His Majesty's Ship

by Alaric Bond

“If you'll have me.”

  Membership of the mess depended on the agreement of all. Crehan might as easily be cast out, forced to mess alone, or with the “pariah-dogs”, others who had been rejected by their peers.

  “I'd take a vote,” Flint turned to Matthew. “But I think it really depends on one.”

  Now all were looking at him, although the boy's eyes stayed fixed on the table in front of him.

  “I'll do you no harm, lad.” Crehan said, “An' I'm sorry, truly, for the trouble.”

  Matthew nodded briefly, and was relieved when it was taken as a signal.

  Crehan went to lower himself on to one of the mess benches when a raised finger stopped him. He looked into Flint's eyes and saw real meaning.

  “You will do him no harm.” Flint said, his words low but clear. ‘Cause you'll have us all watchin', day an' night.”

  “'sright.” Jenkins this time, his stare strangely harsh, even in the murky gloom of the gundeck. “Lay a finger on the boy, an' I'll take yon 'part, piece by piece.”

  Crehan looked along the row of faces. Lewis was nodding, and looking no less firm. “Goes for me 'nall.”

  “Goes for every man'n this ship.” O'Conner this time, wearing an expression devoid of warmth or camaraderie. “I'll finish you me self, an' they'll be others to do it if I don’t.”

  Crehan nodded again, and sat down on the bench. From behind the next gun a voice broke out in a soft rendering of Spanish Ladies, one of the songs Jake the carpenter had taught Matthew a hundred years ago. Other voices joined, until the entire deck was together in song. Matthew felt a warm glow inside. His eyes grew hot and he knew that unreasonable tears were close by. The air was thick with the smell of beer and strong men as, cautiously at first, he opened his mouth and began to join in the song.

  PART THREE

  IN ACTION

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  They sighted the enemy ships at first light, a yell from the masthead being the signal that their lives were to change beyond all measure. Initially Shepherd and the rest of his officers assumed them to be British, a small squadron despatched from the Channel Fleet or maybe some of Smith's ships that kept guard over Northern France. The former was the more likely, as the topgallants appeared to be those of large vessels, although even then Shepherd was concerned, and a prickling feeling down the back of his neck began to grow with his suspicions.

  The wind was light and from the North East, blowing offshore from the Brest peninsula a hundred and twenty miles over the horizon. It gave the strange ships the windward advantage and added importance to the hope that they would turn out to be British. One or two might have slipped out of the Brest blockade during the recent storm; four was unlikely, although by no means impossible. But then Admiral Howe did not enforce the tight blockade that Shepherd, and other younger men, advocated. Shepherd had been with Howe as a lieutenant in America, and later served under him when he commanded his first frigate. He knew him to be a capable, indeed, an exceptional officer although there was no doubt that, at nigh on seventy, he was getting old for his post.

  It was two bells in the forenoon watch: nine o'clock, when the sails could first be seen from the deck. Shepherd and his officers studied them through their glasses. The topgallants and topsails were barely distinguished through the haze, although the unspoken impression was that they appeared white. Most British ships on active service would have been at sea for some while, the canvas of their sails being dulled to a dirty grey brown. The French however, had endured almost two years of blockade, with the majority of their ships not at sea one day in a hundred. Consequently their sails and rigging were normally fresh from the dockyard, and four ships with white sails was as clear an indication of nationality as any ensign. The small cluster of officers that gathered on the weather side of the poop exchanged knowing looks. Judging by the speed of the convoy, those ships should overhaul them by mid afternoon; there would be little chance of slipping silently away with darkness.

  “What do you see there?” Shepherd's voice carried up to the masthead lookout perched high on the main topgallant yard.

  “No change, sir. Keepin' the same course.”

  “What size are they?” The entire ship was silent with expectation.

  “Difficult to say for sure. Two look to be frigates, and two liners, one of them might be somethin' bigger. Wait—I can see colours!

  It was torture.

  “Them's French, sir. Sure of it!”

