A Man of No Country Read online

  ‘It is strange how the battle has fallen, sir. I thought their dispositions very formidable when we first came into the bay.’

  ‘So they would have been, had we not been able to turn the flank of their fleet. Once that was achieved, they were doomed,’ said the captain.

  ‘What should the unengaged ships do then, sir?’ asked the Scot.

  ‘The best they could achieve for their country would be to weigh anchor and escape while they yet can and abandon the hopeless position their admiral has placed them in,’ said Clay. ‘Fortunately for us they have such reserves of both courage and honour that they stay with him, and await the slow, but remorseless advance of our fleet towards them.’ He glanced across at the marine and frowned. ‘How curious,’ he muttered.

  ‘Sir?’ said Macpherson.

  ‘My apologies, Tom, I meant no disrespect. It is just that your tunic appeared black a moment ago, and yet now it is scarlet once more.’

  ‘So it is, sir.’ Both men looked around them in surprise. The whole ship was bathed in a warm yellow light, as if the sun of a new day had chanced to rise above the horizon. Then the marine caught hold of his captain’s arm.

  ‘Good God, sir, look over there!’

  The brilliant light came from L’Orient, which was ablaze. The guns of her bottom two decks were still in action. They could hear them as they thumped away at the British ships that harried her, but all along her top deck hungry flames licked out of her gun ports and caught on the timber of her sides. As they watched, the fire spread upwards. Beads of golden light rushed in lines up the tarred rope of her rigging, while her masts turned into so many burning crosses as her sails and yards caught fire. High above her were swirling motes of light that flew up to compete with the dome of stars overhead.

  Chapter 16

  Day

  ‘What a truly dreadful manner in which to perish,’ said Macpherson, as he watched the tiny ant-like figures, some with their clothing alight, as they leapt from the blazing flagship into the ink black sea around it. More and more followed as the flames that roared from the hull grew ever fiercer. Fire and smoke had formed into a twisting pillar that rose up above the stricken ship. The Titan was several hundred yards from L’Orient, yet even in the warm, sultry air they could feel the furnace heat. The sound of cannon fire had petered out all around her, as if the participants in the battle, friend and foe alike, were mesmerised by what they saw.

  ‘Truly dreadful,’ repeated Clay. ‘But I have no wish to share their fate. That fire will reach her powder shortly. Mr Russell!’

  ‘Sir!’ replied the midshipman.

  ‘Go down to the orlop deck and find the gunner,’ he said. ‘Tell him to close up the magazines. He is to issue no more charges for the guns till he hears from me. Run now, boy!’

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ he replied, as he fled towards the ladder way. Clay strode over to the front of the quarterdeck rail and called down below him.

  ‘Mr Blake! Have all the guns run back in and secured, if you please, and all the ports shut. Any unused powder charges are to be pitched over the side. Then set your gun crews to work filling all the containers they can find with water.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’ Clay turned next to his first lieutenant.

  ‘Rig hoses to the pumps, Mr Taylor. I want the deck awash with water. Wet the sides of the ship too, and the sails and rigging. Make haste now.’

  Throughout the ship, orders rang out as the frigate prepared for what was to follow. From under his feet he felt the rumble of the guns as they were run inboard, and the thump of port lids being slammed shut.

  ‘Mind your back there, begin’ yer pardon, sir,’ warned William Powell, his voice pure gravel, as he led a party of men past where his captain stood. They all carried buckets that brimmed with water to soak the quarterdeck. Clay looked up into the rigging, every strand of which had turned bright yellow in the fierce light of the blazing ship. High up in the main top Taylor was directing the hoses as they played their jets over the yards and masts. The excess water cascaded down like molten gold.

  Satisfied with what he saw, Clay returned his attention to the burning ship. If anything the fire was even more intense. He could no longer look into the heart of the blaze, which seemed as white as a sun. The shadows of British ships moved across in front of him, as they hastened to get clear. He could see that the big French two-decker closest to the blaze had cut her anchor cables and was adrift in the bay, but still L’Orient blazed on.

