The Captain's Nephew

by Philip K Allan

  The Agrius had at last swung round onto the same course as the Courageuse, but still moved backwards through the water. Follett was a competent enough seaman to be able to correct this.

  ‘Quartermaster, wheel amidships if you please. Mr Sutton, let’s have the topsails drawing again.’ Even though she was barely moving through the water, it took time to bring the heavy bulk of the Agrius to a halt, and set her advancing again. She had just begun to move forward when the French frigate pulled alongside. Her dull red side was several feet higher than that of the Agrius and her long line of cannon seemed to glide past them forever.

  ‘Open fire!’ yelled Follett, as the Frenchman’s quarterdeck came level with him. The crashing broadside from the Courageuse came a fraction ahead of that of the Agrius. The ships healed away from each other as they rolled with the recoil of their cannon. For a split second Clay could see the bright sunshine and blue sky of a Caribbean afternoon through the spider’s web of the Frenchman’s rigging before both ships were lost in a fog of billowing gun smoke. Now the hours of training and the lighter cannon on the British ship began to tell. The Agrius fired her second broadside ahead of the Frenchman, although when it came, the weight of the Courageuse’s broadside hit the smaller British frigate like a sledge hammer. In the relative calm between broadsides Clay became aware of the lighter bang of muskets as Munro’s marines fired away at the shadowy figures visible on the Frenchman’s deck through the murk. He heard a strange patter near his feet, and looking down saw two musket holes in the deck. He looked up into the Frenchman’s masts. There were soldiers up there, several of whom were levelling their muskets at him. He felt an odd calm as he waited for them to fire. When they did the marine next to him cried out and fell down on to the deck.

  Broadsides crashed backwards and forwards as both ships hammered at each other. The fire was becoming more ragged now, drawn out over longer periods as the better handled guns outpaced the slower. He could feel through his feet the whole deck vibrate with the recoil of the British guns, and the smashing impact of the enemy’s. With so little wind the choking clouds of gun smoke clung to the two ships, blocking out the Caribbean sun, and replacing its illumination with an eerie red under-lighting of gun flashes. Flame and smoke belched all around Clay, narrowing his world to the small radius of deck immediately visible to him. He looked across at the French ship but she was cloaked in the thick smoke. Only when the long tongues of flame shot out from her side as each gun fired, was there a moment when a small disc of red hull and jade green water flashed into existence.

  Clay looked away, trying to clear his head so that he could listen to the sound of battle more closely. Something was changing in the rhythm of the action. It seemed as if one side’s fire had started to slacken, if only he could have a moment to concentrate. Two seamen pushed past him in the smoke, carrying a bleeding body. He was concentrating so hard he barely registered that it was Booth. When had that happened? He tried to clear his mind once more, ignoring the carnage around him and closing his eyes as he listened to the sound of the cannon fire. He could pick out the deeper boom of the Frenchman’s bigger cannon from the lighter bark of their own twelve pounders. A sudden cold feeling spread over him as he realised that it was the Agrius’s fire that was diminishing. He stumbled across to Follett by the wheel, and yelled in his ear.

  ‘Our guns are not firing quickly enough, sir. I am going below to see why.’ Follett put his head on one side, listening closely. Clay was right. There could be little doubt that the Agrius’s rate of fire had stalled.

  ‘Very good, Mr Clay,’ he shouted back. ‘Return to the quarterdeck when you are able.’

  *****

  Evans had not known what to expect from a single ship action. He thought that it might be like some enormous scaled up version of the prize fights he understood so well. The patch of sea they were on might be like the ring, around which the ships would circle one another, feeling for weakness, or seeking an advantage before closing. A feint on one side, a long shot from the other, until the measure of the opponent had been tested, their strengths and weaknesses understood. Perhaps then the two sides would close together to trade blows, broadsides slugged to and fro, till one side started to weaken and could take no more. What he was experiencing was very different.