  Vigilant was keeping station two miles to the rear of the convoy. Immediately Shepherd roared out orders that sent men skimming up the ratlines to let out more sail. Adding topgallants, jibs and staysails to the forecourse and topsails would increase her speed considerably; they would be up to the convoy within the hour. He looked across to the merchantmen, who were showing a mixture of sails as would be expected when different ships keep speed with one another. None were closer than three cables from their neighbour; they sailed in two rough columns that straggled over a square mile of ocean. Shepherd surveyed them with a mild disdain; it was as tight a formation as they had managed since the voyage began; heaven only knew what would happen once they realised there was an enemy bearing down on them.

  “Signal to Badger, repeat to Taymar; Enemy squadron in sight to windward.”

  King scratched out the signal in his note book, and called for one of the signal midshipman, conscious that this was the first time since being promoted that he had been under real pressure. A minute later the flags soared up the halyards, being acknowledged by the sloop that kept station on the larboard side of the convoy. The message was repeated to the invisible frigate, and within seven minutes all escorts were aware of the danger. Shepherd took a turn back and forward along the quarterdeck, pausing as a quartermaster and master's mate returned from the poop with a dripping log line.

  “What speed?” he asked, as the master's mate began to chalk on to the traverse board.

  “Five and a touch, sir.”

  Five knots; they could maintain that only until they caught up with the convoy. Then they would have to slow to three, while the French bore down on them unhindered.

  Scattering the convoy may even be the better option. With the wind holding as it was, some of the copper bottomed merchants would make six, even seven knots. At that rate and handled smartly they should reach safety, as the French would find it hard to take them all. The flagship was potentially fast, although her efforts to date had not been impressive. But spurred on by the threat of capture, Vigilant, and the other warships, might lead her and her precious human cargo to safety. Some of the others might also avoid capture, and there would be the added bonus of knowing that a powerful squadron was loose on the Atlantic. He could even meet up with one of the blockading squadrons and alert them to the menace.

  However, to do that inevitably meant leaving the slower merchants behind without support. They would be consigned to certain disaster and as senior captain Shepherd was aware that his actions must be justified to all, not just his superiors. The owners would naturally complain, and it was not inconceivable that public opinion would rise up against him. With the habit of victory established early in the war, the mob would not look happily on one who ran from his responsibilities, and that was ignoring what the Admiralty made of it. The intelligent few would see his action as the sensible solution, but they were likely to be outnumbered by those who thought him a coward. Even if he kept his command, there was little chance he would ever be given charge of a convoy again.

  Or he could keep the merchants together, and with the frigate and the sloop, try to scare the French away. He would have considerably less than a third of their fire power, and some ships would be lost before they were even close enough to use their light guns. It was a shame he had none of the bigger Indiamen amongst his charges; some had a passable resemblance to line-of-battle ships and, boldly commanded, the French might even be frightened away without a shot being fired.

  The thoughts raced about his mind as he pace
d the deck. Sending Taymar and Badger with the flagship and the other, faster, ships would leave them a measure of protection, and there was a good chance the French would continue after the slower, safer, target even if there was a minor line ship to contend with. He would also have the chance to engage the squadron, delaying it to ensure their escape and possibly causing damage to the degree that capture by others became inevitable, albeit at the sacrifice of his own ship. His actions would allow the flagship, and her diplomats, to go free, and also reduce the area which the French might expect to be found, and make their eventual capture that much more likely. He glanced again at the convoy, sailing in innocence, unaware that they were waiting for one man, him, to make up his mind.

  He finally turned to Tait, the officer of the watch, who was standing by the binnacle.

  “Mr Tait, have the cutter cleared away and made ready to launch. I want to send a message to the commodore.”

  “Aye, sir,” Tait touched his hat, and was shouting out the orders as Shepherd stepped back to his quarters under the poop.

  “Pass the word for my clerk,” he said to the marine standing sentry at his door.

