Old Glory

by Christopher Nicole

  *

  ‘A forbidding coast,’ Harry remarked.

  ‘Oh, aye, it was ever so,’ Paul Jones agreed, peering at the distant shore through his telescope. ‘Yet it is where I learned to sail, Harry. And a man who can sail these waters, can sail any, as I have proved.’

  He had grown more and more excited, and yet, conversely, more taciturn and uncommunicative, throughout the voyage. It had been a long one. To avoid the risk of engaging British cruisers, at least until they had carried out their mission, they had taken the ocean route, eschewing the English Channel in favour of sailing out into the Atlantic, then circumnavigating Ireland before rounding the Bloody Foreland into the North Channel which led into the Irish Sea, past Islay and the Mull of Kintyre, with Ulster now close to starboard, thence round the Mull of Galloway with the Isle of Man now on their right, and the mainland of England dead ahead of them. It had been a voyage to tug the very strings of Harry’s heart; Tramore at one stage had been only fifty miles to the north. But Tramore could not be thought of while they were on a mission which so depended on taking their enemies by surprise.

  In an English spring, it had also been a voyage to tax the stoutest heart. Five gales had had them stripped down to their bare poles, and Harry estimated they had only survived because the Ranger had been built to the finest specifications, and the crew selected from no less high a standard. But both had suffered. The ship had strained more than one seam, and the pumps were kept clacking away day and night. The men were tired and sullen, and bewildered. Instead of immediately going into action last autumn as they had anticipated, they had been called upon to cross the Atlantic in the dead of winter, with all the sail the vessel could carry, and thus an increased burden of work upon every member of the crew. On the way they had sighted more than one possible prize, and had passed it by. Then they had spent three months cooped up in a French port, waiting for Easter. And now again there was not a watch below left its four hours off duty in peace, as the winds howled and constantly changed direction. And again possible prizes and even possible places for a raid ashore had been avoided. Their attitude was not helped by that of their captain, who would confide nothing to them, and forbade Harry to do so either. And this could not merely be the result of hopes, and perhaps fears, arising from his return to his home after so long an absence. It had been developing all across the ocean. Delusions of grandeur? Or a determination to captain the finest ship that ever put to sea, and accomplish deeds to rival those of all the great seamen of the past? Whatever the reason, Paul was showing every sign of becoming as rigid a disciplinarian as any Royal Navy captain. If he had not yet used the lash it was because he was still sensible that his crew was composed of Americans, men who believed in personal freedom as much as he did, who would be led, but never driven. Pray God, Harry thought, that now they can be led to a resounding triumph, after so many hardships. That was all they needed, to restore their faith in themselves and their officers.

  But victory depended upon the disinterested determination of their captain, and of this Harry was growing increasingly unsure.

  ‘This Earl of Selkirk,’ he said. ‘You have encountered him before?’

  ‘Never,’ Paul said, and closed his telescope with a snap.

  ‘Good news,’ Harry said.

  Paul glanced at him. ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Simply that I had perceived an almost personal animosity these past few days as you have laid your plans.’

  ‘Personal animosity,’ Paul said. ‘Oh, aye. What is wrong with personal animosity?’

  ‘It can colour the judgement,’ Harry suggested.

  ‘It stirs the blood, you mean. If it was that man Lord Steyne, who has married your charmer, would you not be doubly anxious to succeed?’

  ‘Maybe. I would be doubly anxious to avoid putting self before country.’

  ‘Do not moralise with me, Harry McGann. I do not know his Selkirk, personally. But I know his kind. He is representative of all those who have ground Scotland into the dust these past hundred years. Oh, aye, he is a Scot himself, but one who has taken on the trappings of an English milord. They are the very worst, and the braes and glens are littered with their victims. To have him in chains on board this ship will please me greatly. But I do not let that concept distract me from my greater duty. Over there is Whitehaven. That is our first objective.’

  ‘Whitehaven?’ Harry was aghast. ‘But … will that not betray our presence on this coast?’