  The roar of Robert’s drum had found him off duty, at a mess table on the lower deck chatting with O’Malley. Both men had frozen for a moment, before their training took over and they rushed up to their position in action, crewing Number Three Gun. Somehow Drinkwater had got there ahead of them and was already fussing over Spit Fire. The other members of the gun crew had come running up, and they prepared themselves for action.

  The main deck had seethed with activity. Number Three Gun was close to the fore hatch, which had been like the entrance to a disturbed ants’ nest. Lines of men were either coming up one side from below or disappearing down the other side. Up had come the cooks from the galley, carrying the smouldering fire box from the range to dump over the side. Down had gone the powder monkeys to collect the first charges. Up had come a stomping file of marines, soldier ants headed for the quarterdeck. Down had gone the carpenter and his mates, destined for the hold to seek out and plug any damage that might happen below the waterline.

  Then, as if a switch had been flicked, everyone had been in their place. The gun captains and petty officers in charge of each station and gun had reported that they were ready up the command chain, and silence descended. All Evans had been able to hear as he crouched down beside Number Three Gun had been the gentle creak of the rigging and the smooth swish of water flowing down the side of the hull.

  After what seemed like an age, Evans had heard the captain’s voice boom down from the quarterdeck. ‘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.’

  A buzz of anticipation had filled the main deck. The crew of Number Three Gun exchanged glances.

  ‘Larboard side, did yous hear?’ O’Malley had whispered. ‘That’ll be us!’

  ‘Silence on deck!’ Windham had shouted from his post by the main mast. ‘Larboard gun crews, up ports!’

  This was one of Evans’ jobs. He had pulled the lid open and a square of brilliant blue had appeared in the side of the ship.

  ‘Run out!’

  The crew had tailed on the gun tackles and the gun slid out into the warm tropical sunshine. Ducking down, Evans had been able to see that the ship was swinging around. The horizon of sea had slowly been replaced by the green hills of St Lucia, and in front of them the approaching French frigate. Over his head he had heard the lazy flapping of the fore topsail that had been backed. The frigate came to a halt.

  ‘Get out the way, Evans!’ Drinkwater had hissed, trying to sight along the barrel. Evans returned to his position and the gun captain had crouched down.

  ‘Train her round lads, towards the stern. Again. Bit more. Easy there. Lovely, we’re pointing right at her figurehead.’ Drinkwater had swung his linstock around in a tight circle till it glowed hot and red, then had looked around, waiting for the order to fire.

  No order to fire had ever come. Instead the French frigate had slipped ever sternwards. The crew of Number Three Gun had tracked her until the barrel of their gun came up against the hard side of the gun port and the ship slid from view.

  ‘She’s going to pass astern and rake us!’ Trevan hissed, the look of horror on his face matched by the other experienced hands around them. Evans had not been sure what this meant, but he had followed the anxious stares around him as they looked towards the bright blocks of light at the far end of the main deck, the windows of the captain’s cabin, now visible throughout the deck with all the bulkheads between them removed. He had heard Clay’s voice bark orders, the stamp of feet over head as the forecastle men set sail, and the curious sensation as the ship began to move backwards.

  Then word had come that
they would not be in action, that the starboard guns would fight the French, and they should stand at their post and wait. The guns had been run back in and secured; the ports closed once more. Over the ship had fallen the dark shadow of the French frigate’s rigging and sails, her red hull blotting out the blue squares of sea all along the opposite side of the ship.

  But that had been an age ago, in another world. Since then all had run mad. Drinkwater was no more. One moment he had been standing behind the gun, the next he vanished, and a mutilated mass had replaced him lying on the deck, his beloved Spit Fire splattered with gore. Evans saw the huge eighteen pounder cannon ball that had killed him, stuck like a plum in the oak skin of the ship. Evans had heard nothing of the shot, the noise of the Agrius’s own cannon fire was so deafening in the confined space of the main deck.

