by David McDine
From his experience of observing its use in the heat of battle, he knew the important thing in action was not to go off guard by lifting your arm to make a cutlass blow. The key was to rush, cutlass straight out, watching for the chance to make a thrust, the slightest penetration spelling death for the opponent.
So it was his preferred cutting weapon. He regarded his standard naval officer’s sword as more of an ornament and symbol of office, and far less effective than a cutlass on an enemy quarterdeck.
‘Guard your left like this,’ Anson grunted as he demonstrated. ‘Now, thrust and parry. Keep well apart and copy me …’
He wanted no accidental wounds resulting from over-enthusiasm flaring into real combat in the heat of the moment. A newspaper report he had read of an affray between two bodies of Essex Fencibles, whose passions had run away with them while training on a beach with pikes, was fresh in his mind.
As he resumed an attacking stance the session was interrupted by a loud crack – unmistakeably a cannon being fired out at sea off to the west towards Seagate.
33
Anson shouldered his cutlass and stared, left hand shielding his eyes. It was misty, but no telescope was necessary. A puff of smoke was still rising from a two-masted, square-rigged vessel, fitted with an apparently new suit of sails, that had evidently put a shot across the bows of a small coaster, now at its mercy.
Training had come to a sudden halt as, to a man, the fencibles craned to watch the drama being played out below.
Anson weighed up the situation instantly. The two-masted vessel was a bark, unmistakeably French-built and a privateer, taking advantage of the mist to mount a sneak raid out of one of the minor Pas de Calais or Normandy harbours and intent on grabbing small coastal craft from under the noses of the English while the Royal Navy was busy blockading major French ports.
Immediate action was necessary if they were to prevent the coaster being boarded. Anson called Hoover to send a runner to Sampson Marsh with a message telling him to bring the battery guns into action against the privateer as soon as he could fetch powder and shot from the store.
As the messenger ran off, Anson shouted after him: ‘Tell Marsh we’re going to row out and attack the Frenchman. He’s only to fire if he can get a clear shot at him!’
He glanced seaward and could clearly see a boat being lowered from the privateer and men scrambling down into it.
Yelling at Hoover to follow him, he doubled away, followed by a score of the fencibles clutching the weapons they had been practising with – and praying that if they did get a chance to attack the Frogs his men would remember enough of their training to make a good fist of it.
By the time he and his best runners reached the harbour, the privateer’s boat was alongside the coaster and grappling hooks were being thrown aboard.
Fagg had already joined the first gunboat to supervise rowing practise and a shout from shore warned him what was happening. He quickly registered what needed to be done and brought the boat round, yelling to the oarsmen to head for the coaster.
As more of his men arrived at the harbour, breathing heavily from their run, Anson urged them into the second gunboat. Tom Marsh appeared with his pony and three more fencibles clinging to the trap. The cripple jumped down, grabbed his crutches and hopped and pushed his way on board the second boat shouting: ‘Make way for a proper rower!’ And within minutes they were on their way, joining the wake of Fagg’s gunboat.
*
Out at sea, the coaster’s skipper stood on deck watching helplessly. He had been creeping westward down the coast with his mixed cargo when the privateer first appeared out of the mist.
The shot across his bows had forced him to strike immediately. He was unarmed, facing a heavily-armed enemy, and a glance at the crowd on its deck told him that his seven-man crew was outnumbered by maybe ten to one. His greatest concern was to protect his wife, hiding terrified in their little cabin below, and he looked anxiously to see if he could identify an officer in the prize crew so that he could throw himself on his mercy.
Under the protection of the privateer’s guns, the French rowers and the half dozen armed men crouching between them were shouting to one another excitedly as they neared the coaster. They would have a free hand to plunder it before ejecting the crew and sailing the prize for the French coast.
The grappling hooks found a grip, and as the first of the Frenchmen hauled themselves on board, the coaster’s skipper held up his hands in surrender, shouting to his crew to do the same.
