“M. Cadoudal, do you need me to say anything to the captain?”
“Absolutely not. Your loyalty would be called to question for not having told him the moment you knew of me. I carry a paper that will say all I need. I am most distressed to show it, but if I must …. I expect they will carry me to England, rather than allow me to take this news back to France, but I am not a combatant and should suffer no ill. I thank you for your concern, but we’d best get on.”
“Aye, Sir. To Captain Cotton’s cabin, then.”
“Amazing,” said Neville as they stepped across from Sans Pareil to Majestic. “A British ship in proper order. I’d wager she even smells proper, but we can’t tell for all that smoke. How quickly you forget.”
The contrast of the two ships was astounding. While the Sans Pareil was a devastated hulk strewn with the most disgusting things imaginable, the Majestic was as neat and tidy as any Britannic ship ever was. No blood or dead bodies, cannons still ready for action with her decks swabbed and rigging intact.
He heard the familiar chime of seven bells in the forenoon watch. It struck him hard – not in the mind or heart, but in the stomach. It’s almost dinnertime, and I’ve not had breakfast.
He bid the sentry knock on the door and then shook Georges’ hand. “Good luck, Sir,” he said, and turned to go.
“Wait there, Mr. Burton. That’s you, yes?” came the familiar voice of Captain Troubridge as the door was opened.
“Aye, aye, Sir. Burton here.”
“Excellent. Pass word to Lieutenant Froste and the others that we will take the Sans Pareil back to England. I’ll join you shortly.”
With a proper “Aye, aye, Sir,” he returned to the Sans Pareil in search of Lt. Froste – and breakfast. His stomach tightened again with the sight of the mess that was Sans Pareil, but began making his way over and around obstacles to join Lt. Froste on the quarterdeck.
The sun glinted off a blade by his foot, reminding Neville that he ought to be carrying a weapon.
What’s this, then, he wondered, picking up the blade. A short sword. It’s very similar to Dad’s, except this on the hilt. The sword boasted an elegant gold fleur-de-lis as the pommel. This was probably a French midshipman’s. I wonder what’s become of him.
Neville slid the dirk into his belt and stepped up to the quarterdeck; there he knuckled his forehead to Froste and the two Majestic lieutenants with whom he was talking.
Lt. Froste said, “Hello, Mr. Burton. We cannot leave dead men or their parts aboard. They are being pushed over the side there, you see?” He pointed to the ports on the free side of the ship. “The wounded are being taken below. I think about half the living French who are not caring for their wounded have been sent to the foredeck. They are under marine guard. The other half has been moved to the foredeck of Majestic. We’ll sort them all later.”
A broadside blasted out from the Royal George into the French Républicainne, or possibly the Scipion, less than a half mile away. Neville instinctively ducked from the noise of it, though the danger was not close at hand. The latter ship had apparently drifted down upon the former two that were in close combat aft of them. Smoke billowed and blew off downwind.
Neville stood back up and asked, “Lieutenant Froste, Sir, if you please. May I have a word?”
“Yes, go ahead, Mr. Burton.”
“Captain says we will be taking command of this ship and returning it to England. He says to pass word to the others, Sir.”
“Verily, Mr. Burton? Wait here a minute,” said Froste with a small smile.
“Thank you, lieutenants,” Froste continued to his counterparts. “We will be glad of your assistance. I think we are in control here for the moment, if you can manage those prisoners and we can send some men for dinner. Would your doctor prefer to use your sickbay or ours? I’m not sure what we have here.”
“We shall request his attention directly,” one said, and they left.
“Your carpenter as well,” Froste said as they turned. “We will need him for certain. We have only one of our carpenter’s mates with us.”
“Look, Lieutenant Froste,” exclaimed Neville, pointing northwest. “It looks like they’re ….”
Another blast.
“… leaving the battle. Is there a glass about?”
Several French ships had detached themselves and were sailing off to the north.
“Here’s one. It looks undamaged,” said Neville.
He studied the group with the glass steadied on the leeward rail. “Long yellow and black stripe is ‘retreat’, I’d say. Haven’t seen it before. Sorry, Sir.”
