by Alaric Bond
The enemy were in clear sight; two liners sailing abreast, with a couple of heavy frigates ahead and to his right. Flint considered them without emotion. They were sailing with the wind six points large, or on the quarter, aiming for a point a good way ahead of Vigilant and her charges. Presumably they considered that the British would not alter course, and they might be right, although Flint had noticed the signs of oncoming bad weather and felt a change was in the offing.
“You know we got the Irish aboard.” The voice of Dreaper, newly promoted from landsman to ordinary, cut into his thoughts. Flint glanced over to where he sat, fingering the end of his short, tarred, queue as he stared back at the distant enemy.
“What was that?”
“Revolutionaries: The U.Is, they're aboard.” Dreaper was several years younger, and far less experienced, than Flint. Normally a boisterous man with a ready wit, he seemed decidedly subdued as he watched the steady approach of the French.
Flint nodded. “Aye, they been with us for a while now.”
The mainyard below gave a groan as the wind shifted slightly.
“Never sure who's with them, or with us,” Dreaper continued. It was true, the membership of the United Irishmen was by no means confined to countrymen, and there were many sons of Cork or Dublin who were pleased to defend the British Crown, and would die doing so.
“They're no harm to us,” Flint reassured him. “Their fight's elsewhere. It's the officers who have to watch theirselves.”
Dreaper turned to Flint, his blank expression softening slightly. “Hear one o 'em planted a dead rat in t'wardroom fruit bowl.”
“Aye,” Flint grinned. “I heard that n'all.”
The yard creaked again as the braces were tightened.
“Wonder how they'll measure up when this little lot comes to blows.” Dreaper's voice was low and completely lacking in emotion, although Flint could tell the subject worried him.
“They'll fight,” he said, with utter certainty. “They'll fight, 'cause if they don't they're liable to be killed.”
“French are s'posed to be with them though,” there was a hint of relief in Dreaper's voice. “You don' think they'll pox it for us?”
Flint shook his head. “How they gonna do that? Haul down the colours when no one's lookin'? French don' know the're U.Is, an probably don' want to, neither. Meantime anythin' they do to wreck us is liable to snare them as much. Na, they'll fight for as long as they has to, an when it's all over, they'll go back to rolling shot at officers.”
“Rum lot,” mused Dreaper.
“Aye, rum lot, right enough,” Flint agreed. He glanced down to the quarterdeck, where Dyson had appeared from the captain's quarters looking cold and severe; a sure sign that something was afoot. Captain Carling then turned up with a corporal in tow. The boatswain joined them, then King who began sorting through the watch bill with Dyson.
“Sommat going on down there,” said Dreaper. “Be clearing for action afore we knows it.”
Flint nodded, although he felt something other than striking down bulkheads was brewing. King was a popular officer; one with an eye for adventure, as Flint had discovered on at least one memorable occasion. If he was looking for men, as the watch bill indicated, then Flint wanted to be in on it.
“I fancy takin’ a look for myself.” He grinned briefly at Dreaper, before transferring himself to the backstay, and sliding down to the deck as easily as a bead on a string.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
It would take several years and the influence of Admiral Sir John Jervis to allow the British Marines to be officially distinguished as “Royal”, but long before then the elite band of sea soldiers had no doubt that they were special.
Corporal Jackson surveyed his men as they mustered for inspection on the upper gundeck. Contrary to the majority of the crew, and indeed a good proportion of the British Army, these men were true volunteers and, as such, trusted above all others. A trained and businesslike force, more versatile than any foot soldier, as disciplined as a crack Guards regiment, and the main reason why the common seaman was still living in conditions and on wages that had not altered in a hundred and fifty years.
The idea of mutiny loiterd on the horizon of most men's minds and, when circumstances became unbearable, it was the discipline and presence of the marines, standing sentry on every companionway and outside the captain's quarters, and even berthing between the officers and the men, that usually stemmed the revolt before it had even begun. It was the marines who deterred deserters, by walking patrol on the channels, and the marines who would drag back any drunken seaman that, on the rare occasion when shore leave had been granted, abused the privilege. It was the marines who provided the main muscle power of the ship. The turning of the capstans, and pulling of the braces was mostly down to them; men who were in no way qualified as seamen, but could stand and work on a deck in the worst of weathers.
But it was in action that the marines showed their true colours; standing firm in conditions that would horrify many professional soldiers, firing quickly and accurately with single minded determination. So deep was the discipline instilled that even in the thickest battle the idea that their NCO should hold a rod against their backs to ensure a straight line was considered completely normal.
Jackson walked along his squad, subconsciously checking the kit and clothing of each man, and grudgingly pleased to find no fault or variation. These were his men, he had trained them, he knew them totally and, although he would have instantly rejected the idea, he was fond of them.
“I'm going to ask you to a party,” he said, in his customarily gruff manner. No man moved, but all were aware of the subtle change of atmosphere.
“We're goin' to meet up with some Frenchmen, and have a high old time.” The men remained still, as he expected them to be, as they would be if he'd openly insulted their god, mother, or anything else they might hold dear.
