‘To the foremast quickly, Vizzard. It is where we are most needed now.’
Saunders ran forward, pushing past sailors, jumping over the remains of one of his corporals and shouting for his men to follow. With a shout he had two dozen of his detachment lined up on fo’c’sle, in two ranks. Sergeant Packer followed with a dozen marines and Vizzard who ordered them aloft.
‘The fore-top, Joe, quick as you can and direct fire onto those devils massing over there.’ With practiced speed he again loaded his weapon and noted a large, bearded Frenchman on the larboard bulwark of Venguer, shouting abuse at the British officers. Taking aim Jack was unbalanced as a wave rolled beneath the two ships and his shot went wide. ‘Blood and thunder,’ he yelled, reaching for another cartridge and ball. As he did so a mass of Frenchmen reached the Vengeur’s larboard cathead intent on boarding the Brunswick.
‘With me, marines,’ he yelled, throwing aside the musket and reaching for his sword and ran towards them. Three Frenchmen, with more courage than their shipmates, made the short jump onto the Brunswick’s starboard bulwark and Jack bellowed as his sword scythed across their faces, catching one and opening the man’s left cheek with a vivid scarlet line from ear to chin. He was aware of a sea of fearsome faces behind the leaders and the sound of volley fire in his ears.
Smoke from a musket filled his vision making him choke and he dropped to one knee, as a pike reached for his chest. With his left arm he parried it, thrusting upward with the sword and finding it strike bone. A French sailor collapsed in front of him, more blood pouring onto the deck.
Rising to his feet he turned and saw with alarm Captain Saunders on his knees, head slumped forward, a trickle of blood staining his shirt and coat.
‘Ensign Vernon! Where are you?’ he shouted through the smoke. ‘Captain Saunders is wounded. Get him taken below, will you. And I need more of your men up here now, or we will be boarded again.’
The young officer appeared, eyes wide with fear, cheeks smeared with blood and uniform blackened, his eyes wide. ‘Here I am, sir. I’ll look after him.’
Jack looked around as a breeze took the smoke along the length of the ship and saw at least half a dozen of the 29th Regiment’s men heaped together in death. ‘Stand firm, 29th and strike hard,’ Jack shouted. The French had retreated in the face of determined resistance from the infantrymen – and a row of vicious bayonets. Their repulse had come at a price; the detachment’s senior officer would play no further part in the battle.
Looking up at the foretop Jack was relieved to see the grinning face of his sergeant looking down on the scene of death. He grinned in return, in spite of the carnage about him.
‘I was hoping your section would keep them at bay, Sergeant Packer!’ He laughed. ‘You’re not up there to admire the view, you know!’
‘Thought you were doing fine without my `elp, sir.’ Packer called down, ‘Best be quick, sir, they may have enough guts to try again. The Vein Openers are doin’ good, though ain’t they, sir.’ Packer grinned, giving the regiment grudging respect by referring to the nickname by which it became known after the Boston affair some twenty-five years previously. A sergeant of the 29th in the rear rank, hat missing and a bloody rag around his head, looked up at Packer and raised two fingers in salute.
‘Mister Vizzard, sir,’ said a blackened, dirty sailor, ‘they shot off the Duke’s hat, sir. ‘Tain’t right for His Lordship to face the enemy bare-headed, sir.’ The man grinned, the marines’ humour infecting the sailors around them.
‘Well then man, I suggest you go report to Captain Harvey and tell me what he wishes to do about it.’ Vizzard’s bemused smile sent the sailor scurrying along the shattered deck to report to his captain the news of the figurehead’s damage. ‘I think we have enough to worry about without the loss of Duke’s headgear. You men, get your wounded comrades down to the surgeon. The dead will have to go over the other side,’ he shouted at men immobilised by a mix of fear and exhaustion.
The sergeant reacted and moved forward. ‘You ‘eard wot the officer of marines said. C’mon, lads let’s get to it.’ He stepped forward, bent over, grasping the arm of a wounded man, as a musket barked and shattered his left leg, sending him tumbling to the deck.
The sound of cannon fire intruded again but this time it was from the other side of the ship. Looking over to larboard, Jack saw, through wisps of smoke, another French 74 line of battle ship, already damaged from a previous encounter, bearing down on Brunswick. Jack absently noted the missing main and mizzenmasts.
