The Patriot's Fate (36 page)

They did little damage. Either the men were untrained, or such panic had been induced that they fired indiscriminately, without troubling to aim their weapons to any degree. Caulfield was still looking back at the Frenchman when Banks finally turned to him. There was little either of them could say, and both knew the other well enough to resist any of the trite platitudes that came to mind. It had been a bold plan, one that proved successful. That single broadside had knocked much of the fight from the French. They might continue to run, but they would be caught, that was now a certainty; as would the others that lay disabled in their wake.
Scylla
had carried out Warren’s orders to the letter: the enemy line had been halted.
 

“Beggin’ your pardon, sir.” Banks looked round to see the carpenter knuckling his forehead as Caulfield ordered the ship back on to an easterly course. “There’s another two feet taken in the well. I put patches to a couple of nasty leaks, but would reckon there to be a plank or two stove in below the waterline.”

“The pumps are in operation?” he asked.

“Jus’ the one, sir. Mr King said he can spare me more men when we are out of action.”

“Very good.” Over five feet in the well was a good deal of water, but King had been right in keeping his gunners at their posts, and Banks must also think of the action in hand. Behind them
Foudroyant
was already exchanging long range fire with the first of the frigates, and Warren himself in
Canada
lay close behind.
Melampus
was off their starboard quarter and beating up against the wind. Then he switched his attention to the
Hoche
for the first time in what felt like ages. The ship was besieged, with
Magnanime
and
Robust
competing for position to one side, and the smaller
Amelia
off her stern. “Very well, he repeated. “Mr Fraiser, can you lay us alongside the enemy flagship?”

The sailing master peered through the smoke and glanced up at the sails before nodding. “Aye, sir. There should be little difficulty.”

Badly holed as she was,
Scylla
was in no fit state for high speed sailing, but could still continue to make her mark in the action, and while she was so able, Banks had every intention of using her to the full. “Then you will oblige me by doing so without further delay,” he said.

Chapter Sixteen

Hoche
was little more than a wreck. Crowley and the rest were still tending their gun, but those on either side had grown silent due to a lack of trained men. And the supply of powder, previously brought by a succession of soldiers, had slowed until they were left waiting for each charge to appear. But the enemy seventy-four was also severely damaged, as was the heavy frigate on their quarter, and even the fifth rate now to their stern. In the pause Crowley noted a further British ship heading for them, and the frigate that had done so much to initially halt the French column was also bearing down from the west. He wiped the back of his arm across his forehead. Shot and splinters continued to fly about the quarterdeck but the small group had remained unharmed since Doherty and Walsh had been accounted for. Now, deafened by gunfire and apparently immune to the rigours of action, it was doubtful that any even noticed the carnage that was being wrought about them.

A fresh charge came by way of a new face, a young lad who looked no more than twelve. He passed the deadly package across and waited, panting, while it was inserted into the mouth of the carronade.

“Be gone,” Doyle told him roughly. “We need more; bring back at least two, I don’t care about the regulations.”

The boy looked at him blankly and stayed where he was. Tone translated, but still he did not move, and eventually replied in a series of short sentences delivered in a thick Bretton accent.

“He says they have no cartridges,” Tone told them. “They are sewing more as fast as they can, but have resorted to using powder ladled straight into the guns on the lower deck.”

Crowley heard, but said nothing. The earlier incident, when he had all but revealed his private thoughts, was still with him. Whatever his reasons, he maintained that moving on would have been the right strategy, but in saying so he had clearly earned the universal disdain of his fellows. He might feel no particular claim on any country, but even a temporary loss of friends was surprisingly painful to him, and he longed for a way to make amends.

The gun roared out yet again, and they went through the routine of clearing the spent charge and sponging out the barrel, but there seemed less need for haste now, and hardly any to even continue fighting. The soldiers, still formed in ranks along the deck, were maintaining a steady rate of musket fire, but all seemed to know instinctively that defeat could only be a short wait away. A further charge eventually arrived, this time carried by a different lad, and the cannon fired again. Her crew went through the motions of clearing once more, and fired without even bothering to look for a result. Then they waited for more powder, but none was forthcoming. Crowley caught the eye of MacArthur; the man sighed and pursed his lips.

“Reckon we’re done for, Michael,” he said sadly.

Crowley nodded, stupidly grateful for even this small amount of human contact. “Aye,” he replied. “Reckon we are.”

* * *

It was yet another gamble, but Banks, still mildly elated from delaying the three frigates, felt there was little he and his ship could not achieve. Of course
Hoche
was far larger than
Scylla
, and boasted two full gun decks containing cannon half as large again as any his fifth rate carried. And she would be packed with men; in addition to a compliment of seamen that probably outnumbered the British by more than two to one, there would be soldiers: the nucleus of a small army. But then the
Hoche
had been under constant fire from another line-of-battle ship, with a heavy frigate and a further fifth rate also joining in. And she was visibly sitting lower in the water, with her tophamper all but destroyed. Banks was betting that
Scylla
‘s arrival would come at a time when her commander was considering surrender and his frigate, already demonstrably successful against three of her kind, should be excellently placed to deal the final blow. With their flagship gone, the remaining French could hardly hold out for very much longer and the entire action would be over. A gamble it may be, but he was growing increasingly certain it was one worth the taking.
 

