The Captain's Nephew

by Philip K Allan

  ‘Mr Sutton, you are to take command on the main deck,’ he ordered. ‘Send Mr Windham up to replace you here. Take every man jack you can find and man the larboard side guns. As soon as practical, fire a broadside into the stern of the French ship. Then keep hammering away till I tell you to stop. Make haste, man!’

  Sutton grasped the situation and fled down to the main deck. Moments later he could be heard shouting instructions to the gun crews. Meanwhile, Clay had turned to Munro.

  ‘Mr Munro, are you well enough to organise the quarterdeck carronades? Get the larboard side ones crewed and ready to fire as soon as may be.’

  ‘Not my usual specialism, sir, but happy to oblige,’ replied the marine officer, his head a mass of dried blood, now staunched with his neck cloth tied tight around his wound.

  ‘Now, Mr Knight,’ said Clay. ‘Directly we open fire, the French will try to either tack or wear ship to bring us back under their guns. When they do that I will need to be able to follow the Courageuse around in her turn to keep her stern on to us. What sail can she carry to let me do that?’ The boatswain sucked in his cheeks and shook his head.

  ‘That mizzen did a cruel amount of damage to the main mast when it fell. The main topmast is not to be relied on, nor the topgallant mast till I can replace some of the back stays. The foremast and bowsprit will serve – they are in a reasonable shape. I would say we should be able to wear ship using them, but we will not be able to tack until I can get a jury mizzen raised.’

  ‘Well, the action will be long over before we have the leisure to be able to do that, Mr Knight. Can you do your best to shore up the main mast for now?’ ordered Clay. At that moment Windham came up from the main deck, but Clay had no time for him. The sound of a whistle cut across the water from the Courageuse, as they sounded the ceasefire. The French had at last realised that something was wrong. The Agrius’s cannon had been silent for some time while Sutton reorganised his crews. A strange quiet descended over the scene of battle, the calm eye at the centre of the hurricane. Clay strode forward to the front of the quarterdeck and shouted down to the main deck below.

  ‘Mr Sutton! Are you in a position to open fire?’

  ‘Aye aye, sir. Running the guns out now,’ came his reply.

  Across the stretch of water between the two ships the gun smoke was drifting clear. The stern of the Courageuse appeared out of the gloom, the colours of the large tricolour that flapped on the mizzen halyard brilliant in the sunlight.

  ‘Up ports!’ ordered Sutton from the main deck. All along the side of the frigate the gun ports swung upwards. On board the Courageuse Clay could see faces turning towards him, arms pointed in alarm.

  ‘Run up! Gun captains – be sure of your aim!’ came Sutton’s voice again. The squeal of the gun trucks accompanied the rumble of the guns as they were pulled across the deck. Clay indicated to Munro to follow suit with the quarterdeck carronades, the men hauling them forward on their slides. Clay could hear orders being given on board the French ship, men rushing to the sails. Which way would they try and turn? Which way?

  ‘Fire!’ shouted Sutton. The broadside crashed out and a wall of gun smoke billowed up, blotting out the French frigate once more. In the brief moment before the smoke obscured the target, Clay saw the glass stern windows of the Courageuse vanish as the well directed broadside smashed home. The ship heeled over beneath him as it caught the recoil of the guns. Over the busy sound of the Agrius’s gun crews reloading came the faint sound of screams drifting across the water. They had hit her hard. Clay turned to talk to Windham.

  ‘Mr Windham, I need you to take command on the forecastle. The enemy will probably try to tack round soon. We shall need to follow her in that turn to keep her stern on to us, but we can only use sails on the foremast and bowsprit. Look out for my signal when I need you to wear ship.’ Windham gazed up at the damaged rigging as he absorbed the plan. Cut shrouds swung loose above their heads, and the main topmast creaked loudly.

  ‘What will we do if they wear ship, rather than tack?’ he asked.

  ‘Tacking is the most rapid way of turning,’ replied Clay. ‘Under raking fire I expect her to follow that path, but should they wear ship then we will be unable to follow them, in which case I will drift down on to her and attempt to take her by boarding.’

  ‘I understand, sir,’ replied Windham. ‘Can I ask where the captain is? Has my uncle been wounded?’

  ‘I am sorry, Nicholas, I thought you knew. He was swept overboard when the mast fell,’ said Clay, a little awkwardly. He felt uncomfortable himself at the reminder of what had happened. ‘I was not on deck when it occurred, but he has not been seen since.’