‘Dear Christ in heaven,’ said Jack to the sky. ‘Another of the bastards come to add to the slaughter.’ Sergeant Packer,’ he called up to the foretop, ‘Joe Packer! Wake up you bugger. Get your men ready, here’s another on the larboard quarter! I’m going aft to speak to the captain.’
Shaken by the damage on the upper deck Jack strode aft, pushing aside trailing lines and strips of canvas, stumbling on a wet rolling deck. The ship’s boats were shattered, strips of planking strewn across the deck. Shreds of sails littered the deck, acting as shrouds for the dead. Severed ropes lay amongst severed limbs and blood pools and trails were everywhere. The same bloodstained sailor passed him returning to the bowsprit. ‘’tis the Captain’s own hat, sir. He says he will not see Brunswick without `is hat, sir.’ The man grinned, grim determination in his eyes.
‘Sir,’ Jack shouted as he climbed the companionway to the quarterdeck above the continuing noise of gunfire lessening now from the Frenchman alongside, ‘Captain Saunders is wounded and I have taken command of his men forrard. Do you have any orders, for me?’ He pointed to the second 74 now closer on the larboard quarter as he paced alongside Captain Harvey, before he realised the captain too, was injured. ‘Sir; you are wounded - your hand!’
‘Captain Saunders was dead before he reached the orlop, Mister Vizzard. Please take command of his detachment. As for my wound, ‘tis nothing for you to be concerned with.’ The handkerchief wrapped around his hand concealed the loss of two fingers. ‘I am losing too many good men today, Mister Vizzard. I would encourage you to keep walking, sir,’ said Harvey seeing Jack halt, ‘they still have many sharpshooters, which you would oblige me by removing as soon as convenient, please. They are a damned nuisance!’
‘At once, sir,’ Jack replied.
‘And have more men in the tops to deal with the new threat, if you would be so kind,’ added Harvey, his eyes failing to conceal the pain.
Jack nodded and turned away and saw a youngster at number two gun passing cartridges to the gunners, fall wounded in the ankle. He watched as smoke wrapped around the boy, shrouding him, as if taken by angels, insulating him from further harm. He stood there, unconscious of time passing his mind thinking of Mary and the rolling fields of home. Jack’s left ear sang as a musket was discharged behind him bringing him back to the carnage all around. The youngster was stumbling, trying to stand, dropping to his knees, pulling himself up again crying with pain. Jack saw the glistening white bone protruding from the shattered ankle.
But there was something wrong with the voice. He stepped forward to help. The boy dropped again, blood appearing from a second wound in the right thigh. He looked around and saw one of his men, jacket covered in stains and grime and hair burnt. ‘You, over here to me and help this lad’, he shouted. ‘Get him below to the surgeon now.’
The man turned and he saw Tom Clutterbuck, face bleeding from a small splinter in his left cheek. ‘Tom, for pity’s sake, get this lad below and have the surgeon stitch your own wound.’
Together they picked up the youngster. ‘What’s your name, lad? Jack asked kindly and almost dropped him in surprise at the answer. ‘Mary, sir. Mary Talbot. But I’m on the books as John Taylor,’ she whimpered in pain.
‘Blood and sand, boy’, exclaimed Jack. ‘Can you carry him… her, Tom? Get her below at once. This is no place for a girl. Here, I’ll help you down.’ Together they carried the girl to the main deck and Jack left Tom to manage the tortuous descen
t to the orlop deck far below.
‘Mister Willis’, Jack shouted at the tall midshipman supervising some of the surviving guns on the main deck. ‘Lieutenant Bevan tells me you are a decent shot; good enough, he says, to join my marines. What say you, Willis? Can you leave the guns for a time and help us deal with their sharpshooters?’
‘I am a fair shot, sir, so much is true. Better with a fowling piece on my father’s estate than a soldier’s Brown Bess though, I fancy.’ In spite of his fear the youngster smiled.
‘We are losing too many from yonder French marksmen. Get aloft would you and keep them busy, please.’ He handed him a musket and quickly removed the cross-belt and pouches from a dead infantryman of the 29th and slid down the companionway to the upper deck, running forrard to his station, he all but collided with Lieutenant Bevan giving orders to the reduced crewmembers there.