But, damaged or not, there was still some bite in the two-decker. Fraiser had set a course that would see them closing on her starboard bow and they were just sweeping in ready to join the fight when the Frenchman’s entire forecastle appeared to erupt in a cloud of smoke and fire. The guns had clearly been without a target for some while, and were despatched with deadly efficiency on
Scylla
‘s prow. Round shot rang about her foremast and bowsprit, bringing down her jib and smashing the martingale rig. Banks cursed, and for a moment even considered laying off and commencing a long range bombardment, but the satisfaction derived from dealing with those frigates was still with him and more than anything else in the world he wanted an end to things.

“Keep her as she is,” he muttered as
Scylla
continued to cut through the water. The present angle meant that none of her broadside guns were bearing, but as soon as she was wedged in alongside Banks would order another thunderous barrage to be unleashed. Then Westwood and Adshead would lead their marines across, followed by any seamen detailed as boarders and probably a few extra following out of pure devilment. Banks reckoned they would have control of the forecastle and upper deck within minutes, and it could not be much longer before additional men came.
Robust
was almost touching; and the other two were not so very far off. It would be a short, if bloody fight, and then all would be done: the battle ended, and they could look to securing the prizes and licking their wounds.

Scylla
‘s boarders were grouped about the forecastle and starboard gangways, the marines still crisp in their splendid uniforms, bayonets gleaming in the morning sun. The seamen were far more ragged in comparison and diversely armed with cutlasses, pistols and pikes; some also carried hatchets, others belaying pins, and there was one amongst them who appeared to be wielding a butcher’s cleaver.
Scylla
was slowing, the loss of jib, together with what must now be a considerable amount of water in her hull, was finally taking effect. But she only had to be good for the next fifty yards or so, and she had served them so well that Banks felt she would provide that much more at least.

* * *

Surridge, on the forecastle, was certainly ready. His gun was to be used just one more time during the action, then he would abandon it and get to grips with the enemy in a proper manner; in a way that he truly understood. And even Cox by his side, usually a man who preferred to be led rather than lead, even he was looking forward to the forthcoming
mêlée
with a relish that was almost primeval.
 

Chilton, the senior naval officer present, was perhaps not quite so certain. This was his first true action, the only previous time he had heard a shot fired in anger having been when
Scylla
chased down a privateer off the coast of France. On that occasion the enemy was lightly armed and gave little resistance, a dramatic contrast to what had taken place that morning. He felt he was holding up well enough, but the last thirty minutes or so had definitely taken a toll on his nervous energy. And now he was to lead men in actual hand to hand fighting: he would never dream of shirking such a responsibility but knew in his heart that it was not the ideal task for him.
 

Captain Westwood, on the other hand, was extremely keen and could not have felt fitter for the fray. His trusty rifle that had proved itself so many times was freshly charged and would soon be tested further in the close confines of hand-to-hand combat. He also wore a sword of course, but the weapon had remained in its scabbard all morning, and there seemed little likelihood that it would be drawn that day. What he had achieved with the
Windbüchse
had convinced him of the superiority of such a weapon, and the marine was determined to see that his experience was properly reported. Just how much damage a unit of men so equipped might do could only be imagined; it was a devastating tool, and one that the British must take full advantage of.

They were closing now, and further enemy shots began to reach them. They were merely small arms fire, however, and most were efficiently absorbed by the hammock-packed netting. Chilton waited, listening to the men as they muttered amongst themselves. No one apparently expected more than token resistance, the consensus being the enemy were all but spent and this was going to be a walk over. The young lieutenant had a soul far too sensitive for such an assumption, and was starting to wonder if he could even take part in an attack, even though he knew that Westwood would assume overall charge when the time came. Then, with a great feeling of relief, he noticed King and Barrow, along with Johnston, the master’s mate, make their way up to the forecastle.

“Rose has the guns,” King said, grinning broadly at his friend. “Reckoned not much would be needed from them after we touch, so he is to despatch what will bear, then send the crews to join us.”

Chilton went over to speak. As the only senior naval officer he had felt very alone on the forecastle for a good while, and was grateful for someone to confide in. “Tell me, Tom,” he said, his voice soft and barely audible, “the ship, does she not feel a mite low?”
 

“Aye, we’ve taken some nasty knocks; carpenter reports nearly six feet of water in the well.” Despite this news the older officer appeared quite cheerful, and his ready acceptance was like a tonic to Chilton. “But we have both pumps in action now, and this little lot should not take too long to finish.”

He was unusually casual, and Chilton regarded him carefully. “You make it sound like a jaunt,” he said suspiciously.

“Oh no,” King hastened to reassure him. “No, I think it will be anything but.” His eyes flashed suddenly. “This would be your first time, Peter?”

“It would.”

“Then you shall quickly realise that much will be down to luck.” He drew closer, speaking as privately as the crowded conditions allowed. “There is not a man present who is not afeared. Any that say otherwise are liars or fools. But it will help if you do not wear your concern on your sleeve; it hardly encourages the people.”

Chilton saw the sense in that and felt his body relax for the first time in what seemed like hours. It was far easier now that he was not alone.

“Stand by!” Westwood had mounted the starboard catshead and was holding his rifle high, every bit the ancient warrior waving a spear.