The Captain's Nephew

by Philip K Allan

  ‘That is because it is on the far side of the island, sir,’ Booth replied, still looking through his glass. ‘We should look to pass the island through the channel between St Lucia and Martinique, which is the island to the north. Castries is only a few miles down the west coast.’ Follett closed his glass with a decisive snap.

  ‘Very well, Mr Booth. I would be obliged if you would lay the ship on a course that will bring us to the mouth of this roadstead of yours, and then we shall see what we shall see.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ Booth replied.

  *****

  The roadstead of Castries was every bit as impressive as Booth had said. They had sailed around the northern end of the island without incident. The only shipping they encountered was small fishing boats that had fled like minnows before a shark as the Agrius bore down on them. If they were to find the Courageuse she was likely to be moored here, her mission complete and her soldiers and stores unloaded. They had almost certainly failed in their attempt to stop her, but the game had to be played out to the last turn of a card.

  They were much closer to the land now. Clay could see the lofty interior of the island made blue by the distance, the slopes like folds in a cloth and covered with thick forest. Where the land met the sea, a thin line of dazzling white melded into the electric blue water close inshore. The two headlands that protected the entrance to the bay extended towards the approaching frigate, like gapping mandibles. The headland to the north was the higher, rockier of the two. Booth had said that it was called Cape Vigie. On the summit of the headland was a decent sized stone built fort. Cannon placed there would be able to sweep the narrow channel into the roadstead. As they approached Clay saw a puff of smoke rise up in the air. Moments later a chain of splashes appeared one after the other as a cannon ball skipped across the water towards them.

  ‘Come up into the wind if you please, Mr Sutton,’ ordered the captain. The last splash was well short of them, but there was little point in risking damage to the ship. Clay resumed his examination of the coast.

  The other, lower headland was called La Toc. There was another battery marked on the chart with more cannon to sweep the channel from that side, although Clay could not see it from where he stood. He shifted his gaze up the channel and into the roadstead. He could see the red tile roofs and white washed stone of a small settlement at the far end of the bay. In front of the town was a mass of shipping. There were delicate schooners, those swift greyhounds that dominated inter-island trade in the Caribbean, at least one small brig and many more of the fishing boats they had already encountered. Towering over them all was the familiar outline of the Courageuse. Even at this distance Clay could see that she was higher out of the water than when he had first seen her close up, before she had disappeared into that sunset in the distant mid-Atlantic. She had completed her mission and unloaded her precious cargo of supplies and troops. Their attempt to stop her had failed.

  He turned away, disappointed, at the same time that Follett did. Both men looked at one another. The captain’s face bore a resigned look. He had hoped that by a miracle the Courageuse would have been delayed, perhaps by some accident or squall of her own. Then they might have got here first, able to bring her to action before she could unload, but it was not to be.

  ‘Mr Clay,’ he said, speaking to him for the first time that day, ‘can you and Mr Booth kindly lay the ship on a course for Barbados.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ Clay replied. Barbados was where the admiral’s Windward Island squadron was based. It was time for both men to end their destructive relationship and to meet whatever the future held for them.

  ‘Captain, sir!’ shouted Preston, from halfway up the foremast shrouds. ‘I believe I can see some activity on the Courageuse. She may be coming out.’

  Clay and Follett both turned round to look back at the shore. As they did so a square of white dropped down like a blind from the foretop yard of the French ship. It was sheeted home, and she began to move down the channel towards them. Moments later a huge tricolour broke out from her masthead, and waved in the breeze.

  ‘Belay that course for Barbados, Mr Clay,’ said the captain, a gleam in his eye at the prospect of action. ‘Kindly put her on the other tack, and let us head out into open water, well clear of these shore batteries.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ replied Clay. ‘Larboard tack it is.’

  The Agrius turned away from the land till she had her stern towards St Lucia and headed out to sea. The wind was very light, but enough to propel the frigates on. Like an obedient dog, the Courageuse followed her out of port, setting more sail as she came.

