A Man of No Country Page 25

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ said the master. ‘I shall endeavour to let the tip of her bowsprit pass over our heads.’

  The Titan turned in a long gentle curve and settled on her new course. The sand banks to starboard grew closer, and the depths reported from the bow after each cast of the lead, became shallower. Clay walked back to the stern rail to see if the fleet were turning too. The sun had set now, and he could no longer see any detail of the ships beyond the one directly behind him. What he could see were the rows of blue lights floating through the dusk, all following his lead. He glanced up at the four blue lanterns that now shone brightly above his head and then felt Preston nudge his arm.

  ‘Some sort of commotion, up on the bow of the Goliath, sir,’ he reported. He glanced back towards the following ship to see a huge bear of a man stride up to the forecastle rail and level a speaking trumpet towards him. Over the gentle sound of the frigate’s wake came a loud bellow, in a pronounced Welsh accent.

  ‘Ahoy there Titan!’ roared the voice. Clay picked up his own speaking trumpet from its becket.

  ‘Good evening to you, Captain Foley, sir,’ he replied.

  ‘Never mind good evening, what the hell are you about, Clay?’ said the captain of the Goliath. ‘Do you propose to run me up on one of these sand bars like that damned fool Troubridge?’

  ‘No, sir,’ replied Clay. ‘The lead French ships are anchored by the head. There will be sea room enough for us to round their fleet and take them between two fires.’

  ‘Round their line, is it?’ mused Foley in a loud rumble. ‘Are you quite certain there will be enough water? You know I draw a good six feet more than your ship?’

  ‘Quite sure, sir. My sailing master knows what he is about. Follow me closely, and all shall be well.’

  ‘Assuming I can still bloody well see you, that is,’ said the Welshman. He eyed the gathering dusk with suspicion. ‘Oh, have it your own way, Clay. I had better go and pass the word down the line. If I don’t tell Hood in the Zealous what your plan is, he will conclude that your navigation is all to cock and head off on his own. Good luck, boyo.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Clay replied. Foley waved his speaking trumpet in the air as he hurried back to his own quarterdeck.

  Like a mirage, the French ships were melting into the dusk as the Titan approached them. Their bare masts and rigging was still clear, a spider’s web of black against the evening sky. By contrast, their hulls were now only visible against the shore, because of the glow of light from within them that seeped out through their open gun ports. The faint orange of battle lanterns brushed the surface of the water. Brighter was the occasional red point from a glowing linstock poised above the touchhole of a cannon. On board the frigate, the quarterdeck was washed by an eerie blue light from the lanterns hung high up on her mizzen mast.

  The lead French ship was very close now. Her high curved side rose up above him out of the still water. At each square opening, Clay could see a little cluster of faint white faces as the gun crews peered across the narrow stretch of dark water. Others scrutinised him from the quarterdeck rail. Soldiers, with their coats invisible behind the white of their cross belts, pointed muskets in his direction. Officers aimed their telescopes towards him. The murmur of her crew as they talked came clear to him, contrasting with the silence aboard the Titan.

  ‘Will they really not fire on us, sir?’ whispered Preston, entranced by the mass of cannon so close to them.

  ‘They know that the first broadside, loaded with care before a battle, is the best they will ever fire in an action,’ said Taylor. ‘They will not waste it on us, for we are too small to count in the balance between the fleets.’ He looked back at the Goliath, the huge square of her topsail black against the sky. ‘That is their mark, God help them.’

  ‘Head sails!’ shouted Armstrong, his voice sudden and loud in the night. ‘Ready to go about!’ The frigate slid on past the lead French ship till she overlapped her bow.

  ‘Helm hard over!’ ordered the American and they wheeled around in front of the enemy. Clay felt his hands grip the quarterdeck rail as he waited for the sound of sand and rock grating against the Titan’s keel. What if he had been fooled by the French? Perhaps they had moored by the head just to trick him into this bold manoeuvre? Even now the floor of the bay might be rising up towards him. A loud rumble reverberated up through the timbers of the ship, and Clay rushed to the side. Below him he could just make out the lead ship’s mooring buoy as it rattled and scrapped along the frigate. The ship continued to turn and the float was left behind. They had rounded the French line.

