by Alaric Bond
Styles' efforts had won back the valuable deck space, and even added to it; but for such a gain to be maintained, someone must take his place. Jameson leapt wildly over his body and with a single slash of his cutlass, calmly took down the man who had caused his shipmate to fall. Flint was next to him, pressing his own blade into the face of another who had made the fatal error of pausing for a second. Dixon followed, swearing and spitting as he laid into the enemy with a lunatic's strength. His pistol had been fired some seconds before, but now he used the warm weapon to great effect as an improvised club. Almost immediately the French began to falter and before long were indisputably being pressed back. The cautious retreat soon turned into a rout and, even though the two ships had begun to drift apart, the British swept the deck clear and reclaimed their forecastle.
* * *
But things were not so rosy to the Frenchman's stern. The companionway that led to what must be the great cabin was both narrow and steep, with two side rails that would restrict the use of his sword. Caulfield had taken a step down before slipping his hanger back into its scabbard and reaching forward for the deck beam at the mouth of the hatchway. There were, he decided, some advantages in being slightly below average height: the wood felt round and polished under his fingers as, jumping clear of the treads, he launched himself forward. His body started to swing like the pendulum of a clock, but the grip was soon released and he dropped down and into the dark mysteries beneath.
Before they could reach the deck, his boots connected with something far softer that let out a muffled cry before being knocked to one side. Caulfield stumbled, but mercifully regained his balance as he glanced at the young officer he had unintentionally kicked in the face, and was now apparently unconscious. He drew his sword again; all was sparsely lit by the battle lanterns hanging between the heavy cannon that lined each side. Their dim light revealed many living shapes lurking in the shadows but, whether it be from surprise or the violence of his entry, none seemed eager to meet him. Caulfield was momentarily at a loss; his own men were tumbling down the companionway after him, and would soon present a reasonable fighting force although, with the French holding back, there was effectively an impasse. Then the flare of a pistol erupted from out of the darkness and one of the British marines crumpled to his knees. The simple act was taken as a rallying cry, and the enemy rose up from the depths in one solid mass.
Then there was fighting on all sides, with the British working almost back to back as they fended off continued and fierce attacks. Caulfield, standing furthest from the companionway, knew that it could not last for long; however well they fought, the boarding party would inevitably be worn down, until the last few remaining were finally forced to surrender. He had no way of knowing the position in other parts of the ship; when last seen the French were also boarding and, for all he knew, Scylla might even have been taken. His right arm ached, the wound in his chest was throbbing, and breath came in hurried snatches; it may be better to stand down now, while most of his men were still alive. But those were the thoughts of fools, children, and old men, he told himself; he must continue as if his were the only battle being fought, and it had to be won without considering any other.
His current assailant was a burly, bald-headed man armed with a wooden rammer that was being used both as a club and a quarterstaff. Caulfield could keep him at bay with his outstretched hanger, but it was all but stalemate until the brute struck an overhead beam when trying for a downward blow, and the weapon spun from his grasp. Seizing the opportunity, Caulfield advanced, and slashed down on the man before realising that he had also stepped free of the deadly ring. He turned to his left and engaged the nearest Frenchman who was more than occupied sparring with a cutlass-wielding waister. Caulfield took the man down with the minimum of effort; it was the breakthrough they needed. After having made such an inroad, the boarding party was able to beat a measured retreat, moving past the companionway, and making for the relative space of the nearby half deck. All knew they would undoubtedly meet with further opposition, but at least the confines of the great cabin were being left behind.
They had made it as far as the outer room of the captain's quarters when more French did appear. This time the number seemed far greater and the British looked likely to be swamped. Caulfield's heart was now pounding and his head swam with exhaustion. It was clear the opposition was much too fierce; his party was certain to be overwhelmed and he was actually in the act of calling his men to stand down when there came a blinding shock. The world was suddenly made light and all combat temporarily ceased as eyes too used to peering through mist and gloom were dazzled by a deep and sudden brightness. Every man paused to wonder while the deep-throated roar of a massive explosion began to rumble across the water towards them in a gathering crescendo. For a terrible second Caulfield thought Scylla had blown, before remembering the burning corvette. The deadly flames must have found her magazine, but their effect was also being felt elsewhere.
By the unexpected light Caulfield was able to make out the red coats of more British marines beyond what he now saw was actually a relatively small group of French seaman. And that surely was a hatless King, standing at the entrance to the half deck, a bloodied cutlass in his hand. For an instant their eyes met, then both simultaneously realised that many of the Frenchman were already beaten and their position was not as bad as they had feared.
“Forward, Scyllas!” Despite exhaustion, Caulfield's voice rang out strong, and his shout was copied by King, whose more croaking bellow quickly became overpowered by the many others who also picked up the call. Soon all the boarders were positively screaming their ship's name in exaltation and relief, the racket almost covering that of the fighting. Light from the burning corvette was now fading significantly, and many had blurred or bleary vision, but the British had seen the true situation and knew that victory was perilously close. Simply being aware that others lay beyond had heartened them, and the battle was taken up with even greater effort.
