A Man of No Country Page 24

  When the young midshipman appeared, Clay handed him a telescope. He had to give his instructions rather louder than normal so they could be heard over the roar of the marine drummer as be pounded his instrument just below their feet on the main deck.

  ‘Up you go, Mr Butler,’ he said. ‘I want a full description of what you can see in that bay.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ replied Butler. He rushed over to the main mast shrouds and bounded up the rigging, past a file of slow moving marine sharpshooters as they headed for the main top. When he was settled on the royal yard he opened his telescope and focused on the bay ahead, his body a dark silhouette against the orange sky.

  ‘Enemy are anchored in a line, sir,’ he reported in a steady bellow. ‘Bow to stern, starting near to the castle and shaping across the bay away from us. I count thirteen ships of the line, with a big first rate in the centre.’

  ‘Thirteen is it?’ muttered Armstrong. ‘Let us hope that proves unlucky for them.’

  ‘Four frigates, too,’ yelled Butler. ‘They are moored closer to the shore.’

  ‘Is seventeen a number of similar ill omen, Jacob?’ asked Lieutenant Preston from his other side.

  ‘Perhaps not, but four frigates, mind,’ said the American. ‘It is good to hear there are some opponents for us to cross swords with.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Butler,’ yelled Clay. ‘You may come down now.’ He turned to find his first lieutenant in full dress uniform, sword by his side, and the quarterdeck crowded with people. All the carronades that ran down both sides had been manned, and Macpherson was busy positioning his marines in the gaps between them.

  ‘Ship is cleared for action, sir,’ reported Taylor. ‘I sent Hart down to the wardroom with your full dress uniform and sword, your cabin having been dismantled and stowed away, sir.’

  ‘Very good, Mr Taylor,’ said Clay. ‘Please take command while I shift my clothes.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’ Clay touched his hat to the older man, and then ran down the companion ladder to the deck below. On the main deck he saw that his suite of cabins had indeed vanished. The setting sun now shone through the windows at the rear of the main deck into a wide open space that stretched the whole length of the ship, and was devoted almost exclusively to the guns that ran down each side. Beneath his feet he felt the crunch of the sharp sand that had been scattered over the planking to give the men better grip. At every gun stood its crew, many stripped to the waist. The captains were whirling their linstocks into glowing red fireflies in the gloom. He headed across to the ladder way that led down to the deck below, but had to wait as a torrent of excited ship’s boys came rushing up, each one carrying a heavy powder charge destined for the cannon that they served.

  Down in the gloom of the wardroom, Hart helped him dress. Above his head he heard the bark of orders as the guns were loaded, and then came the deafening rumble as they were run out. He watched as the vibration made his sword scabbard skitter about on the wardroom table.

  ‘Coat now please, Hart,’ he said. He held his arms out behind him to receive the garment. His right arm was loose and flexible, the left stiff and awkward from the Spanish musket ball that had wounded him there two years before.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ said his steward, fumbling with the broadcloth. ‘Yates is so much better at this, only he will be engaged as the powder monkey for number four gun at the moment.’ Between them they managed to shrug the coat on, and Hart knelt down to buckle on the sword.

  ‘You have a loaded pistol in your right pocket, should it be required, sir,’ he reported. ‘I gave the other one to Sedgwick for him to keep for you.’ He stood back from his captain and admired what he saw. Clay’s tall, lean frame suited his uniform well, and the gold braid and polished buttons glittered in the lamplight.

  ‘Good luck, sir,’ he said. He handed Clay his hat and held open the wardroom door.

  ‘Thank you, Hart,’ he replied as he ducked under the low frame. ‘Best of luck to you too.’

  When he got back to the quarterdeck the castle at the start of the bay was much closer, as the ships pressed on in the evening light. Clay glanced back over the stern to where the sun had sunk even lower towards the horizon. There was a crimson flush to the sky now.

  ‘What time is it, Mr Taylor?’ he asked.

  ‘Three bells has just sounded, sir,’ reported the lieutenant. ‘We have an hour and a half before sunset and no moon till midnight. The admiral has sent two signals while you were below decks. The first was for all ships to be prepared to anchor by the stern, so I have arranged with Mr Hutchinson for our best bower to be moved to the stern quarter, and a second signal to engage the van and centre of the French feet.’ Clay nodded at this.