  ‘What course now, sir?’ asked Armstrong, his triumphant face lit from below by the yellow light of the binnacle. Clay opened his mouth to reply, but what he said was lost in an enormous roar as the lead French ship opened fire. The cannon fire was discharged from her far side, just as the Goliath had drawn level. For an instant night fled. Clay saw in a flash of brilliant light the British ships as they tailed back across the bay, and the French ones running in a curve away from him. Ahead he saw a single French frigate, moored on her own, and then it was dark again.

  ‘Run down the line of their fleet, Mr Armstrong, and then lay me off the port quarter of that frigate over there,’ he ordered. ‘The one that is level with the L’Orient.’

  *****

  Night, then day, then night and then day. With each broadside that crashed out, a fresh image of the battle was caught in a burst of light, and each showed the steady advance of Nelson’s fleet. Five British seventy-fours had followed the Titan around the head of the French fleet, and each had dropped down to anchor next to a different opponent. Now the other ships were ranged up on the outside of the line, so that most of the French had two opponents. The van of their fleet was caught at the centre of a volcano of flame and smoke, while the rest watched helplessly on. With each fresh flare of light, the Titan stole closer to the anchored frigate.

  ‘Do you reckon she’s seen us?’ asked Evans as he watched the latest view of their opponent vanished back into the dark night.

  ‘Aye, she knows we’re a-coming alright,’ said Trevan. He patted the barrel of the cannon with the flat of his hand. ‘We must show up right well against all that there firing away yonder.’

  ‘So why ain’t she having a pop?’ said the Londoner. He drummed his fingers on the shaft of the rammer. ‘We must be in range.’

  ‘Oh, we’re in fecking range, sure enough,’ said O’Malley, spitting on his hands. ‘He’s a right cool bastard, that one. Wants us good and close before he wastes any powder on us.’

  ‘Take in topsails there!’ shouted the voice of Clay from the dark of the quarterdeck. ‘Mr Hutchinson! Are you ready to drop anchor?’

  ‘Ready, sir,’ came the boatswain’s voice from the stern of the ship.

  ‘Mr Preston! Are you ready at the capstan?’

  ‘Aye aye, sir!’

  The frigate drifted onwards, her speed slowing all the time as her sail was gathered in somewhere above the seamen’s heads.

  ‘Gun crews, are you ready?’ said Lieutenant Blake, quieter and closer. The crew of Shango exchanged glances in the orange glow from the battle lamp, and then crouched down into position beside their gun. Rosso knocked the ash from the loop of slow match held on his linstock and then blew the smouldering tip into fiery brilliance. He held his left hand aloft to show his gun was ready. All along the side of the ship similar arms sprang up.

  ‘Drop anchor!’ they heard Clay order, followed by a huge splash from behind the ship.

  ‘Anchors away, sir,’ yelled the voice of the boatswain.

  ‘Mr Preston, take up the strain!’ With a chorus of creaks and groans, the frigate slowed to a halt and rocked to and fro on the water.

  ‘Anchors holding, sir,’ yelled Hutchinson.

  ‘There the bastards are,’ breathed Evans. He pointed through the open gun port. Close beside them the ghostly lines of a ship seemed to hover above the water, as if they were seeing a reflecti
on of their own frigate, in a dark pool. A line of faint orange squares floated opposite them, and the dark shadows of the gun crews moved about as they made their final preparations. They heard a sharp order in French and the space between the ships became a canyon of fire. Tongues of flame leapt out of the night, followed an instant later by a series of hammer blows all along the side of the Titan. Splinters flew as a cannon ball screeched across the planking behind O’Malley, and one of the crew of Belcher reeled back from his gun with blood gushing from his arm. Moments later, debris pattered down from the cut rigging above their heads. In the silence that followed the impact of the French broadside, a calm, strong voice spoke from up on the quarterdeck.

  ‘Mr Preston!’ said Clay. ‘Let out a further three fathoms of that anchor cable if you please. We are not yet fully aligned with our adversary. Mr Blake! You may open fire when convenient, as can your marines, Mr Macpherson.’

