Enemies at Every Turn

by David Donachie

  The rate of sailing was no more than four knots, so it was with increasing foreboding that Ralph Barclay watched as the wood began to fly from his flagship’s forward bulwarks, that seconded by the amount of gunfire that was shredding Howe’s rigging, and yet the old sod held his course, aiming for the gap that separated Montagne from the nearest ship astern, the 74-gun Jacobin.

  With the aid of that wind, the reaction of the other British ships was easy to see, and as usual Barclay had better eyes than his own aloft to report. What he was told induced caution, for not everyone was blindly obeying Howe’s order, either as they had been previously outlined or as were now flying from the Queen Charlotte’s halyards. Bellerophon and Defence had responded as required from the van squadron, but HMS Royal Sovereign was labouring due to the damage she had previously received.

  Astern, Royal George and Glory had likewise reacted but it was plain to Ralph Barclay that the majority of his fellow captains were either avoiding compliance, or were perhaps not in a state to do so due to damage sustained in encounters over the last two days. He was also aware that his officers, not least his premier Jackson, were looking at him waiting for the required instructions.

  All right for them, he thought as he watched, aghast, at the punishment being inflicted on Queen Charlotte, they do not carry the burden I do; never mind what Black Dick Howe orders, he might well never get near his chosen target. If he does not, he will have thrown away a certain victory and there will be only one consequence for that, opprobrium for those who complied and praise for those who showed more sense.

  ‘Flag making out number, sir,’ called the signal midshipman. ‘Signal reads: Engage the enemy more closely.’

  In raising his head to look at the fluttering line of flags and pennants, his thinking troubled, Ralph Barclay slightly lost his balance, his mind telling an arm he no longer possessed to steady him. Thankfully for his dignity, Devenow was there to save him from an ignominious fall, but not from the feeling of dread that filled his breast.

  He was not afraid of death or a wound and never had been; that had to be accepted if a man was to enter into his profession. The only thing Ralph Barclay feared was disgrace, the notion that he might be hauled before a court to account for his actions in battle, and not of the benign kind he had faced in Toulon. Yet to disobey a direct order from the flagship was to bring on that very thing, so it was with a hoarse voice that he responded.

  ‘Quartermaster, put up our helm to close with the enemy; Mr Jackson, we will need the sails trimmed to give us as much speed as possible.’ It was under his breath that he added, ‘And may God have mercy on our souls.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir,’ cried Jackson, full of the enthusiasm of a man who saw the possibility of elevation in the coming fight, as did all of Barclay’s lieutenants; nothing brought on mass promotion for lieutenants quicker than participation in a successful fleet action.

  The orders went out that sent men running to the falls, abandoning the upper deck cannons to loosen the ropes and swing round the yards, men called up from below to assist, for, short-handed, HMS Semele did not have the luxury of sailing and fighting without hands being required to perform double duty.

  The prow came round slowly, for it was not a neat manoeuvre; in fact it was, Barclay thought, shoddy and would be observed as such from every other deck in the fleet. Out of the men who had come up from below, two were Charlie Taverner and Rufus Dommet, his face black and blue; never having seen an enemy fleet in the offing, it was hardly surprising that they were given to staring at such a wonderful if fearsome sight.

  ‘Bosun mate, start those buggers,’ Jackson called, which drew Barclay’s attention to where he was pointing; that they were not alone in their reaction made no odds.

  ‘Do you see who those two are, Your Honour?’ growled Devenow in his ear.

  With so much on his mind, not least that half a dozen ships in the French fleet had seen him turn and were concentrating their fire on his ship, their sides suddenly billowing with smoke as they discharged their cannon, Barclay nearly shouted at his man to stay quiet; the next words from Devenow killed that.

  ‘Two of John Pearce’s Pelican sods, come aboard to do you mischief.’

  The response to that was muted by the black cannonballs ripping into his hull, while above his head chain shot shredded the rigging; in the midst of a battle he could not concern himself with John Pearce or anything to do with him, yet it did delay his response to Jackson’s request, made as the two identified were ordered below and back to their cannon.

  ‘Permission to open the lower gun ports, sir.’