“There's not gonna be room for many: twelve is the number I've been told. Anyone interested in comin' along, make himself known. Anyone not, you know me; there'll be no 'criminations.”
As a body the men advanced one pace, until the line, unbroken as before, lay eighteen inches further forward.
Jackson smiled grimly to himself, it was just as he had expected, and he was satisfied. There were exactly twelve men in the squad.
*****
“You looking for volunteers, sir?” Flint asked, as he approached King standing on the quarterdeck.
“Might be, Flint,” King grinned. “You game?” The two eyed each other, conscious of the past experiences that bound them. Flint had been present when they had cut out the coaster off the West coast of France, and had been part of the prize crew that saw her back to England.
“I'll come along, sir.”
“Right, go back to the poop,” King made a small mark on the watch sheet. “We'll be using the cutters,” he said, winking at Flint. “And it's small arm stuff: pistols and cutlasses.”
Flint beamed and nodded, before making his way to where a group had already assembled. The master at arms was handing out weapons; Flint took his without comment. Fletcher was with them, as he had been on their previous adventures, and Copley, and Robson: it was the old team. He looked across at the French ships as Jackson marched his marines up to the quarterdeck and onto the poop. The sun vanished briefly behind a cloud, the air felt heavy with storm, and Flint was just in the mood for a scrap.
*****
Rogers was seated at the wardroom table, a half finished bottle of port wine near at hand.
“Planning a little adventure, are you?” he asked. King's heart fell when he saw the lieutenant. It would take fifteen minutes to detail the rest of the crew, load the equipment, and rig the boats. He had nipped down to the wardroom to collect his own weapons and a boat cloak, and had no desire, or time, for conversation, especially as he sensed that Rogers was in a dangerous mood.
“Going to take the Frenchies on, are we?” Despite the proximity of the bottl
e Rogers hadn't drunk anything for over an hour. He was now at the stage where his head hurt, he needed sleep, and he hated everything associated with being alive.
King could not think of an answer, and tried to avoid the man's stare as he hurriedly gathered his things.
“God, hardly out of the cockpit and you're laying it down to the captain.”
“The captain approved of my plan, if that's what you mean.” He collected his dirk from the becket where it hung. It was shorter than the other officers' swords, and usually only carried by midshipmen, but King had not been prepared for his promotion, and felt awkward about asking any of the lieutenants for the loan of a hanger.
“Think you can show us old 'uns a thing or two, do you?”
King berthed in the wardroom. Often an acting lieutenant stayed with the midshipmen on the orlop deck. But Shepherd felt that a man should enjoy the privileges that went with his obligations, and King was granted the chance to mingle with his betters. There were times, as now, when he wished the captain had not been quite so thoughtful.
“Ask me, Shepherd's mad letting you take useful men, right when we need them most.”
King winced and opened his mouth to reply, when another voice cut through with cold authority.
“I would think very carefully before questioning the captain's sanity, Mr Rogers.”
Rogers blanched visibly as Dyson strode into the wardroom. The first lieutenant's expression was set in a rare half smile; he was about to carry out a particularly unpleasant task that was totally unavoidable, and yet to all outward appearances he was enjoying himself. King saw the look and sensed danger. Without pausing he scurried past carrying his bundle of cloak, dirk and pistols. Dyson waited to hear the closing of the wardroom door before his next broadside.
“Your behaviour on board this ship is below the level of acceptability,” he said.
Rogers stood up, facing Dyson, although he did not meet his eye.
“You have been aboard for less than a month, and yet in that time you have missed one divisional inspection, and on two occasions have absented yourself from the deck during watch.”
The pain in his head was all but forgotten and Rogers became aware that sweat was breaking out on his forehead. Dyson waited for some reaction before selecting his next target.
“I do not have to say that the captain is also aware of your shortcomings; doubtless he will be reporting on them in due course.”
That could mean the end of his appointment and he would be lucky to get another. Even with his father's influence, the Admiralty board did not look kindly on officers who had earned a captain's disapproval. He caught Dyson's eye in time to receive the next salvo.
“Until that time I expect you to make efforts to improve in every area.” He walked around the man, looking him up and down in a critical, despising way.
“You are an apology for an officer. A drunkard, a lout, a fool. You are in command of men, and you do not deserve the right to breathe their air.” His face was close to Rogers as he barely whispered the last words. Rogers tried to back away, but felt hypnotically drawn to the cold eyes so close to his.
That was all, his broadsides had been delivered on target, and now Dyson stepped back and briefly surveyed his work, before turning and walking out of the wardroom.
Rogers sank back down on the chair, his head finding support in his hands. Within a few hours they would be in the thick of a battle that might easily end his life. If not, there was more than an even chance that he would be a prisoner, with his career as a naval officer in ruins. And all because that intolerant machine of a man… A surge of emotion broke into his thoughts and he sobbed once loudly, before suppressing the tears into small jerks of his body until he felt the shameful spasms subside. Without being entirely conscious of the action, he reached for the bottle and held it gently by the neck before smashing it down hard on the wardroom table.
