“I can see just fine, Mr. Colson,” replied Troubridge. “Clear for Action, but don’t beat to quarters. It may be some time ….”
Castors began rigging splinter nettings and hoses to pumps, removing the bulkheads of the captain’s quarters, removing gun tompions and sanding the decks but, for now, the great guns remained behind closed ports.
“Mr. Graesson, let’s see if she’ll hold the loo’rd stuns’ls.”
Castor soon ran on her fastest point of sail, east of southeast, with the wind across her starboard quarter at an angle that would fill all the fore-and-aft sails, as well as the square sails. The larboard studding sails were filled and serving, and nothing had yet carried away. The log line spun out to reveal a glorious fourteen, which was confirmed by the spray flying wide from the bows.
“Are we not losing the weather gage with this maneuver, Lieutenant Tripp?” asked Neville quietly.
“Aye, we are, Mr. Burton,” he answered, “What else would you have us do? Monarch and most of the convoy are off there to the east, carrying all sail they can. Our purpose is to protect the convoy, or at least as many of them as we can. It will certainly not be possible for all of us to slip by. If the French follow us and not the group with Monarch, there may be that many more saved.”
“I suppose it may be a strategy that works. I see only four of them coming for us.”
“Aye, but they may be too late. We shall be away downwind. It will be a chase, of course, but the odds may improve if only one of them is fast enough to catch us. Those two that went off for Monarch must be of similar size to engage her and, therefore, probably not so fast. They may not be able to catch most of our fleet.
“Another, that small corvette, five points aft, there, see, is turning south. I’ll wager she is a messenger. God forbid there is an even larger fleet awaiting us.”
“Look again,” observed Neville. “Two of these four are no longer coming at us. They are making for the convoy.”
“Your glass, if you please. Yes, just two frigates follow us, or one might be larger; forty guns or so? We may have a fight, yet. Ho, ho!”
“Get a twelve-pounder up here at the stern, Mr. Tillman,” commanded Lt. Froste. “We’ve been running south and east all afternoon with these buggers following, but they’re not within cannon range yet. We may have some target practice soon, though.”
The hands were piped to supper and given their grog, and that added to the general mood of excitement amongst the men.
“Do we see a sail anywhere else, doctor?” queried Goode on the taffrail after the commotion of rigging the gun there was finished. This time of day, they held their mugs of grog and squinted with watering eyes into the wind behind the ship.
“No, not a one. Not the convoy or Monarch. Nor any of the French, other than these two dark things that pursue us, intent on our destruction, no doubt. Are they closer, do you think, than after dinner?”
“A tad, gentlemen,” responded the captain, stopping his pacing when he overheard them. Nothing was afoot presently, so he had time to talk. “This forward one may be the slightest trifle faster than we are, even when more cautious. She has no stuns’ls abroad, while we chance carrying away some spar in a gust of wind. If that should happen, she would have us, but we draw those ships further from our convoy with every passing minute. Once the sun is down, we can try to give them the dodge or take the weather gage from them for a fight in the morning. I am afraid it’s cold mutton for now.”
“Mr. Baxter,” began Lt. Tripp, “after hammocks are piped down, pass word for all to be quiet and show no lights. That includes no smoking above decks.” It was unlikely their followers could hear anything from upwind, but they could follow a light.
“This night is dark, ain’t it, Daniel,” commented Neville just after Baxter’s mate called ‘All’s well’ at two bells in the evening watch.
“Avast that caterwalling!” growled Baxter’s voice at the sentinel in the darkness just below in the waist. No howling about the ship tonight. Go give the officer on watch your report quiet-like. While you’re there, tell the quartermaster to stop ringing that damned bell.”
“Yeah, ‘tis,” Daniel replied to Neville. “I would have thought we could see more by the stars, even with no moon up on such a clear day.”
“Ah-ha, gentlemen,” said Lt. Froste. “There you are. Get the stuns’ls off her, and prepare to haul wind as close as she’ll bear in about a half glass. All quiet as mice, now,” he said, tapping his index finger on the rail for emphasis. “Make sure they know anyone makes noise will answer to the captain.”