“Very well. Here’s that doctor, I think. Take him below to the sickbay. See if you can find their carpenter.” “Aye, aye, Sir.”
Neville, Tripp, and Froste took a few minutes at the end of the first dog watch to view the surreal battle scene.
“It seems to be over,” said Froste. We can see it all now; the smoke cloud has drifted to leeward.”
“I count eleven dismasted, Lieutenant Tripp,” said Neville. “Some are ours.”
“Seven prizes, I think,” said Tripp.
“Aye, Vengeur du Peuple is given up to sink. She is listing badly.” Most of her company are swimming. Alfred, Culloden, and the cutter HMS Rattler have their boats working to save men in the water. You can see them with the big glass.”
“Aye, it’s certain we’ve won,” said Froste, “but, for the best I can see, we have only eleven of our thirty-four ships of the line that don’t need some sort of assistance. That’s a hard way to win a battle!”
“We have Mr. Tillman, Mr. Baxter, Mr. Graesson, and all our officers, thank God, to do their normal duties. We also have our cook, the carpenter’s mate, and the doctor’s assistant. We’ll have them serve acting promotions.
“Lieutenant Tripp and Acting Lieutenant Colson, take Mr. Burton and Mr. Watson here. Divide the men we have into two temporary watches; sort them as best you can by rating, and begin repairs. We’ve borrowed Mr. Poole, Majestic’s carpenter. We’ll be sailing as large as we can. There will be no topgallants or royals at all, and even the topmasts for rigging topsails will have to wait until we are under way. Some semblance of foretopmast can be attempted, if you find time, in order that we might be able to rig the jib and foretopmast staysails. We won’t have enough men to handle much more than that, anyway.
“Mr. O’Hanlan, assist Mr. Graesson’s party to repair that mess at the steering so we can do without the relieving tackle.
“Mr. Tillman, get me a report on stores and depth in the hold as soon as you can.”
“Lieutenant McLay and Mr. Baxter, see to the prisoner exchanges,” Froste ordered.
“Come with me, Lieutenant Froste,” said Captain Troubridge. “We need to inspect Captain Courand’s cabin for any intelligence we might find. We must also begin writing our reports. The Admiral will demand them immediately.”
11 - “Sans Pareil, the Prize”
Much better now, Sir,” reported Frost to Troubridge just before noon the next day. “Most of the rubble has been cut away. We’ve piled what spars and rigging could be saved on deck. Mr. Poole has got the mast stumps scarfed, and they’re working on the mast sections already. I’m quite pleased with their progress. Vengeur has sunk, by the way.”
“Mr. Poole?”
“Majestic’s carpenter, Sir.”
“Oh, yes. Very well. Get a party to go ‘round the decks with axes and chop away these blasted splinter-ends. We don’t need jack tar falling on one and impaling himself.”
“The dead are cleared or buried, and the worst of the living wounded Frenchmen have gone aboard Majestic. If they can be cared for here by their countrymen, they’ll stay there. We’ll have Dr. Mills’ assistant and Majestic’s, too.
“Prisoners have been exchanged for English seamen from several ships, including the Majestic. We’ll call a muster by divisions after dinner to see and count what men we have.”
“Is that it, Lieutenant Froste?”
“A
ll I can think of now, aye.”
“I find nothing of value in the captain’s papers, except those charts there,” said Troubridge, indicating a pile of them on the floor. “Bloody Nielly may have taken it all with him when he set his flag elsewhere.
“Fredericks,” he yelled, since that man had been among those carried along. “Is there any decent food available on this hulk?”
“If there is, I haven’t found it yet. Mr. Burton reports a signal, Sir.”
“Lord! We may have to beg food for the passage home. At least I won’t be burdened with that Captain Courand. Pass word for Mr. Tillman, and send Mr. Burton in.”
