An Awkward Commission (11 page)

It was not silent now. The carpenter was busy inspecting
the mainmast, and calling for battens and ropes with which to gammon it, not much in the way of adding strength, but it was best to do something rather than nothing. Sykes was directing those aloft who were attending to damaged rigging, while the quarter gunners and gun captains were fussing round their cannon, slowly reloading each in turn, for most of the crew were still on sailing duties. On the slate in front of him Ralph Barclay could see the two times that Glaister had had marked; one when action had commenced, the other when it had ceased with that ball through the taffrail, only seven minutes in all. It would have been better to destroy
Lutine
, for in that time, in theory, he could have put aboard her seven or more broadsides.

‘We have the Rade in view, capt’n,’ called the lookout, after some ten minutes, ‘though it be misty, but I can see plain that it be full of ships.’

‘Then we have done that for which we came. Mr Glaister get that signal aloft. Mr Collins, prepare to wear ship. I want a course that splits our enemies until we can see which of them can close at the greatest rate.’

HMS
Brilliant
came round sweetly, and with the sails sheeted home and the yards braced right round, they brought her as close to the wind as she would bear, her prow dissecting the sea between the Frenchmen. Ralph Barclay, with the wind in his face, looked from one to the other, trying, in that most tricky calculation of triangulation at sea, to make out who was nearest, for that was the one he must fight first.

It took time to be sure it was
Poulette
, racing to get astride his course, where she would stay, which would force him to come up on her facing broadsides, while he could reply with nothing but his bow chasers.

‘Mr Glaister, confirm that the quarterdeck and forecastle guns are loaded, then bowsed tight against the ports, which
will remain closed until it is essential that they be opened. I want every man who has no need to be on deck down below, and they are to return there once they have completed any task they are called on to perform and await further orders. Mr Collins, I want to come about on to the larboard tack now, but I want to keep changing so as to sow doubt in the mind of our friend yonder.’

That too was carried out smoothly, then repeated on to the starboard tack, forcing the Frenchman ahead to shorten and increase sail, this while Ralph Barclay was examining the number of gunports of the enemy frigate, which thankfully were only two more than his own. At least he had the satisfaction of having chosen the weaker of his two enemies. But what was equally obvious was that which he had hoped for was not going to be gifted to him, the notion that the man he had to face might be a fool and do something imprudent enough to allow him to get clear. The way the enemy sails were changed suggested a degree of efficiency.

‘I think another drop of grog for the men might be in order. See to it.’

With that he went into what had been his cabin, and to the part of his desk which had been left by the stern casements, not lit by lanterns. From that he took the book which gave the private signal by which, on a daily code, one British warship could identify another. Then he stood up and, turning, looked along the maindeck all the way to where the manger had been. Now it was empty; the only living creatures left were men, and they were crouched round their guns.

‘Shenton, a canvas sack and a roundshot to weight it, if you please.’

‘Is it that bad, your honour?’

That snapped the veneer of enforced calm which Ralph Barclay had maintained, though he could not shout, given
most of the crew were within earshot. ‘It is not your place to question me, Shenton, but to do as I bid. Now get on with it!’

Unfazed, Shenton did as he was asked, this being a tone to which he was accustomed. Next Barclay removed the ship’s books, the muster, log and those listing stores loaded, still below, and consumed. Once Shenton was returned he was sent off again to find the purser, with a whispered instruction to be discreet in telling him to gather his papers. That done, he took out the locked metal box that contained the ship’s funds, the money a captain needed to purchase necessities where no agent of the Crown existed to grant him credit. These golden guineas and silver crowns, in several small leather pouches, he spread about his person, before going forward and below to talk to his wife.

The fellow who had gashed his head was sitting on Lutyens table, swathed in a great but untidy bandage, and Ralph Barclay was reminded that in the article of sewing and swaddling Lutyens was all thumbs. It was young Martin Dent who had the musket ball wound. The lad had his arm in a sling, and was grinning inanely, clearly having been in receipt of some potent spirit to facilitate the removal of the ball.

‘Which shrouds did you climb, Dent?

‘Sir?’

‘You went up the weather shrouds did you not, your back close to the enemy sharpshooters, in spite of direct orders not to do so?’ The sheepish hanging of the head was confirmation enough. ‘Damn you, boy, if you were not wounded I would flog you.’

‘With respect, Captain Barclay,’ said Lutyens, ‘It was probably habit.’

‘Please keep your mind on your own concerns Mr Lutyens, and leave me to mine.’ The tone of her husband’s
voice made Emily frown, but she got no chance to say anything because her husband took her arm and led her far enough away to talk without being overheard.