  His cabin was spacious and tidy, although the furniture could only be described as functional. Shepherd saw no reason in spending money on items that would have a limited life. Even if they saw no action, conditions at sea were not the best for fine furniture. The heavy wooden articles the carpenter had produced did their duty as well as fine Hepplewhite or Sheraton and would probably last longer. Especially if, as Shepherd predicted, they would be roughly stashed in the hold before long as the ship cleared for action.

  Lindsay, his clerk, slipped into the cabin unobtrusively, and seated himself at the desk where so very recently his captain had been writing letters home.

  “To Sir Thomas Davies, Commodore commanding the Honourable East India Company ship, Pegasus. Sir,” Shepherd paused while he framed the words that would divide the convoy, sending some to safety and leaving others, including himself, to likely ruin. Lindsay waited, his nib parked just above the ink pot.

  “I regret to inform you that a powerful French squadron has been sighted to windward...”

  *****

  On deck the spring sunshine was showing its first real hint of warmth as Tait stood with Gregory.

  “What do you think he'll do?” Tait was third lieutenant, after Rogers and Dyson, although he had long grown used to asking his supposed junior for opinions and advice. The experience stored up in Gregory's stocky, almost stout, frame was well worth tapping.

  Gregory stuck out his chin. “Not many choices, the obvious is to scatter, that way some'll make it through and we get to report the squadron. Otherwise, head inshore. Make as much of a chase as we can and hope to sight some of Black Dick's ships. The captain might have other ideas, mind; he's a one for surprises.”

  Tait stroked his top lip as he gazed at the enemy sails that held a morbid fascination for him. The topsails were still only just visible; clearly the increase in speed had kept the French at roughly the same distance, although whenever a lucky wave lifted Vigilant, he caught a glimpse of their courses.

  “We'll be up with the convoy 'fore long.” Gregory broke into his thoughts with a gentle hint. As officer of the watch it was Tait's duty to inform the captain of any notable occurrence. The flagship was well within striking distance now; it was time to shorten sail, unless they intended to pass through the untidy fleet of merchantmen. Tait hesitated; Shepherd was aware of the situation, and would be bound to return to the deck shortly. The cutter hung ready from its davits, and next to it stood the crew. With the wind as it was there would be no trouble in sailing the small boat down to Pegasus, and picking it up afterwards would be just as easy.

  Then he heard the captain approach.

  “Have this taken to the commodore,” he said, passing a parchment envelope to Tait. “Give it to a reliable midshipman, and tell him not to get into conversation.”

  The envelope was light, and sealed with no more than a wafer. Tait guessed that it held the briefest of instructions; it was Shepherd's habit to be concise. Tait exchanged glances with Gregory, and knew that he could leave the job of manoeuvring the ship to him as he left the quarterdeck.

  “Back mizzen tops”, take in t'gallants and jibs.” Gregory yelled, while Tait made his way to the poop. Another flurry of men sped up the ratlines, while a group of afterguard hauled the mizzen braces back. Vigilant staggered and checked in the apparent mishandling, then began a choppy roll as she lost speed.

  “Bring her round,” The last order was spoken by Gregory to the quartermaster. The large double wheel spun in a blur of spokes, and Vigilant came to a brief halt.

  The blocks squealed as the cutter was lowered into the water while Pite made himself comfortable in the stern. Once clear of the ship the small crew raised the twin masts, set the lug sails and the boat was bearing down upon the merchant ship before Vigilant had come back to the wind.

  “Signal the commodore to stand by to accept a boat.” Shepherd said, without emotion.

  King glanced back at his captain, knowing his penchant for irony. Anyone who missed a two masted cutter flying down towards them under sail would be stupid as well as blind. Still, protocol might be involved, and he ordered the hoist.

  Shepherd watched the cutter dancing over the waves. As Tait had predicted, the orders left no room for argument. They also contained none of the politeness expected of a captain in the Royal Navy proffering advice to a superior in an associated service. Let them make of it what they might, within hours he and his ship would be in action, whereas the well paid civilians opposite would be free. It would be a freedom paid for by the men of his ship, and he would no more submit, advise or request the commodore's cooperation than he would have declined to fight. Besides, only an idiot would go against his plan, and despite all the evidence to the contrary, he could not believe the commodore to be quite that much of a fool.

