Reload complete, the
crews crossed to larboard and took position. 'Stand by!' Gun-captains crouched
down, the handspikes went to work, the guns steadied and the gunlocks were held
to the lanyard. Kydd pitied the helpless frigate somewhere out there on the
bright morning sea, knowing what must be coming next. A cry from aft, and then
Binney's 'Fire!’ The broadside smashed out — but a louder, flatter concussion
overlaid the sound of the guns. Kydd's half-raised sleeve was rudely tugged
away, sending him spinning to the deck. Then, the tearing screams and cries
began.
He picked himself up shakily, afraid for
what he would see when the smoke cleared. His coat had been ripped right up the
sleeve, which hung useless, and as the smoke gave way he saw a gun now lying on
its carriage, split open along its length, the upper portion vanished. Wisps of
smoke still hung sullenly over it.
A small defect in
casting deep within the iron of a gun, perhaps a bubble or streak of slag, had
been sought out by the colossal forces of detonation and had failed, the
rupture of metal spreading in an instant to burst the gun asunder.
The cost to its
crew was grievous. Those closest had been torn apart, bright scarlet and
entrails from the several bloody corpses bedaubing deck and nearby guns, and
all around the piteous writhing of others not so lucky, choking out their lives
in agony.
Flying pieces of metal
had found victims even at a distance, and sounds of pain and distress chilled
Kydd's blood. Binney stood further aft, swaying in shock, but he appeared
untouched, staring at the slaughter.
The gundeck had come to
a stop, aware of the tragedy forward. Kydd felt for the unfortunates involved,
but there was a higher imperative: out there was an enemy not yet vanquished,
who could lash back at any time. There was no alternative: organise fire
buckets of water to soak away body parts, rig the wash-deck hose to sluice away
the blood but, above all, resume the fight.
It was the worst
possible luck — the easy success against the frigate was just what would have
pulled Achilles's ship's company together and given point to their exercises,
but now, and for a long time after, there would be flinching and dread in gun
action.
Fearfully, the men
turned back to their battle quarters. Kydd went to a gunport and looked out:
the shattered ruin of the frigate lay dead in the water, falling behind as
Achilles remorselessly pursued the merchantman. If their own frigate had stayed
with them instead of slipping away during the night she would be sharing in the
prize.
On deck they would be
under a full press of sail; a stuns'l on the sides of every yard, all canvas
possible spread, it would be a hard chase. Achilles was not a flyer but, then,
neither was the merchantman, and all the time the coast of France was drawing
nearer, already a meandering blue line on the horizon.
It was late afternoon, when the
coastline was close enough to make out details, that the drama concluded. On
the merchant ship the unwise setting of sail above her royals had its effect:
the entire mizzen topmast was carried away, tumbling down with all its rigging
in a hopeless ruin. The vessel slewed up into the wind, and within minutes a
single fo'c'sle gun on Achilles thumped out and in answer her colours jerked
down.
*
* *
Even on the main gundeck there was
jubilation; a respectably sized prize lay to under their guns, and with not
another ship in sight they would not have to share the proceeds. The launch was
sent away with an armed party as happy speculation mounted about her cargo.
But it was not the
mercury, silver and other treasure that fevered imaginations had conjured.
When the lieutenant of marines returned he hailed up at the quarterdeck from
the'boat: 'Sir, I have to report, we've captured a Spanish general, Don
Esturias de ... can't quite remember his whole name, sir.' There was a rumble
of disappointed comment from the mass of men lining the ship's side.
'He's accompanied by a company of
Carabineros Reales,' he added. 'And their pay-chest.'
An immediate buzz of
interest began, headed off by the captain. 'My compliments to Don, er, to the
general, and I'd be honoured to have him as my guest—'
'Sir, the general does not recognise
that he's been defeated in the field. He says - his aide says, sir, that he had
no part in his own defence, and therefore he will stay with his faithful
soldiers in what they must endure.'
Dwyer glanced at the
first lieutenant with a thin smile. 'Do you go to the ship and secure it, the
troops to be battened down well — the general too, if he wants it.'
'The
pay-chest, sir?'
'Leave it where it is
for now. Take who you need to fish the mizzen topmast and we'll have a
prize-crew ready for you later.'
A satisfied Achilles shaped course
north, into the night. By morning they would have the big French port of Brest
under their lee; then it was only a matter of rounding Ushant and a direct
course to England.
During the night,
vigilant eyes ensured their prize did not stray. The morning light shone on her
dutifully to leeward, a heartening sight for the bleary-eyed middle-watchmen
coming on deck for the forenoon exercise period.
Just as Brest came
abeam and Achilles was deep into three masts of sail drill, their prize fell
off the wind, heeling over to starboard and taking up a course at right-angles
to her previous one — towards the land. Above her stern, the White Ensign of
England jerked down, and moments later proud Spanish colours floated
triumphantly on the peak halliards.
It was a bitter blow.
The prisoners had risen during the night and taken the ship, but bided their
time before completing their break.
A roar of rage and
disappointment arose from Achilles, but the run had been timed well, and it was
long minutes before the ship could revert her exercise sail to running before
the wind. There was no hope: sail appeared close inshore — it was common to see
a French ship fleeing before an English predator and gunboats were always on
hand to usher in the quarry. There was no chance they could haul up to their
ex-prize in time. Achilles slewed round to send a frustrated broadside after
her and slunk away, rounding irritably on an interested English frigate of the
inshore squadron attracted by the gunfire. Yet again, the fortunes of war had
conspired against them.
