His Majesty's Ship

by Alaric Bond

  “Mr Rogers, what brings you here?” Dyson alone appeared normal, his manner crisp and businesslike even if his jacket was stained and had a torn facing.

  Rogers drew breath and collected himself. It would not do to show fear in front of the first lieutenant.

  “A target, sir. Shall we train for the flag, or yonder?” he pointed to the warship bearing down on them, and now horribly close.

  “Round shot, and for the flag.” Dyson's voice was slightly louder than usual. “We will be underway directly. As soon as we gather speed. I will turn as before: the signal will be the same.”

  Rogers nodded, and opened his mouth to say more. A sudden wave of fear gripped him, conjuring up a madness that threatened to take him over. For a moment he considered begging Dyson to surrender, or making a run for the side, anything that would stop the terror and see him safe. His mouth hung redundant while the panic held him. Tears welled up behind his eyes and he had to take a conscious grip lest he disgrace himself on the quarterdeck. Fortunately Dyson's attention was taken by the setting of the mizzen staysail, currently flapping like a distended sheet above their heads. Then the sensation passed, Rogers closed his mouth again, and retreated. Passing down to the upper gundeck, he continued, unnoticed, to the lower gundeck and then down further to the orlop. The surgeon and his mates were at work in the cockpit, and charges were coming up from the magazines, but now he was below the waterline, the safest place in the ship, and there were still some secret areas that beckoned, dark and forgiving, where he could hide.

  *****

  When the flagship came into their field of view Timothy had received no instructions from Rogers. Instead he made up his own mind, anticipating Dyson's moves as those he would have taken in the same situation. The enemy was closer this time, and for a moment appeared impregnable, her tiered sides towering up, with numerous spaces where large black faced muzzles were even now peering out to grin at him.

  “Fire as you bear!” Timothy bellowed, and the first gun went off a few seconds later. Nash, one of the youngest midshipmen, approached him, waiting until the last had fired before attempting to speak, and even when he did it was in a yell that Timothy barely heard.

  “Mr Dyson sent me, sir. Said we must be short of juniors if Mr Rogers 'ad to come up.”

  Timothy nodded, he had seen no sign of Rogers, and had thought him still on the upper deck.

  “What's the position?”

  “Bad, sir. We've lost mizzen top and fore t'gallant masts.”

  Timothy digested this. “Will he take us much closer?”

  The lad shook his head with all the experience of his fourteen years. “Shouldn't think so, sir. We've done all we can.” The pause was dramatic, even in the circumstances. “Rekon he'll strike 'fore the next broadside.”

  *****

  But Dyson did not strike, and the broadside hit them, causing untold damage to the ship and her crew. And still she came on, closer to the flagship, and closer to the position that Dyson had seen in his mind's eye over thirty minutes before. The seventy-four was still heading for them, while Vigilant was now so close to the flagship that the marines were exchanging pot shots with the French marksmen. The next broadside from the three-decker was due in less than two minutes, and the other liner would be on them straight after, if he didn't wear away. But still Dyson held his course.

  “Message to Mr Rogers!” he shouted to one of the midshipmen, standing by the binnacle. “Tell him to double shot his guns, and hold fire until we round her stern. Round her stern, that’s important, have you got it?” The lad nodded and ran off; Dyson walked to the break of the quarterdeck to bellow at Gregory in the waist.

  “Round shot on canister, Mr Gregory. And await my word!”

  Gregory waved a hand in acknowledgement, while Dyson returned to his place by the mizzenmast.

  There, he had said it: there was no going back now. Everything depended on their surviving the next broadside, and being able to press on. To pass the line of waiting guns and steer round the stern of the flagship. It was a move so bold, so outrageous, that it hardly deserved to succeed, but he had given the orders, and now all knew what was in his mind.

  It was a strategy he had used before in other situations; volunteering for an operation, starting an argument: things that once said could not be unsaid, and the very act took much of the worry from the task. Now all knew what he intended. Not to board her, not to fight it out gun for gun, not to surrender, but to move away from conventional fighting tactics and attempt to tack a damaged ship about the stern of an enemy nearly twice his size. The thought terrified him almost as much as it would the men, when the truth dawned on them.

  He could still countermand the order; still opt for the more conventional course. He even had adequate grounds to surrender now, at that very moment, if it was in his nature. But no, he would see it through. Besides, he had given the order; started the train of action in motion and he was committed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  They had almost drawn level with the flagship; her three rows of guns were much less than a cable away and pointing straight for them. Dyson could see the French gun crews on the upper decks as they went about the final stages of loading; an officer dressed in a splendid uniform rushed between them, his epaulettes flashing in the late afternoon light. He also noticed the yards move as they began hauling on the braces. Clearly the French had guessed his plan, and were working to move their ship out of danger. Regular sharp cracks told where French marksmen were firing from the tops while further intermittent volleys came from muskets and swivel guns manned by soldiers who lined the enemy's bulwarks.

  Dyson collected the speaking trumpet from the binnacle, and raised it to his lips. He wanted no uncertainty, no confusion; nothing could go wrong, least of all because an order had been misheard.