They stood together, arms aloft, and were shoved against the mainmast by men armed with muskets and cutlasses. More of the enemy clambered aboard and began raising the sails, while two disappeared below to search for anyone hiding – and for loot.
The coaster’s master watched them with growing alarm. He shouted near hysterically at the boarders: ‘My wife, my wife – don’t let them harm my wife!’ But in the feverish activity to get the coaster under way, no notice was taken of him, and then a scream was heard above the din. They had found her.
*
The first gunboat, under Fagg’s command, was already closing the distance to the coaster and the second followed 50 yards behind with Anson urging his oarsmen to row like fury.
Up at the battery, Sampson Marsh had taken an axe to the locked store door and was frantically urging his men to pull out powder and shot.
In the second gunboat, Anson could see that Fagg was sensibly approaching the coaster from the side that faced away from the privateer, so shielding his boat from the French guns.
Sails were being run up in the coaster and the French prize crew’s excited shouts could now be clearly heard by the crews of the approaching gunboats.
Anson weighed up the situation. This was meant to be a dry training day and there was no powder or shot for the carronades or the muskets that a few of the men were carrying.
All the boat crews had were a few half pikes and cutlasses between them. If they tried to board the coaster with only one grappling hook and not enough weaponry they would likely be shot and hacked to pieces before even one of them could set foot on the captured deck.
Crucially too, how long would it be before the prize crew fired small arms at them – and before the privateer manoeuvred into a position from which its crew could bring cannon to bear on the gunboats and blow them right out of the water?
As a pessimistic farmer might say, Anson could never have brought his pigs to a worse market.
Clearly, his only hope was that Marsh could obtain powder and shot and fire on the privateer in the next few minutes. But, he agonised, this was extremely unlikely, bearing in mind that the ramshackle teams of trainee gunners might easily miss their targets altogether – or hit the gunboats rather than the Frenchmen.
*
On board the privateer, the French captain stood, hands on hips, monitoring the situation with some satisfaction. Another fat prize represented worthwhile pickings and, with the approaching gunboats hidden from his view by the coaster, there appeared to be no sign of retaliation from the English.
Through the developing mist, he could still see his prize crew hoisting the coaster’s sails ready to get under way and head for the French coast while he continued his hunting cruise. Conditions could not be better for a predator, and he had enough extra crewmen for a couple more reasonably-sized prizes.
*
Contrasted with the calm aboard the privateer, there was feverish activity at the Bayle battery. But above the excited shouts of his gunners, Marsh’s voice could be heard, loud and clear. ‘Number one and number two guns! No need to swab. Take your time and get it right: charge in, ram home, wads in, ram home, ball, ram, spike the cartridge, run out … wait!’
Loading completed, he ran to the first gun, directing the crew to point it at the privateer’s sails and rigging.
It took more agonising seconds before he was satisfied and hollered: ‘It’s for real this time boys! Number one gun, stand clear, slow match … fir
e!’
The gun erupted and lurched back as the shot swished away only to land harmlessly in the sea 20 yards or so short of the privateer, sending a plume of spray into the air.
Taken by surprise at this unexpected development, the French captain looked up towards the battery, but the thickening mist obscured his view. A quick risk assessment reassured him. Judging from their first attempt, these were inexperienced gunners who had probably never fired in anger before, and the drifting mist would give him and the prize crew time enough to make good their escape.
Up at the battery, Marsh had also marked the fall of shot and turned to the second gun crew. ‘Quickly now, elevate and point further to larboard!’ And, seeing the inexperienced gun captain dither, he shouted: ‘Left, you clown, left!’
They struggled the gun into position and Marsh fussed around it, adjusting the aim at the mist-shrouded, ghost-like privateer – only just remembering to shout over his shoulder at the first gun-crew: ‘Swab, swab!’
His shout galvanised the stunned gunners back into action to begin the reloading sequence that had been drilled into them.