  Sullivan, the gun’s quiet-spoken loader, had been next. Another shot had scythed across the deck, sending a shower of lethal splinters flying and leaving a jagged hedge scored across the deck to show the track it had followed. The ball had missed Sullivan, but the splinters had not. With a cry of pain he had fallen, both legs a mass of jagged wounds. Two of the Italians had taken him below to the surgeon, but the others knew that even if he was lucky enough to survive, his legs would both have to be amputated.

  The gun crew had had to stand like cattle in a slaughter house as the steady, remorseless French fire smashed home, whittling away at the men all around them. Evans felt as if he was being asked to stand in a prize fighting ring, his arms by his sides, while his opponent was free to punch him again and again.

  He looked around in frustration. Was there nothing he could do to fight the French? He could see Trevan trying to comfort their weeping powder monkey. Only a boy of thirteen, he was witness to horrors that no child should have to see. Beyond the boy he saw Windham, still standing by the main mast, his hands waving in front of him, but giving no orders. Beside him was Preston, looking stunned, his hands clasped behind his back.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, do something!’ Evans yelled, but only his companions could hear him over the roar of the cannon. Then he saw Clay appear out of the smoke and make his way over to the officers. He was animated, pointing, directing, alive with bustling energy. At last Evans felt a little hope grow in his heart.

  *****

  Clay ran down the companionway ladder onto the main deck and entered a world of utter chaos. French cannon balls had punched multiple holes in the side of the ship through which smoke poured in. Other cannon balls had cut deep scores across the planking. Near where he stood a cannon lay useless on its side, a bright silver gash in the metal showing where it had been struck a ringing blow from an enemy shot. All about him were dead or wounded seamen, many with horrific splinter wounds. Near the bottom of the steps lay one of the ship’s boys, his face, arms and chest hideously burnt. The powder charge he carried must have been ignited by a random hot fragment while he clasped it to his chest, bringing it up from the magazine. Knelt over him was another ship’s boy, his own charge discarded by his side as he tried to revive his friend. With a shock Clay realised the kneeling boy was Yates.

  ‘Leave him be, Samuel,’ he shouted to him over the din of battle. ‘They will be waiting for that charge you carry at your gun.’ Yates looked up at him, tears streaming down his face. Clay pulled him to his feet and hardened his heart as he pressed the discarded powder charge back into his arms.

  ‘Come on, lad, get that charge up to the quarterdeck,’ he said. ‘Quickly now.’ Yates stumbled past him and up the companionway ladder. Clay turned back to the scene on deck.

  Clay forced himself to ignore the cries of the wounded and tried to see what was going wrong. He saw undermanned crews struggle to work what guns remained in action while French cannon fire continued to crash home, creating waves of fresh carnage. He saw chaos, but he saw confusion too. There were still many brave men struggling to keep on fighting without any direction. In the middle of it all he saw Windham wringing his hands in frustration, while Preston stood mute by his side. Clay strode over to them.

  ‘Mr Preston, you must go and find the captain. Tell him that he must break off the engagement for a period so that I can get the gun deck reorganised and properly back in action. Tell him that it is most pressing – run, boy, run!’ As Preston ran to the quarterdeck, Clay rounded on Windham.

  ‘What is going on here, Mr Windham? Why do the guns fire so slowly?’

  Windham looked up at Clay, shock in his eyes at the scale of the carnage all about him. He looked like a broken man.

  ‘The gun crews are all dead,’ he muttered. ‘The French are much too strong for us. We have to stop this madness. My uncle has to strike before it is too late.’

  ‘Shut your mouth!’ snarled Clay, shocking Windham into silence. ‘We carry on fighting. We simply need to be organised in a better fashion. Look about you, man! You still have men manning the larboard side guns, even though they stand idle. Get them all over to man the guns in action. You need to consolidate the crews you have. Look over there, a gun with three men to serve it, and one beside it with two. Get all five serving the same gun. And we need to allocate some of the lightly wounded men to carry the badly hurt down to the surgeon.’