  ‘Oh, indeed. But now is the time to do so anyway, as we shall soon be sighted and in any event regarded with suspicion. Whitehaven will divert attention from Selkirk’s estates, and it is a prime target in itself. All the shipping to and from Ireland accumulates in Whitehaven. We shall destroy it all. Use your incendiaries, Mr McGann. Then we shall be gone again long before any message can reach Selkirk. Action stations, Mr McGann. Action stations.’

  After so long. The men leapt to their tasks with wild enthusiasm. Sail was shortened as the coast was approached. It lay bright in the noonday sun, with the peaks of the mountains of the Lake District glowing inland. Closer at hand they could clearly see the breakwater guarding the harbour, and then the houses of the town, while, as if Providence itself had decided at last to smile upon them, the wind had dropped to a gentle breeze, and the sea was calm.

  Harry went from gun to gun, checking the charges. He had, as Paul had commanded, loaded with special shot supplied them in France, balls which were designed to explode upon impact, scattering a mass of combustible material in every direction; the French officer who had demonstrated them, had regarded them as the ultimate weapon in naval warfare. ‘You have but to lob one on to the deck of an enemy, monsieur,’ he had told Harry, ‘and pouf, the whole ship will burn.’

  Satisfied, he continued to pace the main deck, behind his gunners, while the Ranger, flying the British flag, sailed through the pierheads. His heart pounded and his mouth was dry; for all his years of experience, he had never actually been in an action fought from the deck of a ship.

  ‘What ship is that?’ came the hail from the watch house.

  ‘Change colours,’ John Paul Jones commanded, and the Union flag fluttered down from the mizen, while the Stars and Stripes, already bent on, rose in its place. Paul picked up the speaking trumpet. ‘The United States Ship Ranger!’ he called back, while from the crew there rose a tremendous cheer.

  The flag, the cheer, the entire manoeuvre, caused the utmost consternation in the little port, which was in the midst of its midday bustle. And as Paul had prophesied, it was crowded with shipping, lying several vessels deep alongside the quays.

  ‘Wear ship,’ Paul commanded. ‘You may fire as she bears, Mr McGann. Set fire to that little lot and we will have done a good day’s work.’

  Harry stood beside the forward gun on the port broadside. Slowly the Ranger turned, and he stared at the docks, and the ships, and the people on the land, some standing still and staring and pointing, unsure what was going to happen next, others, understanding too well, running to and fro, as soldiers gathering in response to a bugle call, one or two firing their muskets with useless bravado. Almost he could hear the screams of the women and children, and could only pray that none of his shot went beyond the ships on to the land. But this was war, and his duty was clear. ‘Fire,’ he shouted.

  The entire ship trembled as the ship rolled beneath the deafening explosion. ‘Reload,’ Harry bawled above the still echoing boom, throat dry from the powder fumes which swirled about his head. ‘Starboard guns stand by.’

  He remained at the port gunwale for a moment longer, while the orders to go about once again came from above him, seeking to ascertain how much damage had been done, and frowning in dismay. He had deliberately aimed high, as instructed by the French, so that the shells would have more room to burst and set as many fires as possible. But nothing had happened. The shot had been truly aimed; several of the ships had suffered damage, and as he watched, a mast began to fall by the bo
ard. But there was no sign of any fires.

  ‘Fire as she bears, Mr McGann,’ Paul called as the ship came about. Harry ran to starboard and sighted again, while his brain spun in a mixture of anger and bewilderment. The second broadside belched forth, with the same result; damage where the balls struck home, but no explosions, and no fires.

  Harry went aft and up the ladder to the quarterdeck.

  ‘Aye,’ Paul said. ‘They are useless. God damn it to hell.’

  ‘Will you come about a third time? I will reload with solid shot,’ Harry said.

  ‘That will take time. And we could blaze away all day long and only sink the ships on the outside of those rafts.’

  ‘Then let me lead a landing party, with torches …’

  Paul pointed. A very large number of red jacketed men were assembling behind the docks. ‘I did not come to fight a land battle,’ he said. ‘We must regard this assault as a failure.’

  ‘By God,’ Harry said. ‘I had not dreamed of this.’

