by John Drake
But a French bullet banged into the fat black breech of the gun, whizzed off and shot across my thigh. Christ, but it frightened me! And it hurt like the cat-o’-nine-tails. I think I was already half mad with battle and that shoved me over the brink completely.
“You!” says I, to the nearest man, “get something to put under the forrard end of her.” He dithered, for I was nobody that he knew, so why should he take my orders? But I took him by his collar and hurled him on his way and turned to the others. “You! And you! Get the bloody stern wheels off her and the rest of you go and help him!” I pointed at the first man, who was struggling with half of a shattered gun-carriage, split apart by French shot.
More men came up and joined in as we worked, and some Marines too, for there were muskets banging away at the Frogs, while I built my crazy pile of wreckage under the long 12-pounder. But I was transported with a furious energy and a consuming madness. I threw off my coat and shirt and the sweat ran off me like water as I hauled and shoved and levered and yelled at the others to get the front end of the gun up, inch by inch. The trick was to lever her up, slip another lump of wreckage beneath and let her fall. With the rear wheels struck off the carriage, it couldn’t roll back (not quite, anyway) and so on and so on until the whole gun was pointing crazily upward at an impossible angle and the seven-foot, twenty-one hundredweight barrel was finally lined up on Jacobin’s maintop.
I shoved everyone else clear and took up the lanyard to the firelock trigger. I peered over the sights, but couldn’t see a bloody thing for the sweat in my eyes and my gasping breathing. I was like a horse that’s just won the Derby. Then somebody in a blue coat with gold lace was handing me a handkerchief. I snatched it and wiped my eyes. It was another Lieutenant come from somewhere. I’d no idea who he was. But I took another sight and saw the damn thing was aimed off.
“Point!” I yelled. “Point!” And at least twenty men seemed to be shoving to my direction, red Marines and blue tars together. I glared over the sights and saw the barrel inch and slither on to target. “Well!” I roared. “Stand clear!”
Jacobin’s maintopmen could see what was coming now, and some of them were scurrying down the shrouds to escape, while from her fore and mizzentop, which were not directly threatened, there came a redoubled crackle of musketry, instantly answered from all around me. There were Marines all around me by then blazing away, as we fought for advantage in this crucial moment.
“Stand clear,” I roared, once more and at the top of my voice. Then I jerked the lanyard and jumped out of the way myself.
Boom! The gun leapt from the improvised bed of loose timbers, spun ponderously round in its own swirling smoke, and thundered down in a massive crunch upon the deck, smashing its carriage and tearing its trunnions out of their capsquares. But one full round of canister, two hundred musket balls, blasted into Jacobin’s maintop, leaving not a man alive of those who’d not got out of the way.
There was a savage cheer from our side and the tars positively fought to be first up the bowsprit. A horde of them were up in Jacobin’s rigging and knives, cutlasses and boarding axes were rising and falling in a cascade to cut us free from the enemy’s imprisoning hold. While this went on our Marines blasted away at remaining French topmen, but you could see that they’d lost heart.
Soon, the new Lieutenant (the one with the handkerchief) was calling back his men, as Queen Charlotte and Jacobin began to tear free of one another. Lines snapped viciously and our bow rumbled sternwards against the Frenchman’s hull, snapping and ripping gun-ports away and dismounting half a dozen guns that were caught with muzzles protruding.
We were barely moving, for we seemed to have taken a pounding aloft, but Jacobin close-hauled on the larboard tack was gathering way and inching clear of us. I looked around for Montagne, the huge French flagship, and saw that she too was pulling away, somewhat on our larboard quarter. While I’d fought my campaign on the fo’c’sle, there’d been the most tremendous gunnery duel with Montagne. Neither of our main batteries had been able to find Jacobin, but by training hard on the stern, our larboard broadside had been able to vent their fury on Montagne, and by Jove they did so too. Even with raking fire coming down the gun decks from Jacobin.
The results of Queen Charlotte’s steady fire into Montagne had been to extinguish any fighting spirit that might have been lurking in the enormous French three-decker, and persuaded her she’d be better off out of our company. She even slammed her gun-ports and ceased firing as she went.