  ‘Main guns! Fire!’ yelled the lieutenant. Rosso ducked down to sight along the barrel. The smoke of the French ship’s first broadside was thinning and he could see the shadows of the gun crews as they reloaded. A chatter of excited orders in French sounded in the night.

  ‘Point blank range, lads, no need for aiming. Just rattle the gun in and out as quick as quick,’ he said, before he yelled a warning. ‘Stand clear!’ He dabbed the linstock down onto the touch hole. There was a crimson sparkle in the gloom, and the cannon leapt back inboard with a roar, till it creaked to a halt against the pull of the breaching.

  Now all their long months of dull training bore fruit. Before the gun carriage had stopped, Evans had the wet sponge of his rammer thrust down the hot barrel to extinguish any sparks, while O’Malley had taken the powder bag from the hands of Dray, the thirteen-year-old allocated to the gun. The boy scampered off, running down to the magazine for the next one. O’Malley and Evans worked smoothly together as charge, ball and wad disappeared into the muzzle, each stage rammed home by the big Londoner.

  ‘Loaded,’ yelled Evans as he stepped aside. The rest of the crew threw their weight onto the gun tackles and the cannon trundled forwards till it thumped up against the ship’s side. Rosso leaned over and drove his barbed spike down the touch hole and through the serge wall of the charge. He pushed a quill of fine powder after it and stood back.

  ‘Stand clear!’ he yelled, and the gun roared out once more.

  Again and again they fired their cannon, every move slick and economical as they pummelled away at the French ship. Now any pretence of firing broadsides had disappeared aboard the frigate, as the faster guns outpaced the slower, but none were fired swifter than Shango. Soon the night was lit by a continuous glow of fire that flickered backwards and forwards, up and down the side of the Titan. Under the remorseless torrent of shot, the return fire of their opponent started to falter.

  Rosso dashed aside the sweat that poured down his face and crouched low over the top of the cannon. It was the twentieth time that they had fired that night and the barrel radiated heat beneath his bare chest, the metal hot to the touch. When Evans had last swabbed out the muzzle, the wet sponge end of his rammer had spat and hissed with steam.

  ‘Stand clear!’ Rosso yelled. The gun crew all ducked away to either side and held their hands over their ears against the deep roar of the cannon. But this time there was an ear splitting shriek instead, a shower of sparks flew off the top of the barrel and the carriage collapsed. Shango slumped down, and the sharp smell of ozone filled the air.

  ‘What the fuck...’ said Evans. He stared across the top of the cannon into the wide-eyed face of O’Malley. Then he looked down at the the gun and saw a thick, vivid scar of silver scored in the metal. A French cannon ball had flown in through the gun port and grazed along the top of the barrel. All around him dazed members of the crew picked themselves up. Trevan looked at the scar, and then followed the line of it towards the touch hole.

  ‘Where’s Rosie?’ he asked.

  They found the blood-sodden remains of Rosso several feet back. That was where the cannon ball had let his broken body fall to the deck. His lower half seemed untouched by what had happened. His legs lay on the deck, bent and drawn up, like those of someone asleep. But above his wide leather belt, little of their friend was still recognisable.

  *****

  ‘The enemy is making sail!’ announced Preston. ‘Looks like she may have had her fill, sir.’

  ‘I am not surprised, sir,’ growled Taylor. ‘The men have fought like tigers. We have hit her very hard. I saw her mizzen fall not ten minutes ago, and I believe much of her main mast may have followed it by the board.’ Clay walked across to the ship’s side. Several of the Titan’s cannon chanced to fire at once and their flash illuminated the wreck of their opponent. Her side was pock-marked with holes, and she was now several feet lower in the water. The wreck of her fallen masts littered the black sea all around her. But her tattered tricolour still fluttered over her quarterdeck from the stump of her mizzen, and muskets flashed and banged along her rail. Over the staccato sound of battle, he heard the thunder of axe strokes. They abruptly ended with a heavy splash.

  ‘There goes her anchor cable, sir,’ said the first lieutenant from the rail next to him. ‘Should we stop firing?’

  ‘Only when she yields, Mr Taylor,’ he said. The quarterdeck carronade next to him crashed back on its slide and the muzzle flash lit up the stern of the French frigate as it turned towards them. On the scarred counter, the name L’Artemise could just be made out. Above that not a pane of glass remained intact.

