by M. C. Muir
The encounter took no more than half an hour but it allowed the third rate to sail on alone. By evening, the distance had been made up and the frigate was back alongside.
The Equator came and went without need for the performances demanded on a southward voyage. Crossing the Line was entered in the log but was of no interest to the sailors. What was of interest to those who had not previously sailed along this coast was the nature and colour of the sea. Despite being one hundred and fifty miles from the coast of Brazil, the sea was murky and brown. Members of the crew who had visited Buenos Aires likened its colour and turbidity to that of the River Plate. Mr Mundy delighted in telling the midshipmen it was simply the discharging waters from the mighty Amazon River. Despite the distance from the river’s mouth, the fresh water floating on top of the salty sea was potable. With this in mind, the midshipmen took turns hauling up buckets of water and sampling small doses, though some refused to swallow.
As the pair of British ships was now heading north-west, the captain suggested it was unlikely they would meet any vessels sailing from Europe as they would be unlikely to touch the Brazilian coast at this northerly latitude.
Having spent several hours of the cruise in his cabin, Oliver had written many pages of correspondence – mainly to his wife in answer to her letters. It was times like these when he pondered over his life, when not at sea, and his future. But he did not allow himself to look back. Nothing could be gained by that. Instead he looked forward. Being under orders to return to England, he resolved that when in Portsmouth, he would take better advantage of his time ashore than he had in the past.
With the war in Europe still waging and Napoleon’s ambitions largely unchecked, he thought it likely his spell on the beach would be brief before he received a fresh commission. It was his fervent hope that he would be given command of Perpetual again or another similar sized frigate. He had served on larger ships as midshipman and lieutenant but, in his experience, he found the multi-decked warships reflected the many tiers of authority at play on them. A frigate, however, with only one gundeck, was more intimate as it offered the captain the opportunity to work closely with his officers and men and come to know them.
Being midway along the north coast of South America but with the fickle wind failing, Captain Quintrell called to Mr Tully: ‘Send a signal to Stalwart. Advise the 74 that I intend to practice the guns. Tell me when you receive an answer.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Mr Parry, all hands to shorten sail, if you please. Let us fall back a mile or two. I don’t want any loose shots landing on Captain Liversedge’s deck.’
The acknowledgement from the third rate was almost instantaneous and while the crew of Perpetual was spilling wind from the frigate’s sails, the third rate responded though it took Stalwart considerably longer to deaden its way. That suited Perpetual and allowed it to stand some distance behind the larger warship.
The order to prepare for action, accompanied by the bosun’s calls, brought a rush of bodies surging onto the gun deck, the gun crews scattering to their respective stations. Gun ports were pushed open and secured, lashings were released from the gun carriages, tompions pulled from muzzles and barrels wormed of anything left from the previous firing. A dozen round shot were delivered to each gun while the powder monkeys hurried from the magazine carrying cartridges in a leather bag and announcing their presence with the familiar call: make way for powder. Inserting the rags, the canister and the round shot into the barrel completed the task. Having removed the sheet of lead, the gun captain checked his firing mechanism or reached for a slowmatch.
With eight or ten sailors stationed at every gun, all was in readiness and the crews stood waiting for the call to run out their guns. But, as this was only an exercise, any feelings of fear and apprehension were absent. There were no final words, admissions, wishes or handshakes. No will-making. No tourniquets delivered by the loblolly boy for use in emergency if a hand, arm or leg was blown clean off. Instead, there was a frisson of excitement and a crossfire of petty rivalry from one gun crew to another with caustic remarks and whispered wagers as to which gun would fire first and which crew would be the quickest to reload.
The banter was suddenly silenced by the booming voice of the third lieutenant reminding the gun crews that although this was only a practice, it was not a game and the lives of every man aboard would depend on their abilities when the action was real.
