Worth Their Colours (105th Foot. The Prince of Wales Own Wessex Regiment.)

by Martin McDowell

  “Sod this smoke,” and John Davey climbed the rigging to get above the clinging white fog. Once above, he could see down clearly onto the French deck and with his first shot he downed a sailor about to wield an axe against a grapnel line. Others joined him and at last the smoke cleared. Many Privateers were shot as they frantically used their axes, but there were many of them and they were winning the contest. Many Grenadiers had no line to pull and although they joined onto those lines that were left, the gap was too far for the redcoats simply jump and it was not closing.

  Carr’s longboat was rapidly closing with the stern counter of the Bidewell, now only yards from her rudder. He could hear the laboured breathing of his men as they hauled in the last yards of rope, but they needed to get to the bows of the Privateer. There was no time for oars; he had to gamble that they would have enough momentum to run up to the woodwork beneath her bowsprit. To pull anymore on the rope would just take them to the Bidewell.

  “Stop pulling. Take your weapons.”

  The longboat glided around as it’s tiller altered course. The distance closed but they were slowing, finally stopping short, under the Privateer’s bowsprit. Carr stood and grasped the rope that ran from the bow to the “dolphin striker”, a stout rod of metal spearing down from the bowsprit and using all his strength he pulled, then he was joined by others and they reached the complex of woodwork that would take them up to the French forecastle. A face appeared above them, it shouted then was gone, but soon it re-appeared, joined by others and pistols came over the side, but Carr was ready. Ten in the boat were at the “present” and they fired first. The faces disappeared in the white smoke, but one pistol had been fired and the ball took the man next to Carr in the chest. He fell over the side and was gone, leaving his dropped musket upon the gunwhale. Carr seized the musket with it’s bayonet in place, tucked his own unfired pistol into his waistband, then latched onto a convenient piece of woodwork and hauled himself up.

  “Come on!”

  The gap between the ships was not closing. It only needed the last lines to be cut and the Privateer would be free. The Lights were protecting the last few lines but knives were appearing from below the Frenchman’s rail, sawing away from where they were safe. The French Captain had reset the huge driver sail at the stern and, with the good breeze still holding, its massive leverage was taking the Frenchman’s stern away. Lacey, from up on the Bidewell’s Quarterdeck, looked in despair at what seemed to be the defeat of all their efforts, but, as quick as despair rose within him, hope came to take its place. Every headsail on the Bidewell was running up the stays that ran from the foremast to the bowsprit. The ship’s Bosun had gathered as many of his crew as he could see and the Bidewell was spreading her own acreage of canvas, which soon caught the wind and pushed the Bidewell’s bows over towards the Privateer’s stern. More than this, the spread canvas robbed the wind from the Privateer’s driver and the gap began to close, more rapidly, until the two hulls crashed together. O’Hare drew his sword and jumped up onto the rail, steadying himself with the mainmast rigging.

  “Come on, me boys. ‘Tis but a little jump!” and he was over the side and gone, followed by all that were near him. Carravoy saw the figure disappear and waved his own sword as he climbed up.

  “Grenadiers, with me!”

  He was soon copied by Heaviside.

  “No. 3!”

  The redcoats followed them over, like a wave topping a sea wall. Davey looked at Joe.

  “Come on, boy. It’s time to follow the band!”

  Carr was fighting for his life. The Privateer’s forecastle rail was crowded with men, all stabbing with cutlasses and boarding pikes and Carr was just below the rail. All he could do was fend off the blows with the bayonet and musket, he could make no attack of his own. All that was keeping him alive was the accurate shooting from the longboat. A deep cut on his hairline was bleeding into his eyes, the cut made by a cutlass that was in the hand of a Frenchman who had been intending to use it to cleave Carr’s skull in two. Instead it only dropped onto him from the lifeless fingers of the Frenchman when Miles had shot him from below. Carr had looked up helplessly at his assailant when suddenly the Frenchman’s mouth, upper lip, and nose merged into a huge hole with the passage of Miles’ musket ball.