  The first of the quarterdeck carronades to be reloaded roared out again next to them, making both men start. From the main deck came the rumble of gun trucks as Sutton organised the next broadside. Clay led Windham towards the companionway.

  ‘We will make a search for the captain when the battle is over, but for now it is imperative that you organise the men on the forecastle to prepare to wear ship.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ replied Windham. The young man’s face was expressionless as he turned to hurry forward.

  The smoke of the last broadside cleared a little, revealing the wrecked stern of the Courageuse. Gone were the glass windows and elaborate gilding, replaced with what looked like a smoking cave framed with splintered wood. But the tricolour still flew above it, and Clay saw French soldiers line the damaged stern rail and fire their muskets back at them. He stared across at the French ship, trying to guess which way it would turn. He focused hard on the rudder, willing it to move.

  ‘Fire!’ Sutton’s voice ordered from the main deck.

  In the moment before a fresh blanket of brown gun smoke billowed up from beneath him, Clay thought he saw the French rudder start to move to the right. That would mean that she was going to tack round, the one manoeuvre he could counter with his damaged rigging. But had he seen the rudder go over, or had he seen what he wanted to see? If the French ship was to wear around instead of tack, turn her stern through the wind rather than her bow, and he was to wear ship, it would be the Courageuse who would then be in a position to rake them. Clay stopped for a moment and closed his eyes. He was surrounded with the bustle of action, the quarterdeck carronades banged away beside him, powder monkeys rushed past him with fresh charges, Munro’s remaining marines still fired away into the smoke. In that moment of stolen calm, he made up his mind.

  ‘Quartermaster, hard over,’ he ordered. ‘Mr Windham, wear ship!’ He saw that his bellow had been heard. Windham waved his hand in acknowledgement from the forecastle. Clay turned to Croft who still stood at his post by the ship’s wheel.

  ‘My compliments to Mr Sutton, and ask him to secure the larboard side guns. I am wearing ship, so the enemy will next appear on the starboard side. Ask him to man those guns and have them run out ready to fire as soon as may be convenient.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’ Croft disappeared below and Clay turned to Munro.

  ‘One last shot from any guns that are loaded, and then have your men man the starboard side carronades if you please, Mr Munro.’

  Once again the sound of gunfire stopped. The Agrius drifted around in the faint breeze. For a brief moment her bows pointed towards the patch of smoke that concealed the battered stern of the Courageuse, then the Agrius swung farther round and settled on her new course, advancing into the bank of gun smoke. In the thick murk there was almost no sensation that the ship moved through the water at all.

  ‘Steady,’ said Clay to the quartermaster. ‘Wheel amidships.’ The two ships were close together now. From somewhere nearby Clay could hear French orders being shouted, and the creak of French yards being braced around, but from which direction it was impossible to tell. If he had judged it right, they would shortly emerge from the smoke with the Courageuse once more at their mercy. If not, the first he would know about it would be a storm of shot from behind him, a final knockout blow sweeping down th
e length of his ship. Clay felt a prickle of anticipation in the small of his back, but he resisted the overwhelming urge to look behind him, and instead concentrated on where he thought the enemy would appear. Croft ran back on to the deck.

  ‘Mr Sutton’s compliments and the remaining starboard guns are manned and run out, ready to fire,’ he reported. ‘He asked me to tell you that three of the guns are not serviceable at present.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Croft,’ replied Clay, watching the thinning smoke. Was that something more solid he could see in the gloom? A swirl of wind swept across the sea, brushing the smoke downwind, and revealed the destroyed stern of the Courageuse, still facing towards them.

  ‘Yes, by God!’ yelled Munro in glee.

  ‘Mr Windham, back the foretopsail. Hold her there if you please,’ yelled Clay. He walked forward to the quarterdeck rail and looked down at the upturned faces of the expectant gun crews looking back at him from among the wreckage of the battered frigate. Among them Clay could make out the tall figure of Evans, a rammer in his hands.

  ‘Open fire!’ ordered Clay.

  Once more the Agrius heeled back, sending a fresh broadside crashing into the helpless French ship. When the smoke cleared, Clay could see that the Courageuse’s foremast had been brought down, halting her turn and leaving her stern presented to her tormentor. While the guns were run out again, Clay looked across at the French frigate. He could see a group of men on her devastated quarterdeck clustered around the mizzen halyard. Clay put his whistle to his lips and blew a sharp blast to order the ceasefire, knowing what would happen next. As the tricolour made its jerky way down, a storm of cheers broke out throughout the ship. Munro thumped him on the back in delight, while Sutton came bounding up the companionway ladder like an ape to engulf him in a huge hug.

