The Glorious First Of June (Neville Burton: Worlds Apart Book 1)

by Georges Carrack

  “Let them look,” said Froste. “It may be us sitting here at present, but England will have them out in the end, make no mistake.”

  “Hear, hear,” joined Troubridge. “This news brings me great cheer.”

  “Montagnard could not see much because of the smoke and because they had drifted too far away, but the news is that Villaret cut off those three English ships from the others and drove them away from the main French squadron before he lost the weather gage. That’s when the Frenchies gave their cheer.”

  “Didn’t run far, I suspect,” declared Troubridge.

  “Now Nielly’s squadron carries us along while they join in,” finished Neville.

  “Thank you, lads. It’s a good job you studied that French, after all. I’ll need to thank Dr. Mills, if we ever see him again.”

  “You knew?”

  “Of course, I knew. I’m the captain, after all,” he said with a wink.

  The breeze began to fail on May 30 – not a good omen for a sailing vessel. Sans Pareil sailed due south on decreasing seas in company with Nielly’s flagship, the one-hundred-ten-gun Républicainne, and several other ships, in foggy conditions under a mostly overcast sky.

  “Sail ho!” was called near the end of the afternoon watch. They ghosted slowly into station among the shattered fleet, while a deep mist enveloped them all.

  “So Montagnard must have given good information,” observed Tripp. “This is a French squadron; it must be Villaret’s.”

  “Aye, it is, but even in the failing light, you can see we’ve bashed them hard,” said Froste.

  “Good morning,” exchanged Georges and Neville, after the former caught Neville along the gangway as the sun rose. “They expected to resume battle yesterday, but this mist has stymied them all. If you have time, we might find a place to discuss the news from Montagnard yesterday.”

  Neville had decided to take a chance with Georges, and said simply, “We worked out what the captain said.”

  “But how? The address was entirely in French. Is there someone amongst you who understands the language?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I do. Dr. Mills was an excellent teacher. Is there more we might know?”

  Georges thought for a moment. “Dr. Mills was right to bring you. I expect we shall be thankful for it. Not much more than you can see. The English are there, and we are here. Our officers say it appears this mist will go, and we will have a fine day. If a breeze arises so that we might also maneuver, we might have a battle today. I wish you health, indeed,” he said, and walked away just as Lt. Froste arrived at his right elbow.

  There was no windward or leeward, as there was no wind, but Neville marveled at the gathering of warships. He had lost count at twenty-four French line-of-battle ships. In the distance, there were many more sails visible, though. Most were, undoubtedly, frigates, brigs, corvettes, and some smaller unrated craft, yet there might be more ships of the line amongst them.

  “I am amazed, Lieutenant Froste, that we came to this place yesterday without seeing the English fleet, yet there they are today, just there to the southeast of us.”

  “’Tis truly a wonder, Mr. Burton, but the variability of the ocean leaves me often agog. What had our friend to say?”

  “Beyond the speech we heard day before last, he stated only the obvious; that, if there is wind, there will be a battle today.”

  “There will be wind. I feel it now. It comes from the west of south. We have the weather gage, gentlemen,” remarked Lt. Froste. “By ‘we’, I mean the English. While that should be excellent for our country, I fear it might portend ill for us here on this frog-bound vessel. How I wish I were in one of those and not this.”

  The end of his statement drew chuckles and ‘Hear him’ from his comrades.

  The breeze continued to rise with the morning sun and, within another hour, it was obvious that the English were waiting for nothing. Sans Pareil cleared for action and beat to quarters.

  “Sloppy and slow,” remarked Captain Troubridge.

  “You’d have me in irons for that, Captain,” muttered Froste.

  Traditional lines of battle were forming, even as the English officers aboard the Sans Pareil lined the weather rail of the foredeck. The fog receded, promising a beautiful day.

  “The lines of battle are forming,” announced Lt. Tripp. “It appears we are well in the rear.”

  “No one has come to send us below, but there’s been no breakfast, either,” grumbled Colson. “We would have ‘ad breakfast ‘afore getting into this.”