  ‘Mr Clay!’ called the captain from the companion ladder that led down to the main deck. ‘I am going below to shift my clothes. I would be obliged if you would beat to quarters and clear the ship for action.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’ Clay saluted his captain, and then turned away to action his orders.

  *****

  Down on the main deck, Roberts the marine drummer ran up and stood to attention by the main mast. Slung across his shoulder was the wide belt from which hung his drum and in his hands were the sticks. This was the fifteen-year-old’s moment. Officers and boatswains might make the hands run to and fro most of the time, but it was his lead they would follow today. He swivelled an eye towards his sergeant, detected the briefest of nods, and began. His drum sticks became a blur, like the wings of a dragonfly, and a thunder of noise spread through the ship.

  It followed the top men as they flew up the rigging, rushing to take in sail. Soon the Agrius would only carry her middle layer of top sails, enough canvas to allow her to manoeuvre in a fight, while not so much as to imperil battle-damaged rigging. The drumming urged on the more ponderous marine marksmen as they followed the top men aloft to take their positions, ready to pick off anyone visible on an enemy’s deck spread out below them.

  On the main deck the drumming was at its loudest, reverberating off the inner sides of the ship as if they were in the sound box of one of the Italian’s violins. Here the activity was at its most intense. The gun crews cast off their guns, removed the swathes of rope that held them fast through wave and storm and ran the cannon forward and back, testing the gun tackles. Crewmen ran up with buckets of water, one for every gun, and a ring of spare ones for fire fighting around each of the masts. Others came with buckets of sand, throwing handfuls across the planking to give the bare-footed gun crews better grip. The gun captains huddled around the battle lanterns, took it in turns to light the slow match of their linstocks, then turned away and whirled them in the air to transform them from spluttered beginnings to hungry red.

  Red too were the jackets of the marines stationed at each hatchway, muskets loaded, bayonets fixed. They were there to make sure only the ship’s boys rushing to fetch ammunition for the guns or the badly wounded would be allowed down to the relative safety below the waterline. The more experienced hands understood all too well why the marines were there. They stripped down to the waist and tied their neck cloths in tight bandanas around their ears. They had been through the furnace heat and deafening noise of a full gun deck in action before, and they prepared accordingly.

  In Captain Follett’s cabin the thunder of the drum was muted by the two layers of bulkhead between Roberts and where he stood. He pulled on his full dress coat, settled it with care and then buckled his best sword over the top of the heavily braided material. All around him crewmen worked under the watchful eye of Lloyd, packing away his furniture, and carrying it to safety in the hold. The gun crews of the aftermost canons cast them off and rigged their tackles, all under the watchful eye of their captain. Satisfied that he was dressed correctly, Follett walked towards the cabin door. He reached for the handle just as the entire wall fell away from him. The carpenter looked up apologetically as he unbolted the bulkhead to take it below, and the roar of the drum swept in. Now the whole main deck was one continuous space. It was only the transition in the interior colour of the ship’s side from blood
red to powder blue that hinted that there had ever been a cabin there at all.

  Deep below the waterline only a ghostly echo of the drumming passed through the intervening decks. In the ship’s magazine the light of the lantern in its sealed glass box glowed back pink from the overlapping copper plates that lined every inch of the room like the scales of a reptile. Copper was the gunner’s friend. Hard enough to keep out rats and damp, soft enough not to spark when struck by a carelessly dropped tool. In the curious brothel-coloured light, Smith the gunner and Amos worked away. For once the methodical caution that had so enraged Clay back in Flanders was justified. They carefully laid out the powder charges for the guns, aware that the tons of gunpowder all about them was more than enough to blow the Agrius and everyone in her into a universe of tiny fragments.

  Over the open door of the magazine hung the fear nought screen of heavy felt cloth to prevent sparks from reaching the powder beyond. Outside the screen the ship’s boys gathered in a chattering mass, wild with excitement at the prospect of action. Today they would perform one of their other roles on board, that of powder monkeys. Each boy was allocated to a different gun. Their job was to maintain a steady procession of fresh powder charges flowing up from the magazine to keep that gun in action. Stood among them was Yates, Clay’s servant, ready to bring up the first charge for number three carronade on the quarterdeck.