  Others from the longboat were assaulting the forecastle rail further along, but making as little progress as he. He allowed himself to drop lower as he heard Miles below him, “To your left, Sir,” and looked above as Miles ball took another Privateer just under the chin; blood and brains spraying skywards out of the top of his skull as he jerked back out of sight. He ascended again, bayonet before him, and was surprised at no opposition. He drew back the musket ready to make a stab forward, when what appeared above him was a perfectly tailored red coat and an elegant sword.

  “Carr! What the Devil are you doing down there? And don’t you try to stick that thing in me. Ah, I see you’ve gained another hole in your head.”

  “Carravoy! I think I preferred the French. Well, aren’t you going to help me up? Pipe me aboard, or something?”

  Carr threw the musket over the rail then followed it onto the deck. Miles came over just behind.

  “What was that about plunder, Sir?”

  The forecastle was cleared of Frenchmen and was now occupied with Carravoy’s Grenadiers. The main deck below was also full of red coats, many with bayonets levelled at French chests, holding them prisoner, but shouts and the bark of muskets below decks told that the fighting was not yet over.

  Joe and Davey had been ordered down the starboard companionway beneath the quarterdeck. Supported by five others, bayonets forward, they found themselves in a corridor with two cabin doors to each side, ending with another ladder that descended down into the ship. The first three cabins were empty. Davey burst open the fourth to find himself staring into a pistol. He ducked instinctively and the time it took for the hammer to fall and the main charge to fire was just enough to save his life, but the ball ploughed a furrow along the side of his skull. Davey spoke no words, but simply smashed his rifle butt into the man’s face, caving in his cheek and eye socket. Leaving him moaning, they went on, but a shriek told them that someone had used their bayonet. The lead had fallen to Joe, and below the stairs was almost total dark and his eyes were unused to the gloom. He could see little and heard only the sounds of continued combat.

  Robbed of both senses, Joe edged forward, bayonet before him, the barrel of the musket of the man behind over his right shoulder. Eyes were becoming accustomed to the dark and they saw that they were down in the hold, sacks and barrels neatly stored.

  “Madelleine!”

  An Officer had jumped out from a hiding place, sword in one hand, pistol in the other and he was not alone. More than could be easily counted in the dark narrows of the hold had responded to the cry of their ship’s name. The pistol came up, but not quick enough before Joe’s guardian behind fired and the ball took the Frenchman in the chest. Joe fired into the gloom as did others and now the hold was full of smoke. Joe’s group spread across the hold in a defensive line, bayonets before them, expecting a desperate charge onto them along the gangway, but up ahead came renewed firing. All that came out of the murk was one Frenchman, his cutlass raised ready to stab forward, blade beside his right ear. When the thrust came, Joe slid the blade over with his musket and the Frenchman’s momentum took him onto the bayonet of the soldier to Joe’s left. The soldier stamped down to free his bayonet, then they left him choking and moved on further. The sound of fighting ahead had ceased. Davey called out.

  “Up ahead. Who’s there?”

  “3rd Company. Who are you?”

  “Bloody all sorts. Just keep your fingers off your triggers!”

  The ship was theirs. All that remained of the Privateer crew were being herded below deck or being searched prior to imprisonment below, but the combat was still rumbling on between the Ipheion and her Privateer. Smallcombe looked over at what was happening between them. When
her sister ship’s colours came down the second Privateer had two choices, to run off North with the wind behind her, or the other choice was to evade the Ipheion, which she could, and run past, delivering a final broadside. The Bidewell and her prize had swung too far in the wind to be raked, but a broadside into either ship as she passed could do great harm and the prize was the most likely on the quickest route away. She was spreading sail, she knew she was alone and needed now to escape, how and which way remained to be seen. Smallwood ran to the rail of his quarterdeck to hail O’Hare.

  “Major. Get your guns manned and run out. The other Privateer, she may run past. Load chain shot, if you can find it. If you hit her sails she’ll take fright and go.”

  O’Hare ran to the exposed side, gathering men and giving orders. Deakin and Halfway found themselves in charge of the first 24 lb cannon, lashed and tethered against its gunport. Deakin issued his orders to the men he had.