“Do you think they can see us at all, Mr. Goode?” asked Dr. Mills. They were back at the taffrail again with snifters of brandy from the purser’s private store, having come up to take some air and satisfy their curiosity.
“I can’t see them, at all, at all, in this darkness, though I know they must be there,” Dr. Mills replied.
The captain, a good ten paces away, gave a low-voiced order that was carried down into the waist and repeated forward, and the entire ship, which had slowed noticeably with the stowing of the studding sails, began to heel more and more to the labors of men at the braces and sheets and the winding of the helm ropes. Pressure of wind on sails was producing acceleration, accompanied by a marked increase in the slope of the deck and the noise of water along the ship’s side.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” said the captain. His sudden appearance beside them caused both to start, and Mr. Goode to spill a few drops of brandy on his coat.
“This business of sneaking about in the dark makes one a trifle jumpy, doesn’t it, Captain? What are we about now?” he asked, just as the entire ship rolled firmly to larboard and the bows dropped into a large wave trough.
The two brandy drinkers grabbed for the rail with their free hands, and the captain answered calmly, still standing as though he were home by the fire. “We shall see if the French are on their toes. We’ll bear off south. If they don’t smoke it, we should either have the weather gage by morning or be gone from their sight. If we see them in the morning, we’ll have a fight.”
Castor held her helm as carefully as they could, close to the wind, until the first glow of morning began to dim the few visible stars in the east. To their great dismay, their pursuers appeared to the north.
“One of those captains either took a great chance that Troubridge would make this move, or he was able to see something of us,” said Froste to Tripp and the midshipmen gathered at the taffrail. “He would have needed only one glimpse after we turned south to smoke our trick. They have hauled wind with us, but cautiously, and fallen a bit aft. Go for the captain, Mr. Watson.”
Troubridge’s head appeared just then at the after companion and, taking in the situation almost immediately, he turned forward and boomed out, “All hands! Beat to Quarters!” To Lt. Froste he said, “No time for breakfast. We’ll be in the thick of it in a half hour.”
The usual great commotion ensued. No pretense was made for quiet. The drums made their noise. Chain slings to secure the yards clanked their way up the masts, hammock nettings were secured, boats were sent over the side to be towed, ports were hauled up, and cannons rumbled out.
“There’s still a small chance of gaining the weather gage, Lieutenant Froste,” said Troubridge, “but there’s a little time. Come along; let us inspect the gun crews.”
The men seemed ready. The gun crews were in shirtsleeves rather than stripped to the waist, owing to the cold weather, and each had a kerchief tied round his head to keep their hair back and the wadding in their ears. A knot of powder monkeys waited by the mainmast, and the sentries were ready at the companions. Each crew eyed them warily as they walked past, all the way forward to where the ugly carronades squatted on the foredeck. Troubridge turned back to the aft rail of the foredeck above the waist, and steadied himself by reaching up to grab the splinter nettings. In a loud voice he asked, “Are you all ready for the real thing today, lads – not target practice?”
There was no response at first. They turned to look at their captain and first lieutenant, and they looked at each other. There were words between some. With the wads in their ears, many hadn’t heard. Then, most stood or at least sat up, and a cheer broke out; first, from those close by, and then from the whole ship, “Huzzah!”
Loudly, the captain said, “Lieutenant Froste, pass word for Mr. Goode. We haven’t time to serve out breakfast, but we’ve time to splice the main brace.”
“Huzzah!” was heard round the ship a second time. Some men slapped others’ backs.
Froste and Troubridge walked back to the quarterdeck. “Capital idea, Sir. I thank you for that, and I know the men do.”
“Lieutenant Froste,” Troubridge said with Mr. Graesson listening in, “we will wear in front of our enemy; doing so will present our starboard side to them first. We’ll give her a broadside if she is close enough. We must wear before she is too close, or she might prevent us from completing our turn and keep the weather gage and, if that happens, she’ll then be at close range.”
“They might just sail by, Sir.”