The next day, in a bitter mood,
Achilles sighted the grey point of the Lizard, the most southerly point of
England, but Kydd's spirits soared. It had been so long, so far away, and now
he was returning once more to his native soil, to the roots of his existence.
It was only a lumpy blue line on the horizon ahead, but it meant so much.
'Y'r folks are in Scotland, o' course,
Tarn,' Kydd offered, seeing a certain distraction on his friend's face.
Cockburn didn't answer
at once, seeming to choose his words. 'Yes. In Penicuik — that's Edinburgh.'
The ship made a
dignified bow to one of the last Atlantic rollers coming under her keel; the
shorter, busier waves of the Channel produced more of a nodding. There were
sails close inshore, coasting vessels carrying most of the country trade of
England with their grubby white or red bark-tanned canvas, and occasionally
larger deep-sea ships outward bound or arriving after long ocean voyages.
'You'll be lookin' t' postin' up, or
will ye take the Leith packet?' Kydd hugged to himself the knowledge that
Guildford was less than a day away by coach from Portsmouth - and this time
he'd travel inside.
'Perhaps neither. We
won't be at liberty too long, I'll wager.' He wouldn't look at Kydd, who
suddenly remembered that Cockburn had left his home and family as a midshipman,
a future officer, but had yet to make the big step. It would not be a glorious
homecoming, without anything to show for his years away, neither promotion nor
prize money.
Impulsively Kydd tried
to reach out: 'Ye'll be welcome t' come visit the Kydds in Guildford, Tarn.
We've a rare old—'
'That's kind in you,
Tom, but in Spithead I've a mind to petition for transfer to a frigate, if at
all possible.'
There
were far better chances for promotion and prizes in a frigate rather than part
of a fleet, but Kydd knew that his chances among all the others clamouring for
the same thing were not good. He stayed for a space, then said, 'Best o' luck
in that, m' friend,' and went forward: he didn't want his elation to be
spoiled.
Captain Dwyer paced grimly up and
down the quarterdeck. 'What is the meaning of that damned Irish pennant?' he
snarled at the boatswain, pointing angrily up at a light line tapping playfully
high up on the after edge of the main topgallant sail. Welby snapped at the
mate-of-the-watch and a duty topman swung into the shrouds and scrambled aloft.
It would not do to be laggardly when Dwyer was so clearly in a foul mood.
Dwyer stopped his
pacing, and glared at Binney. 'I have it in mind to press some good hands,
replace our prize crew.' These would now be in captivity — the lieutenant would
in due course be exchanged, but the seamen had nothing but endless years of
incarceration ahead, their captors knowing that trained seamen were far more
valuable than any soldier to England.
'Sir.'
'We haul in one of your
fat merchantmen - there, like that one,' he said, gesturing ahead at a large
and deep-laden vessel anxiously crowding on all sail to get past the dangers
alwaj's to be faced at the mouth of the Channel.
'Inward
bound, sir.'
'Yes!' Dwyer snapped. 'You don't agree?'
Binney was clearly uneasy at his position. 'Well, sir, this one could've been
on passage six months, a year or more. Who knows what hazards and pains he's
been through? And now, in sight of home, if we then—'
'A damnation on your
niceties, sir!' Dwyer's face was pale with anger. 'We're at war, it may have
escaped your notice. Where else do you propose I get men? The quota? Debtor's
jail?' His glare subsided a litde, but his tone remained hard. 'You will
recollect, our people have been away from England all of two years — are they
then to be pitied? No, sir!'
He thrust his hands
behind his back and snapped, 'Mr Binney, I desire you to ready a boarding party
to press a dozen hands from that merchantman.' He saw the look on Binney's face
and gave a hard smile. 'And I'll not be satisfied with less, damn it!'
Kydd sat in the sternsheets of the
boat with Binney. Six marines were also crowded into the small space, clutching
their muskets and staring out woodenly. The bluff-bowed launch met the short,
steep waves on her bow, occasionally sending spray aft.
Kydd looked at
Binney: pale-faced and thin-lipped, he was clearly out of sorts. If this was
because they would soon be pressing men Kydd sympathised with his reservations:
he had been a pressed man himself. But cruel and inhumane though it might be,
the fleet had to be manned at a time when England herself stood in such peril.
These merchant seamen had chosen to take the higher pay and quiet life while
the navy stood guard over them. Now was the chance for some of them to play a
real part.
The merchant ship had
been brought to with a gun, but she affected not to understand and stood on. It
had taken dangerous jockeying for the big ship-of-the-line to draw abreast and
to windward. This stole the wind from her and at the same time brought her
close enough to be within hail. There had been an undignified exchange and
another shot ahead of her bowsprit before the vessel had reluctantly gone
aback.
The launch bobbed and
jibbed alongside. A rope ladder was finally thrown down and they boarded; the
marines were sent up first, and Kydd followed. Heaving himself over the
bulwarks he was confronted by a tight circle of hostile faces. Under the guns
of a ship-of-the-line and the stolid line of marines there was no trouble
expected, but he watched warily until the boarding party was all on deck.
Binney introduced
himself formally. 'Your papers, if you please, Captain,' he added politely.
'Cap'n Heppel, barque
Highlander of Bristol. From Callao, bound f'r London.' He wore an old-fashioned
long coat and tricorne, and his tone was frosty as he reluctandy produced the
papers. Binney inspected them carefully: pressing men from ships of the wrong
flag could flare up into an international incident with unfortunate
consequences for the officer responsible.