‘I do not wish to unduly alarm you, my dear, but I fear we, that is the ship, is in a perilous situation.’ Ralph Barclay experienced a moment of pride then; there was no reaction to his words, no gasps or fainting fits, not even a stiffening of his wife’s body. He slipped her one of the pouches containing money. ‘We may escape, yet if we do there will be a bill to pay that will end up on the surgeon’s table. But if we do not, be assured that the enemy officers, once you have identified yourself as my wife, will show you every kindness should we be taken.’

He would like to have been certain of that, but who knew what kind of ruffian might come aboard in a Navy run by the sailors of the Revolution.

‘Take this pouch and secret it about your person. It will provide you with the means to purchase some comfort if the worst happens.’

‘And you, husband?

‘I must be on deck, my dear, and I must, like every man aboard, hope that providence will spare me.’ Seeing that she was finally showing alarm, he added quickly. ‘Also, there is a very good chance we will get clear, and if I can do so without too much in the way of damage I might be able to outrun our foes. But I must first fight at least one of them to have a chance and in battle nothing is certain.’

‘And if they succeed?’

The words that came out then were more bitter than the bile which had earlier half-filled his throat. ‘If the case is hopeless, I must strike our colours to prevent the useless loss of life.’

With that he raised her hand and kissed it, before making his way back on deck. In doing so, he passed the huge bulk
of Devenow, his face blackened from powder smoke. Just beyond him, he had a sudden thought, and turned to face him.

‘I have a special task for you, Devenow. My wife is in the cockpit aiding the surgeon.’

‘Then God bless her, your honour,’ Devenow replied, knuckling his narrow forehead.

‘We are about to take on odds of two to one and it is very likely that the enemy might try to board. If they do, and you can carry out this task, I want you to make your way to the cockpit and ensure that she is in no way molested. Will you do that?’

If the deckbeams had allowed it, Devenow would have raised himself an inch above his real height. ‘I will, sir, even if I’d rather be at your shoulder.’

‘You will be rendering me a better service in this, Devenow.’

What Ralph Barclay had feared was coming to pass.
Poulette
would do everything to stay across his bows to keep him engaged while the
Lutine
, with him fully engaged, closed for the kill. He had one hope; that having withstood the broadsides on his approach to the enemy blocking his escape, he could put up his helm and deliver such a devastating rate of fire that he could blast him out of his way. That possibility depended on what damage he suffered before he could get into a range to make a his superior gunnery really tell.

‘Enemy shortening sail, your honour.’

He would have to do the same soon, and it was not just a fear of fire that prompted the need to go down to topsails. His forecourse, maincourse and the inner and outer jibs would present a juicy target to his enemy, and if they were riddled with holes, which they surely would be if he left them set too long, they would be next to useless in a stern chase and he would be gifted no time to bend on replacements.

‘We will let him try the range before we do likewise.’

It was as if the
Poulette
’s commander heard him, for the side of his ship erupted, billowing smoke, and from that, arcing high in the sky, everyone of
Brilliant
’s deck could watch the black balls as they sped towards their ship. It was a shot at long range, but the man knew he had the wind to aid him, knew that even if Ralph Barclay wanted to reply with his bow chasers, that same wind would reduce the
range of his cannon. The sea in front of the prow boiled as one by one the balls dropped, great spouts of water coming up to be swept over the forecastle, soaking the gun crews crouched below the bulwarks.

Glaister marked the slate and over a minute passed before the next salvo, which told the captain of the
Brilliant
nothing about the enemy rate of fire; with time to spare, and the range to close, his opposite number had no need to rush in reloading. Again the side of the French ship erupted, but this time all the shot did not fall into the sea. Elevation had been adjusted, the range had closed, and several balls hit the bows, which sent a shudder through the ship, to go with the noise of cracking wood as some of the flimsier parts of the timbers were rent asunder. There was a clang as the last to arrive struck the cathead and ricocheted into the anchor.

‘Everyone off the deck with no need to be present.’

That order was slow to be obeyed, no one wanting to be seen as cowardly enough to rush, until Ralph Barclay repeated it as a snarl, leaving himself, his premier, the master, Mr Collins, the quartermaster and the two men on the wheel looking straight at what could well be perdition.

‘Mr Collins, time the enemy shot, Mr Glaister, try the larboard bow chaser.’

That order was given, and the gun spoke, but the ball fell a good hundred yards short, which by Ralph Barclay’s calculations meant they would have to face at least three more salvoes before they could even hope to reply, and that with little, if any effect. They came, aimed not at the bows now, but high at the rigging, trying to knock out his topsails and render the ship useless. Turning, Ralph Barclay looked at
Lutine
coming up, not quite hand over fist, for the wind did not truly favour her, but fast enough to show that escape would be nothing short of a miracle. Yet he had to believe that a miracle was possible. The enemy before him was
succouring that hope by firing high at a hard-to-hit target, the masts, no more than six feet across at the widest point, where they went through the deck. The Frenchman was damaging the sails, but what Ralph Barclay had feared most was that the deck would be the target, which would have been likely to dismount his cannon, taking away what little hope he had of demolishing the Frenchman’s own batteries.