  “Remember it,” retorted Captain Troubridge himself, taking this unusual opportunity to sermonize. “Jack Tar needs his food to fight on. And, take note,” he added, “you haven’t seen them practice their guns more than twice the whole time we’ve been aboard. The men are surly to their officers, and I think half of them are slow and sloppy untrained landsmen. This is an enemy we can beat.”

  “We should pray we get out of this bucket alive,” quipped Froste.

  The breeze increased, aiding the British to bear down. They were then but a league away and closing.

  “Look, there. We can read Howe’s signals!” exclaimed Neville. He has frigates down the line to repeat them. Brilliant!” exclaimed Neville.

  “Pegasus!” Watson fairly shrieked. “That frigate there! Pegasus!”

  “Why do you scream so, Mr. Watson? What of another frigate? What does she say, Mr. Burton,” queried Froste.

  “Me dad!” began Watson. “He’s on Pegasus, Captain Barlow’s ship,” yelled Watson.

  “So far, it is only ‘continue’,” explained Neville. “Look there. I see Orion and Valiant, and that is the Queen Charlotte. Howe’s flagship. Right there, I’m sure of it,” he continued exuberantly.

  “Are we to have your melodramatic accounting of the entire affair, young sir?” asked Lt. Tripp.

  “No, Sir, sorry. I shall leave you to see for yourselves,” mumbled Neville. “Oh, look there, though. Howe signals ‘attack’. It breaks out down the line. What does it mean, Captain?”

  “For all love, I don’t know. We are only now closing within cannon range.”

  Several of Howe’s ships began to turn toward them. Not all, but some.

  “They turn out of line?” marveled the captain loudly in disbelief.

  O’Hanlan’s young eyes picked out movement forward: “Up in the van, there. Who is that? She has turned and is heading straight for them … and with another,” he said.

  “Defence.” I saw her in Portsmouth once, said Lt. Froste.

  “And Marlborough,” added Tripp.

  “Queen Charlotte turns as well, don’t she; just there, with all sail,” remarked Watson, just as the French third lieutenant stepped up and gestured for them to go below.

  “They all turn into the French line? Unbelievable,” said Troubridge again.

  The French lieutenant motioned again.

  Neville turned to ask the Frenchman for another moment. “Whoa, Captain, lookee here,” he said. “This ship’s come alive.”

  Looking aft, they realized the entire ship was very alive – unnerved, panicked. Every officer, save this lieutenant, was on the quarterdeck.

  A rumbling began from ahead. “Defence is firing, Captain, and the French return it,” said Tripp. “Queen Charlotte has joined.”

  “Don’t know anything more now,” said Frost. “The whole French van is lost in smoke.”

  The sound of cannon seemed suddenly louder and much closer. The French lieutenant tried another approach. He summoned the Marine guard, who came forward, stamped their musket butts on the deck, and came to ‘port arms’.

  “We’d better go, gentlemen. This fellow looks to be more agitated by the moment.”

  “Uh-oh,” said Froste as they began their descent into the main hatch. “Look there. The bows of Royal George and Glory are turning toward us.”

  “Not a good time to be locked below,” said Aiden. “They’ll do their best to sink this ship, and us with it.”


  Arthur Colson let out a low whistle. “What did you expect, Aiden? They’d leave our ship alone?”

  “Then it’s best they don’t know we’re here, isn’t it?” said Captain Troubridge.

  That sounds a patriotic sentiment, thought Neville. The captain will have a court-martial for losing his ship, though, so he may think it better to sink here than lose in court. I, however, do not wish to go down with him.

  They were taken two decks below and locked in their quarters.

  “You can hear it loud enough even down here,” said William Hunt. Again, the group turned to look at him for a moment.

  A few minutes later, William said, “It’s closer now.”

  Sans Pareil’s encounter began a quarter hour later with a great pounding roar. The ship shivered.

  They were no longer speaking in normal voices. They were yelling over the continuous sounds of battle.

  “Larboard broadside,” announced Captain Troubridge.

  Another rumble shivered San Pareil’s timbers more gently. “Guns coming in for reloading,” said Froste.