  Over Sutton’s shoulder, Clay could see the scenes of jubilation around him replicated elsewhere on the ship. The exhausted but grinning gun crews, their torsos grimed with powder smoke, reached across to slap hands or bump knuckles with fellow survivors. Up on the forecastle the normally solid figure of Knight appeared to be dancing a jig, while his men threw their hats into the air and thumped each other’s backs. He disentangled himself from his friend’s embrace and stepped back from the others.

  ‘Gentlemen, we have won a victory, but now we must secure it,’ he said. ‘Mr Sutton, find which ship’s boats have survived and take command of the prize. Send me back a report on her state. Mr Munro, kindly gather together your surviving marines and go across with Mr Sutton to take the prisoners in hand. We have two badly damaged ships to somehow nurse across to Barbados. Mr Croft!’ Clay looked around him for the midshipman of the watch. ‘Where is Mr Croft?’

  ‘Below with the surgeon, sir,’ said Preston. ‘He has a splinter wound in need of attention.’

  ‘Well you shall do, Mr Preston. I need a report from the carpenter on the damage to the hull and from the surgeon on the state of the crew. Off you go.’

  ‘Come now, Mr Windham, sir,’ said Knight, standing beside the lieutenant at the forecastle rail. ‘Will you not join with the hands in their bit of merriment? We have lost many dear shipmates this day, to be sure, but we yet live. And what a victory we have won! When the mast came down I thought our goose was cooked, but credit to young Mr Clay. He snatched the bird from out of the oven and no mistake.’

  ‘And what of my uncle, your captain?’ asked Windham, his face still grim. ‘Was the victory worth his loss?’

  ‘No, that is a cruel blow, I make no doubt,’ said the older man, patting his sleeve. ‘It is a great shame that Mr Sutton couldn’t pull him back on board.’

  ‘What did you say? Sutton tried to pull him back?’

  ‘He was at the spot where the captain fell, peering over the side like,’ said Knight. ‘What else would he have been about?’

  ‘I wonder,’ mused the lieutenant.

  *****

  Clay stood at the quarterdeck rail and looked over the battered little frigate, a feeling of utter relief in his heart that all his battles were over. He glanced towards the forecastle and realised that Windham, too, was leaning on a rail, and looking back at him. He raised a hand, but received no reply. Clay tried to read what the captain’s nephew was thinking, but the young man’s dark eyes were as expressionless as those of a fish.

  The End

  Author’s Note

  Historical fiction is by its very nature a blend of truth and the made up, and The Captain’s Nephew is no exception. For those who would like to understand where that boundary is, the Agrius and her crew are entirely fictional, although the descriptions of the ship and the lives of the sailors are as accurate as I can make them for a typical frigate of the period. Any errors are of course my own. The assault on Ostend did take place, but several years later than in my work and without the attack on the bridge that my characters carry out. Similarly the capture of the Vrai Patriote is of my own creation, although I did take the name of the ship from another privateer captured off the coast of Norway. The use of warships to ferry reinforcements from France to her islands in the Caribbean in the manner I show is quite legitimate, but the chase of the Courageuse is also fiction. Finally the song sung by the crew in chapter three is an authentic ballad from the period.

  About The Author

  Philip K. Allan

  Philip K. Allan comes from Watford in the United Kingdom. He still lives in Hertfordshire with his wife and his two teenage daughters. He has spent most of his working life to date as a senior manager in the motor industry. It was only in the last few years that he has given that up to concentrate on his novels full time.

  He has an excellent knowledge of the 18th century navy, having studied it as part of his history degree at London University, which awoke a lifelong passion for the period. He is a member of the Society for Nautical Research and a keen sailor. He believes the period has unrivalled potential for a writer, stretching from the age of piracy via the voyages of Cook to the battles and campaigns of Nelson.

  From a creative point of view he finds it offers him a wonderful platform for his work. On the one hand there is the strange, claustrophobic wooden world of the period’s ships; and on the other hand there is the boundless freedom to move those ships around the globe wherever the narrative takes them. All these possibilities are fully exploited in the Alexander Clay series of novels.

  His inspiration for the series was to build on the works of novelists like C.S. Forester and in particular Patrick O’Brian. His prose is heavily influenced by O’Brian’s immersive style. He too uses meticulously researched period language and authentic nautical detail to draw the reader into a different world. But the Alexander Clay books also bring something fresh to the genre, with a cast of fully formed lower deck characters with their own back histories and plot lines in addition to the officers. Think Downton Abbey on a ship, with the lower deck as the below stairs servants.

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