Being satisfied the frigate was at a safe distance from the third rate, Captain Quintrell gave the order to run out the starboard guns and for a full broadside to be fired. The ear-shattering explosive thunder of a dozen guns firing at the same time reverberated along the deck. The recoiling cannon rebounded on their carriage trucks causing the very fabric of the ship to shudder violently. Acrid smoke swirled up in clouds from the waist and spewed skyward belching out from the ship’s belly like smoke from an industrial factory chimney.
Barely able to see their hands in front of them and with eyes smarting from the smoke, cheeks were quickly daubed in blackened streaks as the men attempted to rub the dust from them. When vision remained hazy, only the sound of the carriage trucks rolling across the planks warned them to stand clear of the next burst of fire and to be ready for the gun’s deadly recoil. Between gasping and heaving to catch a decent breath, the heated muzzles were swabbed, wormed out, packed and reloaded ready for the call to fire again.
Apart from the smoke escaping from the waist, tongues of orange flame issuing from the gunports delivered a thick grey cloud that hovered above the water like a sea fret unwilling to evaporate. Each round of fire added to the density of the fog which billowed in layers like banks of cloud building on the horizon.
On the quarterdeck, the officers were alerted to the sound of shots being fired from the 74. After quickly checking the third rate to ensure it was not firing in anger, Quintrell decided Captain Liversedge had taken the opportunity to exercise his own guns at the same time. Having had both men and guns standing idle for several weeks, it was likely they were also in dire need of practice.
Shooting 18- and 24-pound shot from its heavy metal armament, flame and smoke spewed repeatedly from both larboard and starboard ports of the third rate. The sound, delayed by a few seconds only, followed the tongues of orange flame from its upper gundeck only. The ports on the lower deck remained closed.
From the quarterdeck, Oliver and his first officer observed the man-of-war being engulfed in a growing cloud that rose from the hull, swirled through the rigging and settled amidst the pyramid of spars and canvas. With the smoke increasing, the 74 disappeared almost completely until only the tips of its masts were visible.
Following three broadsides from Perpetual’s starboard battery, the order was given for the gun crews to transfer to the port side. Within minutes, the ports were opened, the guns made ready, hauled out and the exercise repeated.
‘Begging your pardon, Captain,’ the midshipman said, struggling to speak between fits of coughing.
‘Not now, Hanson,’ Oliver Quintrell replied.
‘But I think it could be urgent, sir.’
Peeved at the interruption, the captain turned impatiently to the midshipman. ‘What is it that cannot wait?’
‘It’s the foremast lookout, sir. He thinks the 74 has signalled but, with all the smoke about and at this distance, he says it’s impossible to read the flags.’
Oliver expected it to be a message from Captain Liversedge, advising that the 74 was also going to practice its guns, but he could not take the chance. ‘Mr Parry,’ he called. ‘Belay the firing and ask Mr Tully to go aloft. I need him to confirm this signal from the 74. Thank you, Mr Hanson,’ the captain said. ‘You did the right thing. Return to your station. Mr Tully will attend to the matter.’
The midshipman touched his hat, hurried forward and quickly vanished into the smoke billowing up from the waist.
Oliver observed his lieutenant sprint up the ratlines, rub his eyes and extend his glass towar
ds the man-of-war. After a brief discussion with the man in the foretop and a second look to confirm his assessment, he returned to the quarterdeck.
‘Signal reads: Sail approaching. Dead ahead.’
‘Thank you, Mr Tully. Could you or the lookout see a ship?’
‘No, sir. We could see nothing for the smoke. The 74’s lookout has the advantage with the height of his masts.’
‘Kindly go back aloft and report as soon as you see a sail or another signal. I need to know what the ship is. Let us hope it is just another whaler heading south.’
The captain turned to his first lieutenant. ‘Mr Parry, have the men remain by their guns and bring us to half a cable’s length of the 74 but keep us astern of her. As we cannot see that sail, it’s likely she hasn’t seen us either.’
Simon Parry agreed.
With the gun crews standing by but with no visibility from their open ports, they waited anxiously for fresh orders.
