The Jamaica Station, page 17
part #3 of Carlisle & Holbrooke Naval Adventures Series
Medina swung swiftly through the eye of the wind, but her speed through the water diminished, and the Dutchman seemed to accelerate towards the frigate’s stern. The noise was tremendous as Medina’s swivel guns poured their lethal charges of canister into the packed masses. The Dutchman’s jib-boom came past Medina’s taffrail and jutted menacingly towards the starboard side of the quarterdeck. Holbrooke could see a few daring men perched on the bowsprit swinging grappling irons. At least six were thrown at Medina. Two fell short, two or three bounced off the hammock nets, but two more caught in the metal cranes that suspended the hammock nets and were instantly hauled taut. It was no use trying to cut them free because the last fathom before the grapnel was a heavy iron chain. The pirate ship hauled itself closer and closer to Medina.
‘Stand clear, sir!’ shouted a voice beside him and Holbrooke was almost knocked over as the swivel gun on the quarterdeck trained on its target. The seaman in charge took aim. There was nothing sophisticated about a swivel-gun’s sight; he just squinted along the barrel and heaved it around until he found his target. It discharged with a dull thud and a spurt of black powder smoke that escaped through the gap between the mug and the breech. An instant later, the Dutchmen who were hauling at one of the lines for the grappling irons were torn apart by the canister shot and fell from the bowsprit, one into the netting while the other fell clear into the rushing water below. With only one grapnel left, the rate that the two ships were drawing together momentarily slackened, but fresh men rushed over the body of their stricken shipmate. Ignoring his death agonies, they took his place to heave on the line. The two ships drew even closer together.
‘Boarders to the gunwales, starboard side,’ shouted Holbrooke. ‘Mister Hook, form up your marines behind them and be ready for volley fire.’
Holbrooke was determined to take the initiative. He remembered the way that his charge across the disengaged side of Vulcain, in the Mediterranean only a year ago, had turned the battle. He had no smaller vessel to make that outflanking move, but perhaps there was another way.
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‘Mister Wishart, Jackson, Angelini,’ they hurried at his call. ‘Take a dozen men from what’s left of the aft guns crews. Take all the pistols and cutlasses you can find and board the Dutchman through his gun ports. Fight your way to his deck and take them from behind. Don’t stop for anything.’
Wishart and Jackson looked at each other; Enrico appeared eager, a wild light of battle in his eyes.
Holbrooke grabbed Jackson’s shoulder. ‘Remember Vulcain! You can win this for us, the same as we did that time.’
Jackson nodded to Holbrooke and turned to the younger men, his officers. ‘Let’s go,’ he said, and they ran down into the waist, calling men’s names as they went.
There was a rush of men to the starboard quarter, and behind him, Holbrooke could hear the booted tread as Sergeant Wilson called the cadence to form three ranks, a solid impediment to the Dutch boarders.
‘Fix bayonets Sergeant Wilson,’ ordered Lieutenant Hook in a calm, steady voice. The rasp and click of the bayonets being secured to the muskets sounded loud in the unnatural hush. A boarding was imminent, and everyone was saving their powder for the final rush.
‘I’ll give them one more volley if you please, sir,’ said Hook from behind Holbrooke’s back.
‘Boarders lie down,’ shouted Holbrooke. There was a moment of confusion, but his steady petty officers, led by Morgan, the master gunner, pushed and thumped the excited men until they had all dropped below the level of the gunwale.
‘Present your muskets – take aim – fire!’ intoned Sergeant Wilson. That disciplined volley wreaked havoc in the ranks of the Dutch boarders, killing or wounding almost all in the front rank. One of the Medinas, an otherwise reliable able seaman, hadn’t ducked low enough and a musket ball took off the top of his head, spraying blood and fragments of bone over his neighbours. He dropped without a sound and lay in his own blood under the hammocks, a victim of his shipmate’s musket.
But still, the Dutchmen hauled at the lines and the narrowing gap would soon be small enough for men to leap across. The marines reloaded, and the Medinas crouched under the gunwale, ready to spring up and grapple with the first, most daring boarders.