  “Our broadside now,” said Graesson. “Listen to the shot hitting us. I mean – the British broadside hitting ….”

  He was interrupted by a great crash just forward of their gaol.

  “Our … I mean, San Pareil’s second broadside is sporadic, Captain,” said Tripp.

  “Britain’s fired upon us again,” announced Tillman – although it was unnecessary. They were now covering their ears to lessen the hurt from the extreme noise that echoed within the hull.

  The ship shook violently. “Something’s come down from above,” said Froste. “That’s spars and rigging landing on deck above us here forward.” She shook again. “Same thing, now aft,” Frost yelled. “This ship’s taking a pounding!”

  “The men sound disorganized. You can hear them scream,” began Neville. His words were cut short by the crash of a great thirty-two-pound ball that smashed the forward bulkhead. It was so deadened that it did not throw splinters, but it did come through and landed in their midst. It began to roll.

  “Stop that thing before it breaks one of our legs,” ordered Lt. Tripp. Graesson and Tillman held it in a corner with their feet.

  “Put it in that locker, there,” ordered Tripp.

  “Don’t mean disrespect, Sir, but it’s hot as hell,” said Graesson.

  Captain Troubridge tried to see out through the jagged hole that seemed only to let in more noise. “I can hear muskets now,” he said.

  Anything more was drowned by the pounding of another broadside from some English ship forward.

  “Another bash at us aft, Captain,” yelled Froste.

  “Cor!” yelled Daniel in response to a tremendous crashing of spars and rigging amidships. That was immediately followed by very loud screaming.

  “That sounded as though the mainmast came down, or the main yard, at least,” said Froste.

  “I think the foremast is down, as well,” yelled Watson.

  Several minutes later, the loose ball had cooled enough for Graesson and Tillman to pick it up with coats around their hands; they threw it into the locker. Having accomplished that task, Graesson added, “I don’t think we’re sailing any more, either, so the rigging’s probably all down. I think we’re adrift.”

  The noise aboard Sans Pareil reduced significantly. Now, human noise could be more plainly heard; screams for help and shrieks of pain were audible over that of battle. Cannons nearby were still being fired, but Sans Pareil’s cannons were silent.

  They sat helplessly and waited for yet another half hour. “We can be thankful for one thing,” said Lt. Froste. “We don’t appear to be sinking. The ship has stayed on a level keel, and I don’t hear the pumps at all. The whole thing was so quick that I would deduce that Royal George and Glory – remember they were turning toward us when we came down the hatch – sailed one across our bows and one aft and shot away our masts. We’re adrift now and can neither join the battle nor affect it.”

  “Someone’s chopping now,” said Tillman. “Hear that?”

  “Aye. Clearing rigging, I’d guess,” said Tripp. “They must be trying to find a way to set up some jury rig.”

  Troubridge stood to stretch, apparently tired of stooping to peer out the hole. Halfway into his standing movement, he was thrown to the deck by a powerful shock sent through the ship, accompanied by the cracking sound of huge timbers going to splinters.

  “What the devil?” he queried as he went down.

  “Not our magazine,” stated Lt. McLay. “If it were, we’d already be singing hymns and looking down at all this from above. I would expect to hear the hullabaloo of being boarded any second here. We’ve been rammed by another ship; that’s what that was.”

  “Yeah, here it is,” he continued. They could all hear the tumult of musket shots, cutlasses crashing, and then the report of a swivel gun being fired.

  Then, almost all on-ship noise ceased, save a few inaudible commands being yelled and the waves slapping against the hull. The larger battle continued to rage in the distance.

  “Those are our marines, Sir,” expounded McLay. “Boots, not bare feet. They’re herding the Frenchies forward, sure.”

  Boots were soon heard in the passageway outside their quarters. At long last, they heard the unmistakable sliding of the heavy bar across their door. It opened, and they faced a row of marines with muskets pointed at them.

  “Good morning, Sirs. We’ll come out now, if you please,” said Captain Troubridge. “Please go fetch our seamen from the hold below. You should find about forty of them. Directly, now. Lively!”