  “Lower battery will hold their fire.” He looked once more at the French ship and drew breath. “Now, Mr Gregory!”

  The upper deck guns went off in a tight ripple, ending with the carronades on the quarterdeck. On the French ship he saw men fall, swept down by the rush of shot and musket balls. Guns stood unmanned, and the line of soldiers had all but vanished, although there was still the regular pop of musket balls hitting the deck from above.

  “And again, lads!” Gregory bellowed for the men to reload, although Dyson was quite content. Their broadside had done its business; by the time the enemy's upper deck artillery was fit to fight again, Vigilant should be safely positioned off their counter, or a derelict. It was the heavy guns on the lower two decks that could do them real damage.

  The French broadside came over their starboard bow just as Dyson was about to order Vigilant round. Now the range was so close that the noise of the shots coincided with them striking the ship, and Vigilant was pressed physically sideways and sternwards by the force. Men fell at every station, and a cloud of splinters and dust rose like smoke above the decks as they were ripped, pounded and mauled by the hot iron. With a crack like an axe striking a log the weakened starboard channels were taken out, ripping back the main topmast as they went. The spar fell slowly, reluctantly, as individual lines parted, until it finally crashed diagonally across the deck. Gregory was at the spot almost immediately and with a party of seamen took to hacking at the remaining shrouds in a desperate attempt to clear the wreckage before they lost all speed.

  A gun fired unexpectedly from their lower gundeck. It was too early; Dyson held his breath, but none followed. Possibly a chance shot had struck the linstock, or a gun captain had panicked. Rogers must be keeping good order down there to stop the entire broadside from discharging prematurely. He made a mental note to commend him for it later.

  With an effort that can only be summoned in battle, the bulk of the mast was gradually eased over the side, until it finally hit the ocean and was set free, while Vigilant, powered by her last ribbons of canvas, continued.

  “Take her round!” Dyson yelled at the quartermaster, now manning the wheel himself with
only one helmsman to assist. The ship began to turn, and was reluctantly guided into the teeth of the wind. For a moment momentum carried her, then she began to slow, with what sails that were left, flapping in protest. The flagship’s stern drew steadily nearer as the British ship’s bows came round and her speed decreased further. She was yards, feet, away from the optimum position, although now, with nearly all impetus spent, Vigilant barely moved across the water. With agonising lassitude her forecastle inched past the stern of the flagship, moving slowly, so slowly, away from those murderous guns, and into a position of relative safety.

  Gregory's sword was raised once more; the upper deck guns were ready. Dyson found time to marvel at the resilience of men who could continue to load while an enemy broadside swept over them. A group of officers were plainly visible on the Frenchman's deck, and even at that distance Dyson fancied he could detect an air of panic about them as Vigilant continued onwards.

  *****

  King was out of station when she turned; after helping to clear away the mess of what once had been their main topmast, he had moved forward and now stood at the end of the waist, watching the gilded stern of the flagship as they rounded on her. Two heavy guns were run out just above the rudder, but that was all the fire they would face. as Vigilant crept closer. Then something caught his attention, and he looked forward, past the ship and the smoke that surrounded her.

  The French seventy-four could just be seen coming round from behind the three-decker. King guessed that she must have turned some minutes ago, probably when Dyson’s plans had been revealed. Her guns were run out, and she would start to cross their bows shortly. He swung round and put his hands to his mouth as an improvised speaking trumpet.

  “'t'other ship's on our starboard bow!” He panted, summoning more breath to bellow again. “She's passing the flagship an' crossin' us!”

  Dyson heard the cry and assumed it had come from aloft. He looked to see who had spoken but with the mizzen staysail flapping, and amid the smoke and confusion of action he could not tell.

  “Tell Mr Rogers to fire the starboard battery, then man the larboard as well.” he shouted at the nearest man, no midshipman being at hand. “He is to train the larboard guns for'ard. Do you understand?”

  The man, Kelly, who had once claimed to be a tailor, nodded, touched his forehead and was off; Dyson watched him as he explained himself to the marine sentry, before continuing down the companionway. It would take a good thirty seconds for the message to be relayed. The upper gundeck sent a further cascade of iron across the short distance that separated the two ships. Dyson watched as officers on the poop and quarterdeck were swept to one side, and could actually hear the screams of the men as they fell. Almost without thinking he drew his sword from its scabbard and rested the blade comfortably over his right shoulder. At any moment they would rake the stern of a three-decker, and yet Dyson's mind was on the seventy-four. A broadside could be expected from that quarter; then they really would be for it.

  *****

  On the lower gundeck there was still no sign of Rogers. When the gun captain on number seven had fired early, it had been Timothy who acted so promptly, and stemmed the premature broadside. With the confusion of the last few minutes the second lieutenant could be dead or wounded; Timothy cared not which. He received Kelly's message without comment before bracing himself to issue the order that would devastate a French three-decker.

  “Starboard battery fire when you bear!”

  The first gun spoke almost immediately, and the entire broadside was spent within twelve seconds.

