His Majesty's Ship

by Alaric Bond

  “Surgeon says he'll be a while, an' I'm to do what I can for the rest.”

  “I understand,” and Bryant did, all too clearly. “Can you operate?”

  Skirrow's teeth gleamed in half light. “No, sir. Mister Wilson don't trust me to cut toenails.”

  It was exactly what Bryant had been expecting. He had been placed on board Vigilant for a reason; that had never been in doubt. Now his purpose had been revealed he was almost relieved, however ghastly the calling might be.

  “If you clean the wounds and assist, I'll see what can be done.” His father's estate included several farms, and in his youth he had regularly helped, both during the lambing season, and whenever an animal injured itself and needed stitching. Though no expert, he knew a little of wounds, and he didn't suppose a human body would be so very different from that of a sheep.

  “You're sure, sir?”

  Bryant nodded.

  “We'll need tools, and more light.”

  “Aye, sir; there's free space next to t'surgeon.”

  “Very well,” he said, before continuing with rare authority. “Get a move on!”

  Skirrow was right; four sea chests were set out next to Wilson, presumably for just such an emergency. Bryant moved the lanthorns until the light was more or less on the place, then Skirrow and another appeared with the wounded seaman hung between them.

  They lowered him down on to the operating area, and deftly bared the wound. Bryant looked at the black splinter for a second or so, before picking up a small knife. On wooden ships splinters accounted for a large number of the casualties. The natural barbs of the grain meant that they could rarely be removed the same way that they had entered, and this one was no exception. It ran down the length of the leg, deep into the muscle; Bryant would need to cut it out sideways. He looked up and for a second caught the eye of Wilson, the surgeon, literally up to his arms in his current patient.

  “Do whatcha can, they won't get better on their own.” the surgeon's voice was strained, and his manner almost brusque. “You can call me if you have a real problem.” he added, before returning to his work.

  Bryant glanced down at the leg once more. He was strangely confident, and yet knew little of what was expected of him. Skirrow understood the procedure, and began to pour spirit on to the wound. The patient tensed, gave a low moan and Bryant began to cut.

  *****

  “Five minutes should do it!” Gregory told Tait, as they looked back at the French liners. Already shots from the enemy's bow chasers were straddling the ship, and it was just a question of time before the broadside guns would be able to reach them. “Dyson'll be taking us round to starboard, so we'll only have the one to fight for a while.”

  The manoeuvre would mean a long wear round, then holding Vigilant as close to the wind as possible.

  “What if they turn with us?”

  Gregory snorted; the stress of battle had awakened his seaman roots, and he spoke with the guttural parlance of the lower deck. “Like as much they will, then we get's both broadsides to our one. Mind, they'll needs to be right spry to follow, an' careful not to bunk the other when they does.”

  “How are you loaded, Mr Gregory?” Dyson's voice came from the quarterdeck.

  “Round down, chain up, sir!”

  “Very good.” Dyson looked over to the binnacle. It was reassuring to be able to leave details such as the shotting of the guns to competent men. Close hauled, they should be able to manage 300 degrees, with the wind as it was. That would take them across the starboard bows of the leading ship. To mask the other would mean holding their current course for a while longer, and possibly even suffering a few broadsides in the meantime. The sun was falling lower in the sky, he glanced at his watch; well past four o'clock. Another shot passed close overhead, knocking off the galley chimney with a loud metallic clang. A murmur of laughter rose from the men. They were still in good spirits, just how long their morale would last was difficult to say, but he had a suspicion he would find out before the day was done.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Captaine de vaisseau Duboir was also looking at his watch. They had wasted time and made mistakes; he wondered vaguely how much longer it would take to capture the English warship.

  “You have an appointment, maybe, Captain?” Lafluer asked. He was equally aware of the situation, although in his mind their lack of success was entirely due to bad luck.