  Finding an English naval captain standing before them when they opened the door, the stunned marines stood mute. Troubridge pushed through them, leaving them to face a British Marine lieutenant and two navy lieutenants. Still, they fought for words.

  “It’s all right, corporal,” said McLay. I wouldn’t have expected to find us, either. “You come with me. Let’s have your detail down to release our seamen. Your name and ship, please, if you can manage it.”

  “Corporal Wigham, Sir, HMS Majestic; Captain Cotton, Sir,” at last finding something he could say.

  “Very well, Corporal Wigham. Very pleased to meet you,” he said, extending his hand in a very unmilitary gesture. “We of HMS Castor thank you for our freedom. That was Captain Troubridge. Let’s get to it, shall we? About face. March.”

  “Let’s go up slowly, gentlemen,” suggested Lt. Froste. “They certainly don’t expect to see us, and I don’t want to have my head blown off by some mistaken British guard.”

  Bright sunlight streamed down into the hatchway. Their eyes adjusted slowly, but there was nothing above to see; even before their eyes were above deck, they had confirmation of their suspicions.

  “There’s nothing above decks,” wondered Graesson. “No masts in any direction – sails or rigging either; only a fine blue sky. Completely dismasted, she is; not even a bowsprit.”

  “There goes the captain. He’s headed for Majestic under a marine guard,” observed Froste. I’d better get a move on.”

  Froste hurried off after the captain.

  “I’ll see if I can find one of Majestic’s lieutenants to report to. Maybe I can be of assistance,” said Tripp. Colson followed Tripp.

  Burton looked ‘round on stepping up onto the deck; his stomach tightened at the horrifying scene of utter destruction. Bodies, and parts of them, were everywhere, and the decks ran red slick with blood.

  They must be all French,” said Aiden. There was no scuffle when the Majestics boarded. That swivel gun blast that ended it all must have been fired by an Englishman, too, or there would have been more fighting.”

  “Aye, I agree,” said Neville. “Careful. They’ve sanded, but there’s so much blood that it’s slippery anyway.” Deck, rails, and mast parts were great hunks of splinters. Every flat surface was covered with debris or blood, bile, or excrement. Cannons were upturned.

  �
�Look at all this mess, and hear all the screaming. I don’t see anyone we could help, though.”

  Aiden tried to climb over a yard – maybe the main tops’l yard – across their path, and he heard a breathless squeaky moan. A quick look down caused him to run for the side and vomit overboard. A man’s body was squashed under the yard.

  “There’s not a chance we could lift it, Aiden. It weighs hundreds of pounds. He won’t live,” said Neville.

  Daniel came up behind them.

  Neville said, “Mr. Watson, I suggest you take Mr. O’Hanlan, Mr. Graesson, and Mr. Baxter to help bring our men up here and organize them on the deck. I have an errand I must run, but I’ll come back directly to help you.”

  “Mr. Burton,” said Daniel, using the formal tone in front of the others. “Why do you presume to give me orders? What errand? Oh, never mind. It’s a good idea. I’ll get on with it. See you later.”

  Daniel didn’t have to look far. Their seamen were beginning to straggle up the hatch. Most were struggling with the brightness of day, having spent far more time locked below than the officers had.

  the line of battle. “We can’t see much due to the cloud coming from all that heavy cannon fire; we can’t see the van at all. HMS Montagu is over there in some long-range duel with Neptune. HMS Ramillies, quite curiously, is sailing west, and she doesn’t appear hurt at all.”

  “You, there, halt!” Neville cried out suddenly, seeing a group of officers being guided to the sally port by marines. The two closest turned toward him, but exhibited little regard for this midshipman they did not know, and began to turn away again as Neville attempted to pick his way around a legless man who had spewed bile across his path.

  “Wait there, Marine.”

  “Stand aside, Mr. Midshipman.”

  “No, you stop. That civilian there. I wish to speak with him.”

  “The civilian you say. Fine by us. Not these Frenchies, though. Bring him to the captain’s cabin yourself when you’ve done then, if you please, Sir.”

  Motioning Georges to the side, he said, “Glad to see you alive, Sir.”

  “And you.”