“Only if that captain is quite sharp. If he does, and then he wears very close to us, the tables will be turned again; she could rake us from astern. We’ll wear in a half glass and after those grog pots are put away.”
When Troubridge himself bellowed, “Wear ship,” HMS Castor began her turn.
“Bloody hell,” swore Troubridge. The closer of the two enemy ships began to turn as if they had read his mind. It was still too far away for anything but a lucky shot. “This French bugger is a good fighting captain, damn it. Lieutenant Froste, fire the waist twelve-pounders as they bear. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
While thirteen cannon expressed their opinion of the French, Troubridge studied his opponent carefully. The wind whipped the smoke away, providing their first opportunity to see what sort of ships had been following. From great distance or from directly ahead, little more could be discerned than approximate size.
“She’s a forty-gun frigate, sure enough, Captain,” said Froste. “… or maybe forty-four. She’s obviously fast. She’s kept up without spreading her stuns’l’s. If she dared carry them in a lighter breeze, she would catch us easily. We can’t make out the name, yet, though.”
“I got it,” said Neville. “She’s the Patriote.”
“We’ll not escape her by running. We’d better fight well,” said Troubridge. “Did you see where our shots went, anyone?”
“A good cable short, Sir, but no more.”
A gun went off on the Patriote as she turned.
“Stern chaser, Captain; long nine, perhaps. There’s the splash – about half a cable from us.”
The second French ship was farther away, and was not wearing yet. Neither was she able to come up further on the wind to bother Castor. She crossed Castor’s wake well astern, and then wore.
“All sail she will bear, Mr. Graesson. Haul our wind, Lieutenant Froste. Let us see if she is as fast to weather.”
“They are not falling behind, Captain, either of them,” reported Froste in half an hour.
“I see that,” replied Troubridge. “We will not simply sail away from them, so we have two choices ….”
Patriote’s bow chaser popped. Short again, about the same as before.
“Either we spend a long day sailing and shooting potshots at each other and holding the men at their stations, or we make a surprise move and get it over quickly. I say we get it over with. In half a glass, we’ll fall down on the wind, and I wager she will follow like our shadow until we furl courses. We’ll then slow and turn broadside to her as she comes. Ready a full broadside, Lieutenant; all thirteen twelve-pounders on the main deck, plus the two each on quarterdeck and forecastle and, when the range becomes short enough, the three carronades. Be sure we’re fully loaded with langridge, and we shall hope to damage her enough to leave her behind.”
“Aye, aye, Sir. Brilliant.”
The time came. Froste ordered, “Now!”
Castor swung smartly, resuming course for Ireland. This time the Patriote hesitated, but only a few moments, and swung round behind them.
“That’s better,” said Troubridge. “That sets them straight behind us; gives us room to make this last tack.”
As soon as Patriote fell in behind and regained her speed, she began rigging studdingsails.
“So much the better, ho, ho,” laughed Troubridge. “We turn as soon as she has them up.
“Three minutes … two … one …. Now! Hard t’ larboard!”
Neville had moved aft to assist in serving the quarterdeck guns. He felt his heart sinking as the shadows of Patriote’s topgallants in the low morning sun passed over him. They wouldn’t ram us; even if it didn’t sink both ships, the resulting sudden stop would certainly tear every spar out of the Patriote in this wind.
Patriote bore down with all sail aloft. He could see men running on her decks in apparent panic. Slowly she began to turn. She presented her side. Castor was already turning parallel to fire. Her first broadside flew at Patriote’s rigging, low above the deck.
If Patriote could have blasted all her guns, the damage to Castor would have been immense, but the surprise had taken its toll. She fired sporadically. One ball sizzled straight across the quarterdeck, taking a chunk of rail, one spoke off the wheel, and a marine sentry as it passed. The marine tumbled over the forward quarterdeck rail as if he were so much meat at the butcher shop. He fell into the waist below, a large part of his chest and right arm missing. Crashing and screaming was heard below, so at least one ball must have found its way in.
“She must have been loaded with round shot, Captain, not langridge or canister. She expected a duel of long-range cannon fire. Nothing’s carried away.”