Free of our close embrace by Jacobin, Queen Charlotte slowly began to gather way, and as soon as she’d answered her rudder, Black Dick brought her round so her starboard guns could take their revenge upon Jacobin. But that was as much as I saw of the battle, for I’d come over most peculiar.
You’ll have noticed I didn’t scamper up the bowsprit with the rest to help cut us free. Well, the reason was that I simply hadn’t the strength. I wouldn’t say I hoist that 12-pounder up alone — even I hadn’t the strength for that — but I probably did three mens’ share of the work, and I had nothing more to give at that particular moment. I was utterly spent.
And then the Lieutenant with the handkerchief, whose face was sliding in and out of focus before my eyes, pointed at the deck beneath my, feet. He said something that I didn’t properly hear and I looked down. I was standing in a pool of blood and my clothes were wet from the waist down. It was one of those rascals whose heads I’d clapped together. He had got his dirk into me after all. He’d opened me up a treat, and when I realised what had happened I suddenly felt the ache of the wound and the gush of blood.
The Lieutenant was shouting again, and two men took hold of me and led me away. Down into the waist we went, then down more steep companionways, down to the upper gun-deck, to the middle gun-deck, the lower gun-deck, and so down and down to the orlop, below the water-line. It was a fine chance to see a first-rate going about her business: deck after deck with its rows of huge guns lined up on either beam, thundering and bellowing, and bounding back in recoil, the hundreds and hundreds of skilled men to serve them, the enveloping smoke and, above and beyond all else, the appalling, agonising din. It’s said that the devil himself invented gunpowder. Well, if so, then Old Nick would have just loved the middle gun-deck of Queen Charlotte, by George he would! For on the middle gun-deck guns are working on either hand, and above your head, and beneath your feet. It was like Hell on a bad day.
But I wasn’t on a tour of the guns, and I can’t say I paid them much attention. I was carried down the last companionway (God knows how they did it, considering the size of me) and even before my blurred eyes could see where we were, I knew we’d found the surgeons, by the groans and screams and particularly by the hot stink of dozens of candles. The first thing a surgeon does when a ship goes into action is get as many lights burning as can be.
I’m pleased to say my memories of my visit to Queen Charlotte’s cockpit are limited. There were bodies laid out in rows, the living kept apart from the dead, there were folded, bloodied sails draped over barrels to form benches for the operators to work on. There were buckets and sponges and lint and bandages. There were two surgeons with bared arms and their long brown linen aprons, two similarly attired surgeon’s mates, the Chaplain, the Purser, two women lending a hand and a dozen or so wounded men awaiting their turn.
All this in a low, shadowy wooden cavern with five feet of headroom, and the massive transverse beams that supported the deck above waiting to brain you if you didn’t crouch and duck as you moved.
And finally, there were the neat sets of shining instruments, laid out ready for use, the very sight of which could make a man squirt his bowels on the spot.
Not very nice, my jolly boys, was it? But here’s a thought for you. This was luxury compared with what soldiers suffered. At least our tars got their wounds tended. They were treated promptly, and down on the orlop they were safe from the enemy’s shot. Now compare this with what happened to a wounded soldier. He migh
t lie on the field of battle for days, and nobody to come to get him. And what with cavalry and horse artillery charging about, even if his wounds didn’t kill him, there was every chance of getting his chest smashed in by a hoof or a wheel, ‘cos they certainly didn’t stop to look what they were riding over. I know, for I’ve been there!
On this occasion, by the grace of God, I can’t recall what they did to me down there, for I passed out just after they rolled me over and set to work on my side, where the knife had gone in.
So I missed the rest of the action and woke up bandaged tight as a mummy, in my cot in the Sixth Lieutenant’s cabin. They’d put a servant to look after me, and later in the day, Black Dick himself, no less, came down to see me. He was pleased as punch with himself and the world and with me as one item in it.