Fredericks left, and the sentry waved Neville in. This was Neville’s first view of the captain’s cabin on an eighty-gun ship, and this one was French. The room was quite different from Castor’s. Much bigger, was the first impression, with frilly French woodwork. It was not completely a cabin at this point. Some screens had been assembled across the forward end of it, but it had been cleared for action and not fully restored. It was filled with much more light from the large stern gallery – or partial stern gallery. The larboard quarter-gallery had only bits of glass at the corners, the rest having been removed by either the collision or a cannonball. There were pieces of wood everywhere, from splinters to large chunks of wood.
“Sir, signal from flag: Send reports and despatches. Also, prepare to sail – last dog watch.”
“Today?”
“Aye, Sir, today.”
Troubridge let out a low whistling sound between his teeth. “Send ‘acknowledge’,” he answered, slumping very slightly forward.
“Aye, Sir. I have a special request from Mr. Watson.” No one would dare ask a captain such a question in normal situations but, after what they had been through, Troubridge simply said, “Yes?”
“His father is aboard the frigate Pegasus. He would send a personal letter.”
“Tell him to have it with Lieutenant Froste in an hour.”
“Aye, aye, Sir. Thank you, Sir,” said Neville with more cheer than he thought he could display. He turned to Lt. Froste, pulling Watson’s quickly scribbled letter out of his coat.
“Here ‘tis, Sir.” He handed it to Lt. Froste, who said “Take your French and find a man who knows where they take the captain’s things when they clear for action. Get them up here.”
Two bells chimed in the first dog watch.
“Lieutenant Froste, I have received written orders from Lord Howe for command of this ship. Summon the men aft. I must read myself in.”
“There it is, Sir,” said Neville to Lt. Froste. “Howe’s signal to sail.”
“That’ll make the ceremony short,” said the captain. “Cast off from Majestic, Mr. Tillman.”
The two ships swung free of each other but, while Majestic lowered her topsails, Sans Pareil simply drifted loose for the next fifteen minutes while the men shuffled aft and Troubridge read his orders.
Troubridge’s reading concluded with an extemporaneous comment, “We are going home, men. Maybe later than we had hoped, and in a vessel much worse for wear, but we are going.” He concluded with a short seaman’s prayer for a safe passage. It was followed by a throaty cheer.
“Look at them,” said Froste. “I must stop myself short of pronouncing disparaging remarks on those captains, but somehow those few ships there managed to remain completely out of the action. See? They are sheeting their topsails and turning smartly for home like it is a parade. I might say the same of Majestic had she not come to our aid.
“Ho, ho, look now. That Lord Howe is a bit of all right, I’d say. Queen Charlotte’s signal is up ordering them to keep station with this ragtag fleet we’re in.”
The severely damaged Achilles, Northumberland, Defence, Bellerophon, Sans Pareil, Juste, America, Tonnant, and even the Queen Charlotte herself, swung sluggishly. Most had at least one mast gone and were only able to raise courses.
“I would wager there’s more to it than Howe’s displeasure about their lack of fighting,” interjected the captain. “He knows not to leave his prizes and damaged vessels behind and take the chance that they might fall prey to a reorganized French squadron.”
“There goes Pegasus, Daniel,” Neville commented. “I’d say she’s been sent ahead with word of all this. Sorry, but no letter came.”
“She has a bone in her teeth, she does. I hope me dad has got the letter.”
“We will do well to arrive Spithead without trouble from the men,” Lt. Tripp murmured to Neville and Watson in four days’ time.
“Most of them are about exhausted. I had mine working most of the night to get the masts standing and new rigging rove. Your watch needs to get the sails on. The waisters must be put at chopping or sawing away all this jagged wood. If we weren’t headed home, I’d worry.”
“We must do what we can with what we’ve got,” said Froste. You know we’ve scarcely enough good men from the Castor to sail this cumbersome thing home. The French are unwilling, of course, and whatever unhappy souls we were given by other British vessels are not much better.”
“There’s more,” said Neville. “The French stores of food are quite poor. We begged some English biscuit and pork from Majestic and others, but they themselves suffered from the lack of anything fresh. The men grumble about having only wine and no beer or good English grog, and there is no tobacco to be had.”
