by Alaric Bond
“She's comin' 'long side!” his voice sounded weak and ineffectual amid the roar of battle. He paused for a moment, uncertain as to the next move. Gregory could not be seen, and the starboard upper deck gun crews were still firing at the flagship. He shook as a wave of cold fear flowed over his body, and for a moment felt the need to hide. Hide and be safe; let the others do the fighting.
“Boarders to larboard!” he screamed, pushing the idea aside as he did. Men working a starboard gun looked back at him. He repeated the call, pointing desperately towards the impending seventy-four. They came across, almost inquisitively at first then seeing the danger, at a run. The upper larboard battery had been left loaded, but with round shot. There was no time to reload with canister. “Fire the guns, then prepare for boarders!” King gasped, in a voice all but hoarse. Rooke, the master's mate appeared, and began passing out boarding pikes and cutlasses. King had left his pistol on the deck of the Hampshire Lass. He considered taking another but instantly rejected the idea; he would only have to worry about loading the thing, and at that stage he knew himself unequal to the task. From below irregular crashes told that their lower larboard battery was firing, and as he watched the French hull appear from out of the smoke he felt his pulse begin to race. Then the upper battery exploded in a ripple of shots. At that range it was no effort to see the bulwarks buckle and disintegrate as the twelve pound balls struck. For seconds afterwards there was silence, then heads began to appear once more, and a roar of defiance erupted from the French.
King turned to see Rooke joining him, cutlass in hand.
“Fend off there!” his voice was almost gone, but the men about him caught the idea. A shattered end of a main yard lay on the deck, and eager hands manoeuvred it lengthways over the side.
“That's it, lads. Keep them back!”
Another spar was found, and used in a similar manner and another after that. The enemy ship was being held at bay, but only for so long. If they could man some of the guns as well it might make a difference. Marksmen from the Frenchman's tops began to pick off men; King felt the breeze of a shot pass by him as he looked about desperately for help. But there were none left to assist; in a ship still crowded with men, they seemed totally alone.
*****
Dyson had heard King's shout, and saw the seventy-four coming round on them. He also noticed how the flagship was turning about, and would soon be presenting her broadside, possibly against their stern. He had done enough, in fact he had done more than he had ever intended, although now, when defeat and capture seemed the next logical step, he felt unable to take it. The quarterdeck carronades were still being worked, and he could hear guns from the lower batteries as they barked intermittently. But they were totally outnumbered, men were falling all the time, and he doubted if anything would be gained by continuing further. Then he saw Rogers.
He was clambering up what was left of the quarterdeck ladder and looking about him in a bewildered fashion. His face was slightly blackened, and his uniform torn, although compared with others who manned the deck, he seemed particularly well dressed. What drew Dyson's attention was the eyes; they stared out white and round above a mouth that appeared altogether too large for his face. The whole apparition reminded him of a shrunken head he had seen once when a junior officer. But this was no vile souvenir; this was real; real, alive and making for him.
“Strike, sir, why do you not strike?” Rogers' voice was also distorted, although the words came through as clear as the fear that fed them. A hand reached out and grabbed at his uniform coat, the face pressed close into his, and screamed straight at him.
“Strike, you bastard! Strike!”
Dyson took a step back; Rogers drew his sword and held it up and in front of him.
“You damned fool!” Dyson spat the words with contempt: there was no time for this.
The sword was raised menacingly, and Dyson took another step backwards, holding his own blade at the parry.
“Strike, curse you!”
Their swords touched once, then he was gone; disappeared as if he had never been. At Dyson's feet all that was left was a crumpled form wearing a lieutenant's uniform. He looked up and into the eyes of Gregory, who was standing opposite, rubbing the knuckles of his right hand with his left.
“'scuse me, sir.” he said, with an odd formality. “But he never was much good, that one.”
*****
King had been joined by Tait, who brought with him seven men.
“Good work, Thomas. Try and keep them at bay, I'll get a gun or two on them!”
King nodded; a sweep of canister would make a difference, although it would not reach the marksmen aloft who were steadily eroding their small force. Beneath him the deck vibrated as shot form the French heavy guns bit into the hull, and on the upper deck men stood ready to board.
An unlucky hit from one of their own twenty-four pounders smashed a fend-off, and the enemy's hull crept closer. Another crack; this time the spar had been too weak to hold the force of the ship, and broke in two. Another followed, then there was a brief pause, before the two hulls met, and ground together with a moan that might have come from the very soul of the ship.
The first wave of boarders landed almost simultaneously. King, his dirk already in hand, found himself facing the pointed end of a pike that was being propelled towards his belly by a seaman with a fat moustache. Instinctively he side-stepped the charge, and hacked sideways at the man, feeling the blow strike deep as it cut into his body. Another was coming towards him, this time armed with a cutlass. King hesitated for less than a second before diving under the blow. Then Dyson, appearing from nowhere, stepped over his prone body and laid into the man with brief economical sweeps of his hanger. More came; one was armed with a wide mouthed carbine. King collected himself and sprang up, grabbing at the barrel and pressing the piece back in the man's face. The blow knocked the Frenchman into the scuppers, where King kicked him in the face with his boot.