‘The captain is wounded, Bevan. He should go below, but it is not for me to suggest so,’ Jack said.
‘Jack, he has been hit before but has concealed it. I will speak to him when I have finished here.’ Lieutenant Bevan shouted above a sudden sporadic broadside from the Venguer. ‘Have you noted we are to be attacked on our larboard side? I believe we have only a few minutes.’
‘Where is the First Lieutenant?’ Jack asked.
‘Cracraft is on the main gun-deck, Jack. We have lost some good fellows down there. He is preparing the larboard guns to give the new arrival a warm welcome!’ Bevan showed a row of teeth from the grime and powder covering his face. More musket balls peppered the deck around their feet, forcing the two officers to move.
The Brunswick’s larboard battery released its broadside, an orderly, concentrated fire someone had controlled with skill and determination until the second French ship was close alongside. The devastating fire visibly shook both ships and deafened men, throwing some to the deck. Jack shook his head to clear the confusion and saw sails on the second French ship’s foremast start to shiver as the surviving mast fell to starboard. He heard the cheering and grinned.
‘I need more men aloft, Rowland. Those French sharpshooters are becoming better at this game! Rowland, you too are wounded; look at your leg, man.’ Jack indicated the blood staining the lieutenant’s breeches.
‘So it would appear, Jack. It is a minor matter, I shall see to it when time allows.’
‘Rowland, may I suggest you have the surgeon or one of his mates take a look at it sooner. Now, I must organise some men.’
Jack ran toward the fo’c’sle, yelling at two sailors to extinguish a small fire amongst the remains of one of the ship’s boats, gathering isolated soldiers of the 29th ordering them into ranks, directing their fire into the mass of Frenchmen opposite. The soldiers of the 29th Foot were methodical and well trained. The young, enthusiastic Ensign, Harcourt Vernon, shrilled various orders to reach the point of firing. Laborious and too slow. Jack’s expression darkened. The volley roared out in an irregular, ragged crackle of fire.
‘Mister Vernon, they must work faster than they are, for their own preservation. Crack the pace along, man!’ Jack shouted, his voice rising, ‘like this, men!’ he shouted, loading his own weapon, raised it to the present well before the first of the soldiers were replacing their ramrods. Harcourt shouted the final order, ‘Present and… fire!’
A more consistent volley and the smoke became a curtain before them, as the sequence was repeated, the high-pitched, anxious voice of Ensign Vernon barely audible above the thunder of the guns and the shouts and screams. Then Jack realised the orders had stopped coming. Looking about him he saw the young officer on the deck, blood pouring from his head, unseeing eyes staring at the grey clouds crying above the rolling consuming battlefield.
* * * * *
‘Sir, let me take a boarding party across, please.’ Jack looked hard at Captain Harvey. ‘Your officers have work enough fighting the guns. Give me your top-men and let me try and take the Venguer.’
He paced alongside Harvey as the captain considered the suggestion then as the captain turned to answer the impatient officer of marines he collapsed, struck by a large splinter blown from the bulwark ripping his elbow to shreds. He stopped walking watching the blood flow from his shattered arm.
‘Sir, said Jack, ‘you are wounded again.’
As he spoke, Captain Harvey was again hit on the head and he staggered about the deck as Vizzard jumped to catch him, calling to a pair of seamen to help.
‘Belay that,’ said Harvey, ‘I will have no man leave his quarters. I have two legs left yet to go down to the doctor.’
As he walked coolly to the horrors of the orlop deck, deep in the darkest area of the ship he called out to watching sailors, ‘Persevere my brave lads, in your duty. Continue the action with spirit, for the honour of our king and country; and remember my last words, the colours of the Brunswick shall never be struck.’
Jack watched in wonder at the courage and example of the ship’s captain, then deciding to take the fight to the enemy, ran forward and called the squads of marines away from the larboard guns urging them to follow. ‘Sergeant Packer,’ Vizzard bellowed from the foot of the foremast, ‘Joe Packer, on deck now with everyone and as many of the Brunswickers and the 29th as you can muster.’
Sulphur pots started landing on the deck, spilling onto wounded men, who screamed in agony as their wounded bodies burned, men were blinded as raw ore was discharged into their midst and heated shot drilled into Brunswick’s timbers. ‘The bastards, the fucking bastards,’ Vizzard swore as another fire was started amongst the pile of fallen canvas and tarred fallen rigging. He shouted at a dazed sailor. ‘Get some water on that fire, man, on the double now.’ The startled sailor ran to a fire bucket, galvanised into reality as flames kissed and embraced the base of the mainmast.