  A bow chaser cracked briefly, the shot eventually falling alongside the English ship. Lafluer grunted at yet more proof of his ill fortune. “Cannot we show more speed?” he asked, of no one in particular.

  Duboir looked up to where topsails and topgallants were pulled tight. He could order courses to be reset, but the cordage supplied at Brest had not proved reliable, and he also had doubts about the strength of the spars. There seemed little sense in taking risks which might prove disastrous when they were overhauling the enemy with the canvas they were already showing.

  “Rouault is falling back,” it was a change for someone else to be the target of Lafluer's anger. “Signal to him to keep better station!”

  Duboir nodded to the enseigne, who consulted his signal book. The other ship, sailing several cables from them was certainly well on their quarter, but that was by no means poor station keeping. Rouault was an experienced officer who had commanded a warship for longer than either of them. He knew the danger of sailing line abreast, when they may need to manoeuvre at any moment. In addition, to keep slightly behind would be an advantage when they closed with the enemy. There would be less chance of shots passing through the English hull and hitting their own.

  They were level with the second of the damaged frigates now. Her crew had managed to clear away most of the wreckage, and were in the process of rigging a spare main yard in place of their missing foremast. Duboir took the opportunity to cast an astute eye on the admiral as he inspected the damage. His face was red with anger, and he brusquely brushed aside the waves of the frigate's crew like so many annoying insects.

  “Imbeciles! Two powerful ships and together they could knock away only a single spar!”

  “The enemy is damaged, Admiral.” Duboir felt obliged to defend the frigate's crew. “She has taken punishment, and even now she runs!”

  “Pah!” Lafluer turned away in impatience.

  Duboir walked over to the side rail to look at the maimed ship. She would be able to sail again, possibly even by nightfall, but not cross the Atlantic. The other was in no better state, and now both line-of-battle ships were heading on a course that may well place them in the same position.

  The convoy had proved anything but the easy capture Lafluer had predicted; consequently he had lost an important part of his force, and was all set to risk the rest, just because he allowed his anger to get the better of him. Even now they could turn back, collect the merchant ships, and head off to join Canard. The frigates could fight the English, stay at sea or attempt to make their way to port, dodging the blockading squadrons. He did not care greatly for the small craft; it was proper warships like his own Lozere that won battles. It was these that Canard wanted, and these that Lafluer would be risking in his quest to sink one small English vessel.

  The frigate was now some way behind, and Duboir turned from the sight. It would not be so bad if they were to tackle the English sensibly. He had no practical experience in these matters of course, but the books he had read on strategy had taught him a good deal. With the advantages they had of wind and power it should be a simple matter to force the English to concede. As it was Lafluer seemed determined to keep up a stern chase. Admittedly they were edging closer; soon their broadsides would reach, then presumably they would turn and open fire, only to continue the chase when the English crept out of range once more. In the meantime both ships were being pulled further from their frigates, and further into Biscay. He may have little experience of battle but as a seaman the area was well known to him. The wind was moist, another storm could come at any time and with the s
hips scattered and the crews untrained, it may easily see the entire enterprise wrecked.

  “Captain, do you not think we can hit her with our broadside guns yet?”

  The question Duboir had been waiting for had finally arrived. Yes, they could; both ships could wear and open fire without any trouble. He hesitated before he spoke, knowing that what he said would not be approved of.

  “We can turn whenever you wish, Admiral, but it would be a mistake.” The look that Lafluer directed at him was eloquent enough to dispense with words. Duboir was committed however, and continued with no more than a pause. “There are better ways to take the English ship.”

  Lafluer's eyebrows rose. “Better ways?”

  “Yes, Admiral. I have one in mind which will account for it with little loss or risk to ourselves.”

  There was a moment's pause while Lafluer digested this rare piece of insubordination. Watching, Duboir was confident of his position. Were this conversation to be taking place in private, Lafluer would have had little hesitation in demolishing him along with his suggestions. But on the quarterdeck, in plain sight and hearing of several officers, the admiral could not resort to such bullying tactics. Besides, he was only offering advice and as senior captain of the squadron he had a right to voice an opinion on the situation. Something of this must have occurred to Lafluer, as he continued in a conciliatory tone, although his face was still raw with indignation.