  “Get those lashings off and get the thing further in. You four, we needs gunpowder and something called “chain-shot”. Shouldn’t be hard to recognise. It must be down below somewhere.”

  The lashings were removed and the gun hauled in to give access to the muzzle. The gunpowder arrived in two white bags and also the chain-shot, obvious as two cannon balls linked by a chain. Deakin looked at Halfway.

  “How do you load the bloody thing?”

  “Same as a musket, Ned, only with a damn sight more. Break open a cartridge and use it all to prime that touchhole there. How many charges, do you think?”

  “Stuff in both. First one broke open, second as is, then the shot.”

  This was done, then the gunport hauled up and the gun ran out. The slow match was lit by sparking gunpowder in the firing pan of Halfway’s musket. They looked along the barrel to examine the empty sea. O’Hare climbed the rigging enough to see the Ipheion and her opponent, but he just saw the former. A look North saw the Privateer running for France under a cloud of canvas. The fight was over. O’Hare climbed down onto the nearest gun and sheathed his sword.

  “Now, there’s well done! Well done to you all, thieving gang of fighting villains that ye are. Now, didn’t I say that we’d make them wish that they’d all stayed at home?”

  The cheers and shouts of agreement accompanied him all the way to the French quarterdeck, then he returned to the Bidewell, carrying the several folds of the French ensign. He went over to Lacey.

  “Our first trophy. Sir. Not many Regiments can say they’ve captured a French warship! In a sea action!”

  Lacey took hold of one end, but they still had to share the burden.

  “Take that to the Captain’s cabin. I know just what we’ll do with this once we reach Gibraltar.”

  O’Hare offered his hand and Lacey took it. No words, just a grip of fearsome intensity. Both then looked over to their prize, their moment broken by the sound of cheering. The Ipheion was sailing past, her sailors all in the rigging, cheering for all they were worth. Fallway was up on his own quarterdeck rail, waving his hat. Lacey’s own men were making an enormous din, cheering and shouting in reply. Officers and men, waving muskets and swords, joining with all others who had helped to fight it out, celebrating the relief, and the joy, of still being alive and on the side victorious.

  oOo

  The same day also saw a French defeat, but of a more minor nature. Because of it, Captain Roul Linois lay in the dust of the road, smiting the dry and stony surface in anger and frustration. Around him lay the bodies of several of his company from the 1st Legere, and another behind screamed in agony from an almost severed arm. He rose to his feet, ignoring the now filthy state of his fine Voltigeur uniform to scream obscenities at the figures now disappearing into the scrub and gorse that covered the far side of the valley in which he stood.

  The ambush had been perfect. Stones, rocks and boulders had been dislodged down upon his patrol followed by a musket volley, then a charge down the hillside to inflict as many bayonet and sabre wounds as possible on his confused men as the partisans passed through, before continuing down and away, to cross the stream below and escape up the hillside beyond. The partisans had left three of their number behind, two dead and one soon to be as the French soldiers, besides themselves with anger, stove in his skull with their musket butts. Linois had been sent out to find partisans, but they had found him. He cursed them and he cursed himself. Had he sent them ahead, three scouts would have discovered the ambush, but this was a new kind of warfare and there were lessons yet to be learned, but this, at least, was no longer one.

  oOo

  Chapter Eight

  Laurels and Celebrations

  The gentle swell rose and fell under the five ships as they turned across the wind onto their first Northing course in weeks. Now, at last, before and around them was Mediterranean blue, so different from the washed out blue of the wild Atlantic. Nearest to the shore, were the three transports, in line astern and each crowded with canvas above their blunt and bulky hulls to make the most of the, now favourable, South West wind. Further out, like sheepdogs to three strays, and much more pleasing to the nautical eye, was the Ipheion, tailed by their prize, the Medelline, both now spreading canvas and pulling ahead of their three charges. The Medelline proclaimed her status as a French prize, flying the White Ensign above the French Tricolour from the end of her driver yard at the stern. The Ipheion would lead on, the better to display the prize, and the two warships swooped over right to left, across the intended course of the three transports.