  ‘No, Mr Jackson, every ounce of speed is vital and the guns cannot bear. Keep them closed until they can.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  HMS Semele shuddered from the long-range shot that hit her bow and ricocheted off her scantlings, yet everyone on the quarterdeck knew there was worse to come: case-shot, close-quarter cannon fire and musketry, though given the number of vessels seeking to halt her progress – in essence half the rear squadron of the enemy fleet – the fire was less than had been anticipated, certainly insufficient to impede her progress or deter the approach, and much of it was missing its target.

  ‘Ragged gunnery, would you not say, Mr Jackson?’ Barclay said with manufactured cheer. ‘I fear our enemies have not worked up their gun crews enough in the time they have been at sea.’

  The nod of agreement was quick enough, though it did leave unanswered the unspoken question in the mind of both men: HMS Semele’s gun crews were not much better trained and would show that as a fact when the time came to open fire. But Ralph Barclay was determined to adopt an air of insouciance he did not feel, to show a confidence in the outcome that went with his rank and the traditions of the service.

  He put his mind to checking on all the other factors like ensuring the soldier-marines in his tops knew what to do, his hope that they would at least be better shots than most true lobsters, aided by the fact that their Brown Bess muskets were of the standard forty-two-inch barrel, more accurate than the shortened sea service pattern, albeit loading and aiming was difficult when surrounded by rigging.

  ‘Captain Percival,’ he called to their commanding officer, a pompous oaf to his mind who had bought his rank, not earned it as would a naval officer. ‘Ensure your men play on the enemy gunners and the men who command their batteries, as well as the sharpshooters. The quarterdeck matters little and I do not want them seeking a braided trophy just so they can boast of the feat.’

  ‘My men will do their duty, sir,’ Percival responded, his tone arch if not actually insubordinate, ‘as I order them.’

  Barclay was happy to release some of his pent-up frustrations on a man for whom he had little regard, so he yelled back with no politesse at all. ‘I want them, sir, to abide by my needs and those of my hands, as will you if you do not wish to face a court.’

  ‘Well said, Your Honour,’ Devenow murmured.

  ‘What! Hold your tongue, man.’

  ‘Aye, aye, Capt’n,’ came the unabashed reply.

  ‘Where is Gherson?’ Barclay spat, looking around the quarterdeck.

  ‘Cowering amongst the bilge, I shouldn’t wonder, the lily-livered bugger.’

  ‘He should be here, with me, on deck.’

  That was not true. The quarterdeck of a ship engaged in battle was no place for a clerk, who would at best aid the surgeon, though even that was doubtful, but to Ralph Barclay it was only fitting that the supercilious swine should face the same risks as he. Gherson was, he knew, shy when it came to danger. He had lorded it over him in the business of getting those papers; now he could exact some revenge.

  ‘Mr Jackson, send a mid to find Mr Gherson. I want him on deck with quill and paper. And we need to fetch a chair and board on which he can rest.’

  ‘As you wish, sir,’ the premier replied, surprised.

  ‘If he shows reluctance, he is to be fetched up by force.’

  ‘Well done, Your Honour.�
��

  ‘Devenow, if you open your mouth again I will have you gagged.’

  The mid, with two mates to the master-at-arms in tow, found Gherson in the sail locker, lying on the rolled-up canvas and looking pallid even though the battle was hardly joined. His response to Barclay’s orders was a furious headshake that got him nowhere; clerks were not loved by the likes of midshipmen and warrants – too often they were denied things by such people and dismissed out of hand with it – so the mid, not yet fourteen years of age, had great pleasure in seeing him hauled out bodily and near carried up the companionway.

  ‘Would you look at that, Charlie,’ cried Rufus, who even in the dim lantern light could see the struggling Gherson by his fine blond hair; he could also hear him whimpering as he went by. ‘They’ve collared Corny.’

  ‘Happen they’re going to chuck him in the briny,’ Charlie yelled, pleased to see Gherson’s head jerk in reaction.

  ‘Belay that,’ his divisional lieutenant, Mr Beresford, shouted. ‘Attend to your duties.’

