Old Glory

by Christopher Nicole

  The frigate was coming about again, immediately astern of the stricken American ship, and a cheer broke out from her crew. John Paul smiled at them with an almost sinister twist of his lips, then ran back to the helm. ‘I’ll take her,’ he said, pushing the coxswain aside and himself seizing the spokes. The Bonhomme Richard, slowly settling by the bows and very nearly dead in the water, still possessed a little manoeuvrability.

  The frigate was surging towards them now, still directly astern, her decks crowded with eager men. But so was the main deck of the Bonhomme Richard, even if Harry suspected that half of their eagerness was to get away from a sinking ship. But more important, not only were they all armed, but, crouching beneath the gunwale, they were invisible to the British. ‘Harry,’ John Paul said, ‘Harry, I am depending upon you; if this fails we are all dead men. She will sink us without mercy.’

  ‘Aye,’ Harry said, and went aft to the taff-rail, staring at the frigate, now only fifty feet away and closing fast; clearly she intended to up helm to run alongside and take possession of her victim.

  ‘Wait for it,’ John Paul called. ‘Wait for it.’

  Harry watched an officer emerge on to the frigate’s forecastle, carrying the speaking trumpet. ‘Ahoy,’ the man shouted. ‘You have struck your colours. Do you surrender or must we sink you?’

  John Paul put the helm down with all his strength, left it, and ran aft. The Bonhomme Richard swung up into the wind, directly across the bows of the frigate, and checked there as her sails ceased to fill.

  ‘Port your helm!’ came a bellowed order from the frigate. Immediately she began to turn the other way, but she was too close; slowly her bowsprit swung right across the Bonhomme Richard’s poop, and became entangled in the mizen rigging.

  ‘Surrender?’ John Paul shouted. ‘Surrender? Sir, I have not yet begun to fight! Harry!’ he yelled.

  Harry straddled the rail and threw both arms around the bowsprit, holding it as tightly as he could. He knew he made a prime target, but the enemy were too amazed by his action to shoot.

  ‘Back those yards!’ someone was shouting from the British quarterdeck. ‘Get her free!’

  Men swarmed aloft to turn the sails to face the wind, hoping to drive the frigate astern, and indeed, she began to move.

  ‘Hold her, Harry!’ John Paul shrieked, dashing to his side with a length of rope. Harry’s muscles pulled and strained, and he felt as if his shoulders were being torn from their sockets, but he retained his grasp on the bowsprit, while John Paul threw a length of rope around it, made it fast, and secured it to the Bonhomme Richard’s mizen mast. ‘Take her,’ he shouted, his voice cracking. ‘Take her.’

  Men crowded aft, and others swarmed into what was left of the rigging, to fire upon the crowded British decks, doing fearful execution. But boarding was a difficult matter for although John Paul had bound the two ships together, the Serapis, still carrying a full spread of canvas which was now catching the wind again, was still steadily forging ahead, pushing the Bonhomme Richard aside while yet secured to her stern, so that the ships began to resemble an A without the crossbar, their hulls separated by some thirty feet of water. And determined to free herself, the Serapis’ main broadside of eighteen-pounders were exploding again, at that close range ripping the timbers of the Bonhomme Richard into flying splinters, sending smoke and flame spouting skywards. One of the carpenters, confined below to supervise the pumps, burst from the main hatchway and ran aft. ‘She’s sinking fast,’ he bawled. ‘Sinking. We must strike,’ He clambered up the ladder on to the quarterdeck, saw that the ensign had gone, and ran to the rail. ‘Quarter!’ he shouted at the amazed Englishmen. ‘Quarter, for God’s sake!’

  ‘God damn you for a coward,’ John Paul shouted, reversing his pistol, and striking the man a savage blow on the head. The carpenter fell without a sound, blood trailing away from his shattered skull. ‘I’ll cut down the next man who cries quarter,’ John Paul bellowed, and then ran back to Harry. ‘By Christ, man, we are done if we cannot get aboard her.’

  Harry looked at the gunners on the British ship, frantically reloading; she could not disengage sufficiently to use her other broadside. But she meant to sink her enemy. All around him were the cracks of pistols and muskets, the screams of dying men, the smell of burning wood and cordage and canvas too as the sails caught fire. And the Bonhomme Richard was now appreciably lower in the water. She was finished. Their only hope was to take the frigate, or send her to the bottom as well.

