His Majesty's Ship (42 page)

      
Timothy came up from the lower gundeck and raised a blackened hand to shield his eyes from the soft evening light. He looked about him, and at the departing ships, clearly as bewildered as they had been. King stumbled over; both wore uniforms that were stained and torn; a testimony to their part in the battle, although neither noticed nor cared.

      
“What goes, Thomas?” Timothy asked, placing his hand on King's shoulder.

      
“We got supplements, that's what!” Gregory beamed as he joined them, clapping both heartily on the back and all but knocking each into the other. “We been rescued at the eighth bell!” His massive arms enveloped them both in an embrace as reassuring as any father's.

      
The buzz slowly circulated about the deck, and down into the very bowels of the ship. Some began to cheer, some to sob and some to almost scream with relief. And as the cries grew stronger three frigates came into plain view, followed by the reassuring bulk of two British line-of-battle ships.

      
Matthew and Jake watched the frigates as they passed. With not a mark of action and all plain sail set they looked powerful and dashing as they beat through the dark crested seas, a direct contrast to
Vigilant
, whose lack of masts and spars gave her an ungainly and lopsided appearance. But these were the badges of valour and as the two lads waved they did so without envy; already to have been in
Vigilant
that day was honour enough.
 

*****

      
The British ships caught the French on the horizon, just as dusk was turning to night. Dyson, who had set the crew to work cobbling the ship stood them down to watch and cheer afresh. It was the least he could do; he felt he owed them that. That and so much more.

      
The seventy-four struck as soon as it was clear the British would overpower them. The flagship fired one broadside before doing the same. By night the British had returned with their trophies, leaving a frigate to stand watch on
Vigilant
until dawn. It was then that she was taken under tow, to join the might of a homeward bound convoy that would see them safely to England.
 

*****

      
The next morning Dyson stood on the quarterdeck once more. He had changed his shirt and hose, and wore his best uniform coat over his number one pair of britches. During the night they had all worked like demons to secure the ship; clearing away debris and fixing what damage they could. A draft from the frigate had given them fresh blood, but even these men now looked exhausted as they were stood down to breakfast. A team of topmen had rigged an improvised spanker to give them a degree of stability; apart from that there was no need for intricate repairs aloft, as they would undoubtedly be towed all the way back to harbour. Dyson supposed he was pleased with the efforts they had made, although his mind was numb with fatigue. The regular mournful clatter of a chain pump told how the hull was leaking badly and they still had many miles to travel before they could really call the battle over.

      
From the state of the ship, his mind naturally ran on to the condition of his people. Wilson, the surgeon, had made his report just before daybreak. Twenty-seven men had died in the cockpit, and another ten were expected to go that day. This probably accounted for less than a third of the fatalities; the others would have been thrown over the side in the heat of action. Another ninety-eight were wounded, so
Vigilant
was left with over a third of her men as casualties. It was a colossal toll, and one that filled Dyson with doubts that were more than tinged with guilt.

      
Tait was one. Dyson had spoken to him less than an hour before, when he had carried out his inspection. The ball in his arm had gone deep, and done a deal of damage to the bone. Still, Bryant had retrieved the spent shot efficiently enough, before closing the wound and setting the arm against a splint. If the wound stayed healthy there was a good chance that Tait would get through with nothing worse than a scar and a memory. The fact that Bryant had performed the operation did not greatly surprise Dyson. Battle did much to bring out extremes in men; with Bryant it had revealed a natural talent for surgery. In fact as far as his record in ministry was concerned, Dyson felt their chaplain had found his true vocation.

      
In Rogers something far more sinister had been uncovered. Currently he was below, seeking shelter and comfort in the remnants of the wardroom and a bottle of port wine. Dyson would have to make a full report, and he suspected it would contain more than a passing reference to the second lieutenant. The man was finished, as far as the service was concerned; he should be set ashore and left to follow another course. If he was lucky they would not waste a court martial on him; if he was not he might even be shot. Dyson found he cared little either way; he would be quite content just to be rid of the man; there was little room in his world for revenge.

      
Gregory joined him. He was dressed in a watch coat that gave a welcome shelter from the stiff morning breeze, as well as hiding the remains of his uniform that he had not seen fit to change.

      
“Flagship's
Aurora
: ninety-eight, sir.” He rubbed his red raw hands together as he continued. “Captain Michael Morris in command, carrying Vice Admiral Nichols. They've nigh on a hundred ships, most back from the India station.”

      
Nichols: Dyson had met him once when he’d captained a seventy-four stationed in the Americas. He remembered him as a solid, dependable man, which would explain his action the previous afternoon. The word had come from a master's mate sent across from the frigate. It seemed that
Taymar
and
Badger
had run into the British fleet early in the afternoon. To denude a convoy of a fair proportion of her escorts on nothing more than a vague estimation of their position marked the commander as both bold and spirited. Especially when the nearest land was France, and for all a homebound convoy would know, the entire Brest fleet was at sea and hunting for them.

      
King appeared and touched his hat to the first lieutenant. He had also spent the night awake and working, and his face revealed his exhaustion.

      
“Carpenter’s almost done on number two pump, sir. Says once it's in use we should be able to gain on the level in the well.”

      
“Very good.” Dyson gave the lad a brief smile. “Have you eaten?”