Satisfied at last that the second gun was pointing as true as he could get it, he shielded his ears with his hands and shouted: ‘Number two gun. Stand clear, slow match … fire!’
As the first gunboat neared the captured coaster, Fagg saw to his horror that some of the Frenchmen armed with muskets were using their bayonets to prod the crew to the side, forcing them to drop into the water or be run through.
Following behind and gaining slowly on his first gunboat, Anson could also see what was happening and cursed. Now they would have drowning seamen to rescue as well as trying to board the coaster.
The rest of the prize crew on the coaster’s deck had now made ready to sail, but the roar of the number two gun from the Bayle battery followed by the whoosh of the ball changed everything in an instant.
Simultaneous cries of alarm from the prize crew and those back on board the privateer, and of delight from the gunners and watchers ashore, greeted an extraordinary sight. The shot had missed the French cutter’s mainmast, aft, by only a few feet but had torn a gaping hole in the main topsail.
For the Frenchmen, triumph was on the point of turning into disaster. It was blindingly obvious that, mist or no mist, the shore battery had got the range and if the privateer did not make good its escape forthwith it could be disabled or worse within a few minutes.
And now that the English crew had been pitched overboard there was nothing to stop the shore battery targeting the coaster, too.
The French captain shouted his orders and as all hands struggled to get the privateer under way, a red maroon climbed skywards recalling the prize crew.
From up on the heights the number one gun barked again, but again missed the privateer, although this time by only a few yards.
The maroon had been unnecessary. Expecting to come under fire from the shore battery at any moment themselves, and seeing the gunboats nearing them, clearly intent on boarding, the prize crew were panicking and rushing to abandon the coaster, frantically leaping down into their longboat moored alongside, nearest the privateer.
At the same time, Fagg’s gunboat reached the larboard side of the coaster and Anson, now less than 20 yards behind, could see that the priority was to rescue the frantic crewmen desperately clinging to one another in the water rather than board the abandoned vessel. He cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted to Fagg: ‘Get those men! I’ll board the coaster.’
Fagg waved acknowledgment and signalled his crew to pull alongside the men in the water.
Gun number two fired from the battery, but the mist was drifting in and this time the fall of shot could not be observed.
With the fleeing prize crew now halfway to the privateer on his blind side, Anson’s gunboat bumped alongside the coaster. Hobbs, his coxswain, desperately swung the grapnel to secure it for boarding.
Still in the water, the coaster’s master was shouting near hysterically: ‘My wife! Save my wife!’
Two of the coaster’s crew were already safe aboard Fagg’s gunboat, soaked and retching. Hands were reaching out to the rest. But Anson could see no woman among them, unless the master’s wife was exceptionally ugly and bearded. She must still be on board – below deck.
The increasing swell was forcing the only loosely-secured gunboat to bang against the side of the coaster and then yaw away. Anson looked for the cutlass he had brought on board, but could not see it among the jumble of oars and men. He forced his way to the prow and when the boat next slammed into the coaster’s side he leapt for the deck, sprawling heavily as he landed.
For a moment he was totally vulnerable, but as he drew his sword he realised the deck was deserted and the coaster was his. Away to starboard he could see the prize crew’s longboat had reached the safety of the privateer and the Frenchmen were swarming back on board.
A crackle of small arms fire came from the privateer, but the balls sang well wide and ceased when the bark of another cannon up at the Bayle battery reminded the Frenchmen it was time to make good their escape.
As he stood alone, sword in hand and hatless on the coaster’s rolling deck wondering what he should do next, Anson heard a scream from below. The master’s wife!
He ran to the small covered wheelhouse, which was deserted and showed signs of attempted looting, with the drawer on the chart table hanging half-open and papers strewn around.
A low moaning ‘No, no, no …’ was coming from the open hatch that led below. Quietly and carefully he descended with his back to the laddered steps, sword in hand, his eyes becoming accustomed to the half light.