  ‘Mr Armstrong!’ called Clay. ‘Can I follow her?’

  ‘Not if you value the ship, sir,’ said the master. ‘She is heading into shoal water, doubtless to run herself aground before she sinks, or is compelled to surrender.’ The guns of the frigate continued to batter their opponent, until she limped her way free of the circle of light created by the Titan’s muzzle flashes. Clay watched her for a while, sick at heart at the unequal contest. Once she had vanished, he turned back to Taylor and nodded. The first lieutenant put his whistle to his lips and blew a loud blast, and the guns fell silent.

  Clay looked around his quarterdeck. It was still illuminated by the cold blue light from above. Most of those who had started the fight were at their posts. Old Amos at the wheel had a bloody rag tied around one hand, and several of the marines had been taken below. Some of the gun crews had lost a few members, but all the carronades were undamaged. A few of the men exchanged backslaps or handshakes, as they delighted in their victory, but most had slumped down for a grateful rest on the deck. At the nearest gun he saw the tall figure of Grainger, stood apart from those around him. The blue light from above hooded his sharp features and made his eyes pools of dark where no expression could be read. Clay walked forward to the quarterdeck rail and looked down onto the main deck. In the warm glow of the battle lanterns, he could see that the eighteen-pounder immediately below his feet had been dismounted by a direct hit. The crew seemed dazed as they stood around the body of a fallen seaman, but most of the other cannon appeared unharmed.

  ‘What state are we in, Mr Taylor?’ he asked.

  ‘Surgeon reports fifteen killed and close to thirty wounded, sir,’ reported the first lieutenant. ‘As for the ship, we have taken a fair battering, but only four balls between wind and water. There is three feet in the well, but the pumps are holding, and the carpenter says he can get at all of the shot holes to plug them. We have two guns out of action. One eighteen-pounder on the starboard side has been damaged beyond repair, and one of the forecastle carronades has been dismounted. The armourer believes he can get the carronade back in action presently.’

  ‘What of the rigging?’ asked Clay.

  ‘Cut about mainly,’ said Taylor. ‘The foretop yard needs to be fished, but the other spars have survived. Mr Hutchinson and his men are working aloft now. All told I believe we can have most of the repairs completed, ready to be back in action in about an hour.’

  ‘Good, because ou
r night’s work is not over yet’ said Clay. ‘Keep the men at their work.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  Clay walked across to the far side of the quarterdeck, to see how the rest of the battle went. The fighting around the van of the French fleet seemed to be over, with that end of the French line invisible in the dark of the night. British warships had slipped down towards him, bringing the battle with them. Now it was the turn of the French centre to be caught between two fires. A few hundred yards from where he stood was a mass of warships, all ablaze with the thunder of cannon. Clay could feel the concussion of the broadsides as solid blows to the front of his chest. Closest to him was the looming cliff that was the massive L’Orient. Every one of her hundred and twenty cannon roared away as she battled with the three British ships that surrounded her, like hounds attacking a stag.

  ‘It is a grand sight, is it not, sir,’ said Lieutenant Tom Macpherson. The rich scarlet of his marine officer’s uniform appeared black in the dark. ‘Wonderful, and yet also terrible at the same time. How many scores of men do you suppose are perishing over there with every blast of those cannon?’

  ‘I cannot think upon it and yet do my duty, Tom,’ said Clay. ‘How could I ever take a ship into action, with such thoughts in my mind?’

  ‘No, you are right, sir,’ said the Scotsman. ‘We military men should not dwell upon what it is we do. But tell me, why do the French ships at the rear of the line not come to their admiral’s assistance?’ He pointed towards the right. ‘There must be four or five of the enemy that have yet to fire a shot away yonder. Are they so in want of courage that they are shy of battle? I am happy to see my enemies defeated, but I would want it done with some honour.’

  ‘It is not courage they lack, just a suitable wind,’ said his captain. ‘See how the breeze blows from the head of the line towards the rear? It serves us very well as we move down their fleet, and the French not at all. They cannot advance directly into it, and with all these shoals here about, neither can they use it to manoeuvre with.’