Salvo after salvo whistled through the upper works, round and chain shot, holing the sails, parting ropes and sending blocks falling into the overhead nettings rigged to catch them, with Ralph Barclay well aware that he would have to order the topmen aloft soon, sending them into what could be maelstrom of shot if
Poulette
chose to fire a salvo of grape. He had no choice; he must get his courses up before they suffered any more, and following on that, he would need the rest of the crew on deck to man the falls and bring the ship round broadside on. The other problem was simple; having done that he would have little way on the ship, and that would allow
Lutine
to close much more quickly.

‘Mr Collins, get the topmen ready at the head of the companionway. They are to go aloft as soon as the next salvo passes over, and tell them to be sharp, man. I do not want them up there for a second longer than is required.’

‘How do we fare, sir?’ asked Glaister

He was looking at the deck of
Lutine
, now close enough to see the figures by the wheel. Once she got within range she would swing round and
Brilliant
would be at the mercy of two broadsides and only able to reply to one.

The man was looking for reassurance, hoping that his commander had some notion of how to get out of this, but Ralph Barclay had no intention of lying to him. He had erred in his appreciation and actions, leaving the outcome in little doubt, for the French had outwitted him by setting
Poulette
well to the west, probably anchored behind the
islands of Embiez in the next deep bay between Toulon and Marseilles, instead of just shielding the naval base. There would be no need for signals or lookouts; the booming sound of his cannon, as he trifled with
Lutine
, would do to alert her consort.

‘I fear we are in the steep tub, sir. I think, Mr Glaister, you may have cause to regret not learning more French.’

‘We will fight, sir?’

‘Most certainly. The Royal Navy does not haul down its colours without the enemy knowing they have been in a contest. Now please go to the main battery and inform Mr Bourne of what is happening, and what we need, which is the very best efforts of his gun crews.’

‘Another discharge due, sir,’ said Collins, his voice low and hoarse.

The anticipated salvo screamed over their heads, one taking the top foremast yard full on and splitting it like a match ten feet from the end of the sail, only the chains holding it in place. That was followed by the yelling topmen, no doubt shouting to give themselves courage as they went aloft with the devil at their heels, up the bouncing shrouds, then stretching along the yard to haul up the main and forecourse. It was not done tidy, it did not need to be, it just had to be got out of the way. They took two salvoes while they were about their task, with one man losing his footrope to fall screaming to the deck, two others being blasted sideways to end up over the side.

‘Get that fellow off the deck. All hands to man the falls, then the guns, and get a couple of hatch covers over the side to those men in the water.’

That was a forlorn hope, few sailors could swim, while the chance of landing something to keep them afloat, close enough to save them, was slim, and that was without knowing if they were wounded. Yet it was better to do what
he had asked just to reassure those still on deck.

‘Quartermaster,’ Ralph Barclay shouted, over the sound of yet another salvo, and as soon as the yards were freed. Slowly HMS
Brilliant
swung round, and while that was happening the already loaded guns were being loosed off, the gunports opened and the muzzles run out. ‘Steady lads, I want a broadside and damn the timbers. You are all to fire as one on my command.’

It was an agony, waiting for HMS
Brilliant
to come round, the bowsprit swinging so slowly that Ralph Barclay feared it would never get there. He had his arm raised, this while every gun captain waited, standing well back from his piece with a long lanyard to the flintlock. He waited until the deck was level on the swell, but dropping, for what he was about to do would lift the whole ship slightly. His arm dropped and the side of the ship erupted, sending a shock wave through the timbers that the captain suspected would mightily strain the frame. It was worth the risk for the result was gratifying, as half the side of the
Poulette
, towards the stern, disintegrated. Over the water came the sound of clanging metal, that of guns dismounted and the screams that followed as the dislodged splinters did their work. Not that the men who had caused this mayhem paid any attention, they were too busy reloading, and in just over half a minute the first of Barclay’s cannon began to fire once more into the smoke of their own guns, a black cloud which was billowing over them.

That was the point at which
Lutine
joined the contest, not yet with her full armament, but enough of her forward cannon to do damage, and this time they were aimed at deck level. Now it was the turn of HMS
Brilliant
to suffer from smashed bulwarks, that while the higher shot screamed across the deck at body height, cutting a pair of hands in half as it blasted apart the fire engine.
Poulette
was still firing, but
not with the same venom, and once the smoke had cleared Ralph Barclay could see that the enemy quarterdeck was empty, with the wheel smashed, and not only the bulwark on their beam gone, but that on the other side as well.

