“Two boats, then. One to each end; say the jolly boat attacks first and makes a commotion at the bow, then the bigger launch crew attacks astern. We’ll have to take a pederero because that’s the only way we could control a whole crew.”
“Pederero?” asked Neville.
“That,” answered Verley, pointing. “Another you haven’t heard?”
“Oh. A swivel gun. Yes, capitol idea. I’ll lead the launch boat crew,” he volunteered.
“No, Sir! Can’t have cap’n going off like a bloody marine corporal. Sorry, Sir. I don’t mean disrespect at all, but who’s left here if you go?”
“Who here speaks French?” queried Neville to the group.
No one responded for an awkward moment, of course.
“I do. You need me to go. I can issue orders in French faster than you can wag your hands around in the dark. Lt. Verley, you’ll have command aboard Experiment. Between you and Greaves, I think the ship will be fine in my absence. Lt. Ratshaw, you will take the jolly boat. Lt. Dinman, choose a launch crew for me, if you please. Don’t leave out the marines if they’re the right men. It’s a dark night with only a slim gibbous moon, and that not rising until twelve or one, so plan on setting out at five bells in the evening watch. Have both crews meet in the mess at four bells.”
Captain Burton held his meeting as ordered, providing each boat crew with its specific orders and attack signals. Experiment would enjoy revelry until late, slowly quieting down after they expected the boats to have crossed over the barrier islands.
The boats launched on the side of Experiment least visible from the Comtesse du Provence and began their efforts in the direction of her lights without much regard to quiet.
Neville was acting as coxswain of the launch, and even without rowing, he could feel the sweat trickling down his back. It would be worse for the rowers, who were required to black their faces and wear dark clothing to prevent the sweat on their backs from glistening in the meager light. He fingered the hilt of his sword, thinking that he had better leave the scabbard in the boat to avoid tripping on it during the attack.
“There’s a good spot, I think,” he said as the two boats approached the reef. “We’ll both go through here.”
“Blimey,” the coxswain blurted, “Damn tide’s running strong out of there. Put your backs in it, men. We’ll be in shallow water in a minute. ‘
“Here we are. All out. We’ll push the boats in the shallows.” The hulls scraped on the sand and the water sloshed as they walked, but the noise wasn’t enough to worry them; the noise from Experiment was quite loud.
“We’re lucky it ain’t an hour later, or we’d be carrying.”
“All right,” said Neville on the other side of the little pass, “You remember the plan. We’re off this way, and you go that. Don’t get yourselves between Experiment and the Frenchie.”
The pull of the water rushing to the little passes eased as they rowed farther away from the barrier islands, and the utmost quiet was now necessary. Rowlocks were padded with scraps of cloth and the stroke was slow and measured to avoid ‘catching crabs’. Their plan was to row wide abreast of Comtesse and then slide up to her from the sides, one at each end, on the assumption that the lookouts would be watching the activity aboard Experiment. Assuming they could not see each other, they would wait for five minutes before the jolly boat attack began. If by chance the jolly boat got a glimpse of the launch in place at the stern she could begin her attack immediately, but the launch was ordered to use the jolly boat’s attack as her signal.
Neville could see the bulk of the Comtesse ahead in the gathering starlight. There was no question of her location. She was not hiding. Light shone from her gallery windows, so they could not climb up the very stern. A man dangling in the light from a rope in front of a gallery window would be difficult to miss – either visually or with a pistol. It would have to be one side or the other, at the forward end of the quarterdeck. There were also a few lanterns forward.
The west side, then. If the moon appeared earlier than they estimated, it would light the east side. The launch crept to within ten feet of the hull without a ripple. Neville could hear his men breathing, and he motioned to ship all the oars except one pair. They were five feet away. Several arms reached out to fend off – to avoid the expected ‘thump’ when the launch struck the ship. A light but familiar noise was heard from the bow at the moment their hands touched the hull.
