by Jay Worrall
Emerging from the ladder-way onto his quarterdeck he felt the breeze against his cheek. It had freshened during the night, he decided. Looking up, he saw neither moon nor stars, only the black void of what must be a still overcast sky. Low on the horizon to the east lay a band of light, or at least less dense blackness, signaling the coming of the day.
“Good morning, Mr. Cromley,” Charles said to the sailing master, dimly illuminated by the lantern shielded in the binnacle near the wheel.
“Good morrow, sir,” Cromley responded formally. “There’s a blow coming, less I miss my guess.”
Charles sniffed the air. He could feel the beginnings of long rollers passing under the ship’s hull. But he wasn’t thinking about the possibility of a change in the weather. He wanted to be comfortable that he had shed the French during the night. “I expect you’re right,” he said absently.
“The barometer’s falling,” Cromley persisted.
“I expect so,” Charles answered. He stared intently over the rail, but the darkness obscured anything on the sea’s surface.
“With the wind picking up we should take in the stuns’ls. They’ll be blowed out otherwise.”
Charles knew this to be sound if conservative advice. The studdingsails on their undersized booms were for light and moderate airs only. The breeze came strong enough to think about taking them in; if it strengthened they would have to. “I’ll have them stay as they are for now, Mr. Cromley,” he said. “I’ll think on it again when it becomes light.”
“Yes, sir.”
Bevan came aft from the ladderway. “The men are at their quarters,” he reported.
“Very good.” He looked again at the widening streak of gray. He waited. Soon he could make out the base of the mizzenmast and the boom of the spanker above, washed in the palest of light, then the foot of the mainmast forward. The sea surface slowly revealed itself, undulating, hard and dark. Nothing had been reported from the mastheads. He began to relax.
“Deck there!” The cry came down from high above. “I see a ship two points to port over the stern.”
“Damn all,” Charles muttered, more to himself than anyone nearby. He stared into the indistinct darkness aft. Almost immediately he found the pyramid of sails, black against the lightening sky. She was the French frigate without a doubt; not more than two miles to windward.
“How did they . . ?” Bevan began.
Charles knew how. He’d miscalculated—he’d been careless. The French had turned back to southward, but there must have been some delay about it, or perhaps the seventy-four was slower than he’d imagined. He should have waited longer to resume his own course. Instead of allowing the enemy to pass him by, they were still to windward, only closer. The French commanders must be delighted.
He tried to think. This was not a situation he wanted. If the frigate took up his wake again, he would be forced to engage, and that might not be long in coming. Cassandra had all the sail aloft she could carry in the stiffening wind, maybe more than she should. It would be an hour or more before the frigate would close to within range. He turned to Bevan. “House the guns and send the men to their breakfast. They’ll have to be quick about it. Afterwards have the ship cleared for action.”
Charles stood alone for the moment on his quarterdeck looking out at the French ship. She was a dark menace with all her sails aloft, long and sleek with twin pale waves curling back from her bow—a thing of beauty for whom his own ship was not yet prepared. From her size, he guessed she was a thirty-two, almost certainly with twelve-pounders on her gundeck—the same as his own ship. He was reminded that Cassandra remained undermanned, enough so that he doubted he could effectively maneuver and fight at the same time. And he had no confidence in the capabilities of the crew that he did have. The men might rise from their lethargy at the appearance of the enemy, but they were still slow in carrying out their duties and completely unpracticed at firing the guns. They would probably do more damage to themselves than the French if it came to a broadside to broadside fight.
He heard a shout come down from lookout: “Deck! I seen the second ship. She’s signaling something. I can’t make out what.” He glanced upward at the masthead, annoyed at the distraction. He looked back at the frigate to see flags run up her mainmast, then back down again.
