by John Drake
“Damnation,” said Gardiner, “is my house to be a prison as well as a hospital?”
“He’s a dead man if we move him, sir!” said Wallace.
“Bah!” said Gardiner. “And all this trouble for a villain who’ll be hanged three times over when he comes to court. Our friend Taylor did a grand job on the other rogue and it’s more than a pity he didn’t finish Coignwood too!”
Wallace nodded in agreement. “Yes,” said he, “but it concerns me to wonder just exactly what Coignwood and his friend were attempting to do.”
“Why, to kill the Taylors, of course,” said Gardiner. “Mr and Mrs Taylor are witnesses to Victor.Coignwood’s murdering of Mr Richard Lucey.”
“Of course,” said Wallace. “But Coignwood and his ally Walton were locked in deadly combat when Mr Taylor awoke. And I have seen the knife wounds in Walton’s back! Why was Coignwood trying to kill Walton?”
“To silence him,” said Gardiner, “so no person could tell of what Coignwood had done.”
“In that case,” said Wallace, “Victor Coignwood came to Lonborough with the intention of killing Mr Taylor, Mrs Taylor, his own companion Walton and no doubt the Taylors’ two servants and the child too! For we must presume he aimed to fire the other side of Market Street to cover his crime.” Wallace paused and looked at Gardiner. “Does this not strike you as excessively ambitious for one night’s work, sir?”
“What are you getting at, Wallace?” said Gardiner.
“Well, sir,” said Wallace, “look at the matter of Coignwood’s disguise as a woman. So soon as the news of tonight’s doings got about, did they not send from the George to tell you of their two bizarre guests? The London ‘gentlemen’ and his ‘wife’ whom all the staff believed to be no woman God ever made?”
“Yes,” said Gardiner, “Lonborough is too small for such things not to be made swiftly known.”
“Then there you have it, sir!” said Wallace. “What sort of crack-brained nonsense was Victor Coignwood engaged in?”
18
To be entirely honest, I wasn’t sure that ship was Phiandra. Not at first. It’s true that no two ships are quite the same any more than two faces. But some of the differences are small and most of my time in Phiandra had been in her, if you see what I mean, so I wasn’t used to looking at her across the ocean.
But as soon as I was sure, I fell to cursing my ill fortune. After all, the Royal Navy had something like a hundred frigates at sea in early ‘94, so what I wanted to know was: what in God’s name were the other ninety-nine doing? Why should the one that came looking for me be the only one that had all my old messmates aboard?
Worse still, I knew the quality of her. As she bore down upon us and Declaration’s lookouts reported her to be a 32, there was another great ringing cheer, and every man grinned his Yankee grin and told his Yankee chums that they would have the Limey for breakfast. And why not? For Declaration’s people knew that no British frigate mounted 24-pounders like they did.
Well, I knew better than any man in either ship what the match would be, and this is what it was:
Phiandra —
700 tons burden
32 18-pounder long guns
10 24-pounder carronades (Weight of broadside = 408 pounds)
Declaration —
1100 tons burden
36 24-pounder long guns
20 32-pounder carronades (Weight of broadside = 704 pounds)
So, you’d think the Yankee confidence not unreasonable wouldn’t you? But they didn’t know Phiandra. They didn’t know that what was thrashing along towards them, just as eager as she could be, was one of the Royal Navy’s elite champions. A ship whose invincible gunnery had beaten more than twice her weight at Passage d’Aron and whose every man was a battle-hardened veteran. So when it came down to it, I hadn’t the least idea who might win the coming contest: Dedaration with her ship-of-the line timbers and -her heavy guns, or Phiandra with her greater skill?
Meanwhile, Dedaration was buzzing with activity and men were called away from the guns to the work of shortening sail for action. Down came the t’gallants and royals: masts, yards and all. Preventer braces and chain slings were rigged and the courses close-furled. Only the topsails were left, swelling in the strong north-north-wester that drove us on. It drove Phiandra on too as she came on steadily, close hauled on the larboard tack.
