‘It appears there are no questions so I will not delay you gentlemen. Make ready and pick your men, but don’t let the French see any of your preparations. Good luck and God speed.’
The overcast sky threatened rain as the three boats clustered together a short distance from their mother ship.
William leaned forward to hear the whispered commands from the first lieutenant in the launch.
‘We will aim for the shadow of the island,’ and he indicated the darker area of the island, ‘that way we should be able to blend in and avoid any lookouts.’
William in the pinnace and the young midshipman in the cutter nodded. Their orders were not to speak unless in an emergency.
‘Mr King will take station astern of me and the midshipman will be in the rear,’ ordered the first lieutenant to his boat’s crew. A shielded lantern shown intermittently astern from the forward boats will give some guidance to those behind. Give way together.’
William touched the shoulder of his coxswain. The men bent to their oars as the pinnace followed the launch. He glanced over his shoulder and was pleased to see the midshipman’s boat keeping station behind.
Rounding the southern point of the island, William could just make out the French brig anchored ahead.
The first lieutenant stood carefully in the stern of the launch and scanned the area for guard boats. William also stood and peered into the blackness ahead. He could see an area darker than the rest and realised that it must be a second ship anchored near their original target. It was a two-masted schooner.
‘First lieutenant’s boat is stopped, Sir,’ whispered William’s coxswain. William switched his gaze from the schooner to the first boat in their group.
‘Oars,’ whispered William. His boat slid quietly to a stop near the first lieutenant’s launch.
‘Mr King,’ whispered the first lieutenant, ‘there is a second vessel at anchor. I believe she is a schooner. I want you to capture her and sail her out to meet the Belleisle.’
‘Aye, aye, Sir,’ replied William in a low voice. ‘Coxswain, aim for a point ahead of the bow of the French brig.’ William eased himself to the bow of the pinnace to determine the schooner’s exact position. ‘We’ll go over the bows, men,’ whispered William. ‘Coxswain, cut her anchor cable as soon as you board.’ He pointed to the first two oarsmen. ‘You two make sail when the cable is cut. If the French feel the ship under way, I hope they’ll become disheartened and not cause us too much trouble. Coxswain, when the cable’s gone, you take the wheel.’
‘Right, lads, time for the armbands, but keep it quiet.’
Each of his crew produced a small strip of white cloth in the shape of a circle and pulled it up their left arm. ‘Remember, lads, anyone with a white armband is a Belleisle. No white band means he’s French. I don’t want any pistol cocked until you’re aboard. An accident will be the end of us all.’
The boat slipped quietly through the black water, oars dipping rhythmically. A sudden flash of lightning from the forbidding sky lit the anchorage for a split second. The crew stopped rowing. William caught a glimpse of the schooner but could not see any guards. ‘Give way together. Steer for her anchor cable,’ he whispered to the coxswain.
A deep rumble of thunder shook the air.
That will hide any noise we make, thought William, as he glanced at the sky and hoped the rain would hold off until after they had boarded the schooner.
The boat gently nudged the schooner’s mooring cable and eager hands grabbed the rope to steady the pinnace. William signalled to the bowman who grasped the cable and began to climb. To ease the strain on his arms, the bowman wrapped his feet around the slippery rope and pushed his body higher. When the bowman reached the hawse pipe, William grasped the rope and began to climb. He wished he were as agile as the sailor before him. His arms ached with the effort of pulling himself up the mooring rope as his sword flapped against his left leg. A final heave and he was over the gunwale and collapsed on the deck. His heart thudded with the unaccustomed effort.
He peered around to check if his noisy arrival had alarmed the French. All appeared quiet. Then he saw, suddenly, a body dressed as a French sailor next to him. The Frenchman’s throat had been slit. The pinnace’s bowman sat calmly, a few feet away, wiping his bloody knife on a piece of cloth cut from the Frenchman’s shirt. William started to rise as two more of his crew dropped gently onto the deck. Keeping low, they ran towards the schooner’s stern.