“Well, Mr Fletcher,” says he, taking a seat in my tiny cabin, while his ever-present minions hovered about, “how d’ye do, sir?” and pressed on, bursting with satisfaction, before I could reply. “D’ye know how we beat the rogues? Eleven prizes, sir! And some of them the finest ships ever built by the hand of man! I only regret that so few of my Captains managed to penetrate their line as we did!” He shook his head ponderously. “For that has allowed that unspeakable coward Villaret de Joyeuse to skulk off with most of his fleet. They couldn’t face us and wouldn’t face us, sir! All firing ceased by a quarter-past one because the enemy had fled.”
Then he smiled and looked down at me. “I hear well of you, Mr Fletcher,” says he; “I find it hard to believe that a man who fights like a lion should seek a career in commerce. Should ever you wish to enter the Sea Service, you may call upon me.”
Now that was an offer that thousands of men would have sold their souls for. Howe was so God-Almighty powerful in the Navy that his patronage was a sure and unrivalled ladder to advancement. It was an offer too good to refuse. At least, not without the deepest consideration. And so, despite all my contrary inclinations, I thought it best to keep this particular choice alive.
“You are too kind, my Lord,” says I, carefully. “I am deeply grateful.”
He grinned and nodded.
“Come to me when you are well,” says he. “The surgeons say you’ll be a whole man in a week or two. You are a young man with luck on your side!”
*
And that, children, is how your Uncle Jacob fought for his country at the battle of THE GLORIOUS FIRST OF JUNE. I suppose I was lucky. On the British side, about three hundred were killed and nine hundred wounded. On the French side, some three thousand were killed or mortally wounded, and about another three thousand taken prisoner.
Despite his victory, Black Dick’s Fleet was in such a knocked-about state, and the captured French ships so much worse (one of them, Vengeur, actually sank) that we didn’t get under way until nearly five o’clock in the afternoon of 3rd June, when we steered north-east for England.
For the next ten days, while my wounds healed and I slowly
got myself out of bed, the damaged ships limped along at a snail’s pace and it wasn’t until eleven o’clock on the morning of 13th June 1794 that the Channel Fleet anchored at Spithead. There we found the most colossal host assembled to greet us. It was later estimated that some three hundred thousand people had poured into Portsmouth to see England’s premier battle-fleet come home in victory.
You’ll notice incidentally that nobody paid much attention to the fact that Lord Howe had failed in his strategic objective of intercepting the Grain Convoy, which finally reached Brest on 12th June. And the reason for that was simple. Without the Grain Convoy, the French might or might not have starved — who could tell? Maybe they’d have scraped along without it. But if England once lost command of the Channel approaches, then the Frogs could invade us and we’d be finished beyond doubt. And Howe had re-established our command of the Channel by not only beating, but comprehensively humiliating the main battle-fleet of our ancient enemy.
So Howe was England’s darling, and the Royal Family descended as a tribe upon Portsmouth and on 26th June the King held a Royal Levee aboard Queen Charlotte and presented his cousin with a diamond-studded sword of £3,000 value, plus a large medal on a gold chain to go round his neck.
But I didn’t see that. I was elsewhere because something very nasty happened to me at Spithead and a very old, and very deep wound was opened.
27
… Between 10th February and 16th February 1793 the said Jacob Fletcher did strike down the said Boatswain Dixon with a dub or other such weapon and did cause the said Boatswain Dixon to fall from the bows of His Majesty’s Ship Bullfrog in such manner as to be lost and drowned in the sea, the aforesaid act of the said Jacob Fletcher being wilful and deliberate murder.
(Extract from an affidavit sworn and signed on 2nd October 1793 by Mr Solomon Oakes, Mariner, before Mr Donald Fry, Solicitor and Commissioner for Oaths of Aldgate High Street.)
*
Late in the afternoon of 1st October 1793, a fierce, spiteful argument was taking place in a garret bedroom underneath the roof of Admiral Lord Williams’s house in Maze Hill, Greenwich.
“You’re a damned liar, madam!” cried Kate Booth.
“And you, miss, are a whore that served a whole ship’s crew for sixpence!” said Lady Sarah. She smiled nastily and added, “Tell me, ma’am, for I’ve often wondered about these practical details, did a hundred of them form a queue and have you in turn, or did they throw dice?”