  ‘It is what he has been planning with the other captains all these months,’ he said. ‘He means to overwhelm one part of the enemy fleet with the whole of his, before then moving on to attack the rest of them.’

  ‘Flag signalling again, sir,’ reported Midshipman Russell. ‘Number thirty one. That is form line of battle ahead and astern of the admiral, as convenient.’

  ‘Acknowledge, if you please, Mr Russell,’ said Clay. ‘We are already in our correct position.’

  ‘Will you look at that?’ exclaimed Preston. ‘Every ship is clapping on more sail for the honour of being the one to lead the line. Race day at Bartholomew Fair ain’t in it.’

  ‘My money is on Culloden,’ said Taylor. ‘Look at her go! Studding sails set now. I happen to know from her first lieutenant she had her copper renewed not six months ago.’

  ‘A guinea says Goliath, for sure,’ said Preston. ‘Captain Foley would trample over his grandmother to get to a fight.’

  ‘Sir,’ said Armstrong, after a pause. ‘I cannot help but feel that this precipitous rush to get into action is ill judged by the admiral. Should one of the ships try and cut short her turn around the shoal that extends out from the castle, they will surely run aground.’

  ‘Do you see such a danger?’ asked Clay.

  ‘I believe Culloden will, if she carries on as she is.’ Clay focussed his telescope on the main ships of the fleet. Most were now formed up in a proper battle line, ahead or astern of the Vanguard, but the Culloden and the Goliath were still racing to be first into the bay.

  ‘She is going to strike, sir!’ warned Armstrong. Clay turned towards the signal midshipman.

  ‘Mr Russell! Signal “Titan to Culloden. Urgent. Navigational hazard ahead.” Accompany it with a gun to windward. Quickly now!’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  The signal had no sooner been hoisted aloft when the Culloden jerked to a halt. Her hull slewed around and her foretop mast snapped off at the cap, and draped down in a confusion of flapping sails and broken cables. Clay looked on for a moment and chewed at his lip in frustration. Then he turned to the American.

  ‘Mr Armstrong, I want you to answer me with absolute candour,’ he said. ‘How familiar are you with this bay?’

  ‘I do not know it with perfect certainty, but I know it well enough. In time of peace it serves as an overflow for ships waiting to enter Alexandria.’

  ‘Could you lead the fleet in through all these shoals?’ asked his captain. ‘Be honest now, I will not think any poorer of you if you tell me it is beyond your knowledge.’

  ‘I understand, sir. I could do what you want. At least while this light lasts.’ Clay looked at the sun and then assessed how far the fleet had to go. He pulled out his fob watch and calculated with care.

  ‘There will be light enough gentlemen, just,’ he said. ‘Mr Russell, another signal if you please. “Titan to Flag. Ship’s master knows bay well. Submit Titan leads fleet into battle.’ An excited murmur swept across the packed quarterdeck as the signal was hauled aloft.

  ‘Silence there!’ bellowed Taylor. ‘What is all this chatter? You’re worse than a party of Spanish fish wives!’ In silence the crew of the frigate waited for Nelson to respond. After a few minutes a series of flags raced up the Vanguard’s mizzen halya
rd and broke out in the evening breeze. Midshipman Russell read the signal and chalked the words down on his slate. He then marched across the deck to where his captain stood.

  ‘Signal from the Vanguard, sir. “Flag to Titan. Take station ahead of the fleet.”’

  *****

  ‘Well, here be a proud moment for the barky!’ exclaimed Trevan. ‘The old Titan leading the whole of this here fleet into battle. It’s enough to make a Cornishman renounce cider on the Sabbath.’ Evans bent forward and pushed his head through the open gun port to look astern. Behind the frigate loomed the huge bulk of the Goliath. Its figurehead was a mass of shaggy brown hair and beard that frowned down at him. Close behind the seventy-four he could see the rest of the fleet, now in a long disciplined line. He ducked his head back inside.