*****
The captain was clearly in no rush to clear for action, and Donaldson, the gunner, was not sorry. He was a warrant officer, originally promoted from the lower deck, who now had charge over the greatest number of men in any department, and a good few of them were at work now in the powder room of the grand magazine.
Both the grand and the forward magazine hung slightly below the level of the orlop deck, allowing them to be flooded with the minimum of delay should the need arise, and keeping them safe from enemy gunfire. Each room was lined with copper to keep its contents dry and to prevent the ships timbers from becoming impregnated with powder. The lining also ensured that the magazines were the only area of the orlop guaranteed to be free of vermin. When he wished to open either magazine Donaldson had to apply to the captain for the key. A note was made in the log, together with the reason for the request and even then the precautions continued. To avoid any chance of a spark the key, made of bronze, turned brass tumblers in the lock and the felt lined doors to the powder room moved on copper butted hinges.
In the light room that stood to one side of the powder room Donaldson peered through the thick panes of glass to where several of his mates were opening casks. The barrels were distinguished with copper bands to prevent any chance of a spark were they to be inadvertently knocked together, and the tools the men used were also of brass or copper. On their feet they wore lint slippers, and all had emptied anything made of iron from their pockets before descending into the magazine.
The powder would be shovelled from the barrels into flannel cartridges which would then be sewn up. Flannel had only been adopted relatively recently as it was found to incinerate totally when the charge was fired; paper, the previous choice, tended to leave small burning fragments that were liable to ignite the next charge as it was being inserted, if the gun was not thoroughly sponged. Donaldson kept cartridges ready for five rounds for each great gun, and waited until action was imminent before filling more. The mixture of charcoal, saltpetre and sulphur that made up the explosive was liable to separate, so he was always left with a last minute rush to make up cartridges before the ship went into battle.
A barrel was open now, and one of his mates inserted a wooden ladle and proceeded to stir the contents. Donaldson reached down to the lanthorn to trim it when a shock ran through him to his fingers. Someone in the powder room had sneezed, not an unpardonable offence in normal life, but bad enough to men standing within touching distance of explosive death. He glanced around to see the youngest looking sheepishly about him as his mates teased and chided him under their breath. The knock at the light room door was no less jarring to the nerves, and Donaldson all but whispered for whoever it was to come in.
The door opened, but the caller did not step inside.
“What is it you'd be wanting man?” The gunner asked, testily.
“Mr King sent me, sir.” Donaldson recognised the voice of Matthew Jameson, one of the ship's boys, although he had taken a step back from the light room.
“Come in, man, come in!” he shouted. “You'll na be safer back there as you would in here!”
Matthew entered the light room, blinking slightly.
“Now you were saying...”
The boy was clearly in awe of his surroundings, and looked about him before answering.
“Come on, man, I haven't the time to spare!”
“M-Mr King sent me. He needs two casks of powder, and lengths of slow and quick match.” The room was very warm, and the smell of soot and burning oil was worryingly strong.
“Two casks, yer say. And was he wanting it for small arms or gun?” Small arm power was considerably weaker than the explosive used for the great guns.
“He didn't say, sir.” Matthew swallowed dryly in oppressive atmosphere.
“Och, away with yer. It'll be a blast he's a wantin' I'll send a couple o' casks of cylinder powder with some match and incen-diaries. Now get back on deck, yer makin' me nervous!”
The boy disappeared hurriedly, slamming the door shut with a noise that made them all jump.
*****
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Dyson marched stiffly past the marine sentry and down the main companionway to the deck below. In a ship-of-the-line there were precious few places to be alone, and the only logical one, his cabin with its thin deal walls and door, was denied him by Rogers' presence in the wardroom. He continued to the orlop deck, a dark airless place, filled with junior officers' berths and assorted storerooms. King's party would be leaving the ship shortly, but he had enough time. At the bottom of the companionway he paused, and glanced about him, before making for the commissioned officers' storeroom. The small door was locked, and he fumbled for the key before collecting a lanthorn and stepping inside.
The low room contained all the dunnage not required in cabins, such as winter clothing and supplies, as well as any souvenirs that may have been purchased or looted. It was less than half full, and nothing it contained belonged to Dyson. Still he looked about him, and immediately noticed three large chests that carried Rogers' initials along with some absurd family crest. Dyson hung the lanthorn on the deckhead bracket, his face still giving nothing of the repressed emotion he was feeling inside. Then he closed the door, so that he was quite alone.
His hands were shaking; he clasped them about his body before sitting down on one of Rogers' chests. Dyson was the product of a hard school. He had been in the Navy for most of his life, and learned to survive, and even prosper. The two years he had spent in a French prison had acted as a finishing academy for the strict, cold, silent character that had evolved. He knew that his colleagues and other members of the crew thought him distant, and even despised him for his clinical manner. He knew, and he was glad, for that was the best defence he could want. If anyone so much as guessed at the sensitive, tender man beneath, he knew that his authority would be totally undermined, and all order and discipline destroyed.