Fifteen minutes passed during which time the captain paced the quarterdeck screwing his eyes in an attempt to see through the veil of cloud.
‘Deck there!’ Mr Tully’s voice carried from the royal yard on the main. ‘Signal from the 74.’
‘Report.’
‘Two sail of ships both hull up on the horizon. Possibly French. Heading directly for Stalwart.’
‘Thank you, Mr Tully,’ Oliver called. Then turning to the midshipman he ordered a signal be raised to acknowledge the message.
With Perpetual swimming in the 74’s wake, the captain waited for another signal from the third rate. On deck the feeling of excitement was now tempered with fear of not knowing the enemy they were about to face. But a third rate ship of the line and a frigate made a formidable team and, unless the two approaching ships had greater firepower, they would be fools to attack two well-armed fighting ships of the Royal Navy.
The next signal merely confirmed the sighting that two French ships were bearing down on the 74 and were directly in line with her. One was a French frigate. The other a three-masted vessel with squares on fore and main. ‘Looks like a British sloop of war,’ the lookout suggested.
‘A French corvette, I presume,’ Oliver commented. ‘She’ll be light and fast with only one gun deck and only a small crew.’
With the men already stationed for action, there were no drums or pipes – only the reminder to stand ready and wait for the order. Sailors and marines climbed into the rigging and took up their positions. A wave of apprehension swept over the ship. Hands chilled. Stomachs churned. Mouths and tongues ran dry. Yet the challenge also brought a burst of positive air. Every sailor knew that a captured French frigate would make a valuable prize even though it would be shared between both ships’ crews. The small corvette would be an added bonus if that could also be taken.
‘A bold move for the French pair to challenge a line-of-battle ship,’ Oliver pondered.
‘How many guns would you think?’ the lieutenant asked.
‘A big frigate – perhaps 38- or 44-guns. The corvette only 18- or 20-guns. A little over 60-guns when combined. Well short of the third rate’s metal.’ Oliver was puzzled as he squinted in an effort to see through the veil of gun-smoke. ‘If I am not mistaken, because of the smoke, I contend the French captains have not seen us standing in Stalwart’s wake. I wager they are under the impression the 74 is sailing alone and that is why they have decided to take her on.’
The officers on deck liked the captain’s suggestion and were in agreement.
‘Let us remain behind this grey curtain for as long as possible.’ Then he smiled. ‘I should like to see the expressions on their faces when they discover they are taking on a British third rate and a frigate.’
‘What action do you expect from Captain Liversedge?’ Simon Parry asked.
‘If the French bring the action to him, he will most definitely stand and fight. If, however, the French realise their mistake and veer away, the decision to make chase will be his. Whatever choice he makes, Perpetual will be with him.’
The sand in the hourglass slid through the neck painstakingly slowly from the time the ships were first sighted to them coming within firing range. As always, ships rising from the horizon appeared glued to the line and unwilling to part from it. However, once the hull was up and the ship freed from the horizon’s grip, it sped from it as though the Devil’s bellows was pumping air into its sails.
Standing only half a cable from Stalwart’s stern, the spread of the warship’s canvas, combined with the smoke, meant Perpetual was completely obscured from the view of the two approaching ships.
Two shots fired from Stalwart’s forward carronades put everyone on alert. Even though the enemy was far out of range, they were followed by two more powerful shots. But the explosive discharges conveyed a clear message to Captain Quintrell. He read it as a signal from Captain Liversedge that he intended to bring the fight to the enemy. It also confirmed his awareness of Perpetual’s situation by adding smoke to the screen surrounding both vessels. Forward on the weather deck and on the gundeck, the gun crews stood ready for action.
‘Deck there,’ the lookout shouted from high on the mast. ‘The Frogs have separated but are still heading straight for the 74. They intend to attack the third rate from both sides at the same time.’
The message had hardly been received when the ghostly outline of the corvette came into view off the 74’s port bow. At the same time, the larger French frigate could be identified bearing down on its starboard side.