Moments later, Sergeant Packer, having managed the forestay without injury, joined Vizzard on deck. ‘What’s afoot, sir?’ he said, ramrod straight as a pair of musket balls thudded into the mast behind him. ‘Bloody Frogs, they couldn’t `it a barn door at twenty paces.’ He sneered at the enemy, a mere pistol shot distant, as a sailor fell dead at his feet, his belly ripped open by chain-shot, which nearly cut him in half.
‘We’re going to have a go at taking her, Joe,’ shouted Vizzard. ‘I’m damned if I’ll strut around this deck being shot at by a bunch of piss-poor French bastards, Joe. Grab some pikes and cutlasses and let’s cut the buggers apart!’
With a growl of agreement, the marines gathered up weapons; anything that came to hand, pikes, dirks, cutlasses even a weighted monkey’s fist or slungshot as sailors called them. Vizzard saw Tom Clutterbuck attempting to hide behind the big Irishman. ‘Tom, I need you and another three good marksmen at the maintop to keep their heads down. No arguments with me, corporal.’ He grunted as Tom’s mouth opened in protest. ‘If I should signal thus, I need very quick and accurate support. Move it, now!’
He gave Tom and his chosen men half a minute to scramble up the larboard ratlines and made for the Brunswick’s bow with a roar with two dozen marines and as many of the 29th at his back, all shouting, screaming and swearing. They reached the bow to see a group of Frenchmen waiting. ‘Shit,’ said Joe Packer, ‘a reception committee.’ He roared defiance and passed Jack as both vied to be first aboard the Vengeur. The boarders rushed across as the swell rolled under the hulls, pulling the vessels apart. Steel struck steel as Packer and Vizzard leapt across the void of a yard and a half between the two vessels, slashing and stabbing with the fury of wild men. A bearded face appeared from the smoke and Jack slashed at it with the cutlass, bringing the blade back to slice into the midriff of another, spilling glistening innards onto the deck already slippery and red.
A wild but controlled surge of energy brought him up against two hesitant French sailors being pressed forward by an officer. He swung his blade in a wide flat arc, sending the pair to the deck in a scarlet spray, which spattered those next to them.
A slow marine screamed as a French pike spitted
him to the bulwark, Joe Packer instantly bringing a cutlass down hard on the neck of the French sailor wielding it, who died before his head rolled across the deck like a spent cannon ball.
Another face appeared through the mist and smoke, wildly waving a useless musket. Vizzard sidestepped, kicked at the man’s legs slashing his bloody blade across the startled face as it disappeared from his sight.
But the resistance was fierce and although Jack caught glimpses of the French captain bellowing from his quarterdeck, he and his marines were not making progress. The attack was faltering. Another of his marines fell to a dagger thrust from a short, wiry man, who also died when Michael O’Farrell, with a roaring Gaelic curse, skewered the man through the throat with his bayonet.
‘Joe, this will not do,’ Jack shouted, ‘it’s time for us to leave. Get them back – now.’ He slashed again at a young French petty officer who displayed more courage than many and who was exhorting his men to attack harder. The man was able to leap sideways and avoid the blade as Jack held him at bay. Through the din and smoke he heard Joe Packer shouting and realised that he was in danger of being left behind. A step backwards and he raised his free arm. Instantly a volley of fire sprayed the French fo’c’sle, spinning the petty officer around in a final dance of death and Jack seized the moment to run, slipping on blood, which probably saved him as the wind of a ball brushed his neck. He made the larboard cathead of Venguer leaping the crevasse between the two protagonists and land in a tumble at the feet of Joe Packer.
‘Is that what you call an orderly withdrawal, sir?’ He grinned as Jack rose to his feet.
‘Is that what you call providing your commanding officer with support, Sergeant Packer?’ He returned the grin and grasped the NCO’s arm. ‘Let’s get the men organised and provide the bastards with some disciplined fire.’
THE GLORIOUS FIRST: The first fleet action of the French Revolutionary War (The Jack Vizzard Chronicles Book 2) Page 21