On Declaration’s gun-deck the excitement was intense. Hardly a man of the crew had been in a real action and they crammed their heads out of the gun-ports for a view of the British ‘ship as she came closer and closer. Cooper and his officers on the quarterdeck were just the same. They were up on the carronades and hanging in the shrouds — anywhere for a good view over the hammock nettings that walled in the quarterdeck. They waved their hats and slapped one another on the shoulders and laughed and joked. Waves of cheering rose up, died away and rose again. You’d think we were going to a bloody pantomime.
Eventually, with the two ships no more than half a mile apart, Declaration’s gunners were called to their duty, and they stood (just as I’d taught them) in neat rows, each gun-captain with the trigger lanyard in his fist, peering eagerly over the huge fat breech of his heavy gun.
Dedaration and Phiandra were closing upon each other bow to bow, with each ship going five or six knots. With a quarter mile between us, it seemed as if Phiandra was steering to get the weather gauge of us, and so shut off the chance of our running away downwind. Cooper certainly thought so, for I heard him cry out.
“Quartermaster,” says he to the helmsman, “run on board of her! She thinks we’ll try to escape like a Frenchman! Show what an American can do!”
This brought another great cheer. But they didn’t cheer a moment later, for Phiandra served them a nasty trick.
As Declaration’s quartermasters (four of them, remember, plus a crew down below at the relieving tackles) put up the helm to bring her head round to bear more directly upon Phiandra the British ship wore**To “wear” is to turn a ship by steering her head away from the wind. It is a sort of opposite to tacking in which latter manoeuvre the difficult feat must be accomplished of forcing her head closer and closer and finally through the wind with the risk of being stopped in the water with the sails blown flat back against the yards. Wearing was a frequently used battle manoeuvre since it required less men and, in principle, could not fail. S.P. and, spinning round like a top, raked Declaration by the bow with a rapid and deliberate discharge of her starboard battery.
I suppose I should say I was privileged to see a Frog’s-eye-view of a British warship going about her business, but it didn’t seem like that at the time. It was a fine thing to see, but bloody awful too. A steady series of concussions burst out of the deadly black squares in the sleek hull, accompanied by orange flame and gouting white smoke. The noise was deafening, and if you don’t believe me then you try standing in front of a troop of artillery as they give a Royal Salute in one of the London parks.
Instantly a ripping, shredding, tearing series of blows struck Declaration as Phiandra’s roundshot smashed into her bow and tore the length of her decks. Dust and splinters flew and men cried out in pain and terror. I saw two dead men within feet of me and a dismounted gun up by the bow.
But then the tormentor was gone. Phiandra was bearing away on Declaration’s starboard bow, and two hundred yards downwind. She was out of effective gunshot and shooting ahead on a somewhat convergent course.
A smaller ship than Declaration and one with a less determined crew could have had the stuffing knocked out of her by that treatment. There were five or more dead and twice that many wounded. One gun was thrown over and much damage had been done. And the Yankees hadn’t even fired. But Yankees are like the British in a fight and Declaration’s men stood to their guns and awaited their chance.
Soon enough, they seemed to get it. Phiandra by cracking on sail was still drawing away, but as her course converged with ours, the distance between us closed such that by Declaration�
�s maindeck gunners slewing their starboard battery pieces hard on the bow, their broadside bore on Phiandra at a hundred and fifty yards. And so they delivered the drill that I’d taught them and none could say they didn’t do it well, with each gun firing as its captain judged best. And while they raced to reload, I cringed in anticipation of what we’d get back in exchange. For if Declaration’s guns would bear then so would Phiandra’s.
But no broadside came and Phiandra hauled away from us. Shouts of derision came from the Yankees and it seemed Phian-dra was running. Then damn me if she didn’t play the same trick again! She got herself ahead of us and suddenly she was wearing again so as to place herself across Declaration’s bows. By George she wasn’t a crack ship for nothing! Somebody on Phiandra’s quarterdeck had taken a good look at Declaration and decided she was too heavy for a broadside duel and so was out-manoeuvring her.