Moments of confusion aboard the corvette confirmed the opinion Oliver had expressed – the officers on the French deck had been oblivious to the British frigate hidden behind the 74’s pyramid of cloth and cloud. Despite this realization, or because of it, as soon as the corvette’s elegant bow was in line with that of the 74’s there was a deafening roar as fire shot from the gunports of the small French vessel. Stalwart’s response was to release a barrage of shot from both upper and lower decks on her port side. By the time the gun crews on both ships had reloaded, the damaged corvette and the 74 were beam to beam. It was an extraordinarily uneven fight.
Captain Quintrell ordered more sail to bring him up from the 74’s wake and put him in a position to launch his own attack on the corvette. With the helm over, Perpetual veered towards the smaller French vessel with the intention of sailing across its bow.
On the far side of the 74, the roar from the warship’s starboard guns and the response from the French frigate were deafening but the officers on Perpetual’s deck were unable to see what was happening. But everyone aboard was conscious that a well-timed broadside from Stalwart’s twin decks was capable of blowing the French ship out of the water.
By coming up on the corvette with the intention of forcing it between Perpetual and the 74, Oliver Quintrell was placing himself in danger of being hit by the man-of-war’s round shot as it flew across the French deck. He had faith in his fellow captain, though, and was confident that when Liversedge saw his manoeuvre, he would cease firing on his port side. But there was no guarantee.
With the bow of the corvette bearing down, Oliver ordered his bow chasers to aim for the corvette’s foremast. The second shot hit its target. The timber creaked and cracked. Lines whipped away wildly, blocks thudded on the planks and severed ropes’ ends swung above the deck. The mast leaned perilously but did not fall.
Another deafening shot rang out from Perpetual’s forward carronade, blasting the bowsprit and taking out the forward stay. As the taut line snapped and flew off with the speed of a bullet, the foremast fell slowly back, collecting the main and topgallant yards before lowering a blanket of salt-hardened canvas across the bodies already writhing on the deck.
‘We have her,’ Oliver cried, as Perpetual swung under the corvette’s damaged bow and came up on her vulnerable beam. Sailing to within biscuit-throw of the small ship, Perpetual’s starboard guns were ready for action when the corvette swam between her and the third rate. The order was given for the crew to aim for
the hull betwixt wind and water.
As the French corvette had not been expecting to encounter a second British ship and had been firing at the 74 through its larboard ports, its starboard ports had remained closed and its guns were not ready to fire. Because of this, Perpetual suffered little damage but inflicted much on the French vessel.
‘Aim low,’ Oliver ordered. ‘Don’t hit the 74. Captain of Marines, have your sharp shooters take out the men in the tops.’
The confused French soldiers balancing in the corvette’s remaining rigging had been concentrating their attention on the 74 and did not expect musket fire to come from behind them. Now, under fire from both sides, they were incapable of swinging their muskets around without hitting each other or becoming caught up in the tangle of lines and swinging ropes surrounding them and making themselves easy targets.
With the ships passing at a speed of three or four knots, the time available to place accurate shots and reload as they sailed by was limited. But Perpetual delivered two full broadsides into the corvette’s hull, pummelling the French ship and sending splinters flying skywards. A constant roar of cannon fire from Stalwart’s starboard batteries indicated the action was still continuing against the French frigate.
Besides the thunderous noise issuing from beneath the smoke, chaos had erupted on the corvette’s deck. The screams and yells were not of pain or victory but cries of panic. It was the sound of men in mortal danger and typical of an undisciplined rabble such as that which made up the majority of French crews.
When the smoke lifted sufficiently, Captain Quintrell could see the mortal injury the corvette had suffered. Along the waterline, its hull had been holed in several places. But it was the unseen damage below the surface that had sealed the ship’s fate. Taking water, it was going down fast. Men scrambling to escape from below were hindered by fallen spars and canvas. The few that managed to crawl from beneath the raffle headed for the rails and launched themselves into the water.
