Book 2 - Post Captain

by Patrick O'Brian

  'Sick, sir, all sick. Kalim is nearly dead—can't speak.'

  'Tell the gunner we must have shot and a cheese of wads. Cut along. Now, sir?' to another midshipman.

  'Captain asks what did you fire for, sir,' panted the young man.

  'To open the port,' said Jack, smiling into his round-eyed, anxious face. 'Tell him, with my compliments, there is nothing like enough eighteen-pound shot on deck. Cut along now.' The boy shut his mouth on the rest of his message and vanished.

  Number seven was in good shape: seven men to its crew, powder-boy standing over to starboard with a cartridge in his hands, gun levelled, tackle-falls neatly faked down; all ship-shape. Its captain, a grizzled European, only replied with a nervous chuckle, keeping his head bent away, feigning to look along the sights. A run seaman, no doubt, a man who had served with him in some commission, who had deserted, and who was afraid of being recognized. Once a quarter-gunner, to judge from the trimness of the gear. 'I hope he can point his piece as well as he . . .'

  Jack straightened from his inspection of the flint and pan and glanced right and left. The hammocks were coming up in relays, piling into the netting. Half a dozen very sick men flogged on deck by the serang's mates, were creeping about with shot, and he was standing behind them, obviously in full control; there was still some confusion on the quarterdeck, but the air of frantic haste had gone. This was a breathing-space, and lucky they were to have it. Fore and aft the Indiaman looked like a fighting-ship: thinly manned, decks still encumbered, but a fighting-ship. He looked out over the sea: light enough to see the red of the tricolour five hundred yards away—a severe cold light now the rain had stopped, and a grey, grey sea. Wind steady in the west; high cloud except on the horizon; a long even swell. The Bellone still had her larboard tacks aboard: she was hanging off to see what weight of metal the Lord Nelson carried. And the Lord Nelson was still before the wind, moving heavily—this was one of her many bad points of sailing. If Captain Spottiswood continued to run it was likely that the Frenchman would bear up, and moving two miles for the Lord Nelson's one, cross under her stern and rake her. That was his business: for the moment Jack's world was confined to his guns: there was a comfort in subordination, in small responsibility, no decisions . . . Seven, five and three were well enough: number one was still too cluttered for a full team to work it fast, and a full team it must have. A last sharp look at the privateer—how beautifully she breasted the swell—and he dived under the forecastle.

  Hard, fast, dogged, mechanical work, shifting heavy lumps, bales, casks: he found that what he was whistling under his breath was the adagio from Hummel's piece—Sophia's inept playing of it—Diana's rough splendid dash—a jet of intense feeling for Sophia—loving, protective—a clear image of her on the steps of that house. Some fool, Stephen of all people, had said you could not be both busy and unhappy, sad.

  The Bellone's opening gun cut short these reflections. Her starboard bow eight-pounder sent a ball skipping along the Lord Nelson's larboard side; and as though he had needed this to set him going, Captain Spottiswood called out his orders. The yards braced round, the seascape turned, and the privateer came into view through the number one gun-port, framed there, bright against the darkness of the low crowded forecastle. The Lord Nelson fell off a little, steadied on her new course with the Bellone on her larboard quarter, so that now Jack saw no more than her head-sails, four hundred yards away, long musket-shot. And as the Indiaman steadied, so her after guns went off, a six-fold crash, a thin high-pitched cheering, and the word came forward. 'Fire as they bear.'