‘They cannot manoeuvre,’ he shouted, pointing to the absence of a wheel. ‘Mr Collins get some damned way on this ship.’ Then to his premier. ‘We must get broadside on to
Lutine
as well, otherwise she will destroy us.’

The proof of that statement came with the next salvo from that quarter, which did to
Brilliant
something similar to that which she had done to the
Poulette
, though it was the forecastle which was swept and not the quarterdeck. Two cannon forward were dismounted, their crews pulped either by the shot or their own weapon, one of which had been blasted on to its side, while the other was hanging on to its lashing by a single rope.

‘Secure those cannon, get those wounded men below. Gunners below, reload and fire as you bear.’

Now it was
Lutine
on the receiving end once more, but that left
Brilliant
bows on again to what was left of
Poulette
’s main battery. There was no coordination, but the two French vessels were firing at intervals that meant the British deck was repeatedly swept, half the time by grapeshot. The trio of ships were now so close that musket fire was pouring in, not aimed, for that was impossible on a swell, but just as deadly if the man firing got lucky.

It was one of those that did for Ralph Barclay, a small ball of lead that seared across his brow, hitting enough bone to stun him. He dropped to his knees as Glaister rushed to him, the voice asking about his state like an echo in a distant chamber, as were the words to get the captain below. Two sailors, one of them Devenow, carried him to a now full cockpit, where Lutyens and his wife were working flat out to stem the flow of blood from wounds, or to stifle the
cries of badly wounded men with doses of laudanum and rum. Already the tub by the surgeon’s table had in it cut-off limbs.

Devenow called that the captain needed attention, and he ignored the head-shake from Lutyens, busy sawing off a man’s leg. The bully sat Ralph Barclay on the edge of the operating table and insisted that he be attended to, all of this heard by the patient, but in a way that made him feel as if he was not present. There was blood in his eyes and on his tongue, and even his own voice sounded ethereal as he said, ‘I must return to the deck.’

Lutyens’ loblolly boy forced back his captain’s head and poured neat rum down his throat, which made him gag. He was unaware of his own wife as she threw a thin strip of bandage round his head and pulled it tight, in an attempt to stem the bleeding, this while her partially recovered spouse was trying to get to his feet.

‘Stay still husband, stay still!’

That voice penetrated, and he stood swaying while the bandage was applied and secured. His head felt like a ton weight, but he knew he must get back on deck, for a decision had to be made, one which fell to him as long as he could think straight, whether to strike his colours or keep fighting.

‘Devenow, get me up there, even if you have to carry me.’

A strong arm was under his, and that aided him in walking, or rather staggering towards the companionway. Devenow had to practically lift him to get him up the two sets of stairways to the quarterdeck, but he did manage, and they emerged to a maelstrom of noise, death and destruction. Even through hard-to-focus eyes, Ralph Barclay could see his ship was in desperate straits, with half his guns dismounted or slewed away from the ports, bodies everywhere, the
ghostly ships closing to board through the dense smoke.

The thought then was not of his ship but of his wife; if a fight started on this deck who knew where it would end, who knew what kind of undisciplined fellow would get to the cockpit first? Ralph Barclay staggered across the deck to where Glaister stood, hatless, his face blackened, and one arm hanging loose with blood dripping from his fingers, his sword in the other. The way his premier looked at him showed some appreciation of the horror he had witnessed; there was no thirst for glory in those pale eyes now, just as there was no one on what remained of the wheel. Aloft the rigging was in tatters, his topsails ragged while the mainmast above the cap was leaning, only kept in place by the backstays. The situation was hopeless, even if those gunners that could reload and fire where still doing so, the means of escape in both men and canvas was diminishing by the second.

‘Strike the colours, Mr Glaister. Collins, the sack with the private signal book over the side, if you please.’

Glaister stared at him without moving, until Ralph Barclay took the sword from his hand, passed it to Devenow, and ordered him on to the poop to cut the colours down from the mizzen mast. Collins was on the side furthest from the Frenchman, dropping the weighted canvas sack into the sea.

‘Cease firing,’ Ralph Barclay yelled, an act which sent a searing pain through his head.

It was a feeble imitation of the sound he was normally wont to make, so feeble that it had an effect only on those closest to him. It was more the cheering from the enemy decks which told his crew that the fight was over and lost, that and the way their fire slackened. Then, apart from that cheering, there was relative silence; no more deadly balls or grapeshot, no more musket fire, and as the smoke was
blown clear Ralph Barclay could see that he had acted just in time, for the deck of the
Lutine
, not more than ten feet from his own, was crowded with armed men just waiting for the ships to collide so they could board.