  “Starboard battery continue at will.” Timothy yelled as soon as the cacophony died. “Number two crew, clear larboard battery!” Only the nearest gun crew heard him. Davis began repeating the order in a strained falsetto as he moved stiffly down the deck, and before long the gun crews had divided and were manning both batteries. Timothy crossed the deck and waited while a larboard port was opened, then poked his head into the fresh damp air to look. It was a horrible sight; the jib boom of the seventy-four was in plain view now, in no time she would be in the ideal firing position across their bows.

  *****

  On the quarterdeck Humble watched as the stern windows of the flagship disappeared under the bombardment. To rake a ship at close range is to rip the very heart from her; the damage that their broadside caused to the three-decker was devastating. Those shots would continue through the hull, until they hit fabric or flesh enough to absorb their tremendous momentum. The elderly man trembled slightly, trying not to imagine the scene; the low decks packed with men; the noise and confusion; the panic. Two or three more broadsides like that would do serious damage to the structure of the ship, and probably kill or disable more than half her crew. He looked away and saw the other liner passing across their bows and in an instant knew that the same was about to happen to them.

  *****

  Dyson also watched the seventy-four. For all his preparations, there was little he could do. Vigilant had lost all speed, and was now totally unmanageable.

  “Keep her hard over, quartermaster!” Dyson grunted. The gnarled face hardly nodded back in reply; he knew his duty, and he also knew that it was hopeless.

  More shots were striking the deck all about him as the marksmen on the flagship's mizzen top took aim, but Dyson was strangely tolerant of them. They were no more than raindrops, compared to the tidal wave that was due at any moment.

  It came, appropriately enough, like the seas breaking over their bows. The shots smacked into the dry timbers in a succession of tearing crashes, taking the bowsprit and foremast with them. Humble watched the wave of destruction as it thundered on, wiping the decks clear of men and fittings as it went. The master, who had been in action on several occasions, now felt a strange apathy take control. Seeing their previous broadside rake the flagship had altered him in a fundamental way; he felt listless and tired. The energy that had kept his fighting soul alive was suddenly missing. He was an old man, a grandfather thrice over; his war was done and as death swept towards him in a mighty rush he almost greeted it with relief.

  *****

  Below deck the men at the forward great guns were smashed into one with their equipment. Matthew stared in horror as Klier fell lifeless across his own weapon, only to be pulled roughly aside and tossed into the scuppers by Lewis and O'Conner.

  “Bring her round!” Simpson was shouting, despite the carnage. Lewis and another began to haul the gun to train her forward. Matthew had one powder charge left, with both guns in action he must get more without delay.

  “Load the charge!” Simpson shouted. With the loss of some men, and the dividing of the crew everyone had to work twice as hard. Matthew ripped the cover off the carrier and placed the cartridge into the waiting feeder, before setting off once more for the main hatch.

  Flint stood at the breach of the gun, apparently content to watch the men as they worked. Lewis caught sight of his face and paused for a moment; Simpson also noticed the difference.

  “Set your priming!” he bellowed into Flint's face, although there was little response. The shock of knowing his father for a coward had shaken Flint deeply. His eyes were set somewhere in the distance, and his mouth hung slightly open. Lewis was inserting the charge, and looking to his captain to announce it placed. Simpson grabbed the priming wire from Flint's limp fingers, and set it in the touch hole

  “Home!” he shouted. The words seemed to jerk Flint from his apathy, and he looked about him.

  “Get with it, man!” Simpson bellowed, Flint considered him. He turned, his face now filling with panic, to see Matthew coming back with two fresh charges slung over his shoulders.

  Simpson pushed Flint to one side, inserted the firing tube, wrenched back the hammer and frizzen, and emptied a measure of priming powder into the pan. “Stand clear!” he bellowed before pulling the lanyard, and sending a twenty-four pound ball in the general direction of the French ship.

  The boy watched the gun fire and pause
d, suddenly uncertain. A shot passed in front of him, just where he would have been if he had not stopped. Instead the shot hit O'Conner and wounded him horribly. Matthew dropped the charges, and looked up to Flint, his mouth opened in a scream that was totally without sound.

  “Come on lad, move it!” Flint's voice was no more than a screech, and he spoke as much to himself as the boy. “Don't mind the noise, the one you hear has gone past—noise can't hurt you.” It was the instructions his father had given him that night, during the action with the revenue cutter. Neither watched as Lewis dragged the screaming O'Conner to the middle of the deck where he could die without getting in anyone's way. “Come on,” Flint continued. “We're dependin' on you!”

  Matthew blinked and picked up his charges once more. Lewis returned from his work and reached for a cartridge, before turning and hurriedly inserting it and the feeder into the warm muzzle of the gun.

  “Home!” shouted Flint, now back in his correct position, and feeling with his wire down the touch hole. The routine re-established, Matthew crossed the deck and handed the other charge to the feeder of the starboard gun before returning once more to the main hatch.

  He had reached the short line of waiting boys at the main companionway when he noticed someone else, an officer no less, coming up from the safety of the orlop. He stood to one side and allowed him to pass, before accepting two more charges, and running back to his guns.

  *****

  The seventy-four had turned and was now creeping along their larboard side; less than fifty yards away and closing. King looked back to the quarterdeck which was all but invisible in the smoke and debris.