  ‘No more had I. But we are not to blame. Now we must go back to sea before they think to man their own cannon. We will do better with the Earl of Selkirk. Tonight, Harry. I want a picked landing party.’

  Harry nodded, still staring at the land, the people, the houses. A failure. Their first action, after so long and so much anticipation, a failure. A single ship, hit by chance between wind and water, was settling by the head. The rest had suffered no damage that could not be repaired in twenty-four hours.

  ‘Two boats,’ Paul said, having apparently put this mishap out of his mind. ‘You will command one, I the other.’

  ‘You?’ Harry demanded. ‘But … ?’

  ‘I know,’ Paul said. ‘A captain should stay with his ship. But we cannot have any more failure. Not that I do not have the fullest confidence in you, old friend. It is merely that I should go mad, left on board, not knowing what was happening. I will command the party.’ Harry saluted.

  *

  The boatswain’s whistle blew, and the landing party were assembled in the waist. No grumbles now; the men were unaware that their assault on Whitehaven had actually fallen so far short of expectation, and were excited and charged with the spirit of high adventure. Nor could they have had a better night for it, with a half moon flitting in and out of the clouds, and the gentlest of swells; the terrible weather of only a week ago need never have been.

  The Second Lieutenant, John Mahon, was to command the ship until their return. ‘Which will not be long,’ Paul told him. ‘This is to be a raid, sir. Nothing more. We will be back in an hour, and at sea again.’

  ‘Within an hour, Mr Mahon,’ Harry said, and thought, pray to God that it may be so.

  It was at least far simpler than assaulting Nassau. There was no reef, merely a sandy beach, clearly visible in the moonlight, on which the boats grounded without difficulty. The men leapt over the side, like hounds on the leash, asking only to be released. They left a guard for the boats, and swarmed up the gentle cliffs, then moved silently and purposefully across the green fields, towards the huge bulk of the manor house they could see on the skyline. At the hedge surrounding the garden Paul waved his arm, and Harry led his squad to the left, to gain the rear of the building. They had no means of knowing how many men were in residence, or how well armed they might be, so Jones had opted for one tumultuous assault.

  Harry and his people gained the rear of the estate, and listened to a dog bark, and then another; but it was past midnight and the people in the house were clearly fast asleep. Then he heard the crack of a pistol shot, the agreed signal. ‘Up, lads,’ he cried, and threw open the gate. Horses neighed in the stables, the dogs’ barking became more intense. One mastiff emerged into the yard itself, and was thrust aside by the charging sailors. The door before them was shut, and Harry smashed through it with a single thrust of his shoulder, his men following him to spread left and right through the kitchen and pantries.

  Now the house was awakening. There were screams and shouts from above, and the heavy explosion of a blunderbuss. The Americans replied with pistol shots and oaths, although they could not see anyone. Harry dashed into the back parlour, where a fire still glowed from the previous night. Tapers were thrust into the embers, and candles were lit to let them discover what they were about. He left his men to secure the ground floor and ran up the great staircase, where candles also glowed. He listened to John Paul shouting, and burst into the withdrawing room. Here he found Jones, and several of his men, facing a group of terrified people, men and women, in their nightclothes, huddled at the far end of the room. ‘Selkirk,’ Jones was shouting. ‘Where is Selkirk?’

  There was a moment’s hesitation, then an elderly woman, her hair concealed beneath a mob cap, stepped from the throng. ‘Lord Selkirk is not in residence, you pirate.’

  ‘Pirate?’ Jones shouted. ‘Madam, I am no pirate. I wish you to know that I am an officer of the United States Navy.’

  ‘Then you are worse than a pirate,’ the woman told him. ‘You are also a traitorous rebel.’

  Jones glared at her in fury, and Harry hastily stepped forward beside him. ‘Your name, madam?’ he asked.

  ‘I am the Countess of Selkirk,’ the woman said. ‘What do you wish with my husband?’

  ‘Why …’ Harry looked at Jones.

  ‘I see,’ the Countess said. ‘You sought to murder him. Well, he is not here. You will have to murder me instead.’