  ‘Ain’t got none, Your Honour,’ Charlie replied softly, for Beresford was a good soul and tolerant. ‘Not till them gun ports open up.’

  Carried right up into the fresh air, Gherson was set down beside Ralph Barclay, who fixed him with a cold stare just as the ship was once more struck by half a dozen round shot.

  ‘I may be in bad odour with the admiral, so I want this action clearly recalled and the best way to achieve that is to have you write down what you observe, when and as it happens.’

  ‘Not much with ’is eyes shut,’ Devenow jeered, which got him a hard look requiring a response. ‘Beggin’ your pardon, Your Honour.’

  ‘My duty does not extend to that.’

  Barclay’s grin was like that of a wolf. ‘Your duty, fellow, is what I say it is and, never fear, Gherson, I have already sent someone to fetch for you the means to pen your account. For your own sake make it both accurate and interesting.’

  ‘We are gaining on Queen Charlotte, sir.’

  That concentrated Ralph Barclay’s mind, taking it away from spiteful revenge to the pressing needs of what was happening ahead. Newly refitted, with her clean copper bottom and being smaller than the massive three-decker, Semele was indeed overhauling the flagship at a fair rate, which tempted him to shorten sail – that was until he considered the quality, as well as the numbers, of his crew; it would not serve.

  Howe’s flag captain was obviously aiming to get across the stern of Montagne and really he knew he should be doing likewise with the Jacobin, the ship astern, but his head was falling off too much, besides which to be too close to the 100-gun flagship was to risk taking some of her fire when she opened up on both sides, as she would surely do; best leave a gap and another vessel between them to absorb any stray fire.

  ‘I believe the enemy we should engage is Achille, sir,’ Jackson said, when his opinion was canvassed, merely a courtesy of which both men were aware.

  ‘Make it so, Mr Jackson. Put me across her stern.’

  Time lost meaning and what noise had existed fell away as there came a pause in the level of the enemy gunnery; all that could be heard was the groaning of the working timbers, the wind whistling through the rigging and finally, when firing was resumed, the occasional thud as a ball struck the hull. That was until something aloft, a heavy block as well as half a spar, sliced from their lines by chain shot, fell to the deck and hit someone below, which produced cries of pain.

  ‘Make sure the deck stays clear of men spilling blood, Mr Jackson.’

  ‘Parties are already organised, sir, your own servants plus those from the wardroom.’

  ‘Do ’em good,’ Devenow spat, congenitally unable to stay silent.

  ‘Why I do not send you to join them, I do not know,’ Barclay sighed; but he did know.

  The man in command of Achille soon sensed what was coming and set more sail, achieving a slightly increased speed, but attention was distracted by a cry from the masthead which focused attention on HMS Defence, the first British warship to breach the French line. Well ahead and beyond Howe’s flagship, she was immediately engaged by at least two enemy vessels in a cascade of both gunfire and smoke.

  ‘Sir, Vengeur du Peuple has increased speed as well,’ the premier called.

  Barclay replied, fixing his gaze on what was obviously the truth. ‘God in heaven, the ridiculous names these Frenchmen give their vessels. She was originally the Marseillois, you know, which would have been fitting enough given their damned martial chant.’

  Really that was said to give him time to think, for again he had a dilemma: if he could not, short-handed and with an inefficient crew, cut his speed to let Queen Charlotte lead the way through the enemy line, neither could he increase it to close more speedily.

  What he was facing now was a set of very fine calculations; could he make the gap between the two Frenchmen and rake them head and stern? That would be deadly, certainly to Achille, with the flimsy deadlights covering her aft cabins offering scant protection to the open gun deck full of hundreds of men, along which any fired balls would travel and cause havoc.

  ‘Hold our course, Mr Jackson, and let us see how it plays out.’

  The closer HMS Semele got, the greater was the punishment to which she could not really reply, the same applying to Queen Charlotte. True, both were firing their bow chasers but these were mere pinpricks against the returned broadsides, even if they were badly aimed and coordinated. The topmast sails on both ships were full of holes, ropes hung loose that Barclay lacked the hands to send aloft to repair, and it was a miracle that nothing vital like a mast was carried away.