      
“I took some biscuit and a bite of cheese earlier. The cook wants to get the galley open in time for dinner. I said he could, providing he don't take men from their duties. I also told him to cancel the banyan day; reckon they'll need some beef inside them.”

      
It was Friday; a day when the British Navy did not normally serve meat. That was good thinking on King's part. The hands would work better with stomachs full, and it was a sign of initiative and confidence that King had gone ahead without referring to him.

      
“I wonder what they'll make of this in England!” Gregory mused. What indeed; Dyson had known of similar engagements, and was conscious that public opinion was not always predictable. Some may find fault in his actions; the butcher's bill may offend others and it only needed a bad press to taint his future career for ever. Fortunately King interrupted his thoughts before they became morbid.

      
“You'll be goin' aboard the flagship to report, sir?” It was not a question he would normally have asked although they had been through so much together that now it seemed perfectly natural.

      
“Yes, if I am asked.”

      
All three smiled: it seemed likely.

      
Then they were closing with the convoy. A fleet of merchants sailed in tight formation in a central block, with lines of frigates and line-of-battle ships to either side. The flagship was in the van, with a frigate on her windward side. Slightly ahead of them were the two French frigates, now under jury rigs. Ahead were the French flagship and seventy-four, sailing with the British ensign flying proudly over the flag of France.

      
“Familiar lookin' craft,” Gregory commented. “Sure I've seen a cut like theirs afore!” The three men laughed easily, although in Dyson's case it was partly out of relief. The frigates had been at the back of his mind ever since they had disappeared over the horizon. Had they managed to affect repairs and avoid capture they would have played a merry dance with shipping in the North Atlantic. Skilfully handled they could have tied down three or four times their own force in vessels sent out to find them. He made little allowance for his own actions in disabling the ships and making their capture inevitable.

      
“Make the private signal and our number, Mr King” Dyson's voice was formal now; the bonds of discipline had tightened with the joining of the fleet.

      
“Flagship acknowledges,” King replied. “She's signalling to
Puma
to take station two cables to leeward of her.”

      
The towing frigate took them boldly past a stately two-decker, whose people lined the sides to stare at them. Dyson felt stupidly self conscious under the gaze of his peers. It was probably the most public moment of his life, and not one he particularly enjoyed. Then they were safely stationed, almost within hailing distance of
Aurora
.

      
“Our number, sir,” King said as another signal broke from the flagship. “Flag to
Vigilant
.” he consulted his signal book hurriedly, and looked up before he spoke. “Just one word, sir: Welcome.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

      
On the lower gundeck some semblance of order was becoming apparent. Those guns which had lost carriages were now cleaned and resting on the deck in their rightful place, awaiting the time when the carpenter and his crew could remount them. Neat lead patches marked the small round entry holes where shots had come in, and larger pieces of wood covered the ragged square exit wounds. The decks were all but free of debris, and there were several parties working with dry holystones, smoothing down areas where deck strakes had been ripped up.

      
Matthew was set to work with a kid and swab, clearing the scuppers. Normally washing out the accumulated muck of battle would have turned his stomach, although now he found the exercise positively therapeutic. The mixture of vinegar and water ran out through the dales, leaving clean painted wood behind and as he worked the sharp smell of hygiene began to overpower that of spent powder, sweat and things far worse. He met up with Jake as they queued to refill their buckets at the pump dale.

      
“They say we'll be home in no time.” Jake told him with an air of disbelief. “Convoy's Pompey bound, so it's back to where we started.”

      
Matthew leaned forward to fill his kid. Portsmouth might have been where they had come from, although he felt he had made a considerable personal journey in the meantime.

      
“Found this,” he said, straightening up and thrusting a gully at Jake. The boy took the long, thin bladed knife and examined it with ill concealed awe.

      
“French, you reckon?”

      
Matthew nodded. “'Less one of our lot dropped it.”

      
It was Jake's turn to dip into his pocket. He brought out a small metal tobacco box with a horse's head embossed on the lid. Matthew inspected it thoughtfully.

      
“Where did you find it?” he asked.

      
“In the fore scuppers, why?”

      
Matthew was not sure. He thought he had seen one like it but could not say where. “Anything inside?” he asked.

      
Jake shook his head. “Just a bit of paper with some writing on, an’ a funny sort of brooch. No baccy. You know who it belonged to?”

      
Matthew shook his head. The box was familiar, but he could not put a name to the owner. He comforted himself that whoever it was would probably be long past caring about tobacco tins now.
 

*****

      
Captain Morris met Dyson at the entry port with due ceremony. He was a broad, fair haired man of middle age, and showed some surprise when a lieutenant appeared from the gig, rather than the fellow senior captain he had been expecting. Dyson caught sight of side boys, assembled to pay compliment, being hurried away as he shook hands with Morris. Clearly the news of Shepherd's death had not reached the convoy. After nearly thirty hours without sleep he realised that he would now have to explain everything to a vice admiral, and probably most of his staff. Dyson found his teeth were tightly clenched as he followed Morris to the admiral's quarters.

      
But Nichols received him alone, apart from Morris, who took a seat to one side of the huge state room. Dyson was directed to an upright but comfortable chair and for the first time in ages was able to rest his back. He was mildly conscious that his hair still held the bonfire smell of battle as he looked up to meet the kindly eyes of the admiral.