  He ran down the ladder to the main deck, jerked the lid off one of the arms’ chests, pulled out two grenades. The fuses he lit from a burning spar, then, carrying them both in his left hand, he swarmed into the rigging, aware that if he was hit, or even delayed, he would explode. John Paul stared at him in bewilderment, then turned to look at the Alliance, which, instead of closing the other side of the Serapis to distract her from the victim, was keeping her distance and firing with remarkable inaccuracy — one of her balls even smashed into the cripped Bonhomme Ricahrd.

  ‘God damned swine!’ John Paul shouted, waving his fist. ‘Bastard from the pit of hell!’

  Harry reached the main cross trees, looked down on the English decks. They had been cleared of all but the gunners and the dead, now; so sustained had been the American small arms fire that the remainder had taken refuge below; aft there was a cluster of officers, but they were too far away at the moment. And clearly the lower deck was undamaged in any way; even as he wrapped one arm around the mast, the Bonhomme Richard trembled to another series of savage blows.

  Time was running short; the fuses were spluttering too close to the bombs. Harry drew a long breath, took aim, and tossed the first grenade straight through the open forward hatch of the frigate. Instantly he aimed the second, but before he had time to throw it there was a tremendous explosion. Flame and smoke gushed out of the hatchway, accompanied by bits of metal and bits of flesh too; he realised that he must have hit a powder barrel.

  Now it was the British turn to be stunned. The entire deck had been torn away round the hatch by the force of the explosion. Men were trying to climb through the flames to gain safety, and he could tell the fire was spreading along the gun deck, not only because the guns fell silent, but he could see the glare from the open ports.

  ‘Hurrah for Harry McGann,’ John Paul shouted. ‘Grappling irons, lads. We must be aboard before they recover.’

  And capture her before she burns herself to the waterline, Harry thought. But the irons were already being thrown across, and the Americans were lining the rail. The British seamen were also on deck, partly driven by the flames, but also armed and determined, and yet, inescapably aware that the tide of battle had suddenly turned against them; the Bonhomme Richard not only carried a larger crew, but the British had to be aware that the Alliance remained to be dealt with. And now in addition their ship was in mortal danger.

  Harry threw his other grenade over the side; it exploded as it hit the water. Then he seized a loose rope, and swung himself into the forward shrouds of the frigate. He looked down, and saw that Richard Dale had led the main party, shrieking like banshees, into the waist of the British ship, where the melee had become general; swords clashed, oaths flew, pistols and muskets exploded, boarding pikes were swung and parried, men cursed and gasped, fought with their fists as well as their weapons, smoke swirled around them, those who fell or were pushed through the hatchways screamed as the flames reached for them, blood spurted, and sweat poured. Harry swung himself down to the deck and sent two men tumbling with the force of his arrival, only then realised that he was unarmed. He stooped beneath a cutlass blow aimed at him by a British sailor, picked up the man and threw him on to the bayonet of the marine immediately behind him, stepped round the screaming man and ran aft, slipped and fell just as another marine aimed a musket at him, and found himself next to a dead man, a cutlass lying loose in his fingers. Harry seized it and charged the poop. Another musket exploded close by and he felt a stab of pain, but it wa
s not sufficient to stop him now. He took the ladder two steps at a time, and faced the officers, who were attempting to give orders above the din. One, very young, ran at him with drawn sword, and Harry sliced the blade aside with such force that the midshipman was hurled against the gunwale and carried right over by the impetus of his rush; he gave a yell of terror as he plunged down towards the water.

  ‘McGann!’ Sean O’Rourke said, levelling a pistol.

  Harry laughed in sheer savage delight, and advanced. He did not even wince although he felt the ball smashing into his chest; it really did not seem to matter. O’Rourke hurled the pistol at him and it struck him on the face, but he ignored that as well. O’Rourke drew his sword and presented it. The blades clashed as Harry swept left and right. O’Rourke jumped backwards and thrust, and his point surged through Harry’s shirt to open his ribs, but Harry was continuing to sweep left to right, and his fourth blow struck the sword from O’Rourke’s grasp. He backed against the mizen mast. ‘Mercy, McGann,’ he cried. ‘For the love of God, I surrender.’