  ‘Flag is through!’

  The cry from the masthead took every eye on deck; Queen Charlotte split the enemy line and was immediately enveloped in the smoke of its own rolling broadside, which pounded to flinders both the deadlights of the Montagne to one side and the figurehead of Jacobin to the other, but the huge French three-decker, which had swung away to protect its vulnerable stern, took the most telling punishment.

  She seemed to stagger as her hull was hit by some fifty cannonballs, including Howe’s sixty-four-pounder carronades. Two more broadsides followed in the space of less than two minutes, with Queen Charlotte seeking to get to leeward, and immediately the French flagship began to fall away, obviously badly damaged, but no more attention could be gifted to that; Barclay had his own problems.

  His attempt to head-reach the Vengeur was not going to work and again he was in trouble from an inability to quickly react by changing his sail plan, the trouble being Semele was committed, unless he wanted to range alongside with water in between and engage in a duel of equal versus equal.

  This was not to him a promising prospect, with the chance that the French ships to the rear of Vengeur might manoeuvre to get onto his open side and trap him between twin broadsides. Suddenly he wanted all his hesitant confrères to do their duty to Howe’s orders and damned quick.

  It was like riding an unwilling horse, the way he sought, by bodily knee-jerks, to get that extra tenth of a knot that would put him in front of her bowsprit – that was until he realised it was not to be and gave an order to the helmsman to alter course slightly so they would meet bow on bow, calling to everyone to take a firm hold in the face of a coming collision.

  This would not matter as long as he stayed clear of getting tangled and could manoeuvre by shaving her off her bowsprit. Once to leeward and having given her a dose of gunnery, he could take men off the cannons to increase sail if the rearmost Frenchman, the Patriot, showed signs of seeking to trap him. In the end he failed on both counts, neither getting to leeward of his enemy nor staying clear of him.

  HMS Semele fouled the French 74’s fished and catted anchor with her own foremast shrouds. This had the unfortunate effect of fixing his bow to that of Vengeur, which in turn swung his stern so that Semele crunched into her side, he standing no more than fifty feet from his opposite number on the enemy quarterdeck.

 
; ‘Mr Jackson, get our gun ports open on the lower deck and fire as soon as they are.’

  The shouts that followed sped down the companionway as the order to fire the upper deck cannon was obeyed; loaded with case they swept the enemy deck, killing and maiming dozens until the smoke obscured any more immediate observation. HMS Semele’s deck was likewise swept by enemy shot, two of the men on the wheel spinning away as it splintered in their hands, while Captain Percival was cut in half by a cannonball.

  Ralph Barclay felt his own coat tugged and looked to see that the end of his empty sleeve was ragged where a case-shot ball had pierced it, and since his blood was up and he was now zealous for battle, that brought forth a huge cry meant to encourage his men.

  ‘My God, a lost arm can be a gift, for it cannot be lost twice.’

  That was followed by a more fractious request to enquire as to why the thirty-two-pounders beneath his feet were not firing, that answered above the din of gunfire by a stripling of a midshipman who popped is head up above deck level.

  ‘We are too close to the enemy, sir, and cannot get the ports open.’

  ‘Damn it, boy, tell the gunners to fire anyway, for if we do not the enemy surely will.’

  Jackson, standing close to him, dropped like a stone as Barclay shouted that, a hole appearing in the very centre of his forehead, his hat flying off as he jerked backwards to splay on the deck, arms and legs outstretched. There was no doubting his condition.

  ‘A message to the second lieutenant too, boy: he is to take over from the premier who is killed.’

  There were bodies all over the quarterdeck and foredeck, but if Semele was being pounded the enemy was suffering more, for the main deck carronades had already removed the bulkheads opposite and were now firing huge balls across the open deck, seeking to blast the mainmast at its base.

  The mid had disappeared with his message, running down to the dim red-painted main deck to deliver. The guns were already loaded and run right up to the ports, which only had to be hauled up, the problem being that they would not move more than six inches before they struck on the side of the enemy tumblehome, and heave as they might the gun crews could do no more.