  Jones had regained control of his temper. ‘I mean to murder no one, milady,’ he said. ‘I shall murder no one. I …’

  ‘Indeed?’ inquired the Countess. ‘Then what is that noise?’

  From above them there was a high pitched screaming.

  ‘By God!’ Jones shouted, and himself ran for the stairs. Several of his men followed him. Harry remained in the drawing room.

  ‘Where is the earl, milady?’ he asked.

  ‘He was recalled to London on business,’ the Countess said. ‘It seems that Lord Chatham has been taken grievously ill. I doubt you know the name, you Irish monster.’

  ‘I know of Lord Chatham, milady.’

  ‘But you do not deny that you are Irish?’

  ‘No,’ Harry acknowledged.

  ‘And your leader is Scots. Oh, aye, traitors all. And pirates. I never thought I would live to see such a day on English soil.’

  Jones appeared, marching before him one of the seamen. ‘This man is to be placed under arrest, Mr McGann,’ he said. ‘And will be tried at court martial, for rape.’

  ‘Rape?’ the sailor shouted. ‘All I did was feel her tits. And she liked it, even if she did holler.’

  ‘Take him,’ Jones shouted at his men. They hesitated, then obeyed. ‘You’d best come along with us, Jimbo,’ one said.

  ‘I have explained to your lieutenant that my husband is in London,’ the Countess said. ‘So if he was indeed the object of your descent upon my property, may I ask that you now loot us or whatever else you intend, and then leave us in peace.’

  Jones gazed at her for several seconds. Then he raised his hat. ‘We sought the Earl, milady. If he is not here, then we shall take our leave, immediately, and apologise for disturbing you. As for looting your house, nothing you possess will even be disturbed. You have my word.’

  ‘Well,’ she remarked. ‘A pirate, trying to act the gentleman. What a strange world we live in.’Tis a pity you did not know enough to wipe your feet before entering.’ Like a naughty schoolboy, Jones looked down at his mudstained boots, the trail he, and everyone else, had left across the parquet floor. ‘Out,’ he growled. ‘Out,’ he shouted. ‘Everyone out. Back to the boats.’

  The men hesitated again. ‘Back to the boats?’ one asked. ‘Just like that? All this way, for nothing?’

  Jones whipped a pistol from his belt. ‘The next man who questions my orders will get a bullet in the brain,’ he said. ‘I said, out.’

  The men left the room, clattered down the stairs. Jones replaced his hat. ‘My apologies once more, milad
y. Remember to tell the military that this was an act of war, by the United States of America upon Britain. Tell them this too, my name is Captain John Paul Jones, at your service. I will bid you good night.’ He marched from the room. Harry touched his hat in turn, and followed him. Downstairs his men were also assembling, indulging in a good deal of chaff, and not all of it was good natured; they were at once bewildered and angry. They were realising that the raid, however brilliantly executed, had been a total fiasco, and they were beginning to wonder why they had not accomplished more at Whitehaven. It was Nassau all over again. Harry wondered if that was to be the history of the United States Navy, and then wondered if Paul remembered that on that occasion he had called for the destruction of the town. Pray to God that he did not remember.

  And the situation here was actually more critical than it had ever been at Nassau, because the men were determined not to leave empty handed. Several of them carried heavy sacks, as Jones immediately spotted. ‘What have you there?’ he demanded.

  ‘Souvenirs, Captain,’ someone replied.

  ‘Scoundrels,’ Jones snapped. ‘Empty it out.’

  The men exchanged glances, then one emptied his sack on the floor. Out poured a cascade of silver, from cutlery to candle holders, ornaments and utensils. ‘We was going to share it out,’ he said. ‘On board ship.’

  ‘Share it out?’ Jones shouted. ‘Share it out? By God, you are pirates. You deserve to be hanged, by God. Share it out? You’ll put it back.’

  Again the men exchanged glances, and seemed to move closer together. And now they were joined by the men who had been upstairs. Once again Harry’s memory went back, to the deck of the Carolina Wind. But these were not just restless seamen; these men had been picked because of their fighting qualities — hands were dropping to the hilts of cutlasses and the butts of pistols.