  ‘How can it still be there?’ he muttered. ‘Surely the flames must have reached the magazine by now?’ The sounds of the stricken ship echoed across the water. Above the roar of the fire was the crack of ship’s timbers as they burst free to twist and split in the extraordinary heat. He heard the occasional bang of cannons, as they discharged themselves when the flames licked their way up to the touch holes. There was a sudden whoosh as the burning foremast toppled over. And then, in an instant, everything changed.

  For the blink of an eye, night was day. The sea was blue at his feet, the ship’s side yellow and black, and then the world became fire. The shock of the explosion hit the frigate side on. It heeled her over as it blasted through the rigging like a gale, tearing away spars and stripping the yards of their furled canvas sails. Clay felt himself plucked up and thrown across the deck in a cascade of humanity. Before he reached the planking, the roar of the explosion swept over him in a deafening boom. He crashed to the deck and the wind was knocked out of his lungs. In front of him was Sedgwick, on his hands and knees. He was trying to yell something, but all Clay could hear was ringing. The coxswain pantomimed putting his hands over his head and crouching down, and his captain followed his lead. Moments later, burning debris rained down on the frigate from out of the dark.

  Wreckage of all shapes and sizes fell from the sky. The first to arrive were the biggest pieces. Huge baulks of timber, many of them still on fire, that sent up columns of water all around the ship. A few tumbled down through the rigging, ripping and smashing as they came. One crashed onto the long boat, destroying it in an instant. Another struck the ship’s belfry and sent the bell rumbling and clanging across the deck. The worst was the curved remains of one of L’Orient’s frames, a savage claw of burning oak, that bowled across the quarterdeck. It crushed the crew of the foremost carronade, killing two men outright and badly injured the rest.

  Close behind this first onslaught came the smaller pieces. Lengths of spar, pieces of deck planking that whirled and shrieked through the air. Most of them rebounded from the rigging or slammed against the ship’s side and then slid down into the dark sea all around them. The last to arrive was the lightest. Little fragments of burning hemp and cinders of smouldering wood, that fluttered down like moths to plop and fizz on the wet planking. Once the last of these had passed, Clay pulled himself unsteadily to his feet. He stamped out a few glowing points near him, and looked around at his ship.

  Unnoticed in all the commotion and chaos, the moon had slipped up above the horizon, and it bathed the scene of battle in a silvery light. No ships were firing now. Those that had been gathered around L’Orient were all too busy, as they repaired damage and battled with various small fires. Those farther away seemed too stunned to resume the battle. Over the Titan, the moon shone down, mixing with the orange glow of battle lanterns on the gun deck and the single remaining blue lamp that still hung in the mizzen mast. In that mixture of light, Clay saw his crew slowly pick themselves up, as if awakened from sleep. They looked about them in surprise, amazed that they yet lived.

  ‘Mr Taylor!’ called Clay, his voice faint and distant against the ringing in his ears. He forced himself to gape and yawn and one ear popped clear.

  ‘Mr Taylor!’ he said again. ‘Where have you got to?’

  ‘Over here, sir,’ said a voice from behind him. He turned to see the first lieutenant sat with his back to the mizzen mast, one arm cradled by the other.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ he said, trying to rise. ‘The explosion ra
ther flung me upon the mast. I fear my arm may be broke.’

  ‘No matter, George, I can manage very well for now,’ Clay said as he helped the officer to his feet and turned towards the midshipman of the watch. ‘Mr Russell, will you kindly help Mr Taylor down to see the surgeon.’

  ‘I would prefer to stay here, sir,’ grumbled Taylor, but he allowed the youngster to lead him below.

  ‘Now Mr Preston,’ said the captain to his third lieutenant. ‘If you are unharmed, let us set about restoring our ship to some sort of order. Get the beam that destroyed that carronade tossed over the side, and the wounded down to the surgeon. Then see if the armourer can remount it. Tom, your marines can help.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ said the Scotsman. He brushed the last few smouldering fragments from his coat and looked around him for his hat. ‘Corporal Evans! Over here with your men.’

  Sedgwick was already by the dismounted gun. Lying beside it was Grainger, with most of a leg crushed beneath the barrel.