  “If you have a suggestion, Captain, I would be only too glad to hear of it.”

  Duboir's mouth was now quite dry, but he had started something he was determined to finish, if not for the good of the squadron, then for his own self esteem. He forced a smile on to his face;

  “I shall be pleased to explain.”

  *****

  “They're altering course!” King turned to the group of officers on the quarterdeck, before looking back, to be certain of what he had seen. Sure enough, one of the liners had turned several points to larboard, while the flagship continued the stern chase. No, the flagship was shedding sail; her topgallants were being gathered in even as they watched.

  “Flagship's slowing, sir,” Humble uttered the words without emotion. “Looks like they're trying to keep station with us.”

  Dyson regarded the flagship for some time before nodding gravely. There was no doubt about it, the reduction in canvas had taken the advantage from the French ship, which was now just keeping pace with them. He turned his attention to the other, still gaining even though her course took her further away. Dyson measured the distance carefully. By the time she was level she would be just out of range of their lower twenty-four pounders. The French mounted heavier guns however; thirty-six pounders which, due to their continental ways of measurement, actually threw a shot that weighed in at nearer forty. Vigilant would certainly be in range of those heavy pieces, and with little chance of replying, unless he was rash enough to attempt a close action.

  He took a turn up and down the deck. There were a number of options; he could steer towards the other line-of-battle ship, thus keeping the range tight, although that would only allow the flagship to close on the other side. He could attempt to out run them both, risk further damage by showing more canvas, in an effort to at least keep pace until bad light rescued them. Or he could alter course, wear about and turn on the flagship, like a terrier rounding on a charging bull.

  His legs ached; he realised that he had been on deck for almost the whole day, and must have paced several miles since the captain died. He paused, bending his knees to ease them, inadvertently catching the master's eye as he looked about the deck. Humble clearly took the eye contact as an invitation to share his thoughts, and strode towards him. Dyson cleared his throat, unsure of his exact position. Certainly, with the captain's death, he had charge of the ship, but considering the circumstances which gave him command, he would probably be wise to consult with the master.

  No. A wave of determination broke over him and he began to pace once more, apparently unconscious of Humble who had almost reached him. The master may be a more experienced sailor, but he could not fight battles; that was Dyson's job. And it was a job that he was going to do alone.

  *****

  “Frenchie’s comin' up on our larboard counter.” Jenkins could see the seventy-four clearly through the gunport. “Reckons they're ‘tending to close on us like a clam!”

  Lewis nodded. “Not much we can do about that. I heard the fore topmast's weakened, so we can't put no more canvas up.”

  “An' if we alter course to starboard it will only slow us more!” This was Simpson, the man who had struck Critchley, and was now rated to number three gun to make up their numbers. Matthew eyed him in awe, his red pigtail and bold tattoos were impressive enough, but to a youngster the fact that he would surely hang as soon as they touched port gave the man a strange aura; as if he was already dead.

  Simpson noticed Matthew's eyes on him, and smiled at the lad. A few days back Matthew would have been embarrassed, but now he grew bold. “Where di'ja get them tattoos?” he asked.

  “Same place you see's 'em now.” Jenkins answered in a level tone. He too had found Simpson’s presence hard to take, and was reacting to it by keeping his old friend at a distance.

  Simpson grinned readily, and pointed to the mermaid that trailed decorously down his right arm. “Young Gloria here, she joined me at Cadiz. An' her sister,” her sister was draped about his left. “She came along at New York, that's when we owned it.”

  “Better make sure they never meet!” warned Jenkins, although no one seemed to hear him.

  “Did it hurt?” Matthew was round eyed with awe.

  “Hurt a bit, an' I got some badness in the one at New York, but it righted itself 'ventually.”