  When Preston returned to the main deck, the Agrius’s rate of fire had noticeably improved. Even in the minutes that he had been away he could see that Clay had made a huge difference. The injection of some proper organisation had given the men hope, and they were fighting again with a will. Clay looked around him with a degree of satisfaction, but he knew in his heart it would not last. They were still out gunned by the French. Preston picked his way over to the first lieutenant, flinching as a French shot ploughed across the deck just behind him and thudded into the ship’s side.

  ‘I am sorry sir, I gave the captain your message, but he wouldn’t listen. He said he has no intention of breaking off the engagement, and you must make the best of what you can.’ Clay looked at Preston in total disbelief. Was Follett mad? They had no chance to defeat the French in this point blank shooting match. Clay’s face set in a look of firm determination.

  ‘Mr Preston, get together the less wounded among the crew and have them take these injured men down to the surgeon. Mr Windham, carry on here without me for now. Keep the guns firing briskly! I am going to consult with the captain.’

  As Clay reached the foot of the companionway ladder, he felt the ship beneath him lurch. He looked up and saw the mizzen mast swing drunkenly to one side. It hung for a brief moment in the air, held by the rigging, before it collapsed over the side with the gathering rush of a felled tree. He crouched down with his arms protecting his head while debris showered down all around him. When he looked up, a knotted mass of rigging blocked his way up on to the quarterdeck. He stumbled across to the other side of the ship and climbed up the companionway ladder on that side and out on to the deck.

  What was left of the quarterdeck carronade crews and marines hacked away busily at the rigging, trying to free the ship from the fallen mast. Munro lay stunned on the deck, holding a hand over a bleeding cut on his forehead. Knight and his party of men from the forecastle came bounding up with axes and attacked the remaining stays that held the wreckage alongside. On the other side of the deck Clay could see Sutton, staring down over the side, his drawn sword in one hand and a cut rope in the other.

  ‘John, praise God you’re still alive,’ Clay said, seizing his friend by the arms. He then looked about him, searching for Follett. ‘Where is the captain?’ he asked. Sutton took a moment to answer. He sheathed his sword and turned towards Clay, his face pale.

  ‘He is dead, Alex. He... he fell over the side when the mast came down. I rushed to try and help him, but I was too late. He had already sunk out of sight below the surface.’ He looked at Clay and spoke in a gush of relief. ‘But you’re in charge now sir, thank God. You will save us.’

  Clay frowned as he studied his friend. There was an odd tone in his voice, an edge of panic that now seem
ed to be under control, but also a hint of something else.

  ‘What really happened here, John? Will you tell me?’

  ‘It was just as I said,’ replied Sutton. ‘The captain is gone; what do we do now?’

  Clay held his friend’s gaze, but saw little emotion now, as if he looked into the windows of a house as the blinds were hastily drawn. Something was wrong, the scene he had first witnessed when his head came level with the quarterdeck didn’t ring true. But that would have to wait. He had other priorities, not least a battle to turn around. He needed to concentrate on the here and now. He turned away from the smashed remains of the rail as the last debris of the mast slid over the side, aware that Sutton, Knight and the now upright Munro all looked to him for orders.

  The fall of the mizzen mast had acted like a huge sea anchor on the frigate, stopping her forward progress and slewing the Agrius around so that her disengaged port side now faced towards the enemy. It had produced the very break in the engagement that Clay had come back to the quarterdeck determined to urge on his Captain, leaving him for a moment unsure what to do next. The Courageuse had drifted on, unaware for a moment in the fog of gun smoke that her opponent was no longer alongside her. He could see the enemy now, the image vague in the smoke. She was ahead of them, still firing steady broadsides. In a lazy swirl in the smoke he saw her name in ornate gold letters painted across the counter of her stern.

  Her stern! Her unprotected stern, now wide open and vulnerable to be raked. There it lay, aligned with the Agrius’ portside battery, none of the guns of which had yet fired, and so all of which must still be loaded. By luck they were in exactly the situation the captain of the Courageuse had attempted to engineer at the start of action, but it was a moment that could not last. The French would soon become aware of what had happened and turn back to finish off their crippled opponent.