“Unfortunately, that looks to be the case aboard Patriote, as well, Lieutenant. See, their mizzen is heavily damaged. They have men at work on that already. We’ve made a few holes in her courses, and the windward stuns’ls have carried away, but she can still sail.
“Downwind, again, now!” ordered Troubridge. “Loose courses.”
Castor swung away downwind again, and the move was mirrored by Patriote. What was worse was that the second French ship, watching the battle, had correctly predicted Castor’s escape path, and was cutting her off.
“She’s within range now, Captain,” said Froste, and she’s certainly not out of commission.”
Patriote’s starboard guns fired, and Castor’s answered, even as the second French vessel approached.
“Strike our colours, Lieutenant Froste,” commanded Captain Troubridge with an ashen, stern face, “before we are bombarded into splinters. Our scheme did not pay.
“Mr. Graesson, loose sheets and furl sails. Put the helm down.”
A quiet gloom descended on the ship. There were cries from the wounded; some seamen were hustling them to the doctor below. When Neville saw the dismembered marine below the quarterdeck rail, his stomach rolled and he vomited overboard. The deck rumbled as the guns were run in. Some order was returning, even as the Patriote sidled alongside and threw grapples that locked the two ships together in an uncomfortable embrace. Prosperine, passed closely by, her crew cheering wildly.
“Mr. Tillman, have the men stack their cutlasses and any other weapons they have.”
Recovering quickly, but still green in the face, Neville responded to Troubridge’s order. He stopped the marine commander. “Lieutenant McLay, captain’s compliments, and will you have your marines stack their muskets by the mainmast and join him on the quarterdeck.” He walked forward and repeated his message to Watson and Colson. “All officers are to deposit their swords in the captain’s cabin and report to the quarterdeck. We are to await the French captain there.”
There was no ceremony when the French captain, M. Trench, and his Lieutenant Bonnet, relieved the captain of his sword. Bonnet spoke very good English, and asked to have all the Castors report to their muster stations. Captai
n Trench offered to Troubridge that he would be allowed to make a final entry for the ninth of May in his log, and Lt. Bonnet announced: “All officers, your sailing master, boatswain, master-at-arms, and twelve additional men are to report to the Patriote now. Twenty-five seamen will go aboard Prosperine. Fifty more, including your officers, will go aboard our flagship when she arrives. We will put our prize crew aboard your ship, and sail her to France. You are all prisoners. Any display of resistance will be dealt with harshly.”
When Neville dropped his father’s dirk on the pile in Troubridge’s cabin, he felt a personal loss he had not expected. I did not know Dad, and this piece of steel seems to be the one solid connection we had. I’ve been proud to wear it – a thing passed on by my father for my protection. They may say we’ll get them back, but I’d wager I’ll never see it again. I’ll never carry even this cold symbol of my father.
The afternoon was taken up making the exchange of ships’ companies and, by evening, they were sailing southeast as passengers and prisoners.
While Neville stood on the gangway watching the Castor sail away with his sword, he overheard Lt. Bonnet: “Captain, you are invited to dine with Captain Trench and me. Please bring Lieutenant Froste.”
This is, indeed, a day of change. I think it will prove to be a day as memorable as the one when Daniel and I boarded Wagstaff’s wagon at home to begin our service in the Navy.
10 - “The First of June”
“This is very strange, ain’t it, Daniel? Did you ever imagine such a thing?”
“No, not ever in life,” he replied. “The food is strange, too. It will take some getting used to. The men will take it hard, I’m sure.”
They were not restricted to the brig, or even their quarters – such as they were – in the forecastle, but permitted the run of the ship, as long as they gave parole and stayed out of the way.
“Look there. Cor! Can you believe it? That’s Ireland, sure.” Daniel exclaimed.
“We’d better take a good look. Might be the only glimpse of friendly land we’ll see the rest of this war,” Colson added glumly. “You can forget your promotions and your shore leave.”
The Glorious First Of June (Neville Burton: Worlds Apart Book 1) Page 15