So far, the frigate’s people had taken few casualties, but Holbrooke knew that it couldn’t last. He felt horribly exposed himself, but at least the Dutch sharpshooters had paused, pushing forward now to join the boarders.
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When it came, the impact was surprisingly soft as the two ships nudged gently together. There was a breathless pause and then a wild shout from the Dutch ship, and the boarders threw themselves at Medina’s netting, swinging cutlasses, knives and axes.
‘Boarders down!’ This time it was Hook giving the order in a shattering bellow. Sergeant Wilson repeated his sequence of orders, and another devastating volley hit the Dutch boarders as they were at their most vulnerable, hacking away at the boarding nets, caught like flies in a web. More Dutchmen fell but spurred by the desperation that knows that the hand of all civilisation is against them, a fresh wave of boarders threw themselves at the netting. The Medinas stood up to the challenge, thrusting with boarding pikes, slashing with cutlasses and firing their pistols at such close range that their opponents’ clothing was scorched by the muzzle flash. It was murder, but still they came.
Holbrooke could see that the boarding nets wouldn’t last much longer against this frenzied attack and his seamen were tiring. ‘Mister Hook. Bayonets,’ he shouted above the din. ‘Medinas down or away.’
Those that could disengage from their enemies fled forward or aft. Those that couldn’t crouched low as the tide of red uniforms charged over them, pushing through the netting with their bayonets. The battle had become a free-for-all, any hope of order had been lost as the sailors and marines fought side by side in a desperate attempt to prevent the Dutch pirates making a breach in the netting. But Holbrooke could see that a breach would be made, as rope by rope, the strands of the boarding nets were cut away. Soon he could see bodies trying to squeeze through the gaps, each one impaled by a bayonet or hacked by a cutlass, but for every Dutchman that was felled, another took his place. It couldn’t last, and soon a practicable breach would be made.
Holbrooke jumped atop the binnacle. ‘Wishart, Jackson!’ he shouted as loud as he could. ‘Now’s the time!’
At first, there was no answering call, and he started to despair, perhaps his flanking party were all lying dead on the Dutchman’s gundeck. Then he saw them. A line of men was forming up stealthily, crouching low on the far side of the Dutchman’s fo’c’sle. He saw Wishart and Jackson step to the fore while Enrico stood slightly apart on the right flank swinging his small-sword most professionally. He saw, rather than heard, their loud simultaneous shout of ‘Medina!’ and then they surged forward. Wishart and Jackson were instantly at close quarters with the Dutchmen, using their weapons like choppers, raining blows on heads and shoulders. Enrico, however, was displaying the fruits of his expensive fencing lessons and was giving himself space to use the point of his sword. In quick succession two of the enemy fell to lightning-fast thrusts as he guarded the flank of the counter-attack.
At first, only the rear ranks of the boarders recognised the problem as they fell to the unexpected blows from behind, then gradually, man-by-man, the whole body of Dutchmen became aware of this new menace in their rear. Pressed against the boarding nets, pinned in position by those behind them who were trying to evade the wicked blows of Wishart and Jackson’s party and the flashing blade of Enrico, the leaders attempted to turn. All thought of Medina’s deck was forgotten. Those who hadn’t panicked were intent now on securing their own deck.
Holbrooke cast around for the bosun. ‘Furl the boarding nets, as fast as you can.’ He knew that the nets had been rigged with slip-knots below the gunwales where the enemy couldn’t reach them, and once they were released it was a simple matter to haul down on the brails that led from the skirts of the nets to the mizzen top. The bosun shouted his orders, the slip-knots at the forward end of the quarterdeck were released, but the knots beside the taffrail were jammed. It didn’t matter, the forward brails were hauled up, and there was enough space for the Medinas to pour through. Holbrooke leapt onto the gunwale waving his sword.
‘Medinas to me,’ he shouted, ‘away boarders!’