The noise of a grapnel landing might not have been heard by the unsuspecting French, but it sounded like a cannon to the men lurking in the launch. Another grapnel landed, and the quiet clattering of weapons was heard.
Why no response from the French? Neville wondered. He motioned his crew to hold still in the nick of time. The grapnel man in the bow was about to throw. They needed the distraction forward to avoid having the main repulse action against their larger force in the launch. It was crucial that they get the ‘pederero’ up to the rail immediately.
A cry was raised forward, followed by a musket shot and more yelling, and a number of men began running toward the bow. A general melee followed; musket shots and the clanging of sword upon sword began. The grapnel men in the launch heaved two lines as shrieks of pain were emitted forward. Their grapnels would not have been heard over that. The first two launch men clambered easily up the small vessel’s six or seven feet of freeboard, each with ropes attached to the swivel gun, and two more followed at their heels. A shot rang out directly above them, and one of their climbers tipped outward over the rail and dropped headfirst into the launch.
“At ‘em lads!” howled Neville, “At ’em!”
Another shot rang out directly above. Five men were now up the ropes and the swivel gun was being yanked noisily up the side of the Comtesse. Loud scuffling, screams of pain and shouting in both languages, and the clang of steel could now be heard the length of the ship, but surprisingly few musket or pistols shots.
Now breathing hard, Neville was up the side, sword dangling from the strap on his wrist. The swivel gun had been carried up the three steps to the quarterdeck and was being mounted on the rail as his head rose above the gunwale. He dodged a clumsily-thrown pike and swung wildly at a uniform lunging at him from his right. His blade clanged off another, then struck some human part. It didn’t seem as if it could have been fatal even though it caused a great howl from his opponent, and the man turned away from him. No one else in his way, he jumped the five feet to the quarterdeck steps and the three up. He pulled a pistol from his belt, fully expecting to have to fight his way through a crowd at the ship’s command center. His glances across the forward part of the ship as he had come up over the rail had shown him a surprisingly small number of men fighting there, and here on the quarterdeck there was nobody but his two swivel gun crew.
“Pan!” Neville shouted below, and one of his men threw a two-foot metal dish up onto the quarterdeck. He placed it on the forward rail, poured black powder into it from a horn he carried, and lit it with the slow-match that had come up with the swivel gun. He jumped to the side as it gave off its great blinding flash, and then stepped up on the rail by the mainmast and screamed, “Arête! Arête! Surrender!”
At this signal, the Experimentals broke off their engagements, running and tumbling aft to the foot of the quarterdeck beneath the swivel gun, leaving the small crowd of astonished French sailors standing about the deck facing the gun.
Neville repeated, “Arête! Arête! Surrender,” and added, “Déposez vos armes et éloignez-vous d'eux!” (Drop your weapons and back away from them).
A lantern had been hanging on an awning-line between the masts. It had never been extinguished or broken, and it gave an ethereal illumination to the now-quiet scene. It became so quiet that Neville half expected to hear the crickets begin to chirp. The moon, such a sliver as it was, began creeping up above the far headland that was Cuba, adding its light to the deck. One of the French sailors collapsed, the crash of his sword sounding unrealistically loud. He
landed full on his face, apparently unconscious. No blood showed.
One of his mates tossed his sword loudly to the side, went to him and felt the side of his neck. “Il n'est pas mort (He is not dead),” the man pronounced.
The remainder of the French began stepping forward to drop their swords, muskets, pikes, axes and pistols in a great pile at center deck, and then back in a group by the foremast.
“Hold them there,” Neville commanded, then leaping off the quarterdeck and running for the captain’s cabin with his weapons ready. He tore open the door and leaped inside, only to find it pitch black. His skin prickled at the remembrance of going below into the hold of the Angelique, where he had made his first kill in a dark place like this.
“Daweson,” he screamed. Sgt. Daweson had been second in command of the jolly boat. It was still so quiet above that he was easily heard, but his yell had also caused something to start in the cabin. Human or animal? A rat? A pet parrot?
“Aye, cap’n?” responded Daweson.
