A Sloop of War Page 7

  *****

  In the cutter, Evans and Rosso pulled in steady time with the other oarsmen, propelling the boat through the black night. Not yet trusted with an oar, Sedgwick was in the centre of the boat, squashed against the double file of marines who sat with their muskets upright between their knees. He fingered the unfamiliar weapons he had been issued with. He first looked at the thick bladed cutlass, which weighed and felt like a much longer version of the machetes he had used to cut sugar cane on the plantation. The other weapon he had been given was a pistol. He had received a brief demonstration of how to cock, point and fire the gun, but he had never seen one used in action before, let alone discharged one himself. ‘You just stick it against one of the Frogs, and pull the bleeding trigger,’ Evans had explained to him. Thinking about that now in the dark, he was unsure if he would be able to bring himself to do that. Best leave the pistol alone, he concluded, and stick with the big machete.

  ‘Easy oars,’ whispered Preston, and with a gentle hiss the way came off the cutter. To one side Sedgwick could see where the waves splashed against the coral edge of the lagoon, the faint starlight flickering off the broken water. On the other side they had slid level with a darker shadow on the water. They were next to the launch, which had also stopped.

  ‘Why have we halted, Mr Sutton?’ asked Macpherson in a stage whisper from the stern of the boat.

  ‘Guard boat ahead,’ came the whispered reply from the launch. Sedgwick looked around towards the bow. He could see the masts of the brig now, a web of black lines silhouetted against the faint rind of light from Micoud. Then he saw the guard boat as it splashed busily across the water of the bay, a trail of phosphorescence in its wake. The sound of a conversation in French, followed by a burst of laughter drifted across to them. The boat disappeared behind the low dome of the sand bank that stretched away like the back of a whale, having apparently seen nothing.

  ‘Give way all,’ came Sutton’s murmur from beside them, and the launch started to move. A few moments later the cutter was moving too, slipping towards the dark mass of the brig. Closer and closer they came. The hull of the ship loomed up above them, shutting out the light from the shore.

  ‘Qui va là?’ The shout from the deck of the brig was sudden and loud after the hush of their careful approach.

  ‘Put your backs into it!’ shouted Preston from the stern sheets of the cutter, and the boat surged forward. Up on the side of the brig a chain of flashes lit the night as muskets banged at them. Sedgwick heard the rip as a musket ball flew over his head, but the ragged volley seemed to have missed everyone in the boat.

  ‘Easy all!’ shouted Preston. ‘Larboard oars in! Hook on in the bows there.’ The men just managed to get their oars into the boat in time as the cutter swept alongside the brig. Macpherson was quickly on his feet. He swept out his sword, the polished blade silver in the night.

  ‘Marines, follow me!’ he ordered. ‘Mr Preston, kindly come after us with the boat crew.’ The cutter rocked as the marines swarmed up the side of the brig. Sedgwick saw Macpherson above him clinging on to the main chains with his left hand while he thrust at someone out of sight with his sword.

  The resistance on deck was fiercer than expected, Sedgwick thought. He had imagined that the marines would have swept onto the deck of the brig, but they were being held up at the ship’s side, and seemed to be locked in a frantic struggle with the French crew. A firearm flashed above his head and one of the marines fell backwards from the ship’s side. His body crashed onto the gunwale of the cutter, before it slipped into the dark water. With the marines blocking their way up the ship’s side, the crew of the cutter looked around at each other, desperate to help, but unsure what they could do.

  Sedgwick stood in the boat, close to the side of the brig. Next to his head he could just make out the solid square of a port lid, hinged at the top, and was reminded of the panel he had used to escape through on the rain sodden night when he had taken his freedom back on the plantation. He slipped his fingers under the lip of the port and just as before, he tugged at it. The heavy wood moved a little under his hands.

  ‘Mr Preston, sir!’ he called. ‘This port lid is loose. If we could prise it open, we can get onto the brig this way.’ Moments later Preston had swayed his way up the rocking boat to stand next to him. He saw instantly what Sedgwick meant.