  ‘They’re all bleeding following, right enough, and why wouldn’t they?’ he muttered. ‘It’s us as will run aground if that Yank makes an arse of things.’ He waved a hand towards the stricken hull of the Culloden as they swept past her. She had taken all her sail in now, and had launched her ship’s boats in an attempt to try and haul herself off the sand bank. They were close enough to see that her rudder was twisted over at an impossible angle, pulled off by the force of the impact.

  ‘She’ll be no bloody use for days yet,’ observed Rosso from his place at the back of the gun.

  ‘An’ if we don’t wind up high and dry on a bleeding reef,’ continued Evans, ‘we’ll be first up to get a hammering from the Frogs. It may be the dawn sparrow as gets the worm, but it’s the second mouse as gets the cheese.’

  ‘What the fecking hell is that supposed to mean?’ said O’Malley.

  ‘It’s obvious! If we’re the first ship to get up with the Frogs, it will be us who will get a proper seeing to, like the mouse what sets off the trap. He gets done for, while them as follow feast upon cheese.’ The other men grouped around the cannon exchanged glances. Trevan rolled his eyes up to the heavens, while O’Malley shook his head.

  ‘Never mind the fecking cheese, are you saying we’re in for a hiding?’

  ‘Course we is!’ exclaimed Evans. ‘We’re leading the whole bleeding fleet towards the Frogs.’

  ‘Ah, but in your fleet action, your ship of the line won’t fire on a frigate.’

  ‘What rot is that?’ demanded Evans. ‘Why not?’

  ‘What do you mean “why not”?’ said the Irishman. ‘They just don’t!’

  ‘Aye, but why don’t they?’ O’Malley open and closed his mouth a few times. ‘Tell him, Adam,’ he eventually said.

  ‘You be right as how they don’t, Sean, but what the reason may be, I can’t rightly say,’ said the Cornishman. ‘It has always been so, saving only if we was to fire on them. You got any notion why that should be, Rosie?’

  ‘I reckon it’s Grunters’ honour, and all that bollocks,’ said Rosso. ‘We’re too lowly a craft to be considered. But mark my words, they’ll be after scrapping like stoats in a sack with them as follows us.’

  ‘That don’t make no bleeding sense at all,’ said Evans. ‘It’d be like me going easy in a mill ‘cause the other prize fighter was a runt. Believe me, that don’t ever happen.’

  ‘Ah, now that is where you’re after going astray, Sam lad,’ said O’Malley. ‘Trying to see some sense in Grunter’s honour. Say you was mad enough to want to kill a man, and you had a pistol in your pocket. Would you be after pacing out ten yards and giving your man an even chance of killing you, like what they do in them duels an' all? Or would you shoot the fecker while he wasn’t attending? See how mad they are? There ain’t no cause to go looking for sense in what they’re about.’

  ‘But don’t look too disappointed, Sam,’ added Rosso. ‘Word is the Frogs have laid on at least four frigates for us to have a dance with.’

  ‘Head sails! Man the braces!’ shouted the voice of Armstrong from somewhere close to the wheel. The deck beneath their feet heeled over as they turned around the end of the shoal water and doubled back into the bay. The view slid past the gun port and suddenly the French battle line was in front of them, stretched like a curtain in a gentle curve, each huge hull sat astride its reflection in the calm silver water of evening. As the men watched they saw big French tricolours ripple out, two or three to each ship, to stream in the gentle wind. In the centre of the line was the monstrous L’Orient. With her triple layer of gun decks and her immense masts, she was easy to pick out even from the eighty-gun two-deckers either side of her.

  ‘Jesus an’ Mary, that’s a big fecking ship,’ muttered O’Malley.

  ‘They say as how she has a hundred and twenty guns,’ said Trevan. ‘And the same weight of broadside as any two of ours.’

  ‘Lucky they don’t hold with fighting the likes of us, then,’ said Evans. ‘Bleeding lucky.’ O’Malley turned away from the scene and looked at his fellow gun crew.

  ‘Hey fellers, give me your hands for luck,’ he said. ‘I after feeling that tonight we may fecking need it.’