The Dutchmen were trapped. Wishart, Enrico and Jackson with their steadfast band kept them from retreating, pinning them against the fo’c’sle railing, while an unstoppable horde of sailors and marines vaulted across the gap. Holbrooke slashed from left to right. There was no science to this fighting, no space for approved fencing moves. The hilt of his sword smashed into a man’s face was as useful as its point or edge. Slowly the Medinas squeezed the Dutchmen. Some escaped aft, some took refuge on the bowsprit, but of the remainder, few pleaded for quarter, and to even fewer was it granted. It seemed like hours, but the fighting was over in five minutes. At some point Holbrooke found Jackson beside him; he’d fought his way to his lieutenant’s side, as he’d done on the deck of Vulcain.
‘Just like old times, sir,’ he said with a smile.
The Dutchman’s ranks were thinning fast; the last few were herded against the fo’c’sle rail, their weapons dropped, and hands raised. Even then, Holbrooke saw a sailor thrust his boarding pike into a belly and watched helplessly as the man fell to the deck, a great red patch spreading across his shirt.
Perhaps he was luckier than his fellows; there’d be no Port Royal gallows waiting for him. Seeing that it was all over, he fumbled in his pocket for his whistle. His fingers couldn’t quite grasp it, and in those few clumsy seconds, two more Dutchmen were felled. At last, he hauled the whistle clear of his pocket and blew a single blast. All sailors knew the meaning of that, even the Dutchmen – Still. The fighting madness retreated, and only dull anger was left for their fallen shipmates.
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That scene was etched on Holbrooke’s memory, and he’d be able to recall it to his last days. The dead and dying were lying in heaps, mostly along the Dutchman’s fo’c’sle gunwale where they had fallen in their dozens while trying to board Medina, and there was a random scattering of bodies all along the deck. There was curiously little blood to be seen, just a few crimson patches where a dying man had fallen on his back. The small knot of the surviving enemy, now frightened and bewildered, was hemmed in by the red uniforms of the marines and the blue and white of the seamen. But there were shockingly few Dutchmen left standing, less than twenty, he thought. Over the whole, a pall of smoke persisted even with the wind whipping across the deck.
‘Wish you joy of your victory,’ shouted Hosking from Medina’s quarterdeck. A more inappropriate word than Joy he couldn’t have chosen, in Holbrooke’s opinion, as he looked around at the dead, dying and maimed. ‘The other fellow’s fled. He’s hoisted what sail he can and is running fast for the Old Straits of Bahama.’
Holbrooke looked over Medina’s quarter to see the damaged Dutchman, her mizzen furled to keep her head away from the wind, disappearing fast to leeward in the direction of Cuba.
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17: The Lone Pine Tree
Thursday, eighteenth of August 1757.
Medina, at Anchor. West Caicos.
The cabin was bathed in the last of the daylight as Medina swung to her anchor off the southern point of West Caicos. The figure lying in the cot looked pale, but alert, his head resting on a pillow and a sheet spread over his lower body. His upper body was mostly covered with an extensive crisscross of bandages that covered his chest and his right shoulder.
‘… and so, as you directed, not a single Dutchman stepped on Medina’s deck. The few that live are battened below decks on their own ship with Sergeant Wilson and a brace of swivel guns keeping watch over them.’
Carlisle attempted a smile, but it was more of a grimace as he winced in pain. ‘What of their captain, the man in the blue suit?’ he asked.
‘We found his body in the first rank of their boarders. He’d been pistoled and slashed with a cutlass,’ Holbrooke made a sweeping motion across his head and chest, ‘but it was a bayonet that killed him. Wilson is claiming the credit.’
‘Very well, then how many remain?’
‘Fourteen, and they’re all more-or-less wounded. The doctor is seeing them one at a time under heavy guard, but they’re as meek as lambs now. Schoonderwoerd of the foretop is with the doctor – he speaks the language – and he says they’re busy polishing their defence, telling each other how it was the skipper and his mate that lured them from privateering into pirating. It may even be true; Schoonderwoerd believes so.’