Then the two parties began to meet: Scylla's seamen and marines confronted their own; friends and familiar faces were dimly recognised, and there was a clamour of greetings, randomly hurled insults and more than one case of hysterical laughter. The confusion slowly dissolved as the French began to accept defeat and, before long, some degree of normality and even order returned to the frigate's deck.
“Well met, Michael,” King panted, as he finally sheathed his sword and rested his hand on the older man's shoulder. “Though it were a worrying time for a spell.”
Some of the French were attempting to make for the stern, and sharp calls and the sound of fists on bone could be heard, but in general peace had been established and those of the enemy that remained were swiftly disarmed. Any not wounded soon found themselves gathered in small groups to the larboard side where Corporal Jarvis and eight of Scylla's marines watched over them, while the injured lay heaped without distinction to await eventual medical attention.
“Those that have run cannot get far,” King continued, as he supervised the arrangements.
Caulfield nodded but was too exhausted to reply. He knew that his words would be indistinct and could still feel his heart beating wildly, but the wound was not giving him quite so much pain. “We can deal with them,” he gasped at last, examining the spot, and being mildly surprised to find it little more than a deep scratch. “But first we must check the fo'c'sle.”
“Joe Cherry should be there,” King said peering forward into the darkness. “He was moving to address that very matter when I boarded and from the lack of activity, I would say he has been successful.”
A shout, followed by what sounded like a cheer seemed to confirm this. Then a herd of French seamen could be seen being driven into the relative light of the spar deck. Midshipman Jackson, white faced and with a smudge of blood upon one cheek, accompanied them, stumbling forward and apparently moving as if in a daze.
“We have them,” he said, reaching the two lieutenants. “What ain't surrende
red is dead or wounded.” His childlike voice quavered slightly and it was clear that either tears or laughter were not so very far away.
“Where is Mr Cherry?” King asked.
The lad shrugged.
“He never came across; I followed Cahill an' Thompson; they fought like tigers, though Thompson was hurt in the chest and we think him dead,” he added, his voice sounding particularly naïve, considering the message it carried. “Some of Flint's men were there as well; Stiles is gone, an' Dixon 'as been cut about something dire.”
“Very good,” King said, oblivious to the irony. “Return to Scylla and report. Advise the captain that the upper deck is secure, and we are about to clear below. Any hands he can spare would be welcomed.”
“Mr Jarvis, form a party to round up those on the berth and orlop,” Caulfield was more in control of himself now and addressed the marine corporal who appeared almost casual in ripped tunic and lacking a hat. “Any that don't drop their weapons at your call, assume to be hostile; there are to be no second chances – do I make myself clear?” In a vessel with only one full gun deck, most of the combatants should already be captured, but there may be more lurking below, and the only time a seized ship can be truly considered taken is when she has been emptied of her crew.
“And you had better be on the lookout for any female prisoners,” King said, stopping the marine as he remembered the likelihood of Lady Hatcher being aboard.
“Aye, Lady Hatcher and her maid; expect them to be in a place of safety; the cable tier or perhaps the cockpit,” Caulfield added. “But do not waste any effort; securing the ship is your first priority.”
“Very good,” Jarvis replied, rolling his eyes and grimacing slightly at the mention of the woman's name. “And no second chances it is, sir.”
* * *
“Mr Fraiser!” Kate said when the body was dumped, not harshly, but certainly without ceremony on the canvas-covered deck of Scylla's cockpit. She hastily lowered the lad she was attending to: a third class volunteer struck on the head by a falling block. The boy had drunk a healthy measure of her lemonade, and seemed easier now, and even ready for sleep. She placed the pewter jug down and moved carefully across to where the wounded sailing master lay.
There was a small amount of blood oozing from the area about his lower legs and for a moment she was hopeful. But a brief inspection told her that a tourniquet had been applied to the old man's left thigh; the limb below was severely injured and would most likely have to be removed. “You will take some drink?” she asked briskly, repeating the phrase that had greeted every fresh patient since action commenced.
“I think not, my dear,” Fraiser said weakly. “If I am to meet with your husband I would rather do so with a clear head.”
“Why, I would not offer you spirit!” Kate responded, apparently appalled. “Robert may prescribe laudanum, but that is for him to decide; until then you may take a sip of lemonade, or water if that is preferred, but you will get nothing stronger – not while in my care!”
Fraiser's face relaxed at her tirade and a slight smile played upon his face. “Then a sip of water would be most agreeable,” he said. “If it will not inconvenience you greatly.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
It took an inordinately long time for the British to make the short distance to St Helena, although one full day was spent securing the two ships and dividing their prisoners. The captured French were sullenly philosophical in defeat; all senior officers had been killed or seriously wounded and those that remained allowed themselves to be contained without undue protest. Some were needed at the pumps; both frigates leaked badly and there were simply not enough able British hands for the work. It was not a popular duty, and required the supervision of a marine guard, with loaded muskets and bayonets fixed, but the prisoners proved more willing to assist Grimley in providing food for so many. The French medics also worked every bit as hard as Manning's team in repairing the carnage that both sides had managed to wreak.