  'This is more like it,' said Jack, plunging out of the forecastle. The long pause before action was always hard to bear, but now in a few seconds everything would vanish but for the living instant—no sadness, no time for fear. Number seven was in good hands, trained right round aft as far as the port would allow, and its captain glaring along the barrel, poised for the roll. The waist guns went off together, and in their eddying smoke—it filled his lungs, a choking exaltation—Jack and Major Hill flung themselves upon the long crows to heave number five, that dull inanimate weight, while the Lascars tailed on to the forward train-tackle to help traverse it to point it at the Bellone's stern, just in view over the dispart-sight. Number seven went off with a poor slow explosion and a great deal of smoke. 'If the powder is all like that,' thought Jack, crouching over number five, his handspike ready to elevate the gun, 'we might as well try boarding right away. But,' he added, 'it is more likely the mumping villain has never drawn it this last week and more.' He waited for the smoke to clear, for the roll of the ship to bring the gun to bear, slowly up and up, and just as he heaved on the laniard he saw the Bellone vanish in the white cloud of her own broadside. The gun sprang from under his arched body. He could not see the fall of the shot for the smoke, but from the fine round crash it must have been well pitched up. The privateer's broadside sang and howled overhead—holes in the foretopsail, a bowline hanging loose. The bow-gun overhead went off, and he darted into the forecastle, leaping over the train-tackle as number five was sponged and reloaded. He laid three and one, fired them, and ran back along the line to help run out number five again.

  The firing was general now: the Lord Nelson's thirteen larboard guns spoke in ones or twos every half minute or so; the Bellone's seventeen, having fired three steady broadsides in five minutes—a splendid rate even for a man-of-war—had now become irregular, an uninterrupted roll of fire. Her leeward side was veiled in a cloud of smoke that drifted across the intervening sea to join the smoke shot out against the wind by the Indiaman's guns, and through it all there was the stab-stab of orange flame. Only twice could Jack be sure of the flight of his division's shot, once when a flaw in the wind, tearing the curtain aside, showed number seven strike her amidships, just above the main-chains, and again when he saw his own hull her in the bows: her sails were not as pretty as they had been, either, but she had nevertheless closed the distance and she was now on the Lord Nelson's beam, hammering her hard. Would she forge ahead and cross?

  There was little time for thought as Jack raced from gun to gun, bearing a hand, running out, swabbing and loading, but it was clear that the Bellone had no heavier guns than eight-pounders, that she meant to tear the Indiaman's sails, rigging and spars to pieces rather than to damage her valuable hull and cargo. There was little doubt that she did not relish the eighteen-pound shot that hit her—three or four between wind and water would be very serious, and a single ball might carry away a straining topmast. If they did not hit her hard soon, she would close—abandon her elegant tactics and close. She was an awkward customer, with her formidable gunnery and her repeated attempts at crossing the Lord Nelson's bows; she would be more awkward still at close quarters. 'Deal with that when we come to it,' he thought, tallying on to a rope.

  An enormous ringing crash inside his head and filling the outside world. He was down. Blindly struggling away from number five's recoil, he tried to make out whether he was badly wounded or not—impossible to tell at once. He was not. Number seven had exploded, killing three of its servers, blowing its captain's head to pieces—it was his jaw that had gouged the wound across Jack's forearm—and scattering bits of iron in all directions, wounding men as far away as the mainmast—a splinter of iron had grazed his head, knocking him down. The face he was staring at so stupidly was Pullings's, repeating the words, 'You must go below, sir. Below. Let me give you a hand below.'

  He came fully to life and cried, 'Secure that gun,' in a voice that he could hear as if from another throat. By the grace of God what was left of the barrel and the carriage had not burst free from the ring-bolts; they made it fast, slid the bodies overboard, and hurried what was left of its gear over to number five.

  Three more rounds, three more of those hammer-blow explosions right by his ear, and the bursting gun, the dead men, his own wound, all merged into the one din and the furious activity of battle.

  The smoke was thicker, the Bellone's flashes closer, far clo
ser. She was edging down fast. Faster and faster they worked their guns: with the rest of number seven's crew and two men sent up from a dismounted six-pounder on the quarterdeck they plied them without a second's pause. The metal was hot, so hot the guns kicked clear of the deck, flying back with a terrible note on the breeching. Then the Bellone's guns fired a round of grape, followed by a furious discharge of musketry. The smoke swept away and there she was, right upon them, backing her main topsail to check her way and come alongside. Small-arms cracking in her tops to clear the Lord Nelson's decks, men on her yard-arms to lash her spars to theirs, grappling-irons ready in the waist and bows, a dense swarm on her forecastle and in her foreshrouds.

