Neville’s understanding of his situation was very rapidly developing. He could see the blood and hear pained screaming, gunfire, and fierce shouting. He could feel the cannon fire vibrating the deck beneath him and the jostling of men, and he heard the falling rigging. He had now been personally involved in the taking of another life. He now fully comprehended what would happen if he were not wholly committed to self-preservation. At this point, defeating the enemy was a distant second thought. He thrust his sword forward, right hand still in the blood on the deck, plunging it upward into the man’s ribs. He was aware as it went that it – and his arm – were already covered in dark red blood. The man stopped short and fell heavily with no sound other than a rush of wind from his lungs. Neville pulled his hanger back without further thoughts of the gore, looking warily for the next threat.
The Pareils were forward and moving as a group; most had passed him while he was down, pushing the enemy toward the foredeck. The smell of smoke hit his nostrils. Not cannon smoke, but wood smoke. Glancing aft, he could see small flames. It’s a good job the mizzen has gone over, he thought, or there might be fire in the rigging by now.
“You, there,” he bellowed at a seaman he recognized as one of the boatswain’s mates. “Help me get a party to fight that fire. Our lieutenants are for’rd, and they’ve got the Frenchies cornered for now. We’ve won, but we need to get this fire out.”
“Aye, Sir, let’s keep this prize afloat,” the mate yelled back, turning to grab the next man he saw and stop another.
“You, Mr. Aubrey, go back for buckets. Tell the marines to bring the fire engine – or at least the hoses, and any man they can spare.”
A French officer was lifting himself from the deck where he had apparently been unconscious. Neville did not know their rank insignias and could not have told even if he did, for the officer was hatless and coatless. Blood from his head covered his collar and was running down his face. He smeared it away with his hand as he stood, leaning shakily against the main bits.
Speaking French, Neville yelled to him: “We must fight your fire. Order your men to help.”
The man stared at him dully, and he began to raise his sword, though not briskly. Neville took the risk to step closer, assuming the officer was still groggy, and swung his sword hard to knock the man’s weapon from his hand. Grabbing the hilt, he cut the lanyard, taking the sword. With his right hand flat on the man’s chest, he said again in French, as calmly as he could, “Fight the fire. Gather your men.”
The Frenchman looked round for any of his men still aft. One was advancing cautiously with a pike.
“Arête,” he yelled. “Drop the pike and find a bucket. Get others. We must save our ship.”
Aubrey came up behind him, with ten men carrying buckets and pulling a hose from the Sans Pareil. Sergeant Harden marched a group of five marines behind them.
“Sergeant, have your marines form a line there to guard the French firefighters. Keep your weapons at port arms.”
“Monsieur, choose one man to bring weapons forward to here,” he commanded in French, pointing to an open space by the bits.
A small figure darted forward along the starboard rail; the officer waved him to come and, when arrived, passed the message. A boy, whose name was given as Michelle, hurried forward. Pointing to Michelle, Neville turned to the marines, “Do not shoot this boy when he comes with weapons. Each time he comes, give him a couple buckets.”
In French again, he said to Michelle, “You are safe. Take these buckets to your mates, and bring weapons here,” sending him off with a push.
“Mr. Aubrey, go tell them to pump.”
Cannon fire continued from other ships nearby. HMS Russell and Mucius were firing at each other, as were HMS Colossus and Wattignies. Aboard Sans Pareil and Formidable, it was much quieter. There was still much yelling forward and aft, with an occasional gunshot or sword clash, but no gunpowder explosions, large or small.
Lt. Marston strode aft from the foredeck, bellowing as he came toward Neville, “What’s going on here, Mr. Burton? Why are these French not with the others? Have these marines do their duty.” The hose filled then, with a hissing sound.
“Sir, I have them fighting the fire. We’ve rigged the hose here, see? The marines are guarding, and that French boy there is bringing their weapons here,” he said, pointing to a pile of cutlasses, pistols, and muskets by the bits. Here he comes now with more weapons and the officer in charge. He is careful not to appear threatening.”
Neville asked (in French) “How does it go?”
