in the exertion of holding on, for when I opened them I found I was swinging towards the edge of the ratline ladder I had climbed before. With a whimper of terror, I reached out and managed to grab it with one hand and then I hooked a leg in the rungs. For a second or two I hung suspended from the underside of the ladder, feeling the relief start to wash over me.

  I think fear must give a person more strength, for then I reached around the edge of the ladder with my spare arm and, by hooking a leg around as well, managed to haul myself around the edge so that I was on top of the ladder, as I had been when I had climbed it. That was as far as I was going then. I could feel my limbs trembling with fear or exertion or possibly both. I did not trust them to climb down. I just hooked my arms through the rungs of the ladder and held on with the grim determination of a lustful limpet. It was only then that I took any more notice of my surroundings.

  Cochrane was yelling at me to hold on – as though I would do anything else! Then I looked through the rigging at the frigate whose guns had nearly done for me. Its gun ports were empty as the cannon were inboard being reloaded. Just behind the Portuguese ship the Maria da Glória was still coming in fast. She was approaching the frigate’s starboard quarter, the area between the arc of fire from the starboard broadside and stern chaser guns. The enemy captain seemed to be ignoring this new arrival. Perhaps he thought the vessel would be lightly armed like the Portuguese corvettes we had seen. If so, he was in for a shock. For the Maria da Glória carried thirty-two-pounder carronades. These brutal ship-killing weapons were only effective at short range, but the Maria da Glória had managed to get in very close to her prey. As I watched, Captain Beaurepaire threw his helm hard over to bring his guns to bear. Four of them fired with a deep throaty roar. The impacts were on the far side of the frigate to me, but I distinctly saw the sails on the main mast shudder and shake as something must have struck it. Then there was another roar of cannon fire as the Emperor finally let fly with the guns it had loaded. I was still high enough to see over the gun smoke and this time there were no wide misses. Some balls splashed into the sea just before the frigate and judging by the holes punched in her sails, a few must have gone over the top, but more than enough struck home. There was the sound of splintering timber then, to our delight, her main mast began to topple slowly over. I saw two men jump from its rigging into the sea, but they would survive as a moment later the entire mast and sails joined them, acting like a huge sea anchor to drag the vessel around to a stop.