Each minute saw two more of his boat’s crew drop to the deck and silently take their positions.
‘Ready, Sir,’ whispered the coxswain, his axe held high over the anchor cable. ‘Ship’s boat secured alongside in case we have to make a run for it.’
‘Thank you, Coxswain. Hold off cutting until I give the word. It is a lot quieter than I expected.’
‘Johnny Crap‘ards don’t like to get wet, Sir, and it feels like rain.’
William smiled. ‘Crapaud, in French, is pronounced krap-o, Coxswain, so if you wish to insult a French sailor, make sure you pronounce it correctly or he won’t realise you’re insulting him.’
‘Aye, Sir,’ answered the coxswain.
William watched the man’s face. It was obvious that he didn’t know what William was talking about.
William left the coxswain and joined the rest of his crew, who waited near the foremast for orders. ‘Sails ready?’ he whispered.
‘Aye, Sir,’ said one of the two men designated to deal with the sails after the cable parted.
As William turned to speak to the rest of the men, the peace of the night was broken by the sound of shots from the brig.
‘That’s it for silence, Coxswain. Now!’ he shouted as he drew his sword.
A dull thud of the axe signalled the cable had parted.
‘Haul those sails. Coxswain, take the wheel,’ shouted William.
The sound of running feet and the noise of the French crew as they poured from below put an end to any further speech. The French and the British were now in a bloody hand-to-hand fight. William sensed the vessel begin to list as the wind caught her sails. He could hear the sound of pistols, and hoped they were British and not French.
A large Frenchman swinging a two-handed axe charged through the knot of British sailors. William ducked and felt the wind from the blade as it passed close above his head. The man grunted and tried to correct the momentum of his swing as William thrust upward. He felt the blade slide under the man’s arm and into his side. Though wounded, the Frenchman was not finished and swung the axe back in an attempt to cut him in half. William stepped back as the axe brushed his chest and embedded itself in the mast. As the French sailor tugged to free the axe, William thrust his sword at the man’s chest and ran him through.
The sound of steel on steel, oaths, grunts and the occasional scream rang across the small ship as the enemies fought for control of the vessel.
William looked around for any indication of the captain or another officer but couldn’t see any. His heart beat fast as he parried a wild stroke from one of his own crew.
‘Pay attention, damn your eyes.’
The wild eyes of the crewman told William the man had lost control and would hack at anybody who got in his way. Before William could do anything, the crewman turned and charged back into the fight.
The motion of the schooner told him they had reached the open sea. Spray now splattered across the deck and she buried her bow into the Atlantic waves. The fighting was diminishing as his crew gained control.
William, trying to avoid further and unnecessary bloodshed, shouted ‘Capituler, capituler’ to the French, the only word he could think of and he hoped he pronounced it correctly.
The fighting eventually stopped. William could make out a small group of about fifteen Frenchmen gathered aft of the mainmast. The schooner’s captain must have allowed half of his crew to go ashore but each second meant the ship was sailing further from the coast of France.
His boat’s crew, gaspin
g for breath, threatened the Frenchmen from a few feet away.
‘Capituler,’ shouted William again.
First one and then another Frenchman dropped his weapon, until eventually all surrendered. Not until the final weapon had dropped did his heart begin to slow. He sheathed his sword and waited while his crew pushed the prisoners into some order. They were a sorry sight. His emotions stirred as he realised, but for his good fortune, the roles might easily have been reversed and he might have become a prisoner of the French.
A voice broke his reverie.
‘Belleisle on the starboard bow, Sir.’
‘Thank you, Coxswain, come under her lee if you would.’
‘Aye, aye, Sir.’
‘Davenport, search the prisoners.’
Davenport pushed the French prisoners as he began his search.
‘Search a vois, search a vois,’ he shouted and patted various prisoners for hidden weapons.
The pinnace’s crew laughed, being aware of what Davenport meant. The consternation on the faces of the French, and their lack of response, brought further laughter. The prisoners stood in a huddle and watched Davenport as they tried to work out his question.