  The Rock of Gibraltar was growing before them, rising out of the heat haze that shimmered on the near horizon that blended with the clean blue of the tranquil sea. As the distance decreased, the white buildings of the town of Gibraltar became clear as details around the Rock’s base and also around the shoreline, like white shells thickly decorating the margins of a child’s finished sandcastle, piled up and abandoned for other pursuits on a high summer’s day. Last to come into view for the watchers on the two lines of vessels were the innumerable masts of the Naval base and the glowering guardian that was The Fortress.

  Deakin and Halfway leaned on the rail of the Bidewell, whilst close to them, Miles, Pike and Davey used the nearby rigging as support. Rushby was closeby, sketching furiously whilst sharing their vantage point. Gibraltar was new to them all, but such sights were most unique to Joe Pike and John Davey, both of whom stood transfixed at the sight of their first foreign shore. As the details of the view appeared before them, it was Tom Miles who broke the silence.

  “What’re the chances of us gettin’ ashore then, there?”

  Deakin fashioned an answer.

  “None, almost nuthin’. We’ll stock up, quick as can be done, then on, to wherever. They won’t like us runnin’ about in a cooped up placed like this. All around is Spain and the Spanish, they’m our enemies,” and to give emphasis he waved his hand at the panorama that formed both the sides and the centre stage of the theatre before them. He pointed to their left.

  “Over there is Algeciras, a Spanish base, which is why we’m comin’ in at such a wide angle. There b’ain’t much room, this place bein’ just about under siege, with the Spanish army crowding up, close as they dare. A battalion our size would fill the place up, on top of all the sailors and citizens.”

  Miles changed the subject. He pointed to the Madelline, now tailing the Ipheion, both ahead and to their left, each adding their casual beauty to the olive green hills and burnt brown mountains, which formed the backdrop behind each picturesque vessel.

  “Captured enemy vessels means prize money, and I’d say that Frencher over there should fetch us a nice sum of coin. I wouldn’t say no to being able to spend it in yon harbour town. If they looks after the matelots, then they’ll look after the likes of us.”

  Again it was Deakin that made an answer.

  “There’s you thinkin’ from the inside of your trousers again, and as for prize money, you can put that outside your head! I’ve been talkin’ to one of our sailors and for
one thing, it takes months before the sum is agreed, and for another, every Tom, Dick, and Harry that was anywhere in sight of the Madelline when we took her, gets a share. Topsails up, as he said, whatever that means. That includes all the lads on the Tanzy and the Llewellyn, besides the crew of the Ipheion. So, I reckons you might just get enough to buy me that drink what you owes me!

  All laughed, whilst Tom Miles scowled. Joe Pike gave his opinion. It had not been missed by those around him, that since the fight on the Madelline, Joe had grown in both confidence and stature, and was now more willing to speak his mind amongst his fellow soldiers.

  “Well, that don’t impress me. That Recruiting Sergeant made me all kinds of promises about booty and seeing new places, and here is one, and you say we’re to stay cooped up on this ship some more. A stretch of my legs around that place would not come amiss at all, certainly not in my case.”

  It was Tom Miles who fashioned the reply that all felt.

  “If you think that the Army’s goin’ to be just like what that Recruitin’ Sergeant told thee, before he put that shillin’ in your drink, then your thinkin’ has turned out to be much more suspect than I’ve thought up till now. If you think he told thee right, then, boy, you needs yer head read!”

  With that Joe Pike was the subject of an outburst of much roughneck behaviour and was pushed and pummelled by all that could reach him, which was all four of his fellow companions, but all accompanied by much laughter. However, events around the harbour regained their attention. They were slowing, sails were being furled above them, and the Ipheion and the Medelline sailed on towards the Naval Base, taking in their sails as if by magic, and both were then warped up against the harbour wall. The three transports dropped anchor in the bay, within long hailing distance of their escort and prize. It wasn’t long before an Admiral’s Barge, so recognised by the Port Admiral’s flag at her stern, left the steps of the Naval Harbour and pulled strongly for the Bidewell. Ensign Rushby was the first to recognise that the Bidewell was its intended destination and he turned to the nearest soldier.