“Bring a light!”
During the attack, the breeze had gone very soft, as it often does at night, and backed ‘round from north to west. The ship had turned almost imperceptibly minute after minute until the moon suddenly appeared in the corner of a gallery window. That was bad luck for the man who was immediately partially silhouetted. The tables had turned. Now Neville was in the dark, at least until Daweson stepped in behind him with a lantern. The man moved. Neville saw the flicker, raised his pistol and pulled the trigger. It went off a split second after his opponent’s. He felt the whiz of a bullet pass his ear the instant before Daweson’s lantern exploded, sending burning drops of oil about the room. The unknown assailant screamed, and the cabin was dark again. There was the thump of something heavy hitting the floor. His body or something else? Light erupted behind him, where a uniform coat on a chair began burning.
The gunshots brought two more Experimentals with pistols and lanterns, determined to save their captain, and their lights found him standing quietly to the side of the door, sword in hand, waiting to be able to see something. The men had the fire out in moments.
“I’m all right, Sir,” said Daweson. “Only a nick on me hand and maybe a little burn on me face, but that’s all.”
“Right, then. Who’s this?”
The man who had been hiding in the cabin was alive, but sat cross-legged on the floor holding his shoulder. Blood trickled though his fingers.
Neville leaned down to inquire, “Qui est vous? (Who are you?)”
“Je suis le premier lieutenant, (I am the first lieutenant,)” he answered tersely, “Wischard,” and added nothing more.
“Et, où est le capitain? (Where is the captain?)”
“Je pense que vous lui tira (I think you shot him),” said the lieutenant tiredly.
Neville turned to Daweson, “Ask if there is a man in a captain’s uniform up there.”
“There is a man at the rail here in uniform,” someone yelled in. “He must ‘ave been the one who shot Arnold; the one who fell into the launch, eh? He got his, then.”
Neville leaned back to Lt. Wischard, “Where are the rest of your men?” he questioned further in French. “This cannot possibly be all you have. You could not work the ship.”
Wischard hesitated for what seemed a full minute and took a deep breath before answering, “Many have died, and most of the remaining men have gone with the privateers. They could not take this ship because of the resolve of our captain and the loyalty of those men above – and because those others hold French letters of marque which could get them into even more trouble if the truth be found out.”
“Died? Died of what?” Now he was happy that the conversation was in French. Depending on this answer, it might cause a panic.
“Scurvy and the bloody flux, mostly.”
In a very low voice he asked, “Ague?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
Neville straightened up and turned to his men. “Sgt. Daweson, go above and count the Frenchies, then sort ‘em by whether they look healthy or not. If any look to be petty officers or the like, put ‘em on one side and the men on t’other. You should have three groups when you’re done.
“Lt. Ratshaw, pick four men to return to Experiment with a note I’ll give you in ten minutes. Take ‘em below first and have a look ‘round the stores while I write the note and look ‘round in here.”
His first action was to make a quick search for the ship’s log and any papers or charts. The cabin was in proper order, as if the captain had not much else to do, so everything Neville was looking for was in the captain’s desk drawer and a chart cabinet on the starboard bulkhead. Several charts appeared to be relatively new. Maybe the French are more advanced in these waters than we are, he considered. That would agree with what I’ve been told about them having control of these seas.
A quill and paper were in the desk as well, so he wrote:
Experiment, at sea September 12, 1690
Lieutenant V. Verley,
You are ordered to go aboard the Comtesse du Provence and read yourself in as prize captain for the return of the vessel to Port Royal.
Choose thirty of our company to work the ship, as well as those fewe French prisoners you think useful.
Take with you more lime juice than would normally be needed. There is scurvy aboard. Please consult MacRead on the bloody flux. We believe they have no ague.
Under the authority given me by the Governor of Jamaica,
Capt. Nev. Burton
Lt. Ratshaw returned in ten minutes. “There are but fifteen men,” he reported in an astounded tone, “and some warrant officer - I think maybe a master’s mate, who’s got a bad cut on his arm, and some sort of midshipman, maybe, in addition to your lieutenant.”