A gust of wind came across the port beam causing the sails to volley loudly. “The stuns’ls, sir,” Cromley said plaintively, reminding him that he had a dangerous spread of canvas aloft. A glance told Charles that the Frenchman still flew her own studdingsails. He did not answer; instead he tried to sort through the options available to him. He could continue on as he was. The faster Frenchman would continue to run down the wind on him, luffing to fire her guns into him as he fled, or overhauling to force battle. Or, he could do the unexpected—tack suddenly across the wind, throwing Cassandra in front of the enemy and firing into her as they passed. If he caught her unprepared, she would be forced to bear up to avoid being raked. He could then turn away and flee to windward. He could expect to gain a mile, or even two. The more he thought about it, the more it appealed. With luck they might even damage a spar or a mast. It all depended on surprise and a precise execution of the maneuver. He searched the sea surface to the north. It took him a moment to find the second set of sails against the brightening horizon that would be the ship of the line. Twelve miles, he judged; that was far enough.
“Sir. Sir!” the sailing master intruded.
Charles looked upward and saw that the studdingsails were severely strained in the strengthening wind, their booms bowing under the pressure. He also noted that the French frigate, a mile or a little more behind, had sent men into her shrouds to shorten her own canvas.
“Yes, Mr. Cromley, the sails. I apologize for my inattention. I will see to it immediately.” To Bevan he said, “Send the men up to take the studdingsails off. I want them to remain on the yards. We shall come about shortly.”
“You’re going to attack the frigate?” Bevan asked doubtfully.
“I think it’s our best chance,” Charles said. “Just the single broadside and then we’ll run. Having the topmen already in place may disguise our intention.”
“You’re sure about this?” Bevan said.
“No, I’m not,” Charles answered. “Just send the men into the yards and keep them there.”
The sea surged with the rise of the wind, the wave crests white at their tops, traces of spindrift blowing from the tips. The French frigate plowed resolutely across, kicking out bursts of spray from her cutwater as she came. She had closed with alarming speed. “Find Lieutenant Winchester and say that I request his presence,” Charles said to Aviemore, standing nearby to carry his orders.
“Aye, aye, Captain,” the boy responded, cheerfully unconcerned as to any approaching danger, and scurried away.
The men aloft had almost completed gathering in the studdingsails when Winchester arrived from the waist. “Stephen, we shall tack to confront the Frenchman in a few moments time. I expect to engage with our port side battery. You may run out after we have completed the turn.”
Winchester, who would command the gun deck, gave a sour expression. “These men couldn’t hit a three-decker if they were moored close alongside.”
By this Charles took his lieutenant to mean the gun crews were not particularly proficient with their weapons, which he already knew. “I'’m sure their performance will be improved in the face of an enemy,” he said.
He saw no point in waiting any longer; at that moment it seemed possible. “Haul the braces,” he said to Bevan. To Cromley: “Put the helm over, if you please.” Cassandra's head soon began to turn toward the wind. A sudden gust, stronger than before, came across the beam, snapping the canvas loudly. These were not ideal conditions for tacking, Charles realized, but the gust passed and he decided to carry through with it.
“Let go the foresheet and foretop bowlines!” Bevan bellowed through his speaking trumpet. “Brace around there, smartly now.” The
execution of it was anything but smart. The men were making an effort, but were not together. Since leaving England they had largely following winds and no reason to tack. Their practice aloft had been casual and half-hearted. Now it showed. A halyard to the foretopsail kinked, jamming its block. It seemed to take forever to be unstuck.
The foremast sails began to shiver, then flog, as Cassandra reluctantly neared the eye of the wind, the bow heaving and plunging on the wave crests. The line of a squall enveloped the French frigate, the dark band rushing onward like a shroud. Their momentum further slowed. Curtains of rain pelted down as the line found them, then lightened as it moved on. Charles realized with alarm that they might miss stays as a second gust pushed strongly against the port side bow. He stole a quick look at the enemy, again visible over the beam. He saw men hurrying up her shrouds and her head beginning to angle windward, mirroring Cassandra's maneuver. She was only a half mile to the north, close enough so that he could see the gun ports opening along her side. Forward he saw that the foretopsail and topgallant were finally backed against the mast to push the bow across. The wind strengthened and became contrary, coming from the north. Cassandra hung in stays almost motionless, the pressure of the elements beginning to force her sternward. “Helm alee,” Charles shouted urgently at the two quartermasters at the wheel, hoping the rearward pressure on the rudder might move the stern to starboard. The canvas aloft flogged convulsively, volleying and snapping in confusion in the howling wind.