  ‘Alright mate, we’ll soon get that off you,’ the coxswain said, cradling his shoulders. The planking all around them was slick with blood and the wounded man lay heavy and inert in his arms. He gently felt his neck, and detected the faintest flutter beneath the skin. Powell loomed up on the far side of the carronade with a block and tackle, the afterguard at his heels.

  ‘Leave him, Able, and come and give us a hand,’ he growled.

  ‘No, Bill, he is still alive,’ said Sedgwick. ‘Soon as you get that shifted, I can pull him free.’

  ‘Alive, is he?’ said the boatswain’s mate. ‘That’s a shame. I thought the Frogs had saved the hangman a job of work.’

  ‘It ain’t like that! You got it all wrong!’

  ‘Have it your own way,’ muttered Powell. ‘Come on, lads, get this gun shifted. Able’s after playing the good bleeding Samaritan. Lively now.’

  With a creak and a groan the barrel slowly shifted up off the deck, and Sedgwick was able to pull Grainger free. Blood flowed freely from his wounded leg, and he cried out in pain as he was moved.

  ‘Who is going to help me get him below?’ asked the coxswain. The sailors stood around the gun looked on, stony faced. ‘He’s a fucking shipmate! He wouldn’t have left any of you to die!’

  ‘Brown, O’Neil,’ ordered Powell. ‘Give him a hand.’ Two of the sailors joined Sedgwick and helped pick Grainger up, and together they carried him towards the ladder way.

  ‘I am only doing it ‘cause you asked, Able,’ said the petty officer. ‘I ain’t doing it for that piece of shit.’

  ‘When this is done, you and me need to talk, Bill,’ said Sedgwick, as he disappeared below.

  *****

  ‘How can our Rosie be dead?’ asked Trevan, half an hour earlier. ‘He were stood that close to me, I only had to stretch out to touch him. Then a heartbeat later he had vanished.’

  ‘It was the last fecking shot of the action an’ all,’ muttered O’Malley. He wiped his eyes on his bare arm. ‘That’s what was so cruel. The Frogs was beat. Why could he have not hung on another moment?’

  ‘We really owed him, you know?’ said Evans. ‘Remember how he smoked what was happening when them French soldiers attacked us in St Lucia? He saved our bleeding bacon that day.’

  ‘Able will take it the hardest,’ said Trevan, tears now coursing down his cheeks. ‘It were Rosie as first showed him his letters.’

  ‘What’s going on here?’ demanded Midshipman Butler, coming over to the group. Trevan indicated the body of their friend.

  ‘Our gun was hit, sir, and poor Rosso has been an’ got himself killed.’ Butler looked down at the remains on the deck.

  ‘I am truly sorry, lads,’ he said quietly. ‘He was a good shipmate. Down there is no place to leave him. Shift his body over to join the others under the break in the forecastle, and then come back. It’s cruel, but the battle is far from over. I need you men to close your port lid and pour water over this section of deck.’

  ‘Water on the deck?’ queried O’Malley. ‘What would we be after doing that for?’

  ‘Mr Taylor’s orders,’ replied the midshipman. ‘It needs to be done sharp. We’ve got a blazing Frenchie over there that could explode at any moment.’

  They lay what was left of Rosso amongst the row of dead sailors and marines. Trevan muttered a few words over their friend and O’Malley made the sign of the cross. Then they hurried back to join the rest of the crew at work on the main deck. They gathered buckets of sea water from those being filled at the pump and threw them all around the ruins of their gun. As they did so, the last few fragments of their friend were washed off the planking and across towards the scuttle where they cascaded over the side and into the sea. Evans looked up from their work and noticed the strange yellow light in the air for the first time. He was just about to comment on it to the others, when L’Orient exploded.

  The main deck was six feet lower than the exposed quarterdeck where Clay was standing. The sides of the ship rose up like a wall along both sides and those eight inches of seasoned oak protected them from the worst of the explosion. Although they too were stunned by the blast that swept over the frigate, it was only when the ship heeled over that they lost their footing. But the ship’s sides could offer them little protection from the beam of oak that descended like a monstrous hammer from the sky. It struck the long boat on the skid beams above their heads, smashing it into a shower of matchwood, and then came to rest next to them, lying amongst the wreckage.