  ‘Good man, Sedgwick,’ he enthused. ‘Slip the flat of your cutlass under that side. Evans, get your boarding axe under the other side. Now, three, two, one, heave!’ Sedgwick was a strong man, Evans even more so. After a moment of creaking resistance the port lid came free with a splintering crack. Evans held it open.

  ‘After you, me old cock,’ he said to Sedgwick. ‘This was your bleeding idea, after all.’

  Sedgwick stared through the opening at the deck beyond. The light from some shaded lanterns faintly illuminated the space. He could just make out the doors of store rooms or officers’ cabins opposite him. He pushed his head through into the ship and looked forward where he saw lines of unoccupied hammocks slung under the low deck beams. Beyond them was the foot of the ladder way to the deck above, down which the sound of fighting flowed.

  Satisfied with what he saw, Sedgwick pulled himself through the square hole and dropped down onto his hands and knees. His cutlass spilt from his grip as his hand jarred against the deck. Glancing up from his prone position he saw a streak of movement. A shadowy figure loomed out of the dark, the faint light of a lantern glistening off a long steel edge. He heard a deafening explosion just above him, and in the orange light the image of a French sailor, his face distorted with fury, cutlass raised, flashed into existence. A moment later it was dark once more, and he was crushed to the deck by a heavy, warm weight.

  He shook himself free of the body, and looked behind him as he stood up. Evans had one arm and a shoulder pushed through the port, a smoking pistol in his hand.

  ‘You all right, mate?’ he asked. Sedgwick nodded, still shocked by the ferocity of the Frenchman’s attack.

  ‘Fuck me, I thought you was gone there, Able,’ said the Londoner as he squeezed his huge frame with difficulty through the opening. ‘That would have made for a bleeding short career if he had stuck you. I’ve barely had time to learn your name!’

  Evans and Sedgwick pulled the body of the French sailor out of the way, and the rest of the cutter crew slipped through the port to join them. Sedgwick remembered just in time to recover his cutlass from the deck, and joined the growing group of sailors at the foot of the ladder.

  ‘Right, you men,’ said Preston. ‘Follow me up the ladder way. First we fall on the men holding up Mr Macpherson and the marines, then we can help the launch crew.’

  They ran up the ladder way, and spilt out onto the deck of the brig. It was almost as dark as it had been below. The struggling figures along both sides of the brig were difficult to make out, except when the flash of a pistol or a musket lit the scene, freezing the action in a strobe of time.

  ‘Come on Rushes!’ shouted the midshipman as he dashed across the deck. Sedgwick followed him with Evans on one side and Rosso on the other. In a moment they were upon the enemy. A French sailor in front of him spun round to meet this new assault, but he was just too late to avoid the savage blow from Sedgwick’s cutlass. For an instant the man’s face was close, his mouth wide open, his eyes filled with horror. Sedgwick had just time to register how young the face was before the teenager crashed at his feet, dragging his cutlass down with him.

  Behind the first Frenchman another sailor turned to face him with a snarl, his cutlass swept back. Sedgwick ripped his own weapon free from the young man at his feet and managed to get it up in front of him in time to parry the blow. The blades crashed together with a shriek of edge on edge. Over the Frenchman’s shoulder Sedgwick saw the cross-belted figure of one of the marines. The Frenchman followed his look, but turned too late to avoid the thrust of the soldier’s bayonet. He spun away with a scream of pain, and fell down on deck too. Moments
later the battle was over.

  The remaining French sailors threw down their weapons, the fight knocked out of them by the surprise attack in their rear. An officer in a naval uniform reversed his sword, and handed it to Preston with a stiff bow of his head. The battle persisted for a little longer on the other side of the deck, but then those French defenders surrendered too as Macpherson and his marines tramped up behind them with muskets levelled, threatening to fire a volley at point blank range. Just at that moment Croft led his jollyboat crew over the bows of the brig with a cheer, to find that the fight was over.

  ‘Better late than never, Mr Croft,’ glared Sutton. He was in considerable pain from a sword cut on his left forearm, but this had not stopped him noting the late arrival of Croft and his men.