  The cutter stayed hooked on to the flagship's main chains for less than two minutes; exactly the time Shepherd had allowed for young Pite to clamber aboard, explain himself and hand the despatch to an officer. He watched the young midshipman recklessly skip over the main shrouds, swing down from the chains, landing almost exactly in his allotted space in the sternsheets of the boat. Immediately the cutter turned away from Pegasus, and set course for a point approximately three cables ahead of Vigilant's present position, to be there, waiting when the line-of-battle ship reached her. A glance back at the enemy confirmed the lookout's report. Now that they had slowed down the enemy had gained on them. The hulls were in plain sight from the deck, and Shepherd thought he could distinguish the individual colour schemes as they bore down.

  “One's a three-decker,” Tait whispered excitedly to Gregory. The older man nodded.

  “Ninety-eight, I reckon.”

  “Signal Badger, repeat to Taymar;” the captain was addressing King, although he had the ear of every officer on deck. “Convoy will divide. Accompany flag and eleven ships heading Rochefort Blockade at best possible speed.”

  King scratched at his pad once more.

  “How many hoists?” Shepherd asked. King licked his pencil.

  “Four, no, three; I can do it in three, sir.”

  “Very good. As soon as they acknowledge make the size and bearing of the enemy.” He turned to the officer of the watch. “Mr Tait, please pass the word for the other lieutenants and the master to join me in my quarters. You have the deck, I believe?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Shepherd's tense expression relaxed for the first time since the French were spotted.

  “Worry not, Mr Tait; we will keep you in ignorance for as brief a time as possible.”

  *****

  Mr Rollston, the cooper, was less than five foot tall, although what he lacked in height was made up for in his bulk, which was princely and generous. Standing in his workshop on the orlop with his knuckles resting on his hips, he seemed almost square, filling th
e distance between bulwarks, as easily as that up to the deckhead.

  “S'more than makin' barrels,” he said, obtusely, when Matthew, Jake and three other boys were sent down to him. “You got to know about wood, how it works, and how to use it. You got to understand 'bout the way liquid settles, how powder transports, an' when to use a copper or an iron band,” he paused to roll his eyes about his bounteous face. “They say they're gonna 'ave a battle today.” Now he tossed his head dismissively towards the upper decks. “Reckon on being a bit of fightin'—well that's as maybe. But I'll tell you this; none of them,” he paused once more for effect, “None of them would even be here today if it t'weren't for coopers, and the barrels we makes.”

  Jake and Matthew exchanged glances in the gloom. When King had hurriedly detailed them to accompany Mr Rollston for a watch they had been somewhat disappointed. With the enemy in sight and a fight in prospect, four hours with the cooper seemed about the worst station possible. But Mr Rollston was not what they had expected, and now it seemed likely that the time might pass faster that they had originally thought.

  *****

  Light from the large stern windows cast strong shadows over the assembled group as Shepherd's glance swept over each man in turn. The majority of his officers had served with him for the entire commission and in the main he felt he could depend on them. In turn he had proved himself to be a reliable captain, if at times somewhat unpredictable. He smiled grimly to himself; this would be one of those occasions. And as for knowing his officers, the next few hours would tell him more than he had learnt in the last two years. It was one thing to sail with a fleet in eager anticipation of action and victory, quite another to face odds that made capture and prison the most promising outcome.

  “You all understand the situation, and that I have been in contact with the commodore. Some of you also know of the signal recently sent to the other escorts. For those who do not; briefly, we will be staying with five merchant ships who cannot make sufficient speed. They are Jenny Rose, Orcadese, Hampshire Lass, Hever Castle, and Duke of Kent. The rest will make for the blockading squadron off Rochefort, in company with the other two escorts. It is possible that the enemy will try to take them, as well as the slower members of the convoy, and it is up to us to see that they do not.” He cleared his throat, his mouth was unusually dry.