  Trevan was the first to shake off all the fragments of broken planking that had fallen on him. He retched and coughed, pulled himself back upright and sucked at a splinter cut on his hand. The huge block of timber rested beside him with smoke pouring up from the blackened surface. It hissed loudly where it sat on the wet deck, while higher up glowing embers of red winked at the Cornishman in the warm air. Some of the fragments of the destroyed long boat that rested against the hot wood burst into yellow flame.

  ‘Fire!’ croaked Trevan to the others and pointed at the beam. O’Malley was next to recover. He squatted on his haunches, blood trickling down the side of his face from a cut in his scalp. The light of the fire flickered in front of his eyes.

  ‘Holy Mary!’ he exclaimed and stood upright. He kicked Evans, who still lay on the deck. The Londoner rolled over in response with a groan. ‘We need some fecking water,’ announced the Irishman.

  ‘Good idea,’ said Evans as he ran a tongue over his cracked lips. Then he too saw the flames. ‘Bleeding hell, Sean! Fuck having a drink. Let’s get some of them tubs from around the main mast. Sharp like.’

  The men returned with a pair of buckets each and dashed them onto the flames. A large cloud of steam rose up and the fire went out. Then the steam dispersed. The last of the seawater bubbled and spat for a moment on the wall of glowing wood and then vanished with a final hiss. Serpents of smoke replaced the last of the steam. They coiled up from the surface of the wood and a moment later fresh flames licked up the sides of the beam.

  ‘Shit!’ said Evans. He looked around for more water.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ demanded Lieutenant Blake as he strode over. ‘A few buckets will never answer! Can’t you feel the heat that emanates from it? You might just as well piss on the damned thing! Trevan, O’Malley! Go and get one of the fire hoses. Quickly now, before the whole deck is alight.’ Blake watched them go. He rubbed his temples to try and dislodge the ringing in his ears. Then he turned to Evans.

  ‘We need more men,’ he said. ‘Ahoy there! Mr Butler! Send six men from your gun crews aft to man the pump. You go with them too, Evans.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ he said, and stumbled away.

  As he took his place among the row of men turning the long bar handle of the pump, Evans looked across the ship. Everywhere he could see signs that the tide of chaos was being turned back into organisation. Up on the forecastle was Hutchinson, the Titan’s boatswain, directing his men as they set up a block and tackle to remove the beam tha
t had destroyed the belfry. His long silver pig tail bobbed and swayed in the moonlight as he urged the men on. Pairs of seamen worked to carry away the wounded, taking them towards the hatchways and down to the waiting surgeon in the cockpit. All across the main deck he could see parties of men with buckets of water as they first doused burning fragments of wood, and then carried them to the nearest gun port to be pitched over the side. From below his feet the steady thump of hammers had resumed, as the carpenter continued to repair the earlier damage caused by their fight with the L’Artemise. All that he saw showed that the ship had ridden the colossal blow and was now returning to life. And then he caught sight of the line of inert shapes under the forecastle.

  ‘So what have you buggers been about then?’ said the man that stood next to the big Londoner. He nodded towards the flaming wreckage of the longboat. ‘All you need is a bleeding Guy. I tell you, November the Fifth ain’t in it.’

  ‘Just bloody pump,’ growled Evans as the long handle whirled round and round. ‘I ain’t in the mood for no japes.’ The canvas hose jerked and swelled into life and a steady jet of sea water pulsed through to Trevan and O’Malley as they brought the fire under control.

  *****

  ‘All the debris has been cleared, sir,’ reported Preston, the best part of an hour later.

  ‘Was there much fire damage?’ asked the captain.

  ‘We did have a nasty looking blaze on the main deck for a while, but Mr Blake was able to deal with it.’

  ‘Good,’ said Clay. He looked up into the rigging. In the gentle moonlight he could see parties of men dotted all over the masts, and hear as they called to each other across the dark spaces between the silver threads of cable.