Once more the British ship ran across the American’s bow and riddled her stem to stern with a double-shotted broadside. This time the damage was far worse, though less men were killed (on the gun-deck at least), since the gunners had the sense to throw themselves on the deck between the guns as Phiandra’s shot swept their decks. Another three guns were wrecked, the pumps were smashed and to judge from the screaming from up on the fo’c’sle (which I could not see) some terrible hurt had been caused there too.
In the confusion, as men struggled to put all to rights and heave the wreckage and splinters overside, a ship’s boy ran past me howling in terror. He threw down his cartridge box and tried to dive down a hatchway to hide below decks. A Marine sentry was on guard at the hatchway with a brace of pistols and permission to shoot any person trying to do that, but the Marine simply caught the child by the belt, heaved him off his feet and slung him along the deck back where he’d come from. Phiandra repeated her tactics two or three times more after that.
She was steadily and efficiently whittling down Declaration’s advantage in metal. She was the nimbler ship, sea conditions were to her advantage, with a fresh wind and only a light swell, and she was sailing rings around the clumsy rahsay with her heavy helm and teams of poor devils heaving away on the relieving tackles down in the gun-room.
But then at about two o’clock of the afternoon, the British Captain must have decided that enough was enough and now it was time to show the Yankees what a British man-o’-war could do, for he suddenly gave up the running battle, and simply laid Phiandra alongside at pistol-shot range to fight his enemy gun for gun. No doubt he thought Declaration had been sufficiently battered to be ready to strike her colours.
And had he been fighting the Frogs or some other lesser breed, then he’d probably have been right. But as it was he’d made a bad decision, for no sooner had Dedaration’s crew seen what was happening, than all the anger and frustration of being hit without being able to hit back, was thrown into working their guns. The result was one of the fiercest single-ship duels I have ever seen, fought at murderously close range and each broadside threw up a terrible cloud of splinters, rent timbers and torn flesh. The noise and the smoke were indescribable. Every man worked deaf and almost blind in the huge banks of powder smoke poured forth by the simultaneous firing of dozens of heavy guns.
It was simply a matter of which ship could throw the greatest weight of shot in the shortest time, and which crew could stand it the longer. And this is why I say that a week’s more training of Declaration’s gunners would have changed my life. They were good, and served their 24-pounders well, but they were not yet ready for Phiandra’s men, and they were getting back two broadsides for Dedaration’s one. That or something precious close to it: a rate of fire that more than made up for the disparity in guns mounted.
And so it went on. Every atom of Declaration trembled to the voice of her guns. Spars, corpses and wreckage jammed her decks. The men were powder-blacked maniacs and the very fabric of her burst and shook as Phiandra’s shot came aboard.
For nearly an hour Declaration and Phiandra were yard-arm to yard-arm. The Stars and Stripes fought the Union Jack and neither gave an inch. If every shot fired in that dreadful contest had struck home then both ships must have been reduced to wallowing, bloodstained junk. But usually in such cases only the first few broadsides are properly aimed and so the worst is spared. That’s why it’s so important to hold your first fire till it really counts.
Eventually Phiandra began to fall astern from us. Or rather Declaration hauled ahead to the point where neither ship’s guns would bear. With the guns silent, the great fog of smoke cleared a little and there was Phiandra with her foremast over the side and her men swarming over the shambles to clear away the wreckage.
That should have been the signal for another Yankee cheer, but none came, and I saw that Declaration’s people were exhausted. There were thirty or more dead on the gun-deck and as for the living, the vast effort they’d put out had drained them, and for the moment they had no more to give. They’d faced the enemy and they’d not given up, but they were in that desperate stage where one more push from the foe would break them.