“Mr. Graesson pricked the chart at halfway home this morning,” said Froste. “Be sure the men know that. Thoughts of seeing England again and getting some fresh stores aboard should improve morale. We’ve got jury topmasts up now, same as others in their squadron. Our daily sailing distance has improved, and we can tell them we’ve decided not to complete any further rigging beyond that.
“There will be punishment again tomorrow, though, for petty crimes of shirking duty or back-talking officers. That won’t help.”
“Excuse me, Sir,” said George Baxter, holding a folded paper out to Neville.
“Thank you, Mr. Baxter. Where’s this from, then?”
“French prisoner, Sir. Said you knew ‘im and ‘ees written it in English.”
Opening the paper, he read,
My Dear Friend Mr. Burton,
I have been aboard this last week, but chose to remain in custody below. I am told I will be allowed to walk about the ship, as you were when she was French, but I do not wish to call the attention of the French officers to our meeting. If you but agree, I will ask you to deliver a letter to our mutual friend in London.
Please let Mr. Baxter know your pleasure.
Most respectfully, Georges
“Please tell the gentleman I would welcome his conversation, Mr. Baxter.”
“Very good, Sir.”
The very next day, Georges caught Neville walking toward the foredeck with his morning burnt-toast coffee.
“Good morning, Georges. I did not know you were still aboard before your note yesterday.”
“Good morning. So I would expect, but here I am. I think I would be unwise to make much of a show of being friendly with the English. The French officers having nothing better to do than observe. Here is the letter,” he said quietly, sliding it along the rail to Neville. “Please carry it to the Admiralty, the moment you are allowed leave.” Neville slipped it into his coat without looking at it.
“Once we are in England, I am sure they will carry me off with the French officers, but have no fear for me. I will be released as a non-combatant civilian after a month or two. I wish you my best, and hope we have the pleasure to meet again someday.”
“Me as well, Mr. Cadoudal.”
With that, they shook hands, and Georges walked away. They saw each other frequently after that, but only for such casual greetings as the French and English officers gave one another.
“That’s the Isle of Wight there, Mr. Graesson, or I’m a dullard,” said Neville.
“Aye, it is, Mr. Burton. First land we’ve seen since Newfoundland, unless you count the hazy view of
Cape Clear, Ireland. I’m pleased to see green and not white.”
“Ten days from the battle. Not a bad run for a disabled ship.”
The endless green of England gathered rapidly into view after that, and spread wide around the anchorage.
“What’s this, then?” queried Lt. Tripp as they followed a guard boat into Spithead on twelfth June. The rest of the fleet has gone off there.”
“Not all, Lieutenant Tripp,” said the captain. “We’re one of the ‘questionable vessels’ headed for a special anchorage. The other prizes are with us, you see? They’re signaling us to drop here.”
“Back sails, Mr. Graesson. Loose anchor, Mr. Tillman.” Lt. Froste repeated the captain’s orders, resulting in a splash forward. The Sans Pareil, already head to wind, continued a very short distance further before stopping short and sliding backward. Months at sea ended on a Thursday in June of 1794 with a light jerk at the anchor cable’s end.
12 - “Whitehall Revisited”
“What would you say to a pint of beer?” Neville asked.
“It’s not even noon, Burton,” scoffed O’Hanlan.
“The sun has crossed over the yardarm somewhere, my friend, and I’m thirsty. Besides, we have just been to the Clerk of the Cheque for a month’s half-pay. How about this one, the Keppel’s Head?”
“I’m not sure I want a drink from the head,” retorted O’Hanlan, chuckling.
It was warm and noisy inside the pub, but not so busy that they couldn’t find a table and quickly wave down a waitress.
“We’re to be back in a month, they said,” remarked Aiden.
“Only if you want the rest of your pay,” said Daniel. “What do you think of the news that Castor’s been retaken?”
“I think it’s brilliant, of course, except that we won’t be paid off. I wonder what will happen to Captain Troubridge.”
“We’ll hear soon enough, I’m sure. Do you suppose we’ll be sent back into Castor, though?”
The Glorious First Of June (Neville Burton: Worlds Apart Book 1) Page 18