Aft was the cargo hold, with crewmen’s hammocks slung above the sacks and boxes. For’ard was an open door to the only cabin. From it came the diffused light of a candle lantern, and the moaning: ‘No, no, please no …’
He ducked into the low doorway and was confronted with a scene that sparked a wave of anger. A woman, no doubt the master’s wife, was sprawled on the bunk bed. Her dress had been pulled up to her waist and ripped open to expose her breasts, and she was struggling helplessly, her arms pinioned from behind by a heavily-bearded Frenchman.
Another man, bald-pated but with long greasy side hair, knelt before her, his britches round his ankles and pulling at her legs, snarling: ‘Ouvrez salope, ouvrez!’
Ignoring the long-bladed knife he held at her throat, his victim was moaning and jerking her head from side to side to avoid his mouth as he tried to force her legs apart. Beside her on the bunk lay a boarding axe dropped by one of her attackers in his hurry to get to grips with the woman.
The Frenchmen had clearly gone below looking for loot, found something more to their taste, and become so engrossed in their lust that they were oblivious to the fact that the rest of the prize crew had abandoned the coaster – and that it was being retaken.
Incensed at what was happening to the woman, Anson leapt forward and whacked the flat of his sword across the would-be rapist’s buttocks, raising a livid wheal. With an agonised howl, the man withdrew from her and turned, shirt undone, britches still round his ankles and knife in hand, to face whoever had interrupted his sport.
Enraged, he sprang at the naval officer and grappled with him, grabbing Anson’s sword arm with his free hand and stabbing with the other. In the confined space the knife was the more effective weapon and Anson felt a sharp pain in his right arm as the Frenchman pierced his sleeve.
Staggering back into the doorway, he fell to his knees, desperately scrabbling for his sword which had fallen on the deck. The Frenchman’s spittle-covered beard parted in a grin of savage triumph, revealing blackened teeth and exuding laboured pants of breath foul enough to stupefy a rat. Small wonder the woman had been so desperately trying to avoid his mouth.
Anson fixed the man with a cold stare, willing him not to notice that his searching fingers had found the sword. Knowing he was literally staring death in the face unless he could raise the weapon,
he made a supreme effort of willpower, closing his fist around the hilt and angling the blade upwards as the Frenchman rushed him. Impeded by the britches round his ankles, the would-be rapist tripped and fell forward grunting as he impaled his bare chest on the sword.
The man fell sideways, clutching at the blade buried in his chest. But before the now disarmed Anson could rise, the second attacker let go of the woman, flung her aside and pulled his own knife.
Still on his knees holding his wounded arm, Anson was at the mercy of his new adversary, again staring death in the face. Somewhat optimistically in the circumstances, he shouted at the man in French to surrender. ‘Rendez-vous, mes amis sont ici!’
But this was greeted with a contemptuous snort and the Frenchman closed with him, flicking his knife forward to nick Anson’s cheek before seeking a vulnerable point to stab.
Anson tried weaving aside, but there was no escape from the long wicked blade and his attacker sneered at him, confident that the Englishman was dead meat. But the slight pause before he delivered the killer blow was the man’s downfall.
There was a sudden movement behind him and, instead of the expected stabbing blow, Anson heard a crunch of bone and the Frenchman’s head bounced to one side, blood and brains splattering his body. The knife clattered to the deck from his nerveless fingers and a figure rose behind the dead man as his body slumped slowly sideways. It was the master’s wife, boarding axe held two-handed and rising to strike another blow.
Anson lifted his left arm and shook his head. She stared back at him, clearly traumatised by the course of events in the short time since the privateer’s prize crew had taken the coaster.
She looked down at the man with his head stoved in and hefted the axe, but Anson told her, softly but firmly: ‘There’s no need, dear lady. He’s already well and truly dead. They’re both dead, or very soon will be.’