The officer replied in French, “It is less, Monsieur. We have it stopped on the upper deck, but not on the lower deck yet. The rudder controls are burned through.”
“Merci, Monsieur.”
“Michelle. Continue. Vuit, vuit!”
Marston looked at him with surprise. “All in French, eh? You’re the right man for this, then. Very good. Carry on. I’ll send Lieutenant Dinning with a crew to take over.”
“Sir,” he called out as Marston was about to depart. “They say the rudder lines are burned though.”
Marston studied him for a moment. “Thank you, Mr. Burton. I’ll send someone. Wait, whose sword is that?” indicating the one still clutched in Neville’s right hand.
“His, Sir,” gesturing to the bloody French officer, who now had a kerchief tied round his head.
“Ask him if he is the captain of this ship.”
“The what? Aye, Sir.”
“Yes, I am,” interrupted the officer in English. “Monsieur L’Capitain Linois. I have surrendered to this gallant officer and sent a man to strike our colours. His actions have saved our ship and, perhaps, yours since you are tied alongside.”
Marston gave him a short bow, reached out to take his sword from Neville’s hand, and said to him, “Sir, will you follow me, please?”
“One more thing, Sir,” said Neville.
“Yes?” responded Marston, a colder edge to his voice.
“The Royal George, there. I’ve just noticed. She flies a signal to us, Sir: ‘Pursue Tigre.’ ”
“What in bloody?-”
“Mr. Burton, continue here until Lieutenant Dinning arrives.”
The firefighting party worked for the next quarter hour with the marines standing guard and Michelle bringing the odd weapon forward. The hose pulsed with each thrust of the pump below, and the smoke changed from black to white and became less. Neville climbed up onto Formidable’s quarterdeck, requiring Aubrey to walk with him as a messenger. Wreckage from the mizzen, as well as two bodies, covered the deck. Men were there hacking at the mizzen shrouds with axes to free the mast which floated in the water alongside.
“This explains the thumping noise, Mr. Aubrey,” he mused, looking over the rail to where the broken mast was threatening to punch a hole with each passing wave.
Arriving at the wheel, he gave it a try. It turned about one-third of a rotation, then stuck, and then would not turn in either direction.
Forward, he could see several parties of Frenchmen being marched by marines across the decks from Formidable to Sans Pareil, and he remembered exactly where they were going. One party of about thirty English seamen was scrambling aboard the Formidable amidships, and another twenty were coming aft with Lt. Dinning in the lead.
“How did you get yourself into this?” asked Dinning when he reached the quarterdeck.
“Just a misfortune of war, I think, Sir.”
“What do we have?”
“French fire-fighting party on the decks below, Sir. I don’t know the progress of it. Steering’s jammed. Mizzen’s cut away now,” he answered, gesturing to the three sweating Frenchmen just standing up straight from their chopping duties to leeward; one was rubbing his back.
“Mr. Aubrey, there, get this information back to Lieutenant Marston.”
Twenty minutes later, after they had sorted out who were the French doctor, cook, carpenter, and a lieutenant – one Lieutenant Morel – to be in charge of th
e French seamen, they watched the Sans Pareil sail away.
“My orders are to have you assist me in stopping the fire, and getting this prize cleaned up as best we can so we can sail her home whenever Admiral Hood lets us go. We have about an ‘undred of these French aboard, plus the fifty men that came aboard with me and your five marines. Post marines at the swivel guns fore and aft, and let’s call the French into the waist for a ‘par-lay’ once that fire’s done. Captain presumed she couldn’t sail away with the rudder jammed, so we’ll rig relieving tackles and wait for the Sans Pareil to come back with a real prize crew.”
Lt. Dinning and Neville sent the wounded below, had the worst of the rubble cleared, and arranged a dinner meal of some unknown substance resembling burgoo and biscuit. I remember this stuff, he thought. The men won’t like it.
Still, the battle raged not far away. Thirteen ships were more or less engaged, including His Britannic Majesty’s ships Queen Charlotte, Royal George, Colossus, London, and Sans Pareil. They were opposed by the French ships Tigre, Alexandre, Peuple Souverain, Mucius, Redoutable, Wattignies, and Nestor. Other French ships had escaped downwind. They were now visible only as shrinking topsails in the distance. The rest of Lord Bridport’s squadron hadn’t caught them.