  Jenkins was starting to feel left out. He opened his shirt to reveal a large eagle etched in blue across his chest, wings spread out to reach his armpits. “If you want to see tattoos, this is a real un!”

  Matthew was impressed. “Wow, how long you had that?”

  “Since it were an egg!” The laughter spread to the gun crews on either side, and for a moment, none were thinking about French flagships, or the prospect of being killed. Other men began baring various pieces of their bodies, and yarning about the time they got theirs, until Lieutenant Timothy, drawn to the larboard side by the disturbance, felt bound to intercede.

  “All right, that's enough of the flesh show,” he found himself grinning despite himself. “When y're all properly dressed, we got an action to fight!”

  The men returned to their stations in a good humour, and Timothy withdrew once more.

  Matthew squatted down on the deck, next to his powder carriers. Lewis was near him and he caught his eye.

  “Why do they have tattoos?” he asked, in a soft voice.

  Lewis shrugged. “Comes from the Polynesian Islands, mark of manhood, or somthin'. Never cared for the idea much myself. Navy allows them to do it 'cause it's a way of identifying bodies. Most men don't want to go to the bottom unknown, even though there'll be precious few who'll care about them afterwards. An' some,” he looked pointedly at Simpson who was now talking with Jenkins. “Some won't need no 'dentifying when they get's to take their trip.”

  *****

  On the quarterdeck Humble had turned back from Dyson, conscious of the snub and yet strangely unoffended. He had known the first lieutenant for two years, and was impressed with his strength of character. With the captain gone he had thought Dyson might want advice, although the fact that he did not was more a source of relief to him than resentment. The French seventy-four was coming up fast, and he suspected that they were close to being within range of her great guns. Their own lower deck battery would need a good three cables more before they could reply. Behind them the flagship was keeping station, watching for any change of direction on their part. She was content, it seemed, to shadow the English ship, and allow her consort to do the business. Dyson was still pacing, his face totally void of expression.


  A steward appeared, this time laden with mugs of coffee. The man had taken advantage of the relative lull to heat a pot on the pantry spirit stove. Humble took his and sipped it gratefully, noticing how the servant diplomatically ignored the absorbed Dyson, even though he was barely feet away. A shout from the masthead drew their attention, and Humble was just in time to see threads of smoke carrying away by the wind. Seconds later a ball ricocheted off the water just in front of Vigilant and about a cable short. The faint boom that followed barely reached them. It would be a sighting shot to see if they had their range. The French ship seemed to creep closer as he watched. They could expect one, maybe two more; then the broadsides would begin in earnest.

  *****

  On board the Lozere, Duboir was relieved to the point of feeling faintly smug. The plan that he had all but thrust at Lafluer was panning out nicely. The English ship was now locked between the wind and the guns of the Savarez, Rouault's ship, while they stood behind as back stop and interested spectators. Lafluer had left the deck as soon as it appeared the English were doomed, and for the first time since leaving Brest, Duboir felt properly in command of his Lozere. He watched the shot from the Savarez as it skipped willingly towards the enemy. They would be close enough in no time. If he commanded Savarez, he would have no hesitation turning a point to starboard and opening fire almost straight away.

  He pulled up short as he remembered that this was the first time he had been in command of a ship in action. Possibly his recent success was going to his head. It was a fault; one he must beware of in the future.

  An aspirant began to make notes in a small book. Probably this was just for his personal journal, though Duboir wondered if Lafluer had ordered minutes taken of the action in an attempt to discredit him. Duboir began to walk across the quarterdeck, with an attitude of unconcern on his face. He had presented his plan in such a public way because he wanted to ensure it would be acted upon. There was still the very real possibility that Lafluer would take the credit for himself, however, and in a cruise that should last several months, the admiral would have plenty more occasions to criticize his conduct. France was still effectively under marshal law, and Duboir knew the penalties a poor report from Lafluer might attract.