  'All hands to repel boarders,' from the quarterdeck, the grinding crash as they touched, the Frenchmen's cheer and here they were cutlasses slashing the boarding-netting, pole-axes, the flash of swords. He snapped one pistol at a determined face coming through the wrecked number seven port, snatched up the great heavy crow, and with an extraordinary feeling of strength and invulnerability—complete certainty—he flung himself at the men in the netting who were trying to come over the bows—the main attack was in the bows. He stood there with one foot on the broken rail, holding the massive crow in the middle, banging, thrusting, beating them down. All around him the shrieking Lascars fought with their pikes, axes, pistols. A rush of Company's men from the waist and the quarterdeck cleared the gangway, where a dozen privateers had come aboard, and carried on to the forecastle, charging with pikes.

  The Indiaman's deck was higher by a good spring than the Bellone's; she had a pronounced tumblehome—her sides sloped inwards—which left an awkward space. But the Frenchmen clung there obstinately, hitting back, striving most desperately, crowding to come aboard. Flung back, yet coming again and again, fresh men by the score and score, until a heave of the sea separated the ships, and a whole group clinging to the forechains fell between them, blasted by Mr Johnstone's blunderbuss fired straight into the mass. The serang ran out on to the yard-arm and cut the lashing, the grappling-irons scraped harmlessly over the rail, and the quarterdeck guns fired three rounds of grape, wounding the French captain, unshipping the Bellone's wheel, and cutting her spanker halliards. She shot up into the wind, and if only the Lord Nelson had had enough men both to repel boarders and fight her guns, she could now have raked the Bellone at ten yards' range; but not a round could she fire—her head dropped off, and the two ships drifted silently apart.

  Jack carried a boy down to the cockpit—both arms slashed to the bone as he flung them up to guard his face—and Stephen said, 'Keep your thumb pressed here till I can come to him. How do we stand?'

  'We beat 'em off. Her boats are picking up her men. Two or three hundred she has. We'll be at it again directly. Hurry, Stephen, I cannot wait. We must knot and splice. How many have you here?'

  'Thirty or forty,' said Stephen, fastening the tourniquet. 'Boy, you will do very well: lie quiet. Jack, show me your arm, your head.'

  'Another time. A couple of lucky shots and we disabled him.'

  A lucky shot. How he prayed for it—every time he laid his gun he prayed for it. 'The name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.' But in the failing wind the smoke lay thick and heavy all round the Bellone—he could see nothing, and he had only two guns firing now. Number one's breeching had gone at the first discharge, wounding two Lascars and a midshipman, and the gun was lying on its side, precariously wedged behind a cask. His crews had thinned—the whole deck had thinned—and the Lord Nelson's fire had slackened to a gun a minute, while the Bellone kept up a steady thunder fifty yards to windward. The deck, when he had time to look aft, showed no more than a sparse line of men—no crowded knots at every gun. Some had been wounded, others had run below—the hatches had not been laid—and those that were left were drawn, ashy, weak, their forces drained: they fought without conviction. For a long moment Hill had vanished, but he was back now, laying number three. Jack rammed down the wad, felt behind him for the shot. No shot. That damned powder-boy had run. 'Shot! Shot!' he cried, and there was the boy, waddling from the mainhatch with two heavy balls clasped in his arms—a new boy, absurdly dressed in shore-going rig, new trousers, blue jacket, pigtail in a ribbon. A fat boy. 'Take them from for'ard, you poxed son of a whore,' said Jack into his mute, appalled face, snatching one and thrusting it down the barrel. 'From for'ard, from number one. There's a dozen there. At the double, at the double!' The second wad, rammed hard into the scorching gun. 'Run her up! Run her up!'