Kate Booth sneered, “At least I never practised filthy incest!” she said. “Your son Alexander let that out in his filthy letters. Jacob read them and he told me.” Lady Sarah frowned at the mention of her favourite, and Kate saw she’d landed a blow. “Yes,” she continued, “we read your son’s letters aboard Phian-dra,” she shouted in fury, “after Jacob had killed him.”
“Bitch!” screamed Lady Sarah.
“Monster!” cried Kate. “Let me go! You cannot hold me against my will!” She pulled on the long chain that held her by a steel anklet to a ring-bolt firmly driven into one of the rafters.
“No?” said Lady Sarah. “And why not, pray?”
“Because of the Law! The Law forbids it!” said Kate, though even as she said the words her voice failed. Lady Sarah sneered with amusement.
“The Law?” she said. “The Law is not for such as you, miss! Do you not know that yet? Why, girls like you are held in houses all over London for the pleasure of gentleman customers.” The complete truth of this unpleasant fact knocked the fight out of Kate for the moment and she fell silent.
Lady Sarah sat beside her on her narrow bed, this was her advantage, and she pursued it. “In fact,” she said, “one of a number of unpleasant things that I might do with you when I’ve finished with you is sell you to one of them. I know of several establishments that would take you. You’re young and you’re very pretty.”
Kate remained silent, so Lady Sarah tried another tack. She stroked Kate’s hair and softened her voice. When she wanted to be, Lady Sarah could seem selflessly kind, and she was so beautiful that even other women usually succumbed to her charm — as Kate herself had done at first.
“My dear girl,” she said, “cannot we settle this matter as sensible women? Mr Fletcher has abandoned you. You owe him nothing, while I am ready to advance a sum of money that would enable you to live in luxury for the rest of your life. I can return you to the respectable society in which you belong. And all you have to do is tell me what was this thing that he did aboard the ship Bullfrog …”
Sarah Coignwood was never more persuasive in all her life. She touched on every chord that might shift Kate’s determination. For even in her own heart, Kate didn’t know for sure who had left whom, her Jacob or Jacob her.
Lady Sarah saw her confusion and put an arm around Kate’s neck, and kissed her cheek, gently, as a sister might.
“Kate,” she said, “cannot we be friends?” Kate’s lips parted. She was about to say something, but Lady Sarah’s own character and appetites betrayed her. Kat
e was such a pretty little thing that instead of listening, she moved closer and kissed her properly. A lover’s kiss, and not a sister’s.
Kate had done many things to earn her keep. She was beyond being shocked by the devious pleasures of men or of women. But the cynical hypocrisy of Lady Sarah’s behaviour roused her to anger. Here and now she was being offered money and friendship, perhaps something more, and only this morning they’d taken her down to the cellar, Mrs Collins hanging on one arm and Lady Sarah on the other. They’d shown her the great wooden tub, brim full of cold water, and Lady Sarah had explained how they proposed to use it. There had also been various other domestic devices, ingeniously improvised for equally terrible purposes.
Kate pushed Lady Sarah off and struck at her, landing a blow squarely on the side of her face.
“Filthy creature!” she cried, “I’ll tell you nothing!”
There was a quick, savage fight, which despite her temper, Lady Sarah got much the worst of. She pulled free and leapt back beyond the reach of Kate’s chain, the long coils of which were tied up short so she couldn’t move too far. She was frightened and hurt and so reverted to type.
“Have it your own way, miss!” she snarled. “I’m done playing with you. I’ll have Mrs Collins bring you down below now this instant! And we’ll see how pert you are when we’ve done some of the things that I have planned for you.” She leaned forward with an ugly expression contorting her features. “I should warn you that my son Victor has an extensive library on the subject of torture, and I have consulted it fully!”
Lady Sarah slammed out of the little room, bolted the door behind her and flounced down the stairs, calling for Mrs Collins at the top of her voice. If she’d done what was in her mind at that instant, then whatever Kate Booth might or might not have been forced to divulge, it is highly improbable that she would have survived.