“She’s in irons, sir,” Cromley shouted at him. “She won’t come across.”
“Give her a minute, damnit,” Charles snapped back, but he knew the master to be correct. He watched, his frustration building, as his ship’s head began to fall off the wind, turning irresistibly back in the direction from which she had come. A rogue wave smashed against the bow, sending a cloud of scud across the deck. Cassandra staggered, heeling from the force, rivers of seawater streaming from her scuppers. “Damn all,” he muttered to himself. Now what was he going to do? It wasn’t as if he had an abundance of choices. To Bevan he said, “Gather her back up; we will wear.”
The French frigate smoothly continued her turn into the wind, taking in her main and mizzenmast sails as pretty as you please, her foresails neatly braced and hauled. Charles’ face reddened at the thought that her captain had witnessed his own ship’s sloppy performance.
Cassandra struggled sluggishly to regain headway as the wind pushed on her bow and foresails, the hull heeling under the pressure. “Brace up tight there!” Bevan boomed out as the canvas filled. “Handsomely for once, damn your eyes.”
Cromley approached. “What course?” he shouted anxiously.
Charles’ eyes barely left the frigate. He had also caught a glimpse of the second French warship, farther away, topsails only on the horizon. He could still run to the south or west. Cassandra had gained a little ground by aborting her turn, while the frigate continued through. There was no point to fleeing downwind; he would soon be overtaken again. If he wore all the way around to the east, he would effectively reverse his course to press toward his opponent on opposite tacks. There would be an exchange of broadsides, but once past the Frenchman would have to turn again to take up his wake. That would give him additional distance, and he might yet hope to do some damage. He had little choice.
“The course, sir?” the sailing master prompted.
“Bring her around to put the wind on the port beam.” He stared intently at the frigate and gauged the distance. “Once she’s settled, put her on a line for that ship’s bow, if you please.” Charles moved to the fore of the quarterdeck for a better view. The frigate’s masts came slowly into a line, her sails pivoting to catch the wind. Cassandra bore up, her own yards braced tight, her bowsprit pointing directly at the French ship as if they were both on a string, racing at each other from opposite directions.
“Steady as you go,” Charles said to Cromley. He thought for a moment to force the frigate to veer off in a game of bluff, but knew there was no benefit to it. If the French captain miscalculated, or his own crew were slow in their performance, the two ships could well come aboard each other with catastrophic results. Still, he should make it close—the closer the better. With the smallest margin in distance between them, the frigate would be unable to elevate her main deck guns enough to fire high into his rigging. At that moment, Cassandra’s masts and spars were the most valuable assets he possessed.
“Double shot the guns and run them out,” he called down to Winchester in the waist.
Winchester raised his hat in acknowledgement.
One cable’s length separated them; even that diminishing rapidly. “Two points to starboard, Mr. Cromley,” Charles said. “Steer to shave her.”
Cassandra fell imperceptibly off the wind as the wheel came over, then steadied as it eased back. The enemy frigate loomed ever larger, combing white at her bows. Her bowsprit angled to pass Cassandra on her port side, the French captain luffing toward the wind to gain distance and to maintain the weather gage. Along her side, a line of black muzzles projected outward. “Close on her,” Charles shouted. “Don’t give her any space.” He stared at the vanishing gap. The bowsprits crossed, the two ships hulls passing at barely twenty yards, yardarms within a hairsbreadth of overlapping. The French cannon roared out in a measured, disciplined string of explosions, deafening at close range. Round shot repeatedly smashed against Cassandra’s side, accompanied by screaming and buzzing sounds as ordinance hissed overhead like a thousand angry wasps. That must be langrage, Charles decided. Despite the narrow range, the Frenchman’s forecastle and quarterdeck guns had still fired high, employing the sprays of irregular metal shards in hopes of slicing his lines and cables. Cassandra’s own guns replied in a disjointed, uneven outpouring, the last of which trailed away after the enemy had passed.