“Master’s mate must ‘ave been the one went after me. Here’s the note. I’m having Lt. Verley take this ship and you’ll act as my first on Experiment for the remainder of this voyage. What have you found below?”
“She is extremely light on supplies, Sir. Without they found more men to work the ship, I think they’d have starved in a month. That’s probably what the pirates had in mind – come back in a month and claim they found her deserted. Plenty o’ shot, though, for the eighteen minions, but precious little powder.”
“That makes sense. The shot’s maybe too big for the pirates’ little guns, but they can all use the powder. Go on, then. Tell Lt. Verley he’ll need food. We have a couple days to sort it all before the sloops return.”
Two days later most of the exchanging of men and supplies was complete. Arthur, the man who had been shot by the French captain, was dead of either a pistol ball or a broken neck, as was one of the jolly boat crew who had been shot dead as he came over the rail. Two other Englishmen had bad cuts and one more a bullet wound in the leg. Two French sailors had been cut down with cutlasses, and one shot dead. Of the fifteen French remaining, only twelve were uninjured. It was decided to employ six on each frigate.
In only two days, the lime juice – and a little more food - was having an effect. The men’s teeth were no longer falling out and their strength was better.
Captain Burton stood at the starboard rail of the quarterdeck. He had stopped his pacing to speak with Lt. Ratshaw and Mr. Greaves about waiting no longer when the cry of ‘Sail ho’ wafted down from above.
“Four sail to the west, Sir. Ours and one more.”
Lord Aaron, Laurel and Camelot were riding at sea anchor offshore of Experiment four hours later, with their captains and Lord Aaron’s first mate aboard Experiment for supper and a meeting.
They had drunk the Loyal Toast and had eaten the starter – another excellent dish of dabs and wing of skate from fishing the nearby reef – when Neville could take the suspense no longer.
“Tell me your story, gentlemen. How do you come by this prize?”
“Not a long story, Captain,” said Laurel’s master. “The two privateers who sailed west went ‘round and came out the e
ast entrance to the great lagoon and made to run for it. We were too fast for them, and with a few shots we managed to slow them enough for Camelot and then Lord Aaron to arrive. We had a great battle, sank one of the buggers, and captured this other one – the Sprightly. First Mate Yarrow of the Lord Aaron is now acting as Prize Master of the Sprightly. The good news is that we caught several men off the Comtesse as well as a large share of her powder there. The bad news is that Sprightly’s company are terrible sickly like them from Comtesse.”
“Sprightly is a small cutter, and reasonably fast, but not a great naval threat. I say we take most of her men and stores, particularly the powder, exchange them amongst our fleet for a few good English souls, and send her to run along with Comtesse for Port Royal as fast as they can fly. What say you?” Neville was being as diplomatic as he knew how to be, knowing he was operating with a largely voluntary force. On this, however, there was no disagreement voiced. First Mate Yarrow was given his orders to complete the exchanges following supper, and the fleet would wait there no longer.
Experiment hove her anchor short after the last exchange boat left side in the morning. They had allowed one more night, but Beagle had not returned. Neville waited while the boat reached Camelot, and once he saw her swayed up, he gave the order to raise anchor. It was an easy anchorage to leave. A north breeze blew Experiment gently offshore while the jib went up and the bow came around to point at Caymano Chico. The foretopsail sheeted home and the spanker unfurled smartly, and they were away to the east. The Frenchmen who agreed to serve rather than spend the time in the hot, stuffy hold showed that they would do nicely acting as landsmen.
The hands had just finished sweeping off sand after holystoning. Worth’s cry of “Sail Ho!” from the foretop could be heard above the slap of swabs drying the decks. The bell chimed seven. Experiment had sailed parallel to the barrier islands in order to have the east entrance to the lagoon visible before departing the area.
A Journal of The Experiment at Jamaica (The Neville Burton 'Worlds Apart' Series Book 2) Page 14