They finally rounded Ladder Hill Point and entered Chapel Valley Bay in the late morning of the third day, when the bad weather was nothing more than a memory and an innocent sun beat down on land that might never before have seen rain. Since dawn, when they first closed with the northern coast of the island, the small convoy had been assailed by distant shouts and cheers from random groups ashore. Some even did their best to follow the battered vessels as they came in, with Scylla, under jury rudder, holding a broad reach comfortably enough, even if her progress was slow.
On passing the battery near Lemon Valley Bay the British were mildly disconcerted by cannon fire, although this was finally accepted as celebratory. Then, when the Frenchman's anchor was released, and what had been an enemy was formally presented with British colours proudly dominating her national ensign, the crowded wharf showed the island's true feelings without ambiguity. Muskets were fired, apparently indiscriminately, and several signal rockets released from the vantage point on Ladder Hill, while lines of Company employees and off duty soldiers erupted into good-natured shouts and cheering. Only the two heavy batteries that looked out on the bay remained silent and apparently deserted, but no one aboard Scylla or her vanquished foe could have cared less. None had slept since fighting what had been a desperate and close won battle, and relief at finally knowing their ordeal over was sufficient.
The packet, with an anxious Lewis in command, anchored next. His vessel was also laden with prisoners; apart from the French prize crew there were those from the burning corvette that had been plucked from the water: the vessel itself was lucky to have survived the subsequent explosion with only minor damage to her rig and sails.
Two boats were already on their way to Scylla as her first anchor finally ran free and the ship began to swing in the faint current. On the quarterdeck Banks stood in clothes not changed since the fight and knew he was not in a fit condition, either mentally or cosmetically, to greet visitors. It would probably be Robson, and already he could guess at the many questions the lieutenant governor would ask. However the man may also be bringing news of Sarah, and his need for that was far greater than any reluctance to relate the recent action.
But in fact it was Henry Booker who first clambered through Scylla's battered entry port and, even more unexpectedly, he was followed by his daughter, as well as a heavily built black man who seemed at once nervous and oddly proud.
“You have fared well I see, Sir Richard,” Booker said beaming, and shaking the captain's hand. “Not just the Frenchie, but taken back the packet into the bargain. What of the other ship, is she still free?”
“No, sir, the corvette has been accounted for, she will not trouble us further.”
“And Lady Hatcher?” he asked, the smile now fixed and his eyes wide in anticipation.
“Milady is below and unhurt,” Banks told him flatly. “Though I regret, not in the best of tempers.”
Indeed the woman had been incandescent with rage, especially after being unceremoniously bundled out of the captured Frenchman and back into Scylla, where circumstances demanded that she must be effectively left to her own devices for the rest of that night. But Banks found he cared little for the lady now, or her opinion. She might huff and puff all she wished, his defeat of three enemy warships could only be seen as a substantial victory, and certainly sufficient to colour any mischief she might attempt to make regarding his earlier actions. Besides, had he not won back her freedom? How would she look when dubious accusations were cast? Both parliament and the public were equally predictable, and accustomed to inflating victory as readily as condemning failure. Banks was no expert in such matters but guessed he would be regarded as a hero, and any attempt to besmirch his name would have to be extremely well- founded in order to sway general opinion. The Admiralty also lauded success; he might not be given a replacement ship immediately, but one would come soon enough, and this time there would be no doubt he had earned it himself, and not been forced to rely on his father's interest. His actions in preven
ting future attacks on the merchant convoys must also put him in good stead with the HEIC, as well as the City insurers who would have been saved a fortune. And the government should now be at the later stage of peace negotiations; even a minor British triumph must strengthen their hand and be welcomed.
But Banks was finding that, like so many crises that dwindle to nothing as soon as they are solved, all this seemed to be of surprisingly little moment. Once more his ship required extensive repairs and they may even have to await the first India convoy to raise enough fit men to see Scylla, and the captured Frenchman, safely home. But before then he had a greater concern, and one he simply must address, even though it hardly rated highly in military significance.
“My wife, is she well?” he asked, and was relieved when Booker's delighted expression did not falter.
“Lady Banks is indeed extremely bonny, and has been asking about you daily. As soon as you can leave your ship a fast carriage can have you with her inside the hour. I shall see to it that one is laid on for such an eventuality.”
“Thank you,” Banks said, as the exhaustion finally seemed likely to take him over. “Thank you indeed.”
* * *
“Gentlemen, I trust I am not disturbing you,” Julia said cautiously as she approached King and Caulfield, who stood nearby. “I have someone I would wish you to meet.”
Both officers followed her glance, and the black man, dressed simply but well and carrying a small canvas bag, lowered his head slightly at their attention.