William stood behind Davenport and studied the prisoners. He wished to find out who was in charge.
Davenport pushed a young man against the gunwale and bent to tap his pockets and waistband for a weapon. William finished inspecting the prisoner’s faces and began to turn away. He would never know why he turned back, but as he did, he saw the flash of a knife. The young Frenchman had drawn his hand back and plunged a short knife into Davenport’s throat.
Davenport screamed until the knife cut his voice. William pulled out his pistol, aimed, and shot the Frenchman in the face. The Frenchman dropped to the deck, a bloody hole where his nose had been and half his head missing, much of which had splattered on Davenport’s now collapsed body. William was aghast. This was the first time he had shot a man in cold blood. Strangely, he didn’t feel any sorrow. The man’s attack after he had surrendered, in William’s mind, sealed his own fate.
The remainder of the French prisoners moaned and dropped to the deck and cowered.
‘Bind their hands,’ William ordered.
Indicating the dead Frenchman, he addressed two of his boat crew. ‘Throw that piece of rubbish overboard.’
Two sailors grabbed the dead man and heaved him over the side.
William knelt beside Davenport and checked for signs of life. The Frenchman’s knife had severed an artery. Davenport was dead.
‘Pick up our shipmate,’ said William, as he stood, ‘and we’ll take him back to the Belleisle and give him a decent burial.’
The captain’s plan had worked. The captured brig, Le Tigre, and the schooner, Desiree, would be sold into the British Navy on their return to England.
Captain Whitby was in high spirits. Although the money received for the two French vessels would be split amongst the officers and crew of the Belleisle, the majority would go to him.
‘A fine episode, Mr King, and we all benefit from it.’
‘Aye, Sir, we will.’
‘In the meantime I will use the Le Tigre to scout for us while you, Mr King, will command the schooner and take my dispatches back to England.’
William was overjoyed at being given his first command. If the action was gazetted, would his father be pleased at seeing his son’s name in the newspapers or would he still be angry?
Chapter Two
A Ship to Command
Leaving HMS Belleisle for England
November 1804
The voyage back to England became one that William would always remember. The Desiree, a lively craft that sailed fast and steady, his first command. The feel of her riding the waves gave him the greatest pleasure. He had to make an effort not to smile each time the crew referred to him as Captain.
On arrival in England, William reported to the port admiral at Spithead from whom he received orders to sail to Falmouth, in Cornwall. While off Falmouth he was to take on fresh water and stores and await further orders.
The port admiral read Captain Whitby’s dispatches. As a reward for her capture, the admiral confirmed William’s appointment as commander of the Desiree. William’s heart felt as if it would burst with pride; he had a ship to command at last.
His crew consisted of a sailing master, master’s mate, a young midshipman from Edinburgh named Peter McCall, and thirty crew. The broad Scottish accent of the tall, gangling midshipman was evident during his normal speech but when he raised his voice over the wind, the accent disappeared. The midshipman’s red hair and fair skin could become a problem in the tropics, thought William. At least the crew would understand him when he gave orders, even if they couldn’t when he spoke normally.
While they awaited orders, the Desiree was bought in to the Navy and re-christened HMS Nancy. She was a fine new vessel for His Majesty.
Falmouth December 1804
HMS Nancy lay at anchor off Falmouth for three weeks before William’s orders arrived. He had hoped the crew of the Nancy might celebrate Christmas in England, but when Spain declared war on 12 December, he knew that Christmas at home was a lost dream.
The messenger handed over a package from the Admiralty addressed to Commander, HMS Nancy, together with a weighted sealed sack. William signed for the package and dated it 16 December 1804.
He studied the package with its fouled anchor and couldn’t help thinking that the symbol should be changed. If ever something needed changing, it must be the fouled anchor. After all, Britain ruled the waves, and a fouled anchor as a symbol of the Admiralty seemed totally out of place.