  ‘Mr Macpherson,’ he said. ‘I would be obliged if you and your men would secure the French prisoners.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ the Scotsman saluted smartly, and marched away to bark orders to his men.

  ‘Mr Preston, kindly set the fore topsail and let slip the anchor. Mr Croft, have the wheel manned, and arrange for the signal to the Rush. Then get the ship’s boats in tow behind us.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ came the replies from Preston and Croft. The two midshipmen departed, both calling to their boat crews.

  Up in the bows of the captured brig, Preston organised his men quickly.

  ‘Top men, lay aloft and set the topsail,’ he ordered. ‘Evans and Harrison, get below with your axes and cut the anchor cable. The rest of you are to man the sheets.’

  Sedgwick joined the group of men on the portside of the bow, lined up ready to sheet home the large topsail once it had been released from the yard above them. In the faint light coming from the port of Micoud off to his left he could just make out the top men as they swarmed up the rigging and ran out onto the yard high above his head. Across the water came the sound of a tolling church bell, clashing out in alarm.

  ‘Well, if the clods up in that battery have missed all the clamour down here, that will tell them something’s astray,’ muttered Rosso next to him, nodding ahead. ‘They are up there on top of that cliff, and we’ve got to sail right up towards them before we can turn round the end of this here sand bar to slip away.’ He looked around and sniffed for a moment. ‘Wind’s all right, mind, to carry us out,’ he added. Sedgwick turned his face towards the shore, and felt the cool breath of the land breeze starting to blow.

  From under his feet the steady pounding of axe blows stopped abruptly, and he heard a loud splash over the side. Evans and Harrison ran up on deck.

  ‘Anchor cable is cut, sir,’ reported Evans.

  ‘Thank you, Evans,’ replied Preston. ‘Can you let Mr Sutton know, please. You will find him by the wheel.’ While Evans lumbered off, the midshipman glanced up into the rigging above his head, just in time to see a large square of white canvas tumble down from the topsail yard.

  ‘Brace the yards!’ he ordered. ‘You men, sheet home and belay.’

  The big sail began to draw and the brig moved forward through the water. Out at sea, Sedgwick saw a sudden line of orange flashes, tongues of fire shooting out. For a brief moment he saw the shape of the Rush as she slipped towards the entrance of the bay. The roar of canon fire arrived a few moments later, rolling back off the surrounding cliffs.

  ‘Ah, just in time,’ muttered Rosso next to him. ‘Now that will set them French buggers a vexing problem. Do they oppose the ship firing at them, or try and hit us, now we have shown we have the brig by setting sail?’ Sedgwick thought about this for a moment.

  ‘Which do we want, Rosie?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, it would be good if they dally so long they resolve to do neither,’ replied Rosso. ‘But failing that, we want them to fire at the barky. She is better built to take the punishment, she is farther away, but chiefly coz our arses aren’t in her.’

  Rosso’s faith in French indecision was short lived. The Rush had just fired her second broadside at the battery, when a line of six orange flashes lit up the top of the cliff.

  ‘Ha, see!’ said Rosso with satisfaction. ‘They are firing at the Rush. Long may that last.’

  The brig was almost at the end of the sand bank now.

  ‘Ready to go about, Mr Preston,’ yelled Sutton from by the wheel.

  ‘Man the braces,’ ordered Preston.

  Too late, the battery on the cliff realised they had chosen the wrong target. As they made their turn towards the open sea, the gunners finally shifted their fire onto the brig. The sound of the passing shot was like fabric tearing in the air all around Sedgwick. A backstay parted with a crack, and swung free through the air.

  ‘Mr Preston!’ called Sutton. ‘Kindly set the foretopsail, if you please. Then have that stay spliced.’

  The next salvo of fire from the battery was a little better aimed. One shot crashed into the hull of the brig, leaving a large hole in her port quarter. But with both sails drawing and no lights showing she was now quickly vanishing into the night. By the time that the next salvo was fired, she was all but invisible to the gunners on the cliff. Where their shots fell, none could tell.