Already the sweat was starting to pour from his face, but there was no time for rest. Carling came from the forecastle at the head of a band of marines who advanced into the melée with fixed bayonets, and began to chisel a clear channel into the confusion. King thoughtfully followed them, cutting this way or that as the opportunity arose. This was not the place for fine fighting or gentlemanly tactics. To one side he saw Rooke being overwhelmed by a vividly dressed officer, and broke off to charge at the man, barging into his side, and slashing at the body as it fell. Rooke looked his thanks, before retrieving his cutlass and heading back into the fray with a wild scream. One of the Frenchmen had a change of heart and King chased him back over the side and into the water below. It was then that he realised the two ships had drawn apart once more. He looked back to see the battle on the deck almost over, and Carling causally wiping his blade with his white pocket handkerchief.
“Lower deck guns must have driven them off!” Tait shouted in his ear. “That or they're frightened of taking fire from us.”
King nodded. His body felt incredibly tired, and yet there was still so much to do. More shots began falling from the French marksmen. Tait opened his mouth to say more when suddenly he was sent spinning to the deck, a red wound opening below his right shoulder. King knelt down to him immediately, but Tait was already trying to get to his feet.
“Got my arm!” he said, unnecessarily, as he leant against King. “Can't move my fingers!” King squeezed at the wound, and felt the bone crumble beneath his grip.
“Better stay down,” he said. “You've done all you can.”
Tait looked him in the eye and smiled slightly. “You're right there. Reckon we're about finished.”
*****
The same thought was in Dyson's mind. The ship was nearly a wreck, and he dared not guess at the number killed or wounded. He looked about him before tossing his sword into the scuppers and searching for some means to surrender. The ensign had been shot away some while ago, he would just have to order the men to cease fire, an
d trust the French to do likewise.
He noticed that his uniform jacket was moist; it was raining heavily and must have been for several minutes. The deck was wet; blood, sand and unspeakable filth mingled to create strange patterns on the strakes. It was almost a shame the boarding attempt had been beaten back; nothing had been gained by it. He looked up and saw Carling. He spread his hands wide in a gesture of despair. The marine officer smiled and nodded. The rain now fell in torrents about them. They had fared well; few could have done better, but now it was over.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The sensation of defeat passed through the ship like an evil wind, and for a moment no one appeared able to move. It was as if the British had come to the end of their stamina, and had nothing left with which to fight. Dyson stepped down to the half deck, and spotted Gregory coming towards him, his face a mask of exhaustion. As if by mutual agreement the guns had ceased to fire and the air held a dull ringing sound, nothing more. The rain fell noiselessly. There were no shots from the enemy marksmen, no bellowing of orders from petty officers, even the wounded had ceased to cry out. Dyson turned towards the French seventy-four and noticed how the ship was now some distance off. He supposed they were frightened of Vigilant exploding; maybe the incident with the Hampshire Lass was still fresh in their minds. In the enemy flagship they were also making preparations to move; the topgallants dropped and filled even as he looked. Gregory was next to him now and between them they watched as the French ships drew back.
“Reckon they've had enough of us?” Gregory asked hopefully. Dyson shook his head.
“No, there's more to it,” he said. “We're no danger to them; they can take us whenever they have a mind.”
But shortly the men at the great guns began to grow more confident, and stood up, staring at the enemy as they gathered way. There were the faint murmurings of conversation, and from somewhere Dyson was certain he heard a laugh. He looked up to the mizzen top, the only lookout position left, although it stood barely a third as high as a main masthead.
“What do you see there?” he bellowed, his voice unnaturally loud. The rain turned to drizzle then died; a shaft of early evening sun appeared signalling the end of the squall.
“Clear horizon, sir.”
So they had left the two French frigates behind, and presum-ably the four remaining merchants had made good their escape. Considering that, and the sizeable damage caused to the French ships, Dyson supposed he had been successful; certainly all of Shepherd's original objectives had been met. It was just strange that now, now they were finally beaten, the enemy seemed content to quietly take their leave. A pigtailed gunner on the quarterdeck shouted something obscene at the departing flagship, but only received a derisory wave in return. Dyson looked at Gregory; both were equally bemused.
“Deck there!” the call from the mizzen top took them by surprise. “Sail to windward! Two, no three, comin' down on us!”
The officers spun round and foolishly tried to make out the sighting, but the mizzen top was still that much higher, and nothing was visible from the deck.
“Frenchie's still got mastheads!” Gregory shouted as realisa-tion dawned. It was true, both the enemy ships were badly damaged, but each had at least one lookout set far higher than any on Vigilant; their horizon would be correspondingly larger, and the strange sails must have been made out some while before.
“Two more sail, sir.” The lookout continued. “An' I think the first three are frigates.”
Frigates! That could mean another escaping squadron, or the scouts of a larger body. Both were possible, but the chances were heavily in favour of a British fleet lying just over the horizon. More than that, a sizeable portion of it was bearing down on them. Dyson found himself grinning foolishly at Gregory, and the later smiling heartily in return.