“Look to Queen Charlotte over there, Mr. Burton,” said Dinning at one point mid-afternoon. “She appears to be having difficulties. Her sails have the look of a poor man’s laundry, and her rigging is cut something awful. There must be thirty men aloft at work on repairs, and she has sailed out of the action, at least for the moment.”
“Aye, Sir, look off t’other side. Sans Pareil may have let Tigre get away. I think they’re turning to come back.
Formidable simply rolled on the waves and worked on her repairs. Neville was a mess; he had taken a minute to wash the worst of the blood from his shirt, but since then he had inspected the burned decks with Dinning. They both come topside quite sooty and smelling of charcoal.
“We’re going to be at this all night, I’d wager. The fire is out, but it will take some time to remove the worst of the burned wood. Let’s discuss an evening meal and watch routines with Lieutenant Morel.”
About the middle of the first dog watch, Neville stepped up on the quarterdeck to get some air. “Look here, Lieutenant Dinning,” called Neville. “Queen Charlotte is going to be in the thick of it in a few minutes. The Alexandre is coming down on her, and both Peuple and Tigre will soon be close enough to fire. London might be of some help, and the Sans Pareil is with her.”
The rails of Formidable were crowded with seamen as the battle renewed. Cannon roared their thunder, and all but London and Sans Pareil vanished behind a cloud of smoke. They, too, became engulfed in the melee which lasted almost an hour before the cannon fire became more sporadic, and Peuple Souverain sailed out of the cloud with Queen Charlotte in pursuit
“Alexandre and Tigre have struck their colours!”
15 - “Welcome to France”
Dusk came too soon for Admiral Hood. He signaled all ships to discontinue their chase actions and return to the squadron. It was calm enough that he called his captains to the flag.
Formidable was grappled alongside Sans Pareil again, making final crew changes before the expected orders for Formidable to be sailed to England, and Sans Pareil to return to the Channel Fleet’s blockade duty. In the gathering gloom, Neville could see the captain’s gig returning from the Royal George. Soon thereafter, he heard pipes on the far side of the ship for Seymour’s arrival. Moments later, a messenger arrived to summon him to the captain’s cabin.
“Enter,” shouted Captain Seymour when Neville arrived. He stepped into the brightly lit cabin, stopping momentarily for the blackness to go from his vision.
“Midshipman Burton, as requested, Sir,” he said, suddenly realizing he was not only without his hat, but coatless and wearing a blood-stained and carbon-blacked shirt and saying, “I apologize for my appearance, Sir,” and knuckling his forehead.
“Next time I’ll expect better,” Seymour said gruffly. “Perhaps you might carry your sea chest with you next time you board an enemy vessel,” he added in a surprisingly patronizing tone, accompanied by a quickly passing small smile indicating that he thought his own joke amusing.
Neville’s puzzled look was followed by general muted laughter from a small group that had already assembled there: Marston, Dinning, Goss, Gadge of the Marines, and the French Captain, Linois.
“Unfortunately, Lieutenant Dinning, we do not have much time for frivolity. You will serve as commander for the short passage from here to Portsmouth. Lieutenant Goss will serve as your first lieutenant, and Mr. Burton here as your acting second lieutenant. You will take two of the boatswain’s mates, Master’s Mate Gilson, Midshipman Duckett, two squads of marines, and eighty more of our company. I am very sorry to tell you, if you have not already guessed it, that I intend to turn Lieutenant Summers before the mast for his incompetence, so he is of no help to any of us. French Lieutenant Morel will serve as your liaison to the French crewmen aboard through Mr. Burton. Have their carpenter put as much to rights as you can, and you have one hour to be ready to cast off grapples. I will have your orders written fair by then.”
With a chorus of, “Aye, aye, Sirs,” the lieutenants turned to leave.
“Oh, Mr. Burton,” the captain said with very atypical wit. “Don’t forget your sea chest this time.”