Cooper did his best. He went up and down the ship calling on them to bring Declaration around to engage the enemy once more, but the men were deadly tired and his sail-trimmers moved like old men, clumsy and slow. And soon Phiandra’s tars had hacked away the shattered mast and she was under way again. She’d been sorely hammered. Her topmen were still knotting and splicing as she came, to make good her damage aloft. And amidships four or five guns of her larboard battery were knocked to all points of the compass. But she was coming on to renew the fight and British cheers sounded over the water.
At this the Yankees set their teeth and lifted their heads like men. I saw them do it and it was a sight to see. They’re kindred folk to the British, as I’ve said, and they found the will to fight on, just as Phiandra’s men had done.
Had battle been joined again by those two ships then I truly believe they’d have sunk one another. For neither would’ve given in. But we were saved from that extreme by a hail from the masthead.
“Enemy sail in sight!” I saw Cooper duck his head into a gun-port to see what was coming and he stood up with his face sunk in despair.
He passed within feet of where I was standing on his way back to his quarterdeck, and the look he gave me as he went by would have shrivelled flowers and blighted innocence. He never said a word but from the look on him, I knew the swab was blaming me for what had happened. Me! I ask those who know of a finer example of rank ingratitude to send me a letter by the next post, for I’d like to hear it! Perhaps he thought I had not worked hard enough on his guns. Perhaps he thought I was personally responsible for Phiandra being the crack ship that she was — we’d passed close enough to read the name painted on her taffrail, so presumably he knew what ship he’d just fought — and perhaps he thought I’d personally whistled up the two more British frigates that were bearing up from the south-east, because that’s what he’d just seen through the gun-port.
He should have been pleased really, the little toad. That gave him an honourable way out. He couldn’t fight three enemies and so he could withdraw with honour, instead of going to everybody’s death, against Phiandra.
All he had to do was shake out his courses and bear away under a press of sail, and then he could go home to Boston and tell them how he’d fought Phiandra to a standstill and was on the point of boarding her when her consorts hove in sight.
“Yes, gentlemen,” he could say, “I am speaking of that very Phiandra which achieved such fame in her immortal battle against the French, but which when pitted against American valour … etc., etc.”
Meanwhile, what about myself? I’d been suspended in limbo. I’d been split down the middle and paralysed with divided loyalties. I wanted my $5,000 and Lucinda, and above all the life of a Boston merchant prince.
But against that had been the horrible necessity of firing into a ship that had Sammy Bone and my old messmates aboard.** Whether or not Fletcher traitorously fought agains
t his countrymen in this action has never been resolved, since none dared to ask him. But Captain Cooper’s bitterly censorious attitude to Fletcher, which Fletcher found so puzzling, might have followed Fletcher’s being seen to hang back from the fight. S.P.
For a while I just stood and watched as Declaration got herself under way, close-hauled with her jib boom pointing due west for the American coast, and Phiandra did her level best to give chase. But even with her sails and rigging torn with shot, Declaration had three good masts and nothing like the damage aloft that Phiandra had suffered. And so, the Yankee began to pull away while the two fresh, oncoming frigates were no more than royals and t’gallants on the horizon.
Declaration’s gun-deck was in a shocking state. It was impossible to put one foot before another without treading on some fragment of shattered gear. With the prospect of action gone, the men were sunk in exhaustion and went about their tasks like the living dead. And then, as I looked about me, I saw something that set me thinking. In a single instant, a number of things that had been whirling around my mind suddenly dropped into place snickety-snick, like the cogs and wheels of a watch. And they all worked together to one accord.
What I saw was the bulkhead leading into the stern cabins at the after end of the gun-deck, smashed wide open by Phiandra’s shot, and the poor devil of a Marine who was there to guard the sacred portals of the Captain’s lair was bits of him in one place and other bits of him in several others. If you left out his musket, the biggest part left of him was his hat.
In that moment, I perceived an opportunity and I realised several things. I was fed up and disgusted with Cooper and his bloody ship and Cooper was fed up and disgusted with me. Consequently, given the prestige of the Cooper clan, the chances of my being welcomed home to Boston to enjoy my money were about as good as the Marine sentry’s chance of becoming a colonel.