  Further aft in the hold, the sound of the drumming beat on the low deck above Wynn the surgeon’s head. He was directly under Roberts and his drum, two decks down. Wynn and his assistants had to crouch low, bent almost double in the tiny deck space of the cockpit, but at least down here they would be able to work undisturbed by the battle going on above them. The midshipmen’s chests had been lashed together in the centre of the space and covered with a bolt of canvas to create a makeshift operating table. Off to one side Wynn lay out the instruments of his trade. Saws and knives that would not look out of place in an abattoir glinted in the feeble light.

  Follett returned to the quarterdeck just as the drumming stopped. The quarterdeck itself now resembled a small, crowded fortress. The squat carronades on both sides of the deck had gun crews, while the remainder of the Agrius’s marines lined the rails between them. Extra quartermasters manned the wheel in case of casualties, midshipmen stood ready to take messages. Sutton was officer of the watch, and had been joined by Munro and Booth. Windham was in charge of the main gun deck, while looking farther forward he could see Knight with a party of men on the forecastle, ready to repair any damage to the rigging. Wisps of smoke from all the linstocks around the ship drifted up in the light air like the cooking fires of a besieging army.

  Clay came across to him and saluted his captain. Follett noticed that his first lieutenant had somehow managed to get his own dress coat and sword from his cabin at the same time as he had prepared the ship for action. He thought, not for the first time, what a good officer Clay was. Few men could have brought so many of the Flanders landing party off that beach, and he had handled the bow chasers with calm confidence during the pursuit of the Vrai Patriote. He ran the ship with that same calm efficiency – Follett struggled to recall a time when he had been able to find fault. He was the model officer that he might have hoped his own son would have become. How had they come to such a low a point in their relationship?

  ‘Ship cleared for action, sir,’ Clay announced. ‘I had to take a decision about the musicians, as they have not been given a station on the watch list. I have allocated them to the surgeon to assist with collecting the wounded for him to treat.’

  ‘You were quite correct to do so, Mr Clay,’ said Follett, impressed at this further evidence of Clay’s abilities.

  ‘The enemy continues to follow us out to sea and appears to be preparing for action. May I ask what are your intentions now, sir?’ continued Clay.

  Follett’s initial reaction was to bridle, choosing to interpret the question as impertinence. His dislike for his first lieutenant returned to the fore, and it was only the realisation of the public place they were in, with plenty of officers and men within hearing, that held him back. Clay saw the anger flash in his superior’s eyes, but carried on regardless, anxious to make his point.

  ‘Sir, should you fall in the forthcoming action, I will have to take over command of the ship. I need to understand what your intentions are if I am to carry them out in your absence.’ He too was aware that everyone could hear them, and tried his best to control his frustration with his difficult superior. Follett looked Clay in the eye. He wanted to say something cutting, perhaps about how Clay might relish the possibility of Follett being killed or seriously injured soon. He forced himself to be calm. The ship was about to go into an action from which neither of them might survive. Instead of a cutting remark, he replied with icy formality.

  ‘I intend to lay the Agrius alongside the Courageuse, and to batter her into submission with the great guns. Should that fail to compel her to submit, I will attempt to carry her by boarding. Is that a straightforward enough notification of my intentions for you, Mr Clay?’

  ‘Thank you for your clarity, sir,’ replied Clay. He ignored the sarcasm in Follett’s voice, and dropped the level of his own voice to minimise the number who could hear him. ‘May I proffer a suggestion, sir? Courageuse carries a considerable advantage in the heavier weight of her broadside, and has revealed during our pursuit that she is commanded by a resourceful captain. We are the more agile, more manoeuvrable ship. Should we not use those assets to disable her at range first, so as to then engage her at an advantage?’