  Painfully, straining, they forced the great weight up against the roll: one little blue Lascar was vomiting as he heaved. The Bellone's broadside bawled out, all in one; grape and chain, from the shrill scream overhead as they lay to the tackles. He fired, saw Hill snatch the boy from the recoil, and instantly ran forward through the smoke to number three. That damned boy was underfoot. He picked him up, said kindly, 'Stand clear of the guns. You're a good boy—a plucked 'un. Just bring one at a time,' pointing to the forecastle, 'but look alive. Then cartridge. Bear a hand. We must have cartridge.'

  The cartridge never came. Jack fired number five, caught a glimpse of topsails towering overhead, saw the Bellone's foreyards glide into the Lord Nelson's shrouds, and heard an enormous cheering, roaring of boarders behind him, behind him. The privateer's boats had slipped round unseen in the smoke and there were a hundred Frenchmen coming up the unprotected starboard side.

  They filled the Lord Nelson's waist, cutting the quarterdeck off from the forecastle, and the press of men coming in over the bows through the chain-torn netting was so great they could not fight. Faces, chests, arms, so close to him he could not get his long bar free, a little devilish man clinging round his waist. Down, trampled upon, a passing kick. Up and facing them, hitting short-arm blows—a stab. The crowding force, the weight of men. Back, back, step by step, tripping on bodies, back, back. And then a falling void, an impact faintly, faintly heard, as though from another age.

  The swinging lantern. He watched it: perhaps for hours. And gradually the world began to fall into place, memory coming back layer by layer, to reach the present. Or nearly so. He could not recall the sequence after the busting of poor Haynes's gun. Haynes, of course: that was his name. A forecastle-man, larboard watch, in the Resolution, rated quarter-gunner when they were off the Cape. The rest was darkness: this often happened with a wound. Was he wounded? He was certainly in the cockpit, and that was Stephen moving about among the low, crowded, moaning bodies. 'Stephen,' he said, after a while.

  'How then, my dear?' said Stephen. 'How do you find yourself? How are your intellectuals?'

  'Pretty well, I thank you. I seem all of a piece.'

  'I dare say you are. Limbs and trunk are sound. Coma was all I feared these last few days. You fell down the forehatch. You may take an Almoravian draught, however. The dogs, they did not find half my Almoravian draught.'

  'We were taken?'

  'Aye, aye, we were taken. We lost thirty-six killed and wounded; and they took us. They plundered us cruelly—stripped to the bone—and for the first few days they kept us under hatches. Here is your draught. However, I extracted a ball from Captain Dumanoir's shoulder and looked after their wounded, and now we are indulged with taking the air on deck. Their second captain, Azéma, is an amiable man, a former King's officer, and he has prevented any gross excess, apart from the plundering.'

  'Privateers,' said Jack, trying to shrug. 'But what about those girls? What about the Miss Lambs?'

  'They are dressed as men—as boys. I am not sure that they are altogether pleased with the success of their deception.'

  'A fair-sized prize-crew?' asked Jack, whose mind had flown to the possibility of retaking the Indiaman.

  'Huge,' said Stephen. 'Forty-one. The Company's officers have given their parole; some of the Lascars have taken service for double wages; and the rest are down with this Spanish influenza. They are carrying us into Corunna.'

  'Don't they wish they may get us there,' said J
ack. 'The chops of the Channel and to westward are alive with cruisers.'

  He spoke confidently; he knew that there was truth in what he said; but limping about the quarterdeck on Tuesday, when Stephen allowed him up, he surveyed the ocean with a feeling of despair. A vast great emptiness, with nothing but the trim Bellone a little to windward: not a sail, not the smallest lugger on the world's far rim, nor, after hours of unbroken watching, the least reason why any should appear. Emptiness; and somewhere under the leeward horizon, the Spanish port. He remembered coming from the West Indies in the Alert, sailing along the busiest sea-route in the whole Atlantic, and they had not seen a living soul until they were in soundings off the Lizard.