  *****

  ‘She is the Olivette, an armed brig out of Martinique, sir. One hundred and forty tons burden,’ explained Sutton to his captain, pointing across at the prize as she followed the Rush under easy sail. They were seated opposite each other in the main cabin of the sloop and were sharing a much needed pot of coffee after their largely sleepless night. It was morning now and the sea outside the sweep of glass was tropical blue once more. The two young men were tired but exhilarated by their night’s work.

  ‘She was carrying various supplies of food and munitions for the garrison at Micoud, none of which she had been able to unload, sir,’ continued Sutton. ‘She had a crew of seventy, which is why she was able to put up such a good fight. We lost four killed and nine wounded, seven of whom Mr Linfield is tolerably confident of saving.’

  ‘I hope you included yourself amongst that number, John?’ asked Clay with a smile. Sutton flexed his left hand under the large bandage that swathed his lower arm.

  ‘I shall be fine, thank you, sir,’ his friend replied. ‘It really is but a scratch. It is my pride that is truly wounded. The brig’s master turned out to have some considerable skill with the short sword for such an elderly gentlemen. I was lucky Macpherson and his marines arrived to put an end to his fencing exposition before he was able to run me through.’

  ‘What state is the prize in?’ asked Clay.

  ‘Some little damage to the rigging, which Mr Carver has in hand, sir,’ said Sutton. ‘Only one shot struck the hull. It did a cruel amount of damage to the quarter. Chips is working on it now and says it should be patched by six bells in the afternoon watch.’

  ‘Good. Now, tell me how you perceived that the officers and men performed?’ asked Clay.

  ‘On the whole with much credit, sir,’ answered Sutton. ‘I should say that Mr Macpherson appears to be a most steady officer who knows his duty well. Mr Preston did his part with particular dash. It was his men that broke in through the gun port, which allowed the cutter crew to fall on the defenders from the rear. That was crucial to our ultimate success for without it I fear it might have been a much bloodier affair. Neither my launch crew nor Macpherson and his Lobsters were making much progress up to that point. On the other hand, Mr Croft made a sad hash of his role. He arrived on board after the fight was quite over. With regard to the men I have few concerns. They fought with good pluck and spirit against a much tougher opponent than we had expected to find.’

  ‘So in summary, a very creditable first action for the Rush,’ said Clay. ‘Apart from Mr Croft, who we brought with us, and we already knew can show a want of initiative on occasion.’

  ‘Yes, I agree, sir,’ said Sutton. ‘It was also a very creditable action in the matter of prize money. I am sure you will have calculated the progress last night’s little affair will have made towards advancing your position where
Miss Browning’s hand is concerned?’

  ‘Not at all,’ replied Clay, a little too abruptly. He had been making that very calculation before Sutton had arrived. ‘It was our duty to prevent our enemies receiving the comfort of the delivery of the supplies the Olivette was carrying.’ Sutton continued to grin at Clay, forcing his friend to do likewise. ‘Although I will own that my three-eights of the capture’s value are not unwelcome,’ he added.

  ‘To that end can you tell off a prize crew for the Olivette to see her safely conveyed to Barbados?’ Clay ordered. ‘I will have my report on the action ready shortly, together with some private correspondence for them to take with them to Bridgetown. You might also see if any of the officers and men have letters they wish dispatched too. And I would like to invite the officers who took part in the action to join me for dinner later. I believe a celebration is in order.’

  Once Sutton had left the cabin, Clay completed the report he had been writing for Admiral Caldwell, and then pushed the sheets of stiff paper to one side for Taylor, his clerk to seal later. After a moment of reflection, he pulled a fresh sheet of paper towards him and began to write again.

  My Darling Lydia,

  I live in hope that you will have received my previous letters, but I fear that my efforts to date may have been in vain. Sir Francis and your aunt, Lady Ashton, have forbidden my correspondence with you, and if this injunction is still in place I am sure they will have had the means to intercept any openly directed approach. So today I am resolved to attempt a subterfuge. I will include this letter within one to my dear sister and your firm friend Miss Betsey Clay, with the request that she should forward it to you within one of her own letters. Like Odysseus within his wooden horse, I shall trust that her package too will conceal this letter till it should reach your hand.