  ‘Are we a little shy of a close engagement, Mr Clay?’ Follett asked, his voice cold. ‘I have discovered much I did not expect to about you over the last few months, very little of which has been to my taste. The one thing I had not suspected you of was a want of courage.’

  ‘Sir!’ protested Clay, enraged by Follett’s implication of cowardice. ‘It is my duty as your deputy to make suggestions as how best to defeat our enemy... ’ he trailed off, in the face of Follett’s upraised hand.

  ‘I want no more of your suggestions please, Mr Clay. You have said quite enough already.’

  Captain Follett turned away from his first lieutenant and gave the orders that would bring the Agrius into action.

  ‘Mr Sutton! Bring her head round and back the foretopsail, if you please. Mr Windham! Have the larboard side guns run out and ready. No one is to open fire until I give the word.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ came the replies.

  Having led the Courageuse out into open water, the Agrius now swung round till she was broadside on to the approaching Frenchman. With the foretopsail backed, the way came off her and she slowed to a halt, waiting like a crouched beast for her enemy to come within range. On board, the crew were tense and silent now, waiting for the action to start. All that could be heard was the slap of waves against the outside of the frigate’s hull, and the occasional lazy flap from the backed topsail. Across the dazzling blue water, the French frigate came on, growing bigger every minute. Bow on to her like this, Clay could appreciate her sheer size now. The lofty masts of the Courageuse were like towering steeples; her beam wider than that of the Agrius. Visible down both of her sides were the long lines of her big eighteen pounder cannon.

  As she approached, Clay noticed that the silhouette of the French frigate began to alter as she changed course. She was declining the invitation offered by Follett to turn into the wind and meet the Agrius broadside to broadside. Instead she had begun a long, slow sweep that would result in her passing behind the British frigate. Clay realised with horror what she was going to do. All warships were vulnerable to being raked, a broadside fired into their unprotected sterns, with every ball ploughing its murderous path down the entire length of its opponent’s gun deck. It was a blow that few ships could long survive. The Agrius may have decided to dispense with manoeuvring before battle, but the Courageuse would not.

  ‘Sir!’ he cried, grabbing at Follett’s arm. ‘She i
s going to try and rake us. We have to fall off. Now!’ Follett looked across at the Courageuse, saw what the French captain was intending to do and gave a shocked nod. It was all the authorisation Clay needed. He picked up the speaking trumpet and issued a rapid series of orders.

  ‘Back the main top sail! Man the sheets! Mr Windham there! Belay the larboard guns. The enemy will appear on the starboard side.’

  With both her largest sails now backed, the Agrius started to gain a little sternway, moving backwards through the water. Clay tried to ignore the approaching Frenchman, looming ever bigger in his vision. To be able to manoeuvre the ship had to move through the water so her rudder would have something to grip on, and Clay had chosen the fastest, if rather unorthodox way to achieve this. When he judged that she had enough sternway he gave his next orders.

  ‘Quartermaster, up your helm. Hard over!’ Stern first like this the agile frigate was ponderous in her turn. Clay looked across at the Courageuse. A moment of calculation was enough to tell him that they were turning much too slowly.

  ‘Mr Knight!’ he bellowed. ‘Set the jib. Mr Sutton, let the driver out.’ The extra leverage of the jib acted on the long lever of the bowsprit to accelerate the turn at one end of the ship, while the driver above her stern pushed in the opposite direction. Clay glanced across at the Frenchman again. That was better, he thought to himself. It would be very close, but they would just make it in time.

  ‘Thank you Mr Clay, I will take the handling of the ship from here,’ said Captain Follett, coming out of his shock at last. He was aware that his decision to hold his ship stationary into the wind had put the Agrius in a vulnerable position, handing the initiative in the action to his opponent. He had assumed that the Courageuse would pull up alongside for a broadside to broadside exchange in the naval equivalent of some gentleman’s joust. The French captain had had other ideas. Had it not been for Clay’s prompt intervention the fight might have been over almost before it had begun. Follett looked around the quarterdeck, taking in the impassive faces around him. He could see that they all knew it too.