  Chapter 15

  Night

  Clay ran his telescope over the French fleet and saw a long wall of oak and iron that faced towards the approaching threat. He paused at each ship in turn, searching for some flaw in their dispositions. In the sharp circle of magnification, they all looked well prepared for the coming action. He could pick out individual details as his telescope moved along the line. There was the smoke that rose like steam from all the gun captains’ linstocks on the upper decks. The crews that were busy rigging masses of boarding netting, which sagged like drying fishing nets along the ships’ sides. The groups of sharpshooters, their white cross belts clear in the gloom, stationed in all the main tops. He saw a cluster of officers in dark blue coats with silver braid, looking back at him from the quarterdeck of L’Orient. Where was the weakness, the mistake in their deployment? Where was the chink in this wall that might bring the whole mass tumbling down? He felt certain he had seen something important, but the more he searched for it, the more it seemed to slide away from him.

  He lowered his telescope and let his eye rest a while. The Titan stood on into the bay, the evening breeze on her quarter as it wafted her along towards the French. Off to starboard, the waves lapped against the nearest sand bank. The low hump of brown rose out of the surface like the back of a whale. Clay looked around him at the calm water of the bay and wondered where the more dangerous shoals might be, the ones that were not proud of the water. He glanced across at Armstrong. The American seemed to be conning the ship confidently enough, listening to the regular cry from the leadsman in the bow as he announced each successive depth, and them giving calm instructions to Old Amos at the wheel. Behind the frigate came the long line of the fleet, the first eight ships well into the bay now, while the ninth was making her turn around the end of the shoal.

  ‘What do you think of the enemy’s dispositions, Mr Armstrong,’ he asked.

  ‘Very strong, sir,’ said the ship’s master. ‘Although the place they have chosen to anchor is passing strange.’

  ‘Really?’ said Clay. ‘Why so?’

  ‘For one thing, they could have placed their ships a deal closer to the shore than they have, sir,’ he explained. ‘If we should ever chance to break through the line, there will be plenty of deep water on the far side for us to double up on them.’

  ‘They are also spaced more widely than they could be, sir,’ added Taylor as he looked up from his own telescope. ‘See the gap that has been left between the L’Orient and that big two decker directly astern of her. I suppose that is so as to stretch their ships across all of the deep water, so we cannot round the ends of their fleet.’

  ‘Doubtless that is so,’ said Clay. He returned his telescope to his eye and continued to examine the enemy. The frigate had sailed much closer since he last looked. Even in the failing light he could now see the mooring buoys that each vessel had in front of her bows. He looked at the ship at the head of the French line. She was a big seventy-four and he watched as her anchor cable
strained and lifted against the wind as she swung a little at her moorings.

  As she swung at her moorings, repeated Clay to himself. A sensation of excitement prickled the palms of his hands. He looked at the stern of the first ship and searched for a second anchor cable, but he could find none. He moved his telescope on to the next ship. That, too, seemed to be only anchored at the bow. The same was true of the third ship.

  ‘Mr Taylor,’ he said, forcing his voice to be calm. ‘Would you oblige me and examine the French ship at the windward end of their fleet. Can you tell me how you believe her to be moored?’ Taylor looked for a while through his own telescope.

  ‘Anchored by the head only, I should say, sir,’ he replied.

  ‘And the second ship?’

  ‘Same as the first, sir,’ he confirmed. ‘Anchored by the head. Of course with the wind as she lies, that will serve well enough to hold them in the correct position.’

  ‘And if the wind should change?’ asked Clay.

  ‘I make no doubt that the French will have allowed sufficient deep water for their ships to swing in, sir,’ said Taylor. ‘No officer worth his salt would anchor otherwise.... Why are you looking at me like that, sir?’

  ‘Because, my dear George, of what you have just said.’ Clay clapped his first lieutenant on the arm and grinned at him. ‘At last I see how we might endeavour to lay the fleet against the French to achieve the admiral’s desire to overwhelm their van. If the lead French ships are only anchored by the head, they must have left at least a ship’s length of deep water all around them. And where there is room for a ship to swing, there is certainly room for one to pass.’

  ‘Upon my word, sir, I do believe you are right,’ said Taylor. ‘We could lead the fleet around the end. With some ships attacking from the far side whilst others engage from this, the enemy will be caught between them.’

  ‘Let us put it to the test,’ said Clay. ‘Mr Armstrong, lay us on a course to turn about the head of the French fleet, if you please. You will need to sail very close to the bow of that lead ship.’