  ‘I give you the mercy you gave to my family, Sean O’Rourke,’ Harry said, and cut his head from his shoulders with a single sweep of his cutlass, hardly stopping to savour his revenge as he swung to face his next adversary. This officer was tall and well built, with a florid complexion and a high forehead. ‘By God, sir,’ he said. ‘You have seized the day, most remarkably.’ He reversed his sword and held out the hilt. ‘Captain Richard Pearson, at your service. Have I the honour of addressing Captain John Paul Jones?’

  ‘No, sir,’ said John Paul Jones at Harry’s shoulder. ‘You are addressing Fighting Harry McGann. But sir, there is no man of my crew better fitted to take your sword.’

  CHAPTER 13 – France and England, 1779

  ‘And then?’ Franklin asked.

  ‘Our first duty was to put out the flames,’ Harry explained. ‘Or the Serapis would have gone as well. This we did, but it took us most of the night to make her secure.’

  ‘And the Bonhomme Richard?’

  Harry sighed. ‘We kept her afloat too, all night. But she foundered in the morning. She had a short career under the Stars and Stripes.’

  ‘But a most glorious one. Her fight is already immortal. You’ll take some more wine?’

  ‘I’ll fetch it.’ Harry slowly and painfully pushed himself up.

  ‘Sit you down,’ Franklin commanded. ‘A man with his chest shot to pieces should not exert himself. How many are there?’

  ‘Four, I believe,’ Harry said. ‘But only the pistol shot was dangerous. It was that has kept me to my bed this last month.’

  ‘And will return you there again, if you are now careless. Tell me what happened next.’ He had, of course, already read John Paul’s log, and also heard of the sequence of events from John himself, as he had arrived in Paris several weeks before Harry had been able to make the journey, but he seemed to wish to savour it, again and again.

  ‘Well, with half the British fleet out looking for us, and the Serapis in virtually a sinking condition herself, thanks to the fire damage, we thought it best to make for the nearest safe port — the Texel. The Hollanders welcomed us, indeed, they treated us like heroes. I was removed to a hospital in Amsterdam, and Dale took command while John Paul came here to report.’

  ‘But now you are yourself here at last,’ Franklin said. ‘The wounds?’

  ‘Are all but healed. On my body.’ Franklin shot him a glance, and filled his glass. ‘But you have others.’

  ‘Are you not aware of them, Ben?’ Franklin sat down. ‘Even wounds in the mind do heal, Harry. With time, and the right medicine. I have been in contact with the British minister in Holland, a reasonable fellow. He is, of course, much impressed by that welcome you have described, which he actually witnessed, and even more so by the account of your remarkable victory, which is spreading itself over the capitals of Europe. It is no very common event, these days, for an English squadron to be destroyed. Indeed, I can say that it is a unique event in my lifetime. Both your name and John Paul’s have become famous. Tell me, did he really shout, ‘I have not yet begun to fight’?

  ‘Indeed he did.’

  ‘A remarkable fellow. But I am digressing. I was able to point out to His Majesty’s Ambassador what a sad blow it would be to England’s already tarnished reputation were the mother and sister, and brother, of Harry McGann to be executed, or even transported. The world would have to interpret that as an act of brutish revenge, unworthy of any nation claiming to be civilised.’

  ‘Ben!’ Harry sat up and seized his hands. ‘So they are to be pardoned. Indeed, I believe they have already been set free.’

  ‘To go where?’

  ‘Now that I cannot say for sure. I would expect them to return to Tramore. Harry …’ he pointed at his friend. ‘They will be safe there, and with the inn, able to sustain themselves until this war is done. It can only end in our victory, now, I promise you. There is even talk of Holland and Spain coming in on our side — they all have long scores to settle with Great Britain, and your victory has inspired them to feel this may be the hour. You must be patient. For you to attempt to return to Ireland would be to endanger them all over again, and perhaps even cause them to be re-arrested.’

  Harry finished his wine, got up, and walked to the window, moving slowly and painfully; but he was a lot stronger than he had been even a week ago. ‘And of course,’ he said, ‘I am still under arrest, am I not?’

  ‘Stuff and nonsense. As American Minister to France, I have dismissed the charges. Nor would John have pressed them. You know that he has already returned to America?’