Charles saw a number of dangling lines and halyards, but no real damage to the more critical supports for the masts. “Set the boatswain to splicing those immediately,” he said to Bevan. “Sponge out!” he heard Sykes yell shrilly to the gun crews on the quarterdeck. There was mayhem around the cannon, with over-eager men getting in each other’s way, or tripping over lines as they attempted to reload. Someone dropped a cannonball, then went scurrying after it as the thing rolled across the deck. “Jesus Christ,” Charles breathed.
He saw the French ship, already a quarter-mile down wind, her rudder hard over and beginning to wear around. It was a moment’s grace. If he could manage to have Cassandra tack successfully on her second attempt, he would gain both sea room and the advantage of being to windward. A chase into the wind would be a drawn out affair. With any luck he would still be ahead at nightfall. After that anything was possible, but should he risk it? He ground his teeth at the thought of the inept performance of his crew at the first attempt. If they failed again, the frigate would be on them before they could recover. He bridled at the thought of his crew and their lubberly petulance, the sloppiness of his ship’s performance in full view of the enemy, and at the humiliation of being forced to run.
“Mr. Cromley,” he called across the deck. “We will tack presently. When that is accomplished, you will steer as close to the wind as she can hold.” Without waiting for a reply, he hurried down the ladder-way in a cold fury.
“What the hell kind of seamen are you?” he shouted angrily as soon as he reached the gun deck. The men standing by their guns looked at him in surprise. Charles kicked at an overturned bucket, sending it skittering across the deck. “I have never in my life seen such a goddamned abysmal performance. You are the sorriest excuse for a crew in the King’s Navy. Women and children would do better.” He glared at the men around him; his frustrations boiling to the surface. “I have gone easy with you out of consideration of your previous captain and for your being turned over from one ship to another. This is the goddamned thanks I get—a slovenly mob of sullen, self-pitying, over-indulged, lazy, undisciplined malcontents. Your king would be ashamed. I am ashamed that
it has been my dishonor to command you. That Frenchman is at least manned by seamen who know their duty.”
He paused to think of what he could say next. Some looked back at him sheepishly, others frowned. At least he had their attention.
“We could still fight ‘em," a man nearby said. “She ain’t beaten us yet.”
“You couldn’t fight off a bumboat,” Charles snapped. “Where are the topmen? Step forward, all of you.” Tentatively, the men assigned to work high in the masts left their guns to move toward the center of the deck. “We will attempt to tack again,” he said. “If you fail this time you’ll have plenty of leisure to reflect on it in a French gaol. Get yourselves aloft and put some effort into it.” He turned and made for the ladder-way without a backward glance. Bevan met him as he stepped onto the quarterdeck.
“We will put the ship about,” Charles growled, barely trusting himself to speak. He then moved past to stand by himself beside the weather rail. Only then did he look upward. He saw the men already on the yards, genuinely hurrying out to their places. The wheel came over. He listened as the orders were bellowed out and relayed upward. Cassandra’s bow turned toward the wind once again. The yards for the foresails braced around, the sails handled and hauled with reasonable, if not exemplary, competence. The bow hung momentarily as it pointed dead into the eye of the wind, then pushed reluctantly across. Charles allowed himself a breath. He looked to port to see the French frigate, having completed her turn, on an eastward course a half-mile away and falling downwind. She had no men on her shrouds or in her yards that he could discern. He breathed again. Someone pulled on his sleeve. He turned to see that it was Midshipman Hitch trying to get his attention. “What?” he snapped.