Timothy came up from the lower gundeck and raised a blackened hand to shield his eyes from the soft evening light. He looked about him, and at the departing ships, clearly as bewildered as they had been. King stumbled over; both wore uniforms that were stained and torn; a testimony to their part in the battle, although neither noticed nor cared.
“What goes, Thomas?” Timothy asked, placing his hand on King's shoulder.
“We got supplements, that's what!” Gregory beamed as he joined them, clapping both heartily on the back and all but knocking each into the other. “We been rescued at the eighth bell!” His massive arms enveloped them both in an embrace as reassuring as any father's.
The buzz slowly circulated about the deck, and down into the very bowels of the ship. Some began to cheer, some to sob and some to almost scream with relief. And as the cries grew stronger three frigates came into plain view, followed by the reassuring bulk of two British line-of-battle ships.
Matthew and Jake watched the frigates as they passed. With not a mark of action and all plain sail set they looked powerful and dashing as they beat through the dark crested seas, a direct contrast to Vigilant, whose lack of masts and spars gave her an ungainly and lopsided appearance. But these were the badges of valour and as the two lads waved they did so without envy; already to have been in Vigilant that day was honour enough.
*****
The British ships caught the French on the horizon, just as dusk was turning to night. Dyson, who had set the crew to work cobbling the ship stood them down to watch and cheer afresh. It was the least he could do; he felt he owed them that. That and so much more.
The seventy-four struck as soon as it was clear the British would overpower them. The flagship fired one broadside before doing the same. By night the British had returned with their trophies, leaving a frigate to stand watch on Vigilant until dawn. It was then that she was taken under tow, to join the might of a homeward bound convoy that would see them safely to England.
*****
The next morning Dyson stood on the quarterdeck once more. He had changed his shirt and hose, and wore his best uniform coat over his number one pair of britches. During the night they had all worked like demons to secure the ship; clearing away debris and fixing what damage they could. A draft from the frigate had given them fresh blood, but even these men now looked exhausted as they were stood down to breakfast. A team of topmen had rigged an improvised spanker to give them a degree of stability; apart from that there was no need for intricate repairs aloft, as they would undoubtedly be towed all the way back to harbour. Dyson supposed he was pleased with the efforts they had made, although his mind was numb with fatigue. The regular mournful clatter of a chain pump told how the hull was leaking badly and they still had many miles to travel before they could really call the battle over.
From the state of the ship, his mind naturally ran on to the condition of his people. Wilson, the surgeon, had made his report just before daybreak. Twenty-seven men had died in the cockpit, and another ten were expected to go that day. This probably accounted for less than a third of the fatalities; the others would have been thrown over the side in the heat of action. Another ninety-eight were wounded, so Vigilant was left with over a third of her men as casualties. It was a colossal toll, and one that filled Dyson with doubts that were more than tinged with guilt.
Tait was one. Dyson had spoken to him less than an hour before, when he had carried out his inspection. The ball in his arm had gone deep, and done a deal of damage to the bone. Still, Bryant had retrieved the spent shot efficiently enough, before closing the wound and setting the arm against a splint. If the wound stayed healthy there was a good chance that Tait would get through with nothing worse than a scar and a memory. The fact that Bryant had performed the operation did not greatly surprise Dyson. Battle did much to bring out extremes in men; with Bryant it had revealed a natural talent for surgery. In fact as far as his record in ministry was concerned, Dyson felt their chaplain had found his true vocation.
In Rogers something far more sinister had been uncovered. Currently he was below, seeking shelter and comfort in the remnants of the wardroom and a bottle of port wine. Dyson would
have to make a full report, and he suspected it would contain more than a passing reference to the second lieutenant. The man was finished, as far as the service was concerned; he should be set ashore and left to follow another course. If he was lucky they would not waste a court martial on him; if he was not he might even be shot. Dyson found he cared little either way; he would be quite content just to be rid of the man; there was little room in his world for revenge.
Gregory joined him. He was dressed in a watch coat that gave a welcome shelter from the stiff morning breeze, as well as hiding the remains of his uniform that he had not seen fit to change.
“Flagship's Aurora: ninety-eight, sir.” He rubbed his red raw hands together as he continued. “Captain Michael Morris in command, carrying Vice Admiral Nichols. They've nigh on a hundred ships, most back from the India station.”
Nichols: Dyson had met him once when he’d captained a seventy-four stationed in the Americas. He remembered him as a solid, dependable man, which would explain his action the previous afternoon. The word had come from a master's mate sent across from the frigate. It seemed that Taymar and Badger had run into the British fleet early in the afternoon. To denude a convoy of a fair proportion of her escorts on nothing more than a vague estimation of their position marked the commander as both bold and spirited. Especially when the nearest land was France, and for all a homebound convoy would know, the entire Brest fleet was at sea and hunting for them.
King appeared and touched his hat to the first lieutenant. He had also spent the night awake and working, and his face revealed his exhaustion.
“Carpenter’s almost done on number two pump, sir. Says once it's in use we should be able to gain on the level in the well.”
“Very good.” Dyson gave the lad a brief smile. “Have you eaten?”