  ‘Yes.’ Harry turned back to look at him. ‘I am enormously grateful to you, Ben. More than I can ever hope to put into words. You are the truest friend a man ever had. Once I had supposed that of another. Now …’ he shrugged.

  Franklin nodded. ‘He is a man of strange contrasts, I’ll agree. Perhaps greatness is ever so. And he is a great man, Harry. A born leader of men.’

  Harry gave a bitter smile. ‘I would dispute that.’

  ‘Well, then a born fighting seaman.’

  ‘Now that is true enough. It is a pity he cannot spend his entire life at sea, fighting one long battle.’

  Franklin frowned. ‘You sound still angry with him.’

  ‘Angry with him? Do you suppose I can ever forgive him for the way he treated Elizabeth, after she had risked her honour, her very life, to save me?’

  Franklin shook his head. ‘Now there I cannot help you, Harry. Nor am I sure I would if I could. There are rules of conduct, rules of behaviour, rules of God, perhaps, which any of us breaks at his peril. There are many of us, myself included, who would like to honour Elizabeth Steyne for helping you, for the sake of an old friendship. There is no one who could condone your seeking to elope with her, and even less her decision to accompany you. She is another man’s wife, Harry. Adultery may be all the fashion, but as you learned here in France, it must be conducted to society’s rules, or the whole fabric of society would crumble to the ground. She made the decision to marry Steyne, and she is bound to abide by it. As are you.’

  ‘And if I tell you that I will never do so? That I will seek her out and regain her, no matter what?’

  Franklin shrugged. ‘That is up to you, Harry. But you will find little sympathy in any quarter. My dear boy, can you not forget her? She may have saved your life, but in many ways she has been your evil genius. Look, I have letters here, from Catherine Falloux, desperate to be again held in your arms. Harry …’ he sighed as he gazed at Harry’s expression. ‘You will not see her?’

  ‘No. Never again.’

  ‘All because of this Elizabeth. She must be a very rare bird.’

  ‘The rarest, Ben. But there is more. Can you imagine what her husband will do to her, when he returns from his tour of duty, and learns the truth?’

  ‘We must hope for the best. But Harry … you are still an officer in the Continental Navy, bound by the oath you
took, and bound too, I would like to feel sure, by your sense of loyalty to our cause and our people. Any further attempt to open contact with Lady Steyne would have to be regarded as a grave dereliction of duty, at least until the war is ended. And if I have no doubts of our ultimate victory, I still see a very long road to be travelled before that glorious day dawns. But there is even more than that for you to consider. Because your road will not end there. Your deeds have set the world alight, and inspired our people with the belief that we can match the best at sea. Thus you are now, and forever, identified with the Navy. And should adorn it for the rest of your active life. But this navy, Harry … you must know as well as I that it has at present no substance. Do you know the only warship in the world at this moment actually rated better than a sloop and flying the Stars and Stripes? The Alliance frigate, on which you will sail from Nantes to Boston.’

  Harry frowned. ‘Not under Landais, I will not.’

  ‘Well, that matter is being resolved, to be sure,’ Franklin agreed. ‘The important point for you to remember is that it is to men like you that we must turn to convince Congress that money spent on the Navy is money well spent. There has been nothing but a chapter of disasters so far. I do not speak of Nassau. Giving Hopkins command there was terrible error. But out of it there came at least four names to inspire confidence. Well, Barry has been named captain, but has no ship. Biddle … you have heard of poor Biddle?’

  ‘He was a fine officer. I know no details.’

  ‘He was given command of the second frigate to be commissioned, the Randolph, and undertook commerce destruction in the West Indies. He did well too, until he encountered heavier British metal off Barbados. Even then I understand he was giving as good as he got when the Randolph blew up. No one can ever know what happened, but presumably a shot struck her magazine. Thus Biddle. And the Randolph. Next the Ranger; she struck heavy weather returning across the Atlantic, perhaps she was not handled with the skill that John Paul or yourself would have provided, and is virtually a wreck. The Bonhomme Richard is at the bottom of the North Sea. As I say, there is nothing left, save the Alliance. And you and John Paul, heroes. There is talk of building new ships for you to command. Congress is all enthusiastic. You and John Paul are to appear before them, you know, to be congratulated. They dream of the pair of you taking another ship to sea to terrorise the English.’ He paused, gazing at his friend.