About the time Neville figured that he should be climbing into his cot, Formidable’s forecourse set with a loud bang, causing a shiver through the ship. “They’re all different, every one; every ship has her own feel,” he remembered someone telling him. The main topsail was next. He didn’t feel the jib at all.
“That’s it,” said Dinning. “No more ‘till morning. We won’t make much progress tonight, but we’ll be moving. Master’s Mate Gilson, you have the watch while we go below to read the captain’s orders.”
They were not using the captain’s cabin, as much as they would have wished, because of the extent of damage by fire and the strong smell of charcoal. With the partial crew they carried, there were cabins in the wardroom for each of them, including Duckett, and a table in the general mess would be their meeting place. French Lieutenant Morel was given leave to mess with either them or his own men, but was excluded from their meetings.
“Much as I would love to play at captain,” said Dinning, “I think I’m more comfortable this way. Let’s see to these orders.” He began reading but, only a minute into it, he exclaimed, “What’s this? Mr. … I mean Acting Lt. Burton and Lt. Goss, look here. Captain’s not forgot that bloody inshore mission. With all the mess we’ve got here, he still expects you to go play taxi-boat. This’ll put another four days on our passage home and give the Frogs a chance to get this ship back. We’re scarcely able to sail, let alone fight.”
There was silence for a minute, while Dinning was obviously fuming inside, until Neville broke the ice. “Sir, maybe cap’n sees this as an advantage. We don’t look at all English, as long as we fly French colours, which we’ve got. Damaged as we are, we shouldn’t draw so much attention if we’re moderately close inshore. We’re almost there. Even the ship’s boats look French, of course. Perhaps we can even anchor close in and send a couple dozen men aloft on repair work while we take a boat in. It shouldn’t look too odd, unless someone wonders why we just didn’t go into Brest.”
“I’ll think on it, gentlemen, and I’ll be pleased to hear any more ideas you have in the morning. But, for now, let’s get ourselves on this watch schedule. Most of us have had nary enough sleep.”
“This stuff is terrible,” pronounced Duckett at next morning’s breakfast. He was eating the French equivalent of burgoo, and sat there tapping his biscuit softly on the table in hopes the weevils would leave before he ate it. “Biscuit was getting old on the Sans Pareil as well, but at least it wasn’t light as a feather like this lot.”
“I agree, but all the specialties we bought for the officers’ m
ess on the Pareil were about gone anyway. Oh, lovely. See there. There’s one going’. I hate the way they tickle your tongue when you bite ‘em,” said Dinning.
“What’s the plan, then?”
“After breakfast, Mr. Duckett. After breakfast. No shop talk, politics, or religion in this mess,” said Goss.
“We don’t have far to go. L’Orient is just behind that island, there,” said Dinning poking the chart with a toothpick, “and we’ve to go right behind, here. So, verily, Mr. Burton’s plan, as he said it last evening, will do. We delay several days until the first day of July, then simply sail in behind there and anchor, put a boat down, and row in.”
“We can do that by sailing slowly nor’west for two days, making repairs as we go. We’ll fly the Flag of Britain for the sail out but, when we go in close, we’ll fly the French flag. As long as the weather holds, we can use our time well and be back for our rendezvous.”
The weather continued fair, and no significant French ship presented itself. One British frigate had detained them and demanded their orders before allowing them to pass toward shore. The French sailors assisted with repairs to their ship. On the last evening of June, they dropped anchor in the Anse du Pouldu, just north of the passage between the Ile de Groix and the mainland off L’Orient. They had not been there more than an hour, with the sun about to set over the coast of France, when the lookout shouted down, “Sail ho!”
“Send all the French below,” commanded Lt. Dinning, “and those infernal red coats as well, but have them ready to pop up and fight. And get your hats off.” To support their ruse, a jury mizzen was in place, but left to lean slightly to starboard, and a shredded sail was hung there to increase the effect of battle damage. They made plans to open ports and run all the guns out on either side, even though only half could be crewed and fired.
The Glorious First Of June (Neville Burton: Worlds Apart Book 1) Page 25