He slit open the package and quickly scanned the contents. His orders indicated he should sail forthwith for Cape Town and report to the admiral in command of the Cape squadron. William picked up the large canvas bag, which contained the dispatches, and felt the weight of the sown-in shot. If they could not outrun an enemy vessel, and there was a risk of being captured, the weighted bag would go overboard. The weight of the shot would carry it quickly to the bottom. He placed the sack under his small bunk for safekeeping, and after refolding his orders, locked those in his desk drawer.
‘Bosun!’ yelled William, making his way from his small cabin to the poop deck. ‘Make ready to weigh anchor! We sail within the hour.’
‘Aye, aye, Sir,’ answered the bosun, taking a final look at the English coastline.
Once clear of Falmouth, William set course south-west. He wished to take the Nancy out into the Atlantic to avoid other ships, French and British. If he met an English ship he might be required to heave to, or even be diverted from his current instructions. It would be difficult, if not impossible, for a mere lieutenant to refuse to carry out a senior officer’s instruction, even if he did carry urgent dispatches from the Admiralty.
‘Bosun, muster the crew aft.’
The bosun grasped the small silver whistle that hung around his neck and blew the call to muster all on board.
The bosun’s mate walked the main deck, his voice competing with the bosun’s call.
‘All hands muster aft, lively there!’
The crew tumbled up from below, aware that the bosun’s mate carried a small cane and would use it on the last man.
They assembled below the poop deck, their upturned faces waiting for their captain to speak.
The dreariness of the sea, as each wave marched relentlessly towards the horizon, infected the mood of the men. Heavy clouds hid the warming rays of the sun. They were tired and cold after spending two days tacking back and forth to escape the Channel into the Atlantic. Some blew on their hands; others hugged themselves in an effort to keep warm. They swayed as one, countering the Nancy’s movement as she rolled in the Atlantic swell. The men were unhappy.
William paced the small deck until they were silent. ‘Men, I thought I’d bring you into my confidence as to our destination.’
A ripple of whispers ran through the crew. Their mood
changed to interest, as they waited for their captain to speak again. Thirty pairs of eyes watched William in anticipation. Not many officers would tell their crew their destination.
‘The Admiralty felt a little sorry for us, stuck in the River Fal for three weeks, growing colder and colder.’ A few of the crew laughed. ‘So, to make amends, they have ordered us to Cape Town in South Africa.’
A long silence ensued as they absorbed the news. Not many had sailed so far south. Their usual destination was the English Channel or the Bay of Biscay to beat back and forth, day after day, in cold damp weather. The bosun raised his hand indicating that he wished to speak.
‘Yes, Bosun, what is it?’
‘Is it warm in South Africa, Sir?’
‘Yes, I am pleased to tell you, it can be very warm.’
The bosun nodded his head and smiled at the thought of some sun and heat. The crew saw his face and deduced South Africa would be a good destination. The cheering started.
‘Men, I have one last thing to tell you,’ shouted William over the cheering. ‘We are now at war with Spain, as well as France, so we must keep a sharp lookout for any ships. We do not want to be taken by a Frog or a Dago, do we?’
‘No!’ yelled back the crew.
‘Treat every sail as an enemy. Dismiss hands, if you please, Mr McCall.’
William drove the Nancy hard, knowing that the Cape squadron desperately needed the information he carried. Without knowing if war had broken out, any of the squadron meeting a Spanish warship could be fatal.
He took his little command well out into the Atlantic to avoid any encounter. After three days of good wind, he altered course south for the Cape.
Each time he heard the lookout’s cry of ‘Sail!’ he altered course away, hoping the Nancy would not be followed. He would not come close to another ship for thirty-five days, until he closed on Cape Town.
William marked the noonday sight on his chart and felt proud of his navigation. Although the master, Mr Hargrove, carried out the daily navigation activity, William took his own noonday sight and plotted the track of their voyage separately.
Triangle Trade Page 2