‘Much good it’ll do them in Port Royal, but the best of luck to them. I tend to the view that there are no bad followers, only bad leaders,’ said Carlisle weakly.
‘Our prize is little damaged,’ said Holbrooke. ‘She’s the Torenvalk – Kestrel in English – from St. Eustatius as Hosking said, sixteen eight-pounders and a few swivels. There’s a letter of marque with what is claimed to be the governor’s signature, but it’s not in a sensible legal form and in any case, it’s years out of date. She’s a fair prize. The other was last seen heading for the Old Straits of Bahama, but where she’ll find a friendly port to the west, I don’t know. They’ll be lucky if Don Alonso doesn’t find them; I can’t see him offering much mercy.’
‘The captain must rest now, Mister Holbrooke,’ interrupted Chiara, who was seated beside his cot. ‘He needs to regain his strength.’
Carlisle waved his hand, ‘just one more question, my dear, then I’ll let Mister Holbrooke go.’ He turned his face to his first lieutenant. ‘What of our casualties?’
Holbrooke looked grave, ‘we lost some good men, aye and good friends, but our losses are few compared with the enemy. Six dead,’ he named them, able seamen, ordinary seamen and a marine, good men and not so good, but each missed, ‘and another fifteen wounded, but the doctor believes they all have a fair chance of survival.’
Carlisle looked briefly troubled, then his face cleared. ‘It’s a famous victory for you Holbrooke. If that had been a national ship, you could have expected promotion …’ but Carlisle was talking to the deckhead because Chiara had silently ushered Holbrooke out of the cabin. Carlisle swung gently in his cot, dreaming feverishly of slashing cutlasses and barking muskets, and all his dead shipmates rolling in the red, red sea in Medina’s wake as the frigate swayed to the mild land breeze, and the sun sank over the tip of West Caicos Island.
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‘Well, bosun, how much longer do you need to make the Torenvalk fit for sea? I want to send Mister Wishart away in her before the forenoon watch on Saturday. That gives you a clear day. We’ll escort him through the day and see him off towards the Windward Passage before we run down to Cape François,’ said Holbrooke as he watched the hive of activity that their prize had become.
‘Aye, we’ll have her spick and span before then. The moon is only just past new, but with this clear sky, we’ll have enough starlight to work. She’ll be good for the couple of days it will take to run down to Port Royal. The shipwrights will have some work to do, but she’ll make a fine sloop if she’s bought into the service. Will we get prize money for her, sir?’
‘That’ll be up to the Vice-Admiralty Court in Port Royal. If she’s declared a pirate, then we’ll get head money for this ship, but probably not for the one that got away. But prize money? That’s an interesting point. We’re at war, and the prize order has been granted, but as we’re not at war with Holland. There are some legal niceties there that I’m not familiar with. We’ll just have to see, Mister Swinton. But one thing I know, the better condition that the Torenvalk is in when she reaches port, the more the Admiral will pay for her.’
‘In that case, I’ll just stir up Chips as well as my own crew,’ chuckled the bosun. ‘He can at least make her look pretty again. How many heads will we be claiming for?’
‘It’s astonishing, Mister Swinton. My tally comes to two hundred and twenty-three, counting in all the dead we could find. We discovered a muster list that shows a total of four hundred and nineteen for the two ships, so allowing that a few went over the side in the fight, we should be able to claim two hundred and thirty.’
‘It must have been tight berthing in those little ships,’ said Swinton, ‘but I expect they reckon on no more than a week at sea under normal circumstances. I’ll be away then, sir, to make all taut before tomorrow.’
Holbrooke watched the bosun being rowed the half cable to the prize and could clearly see him figuring on a scrap of paper and occasionally scratching his head. Holbrooke knew just what he was doing; if there were two hundred and thirty men in Torenvalk at five pounds a head, one-eighth of which went to the warrant officers – bosun, gunner, carpenter, surgeon, purser – and the chaplain and marine lieutenant, then Mister Swinton would be personally richer by about twenty pounds. Not a bad day’s work, and then there may be prize money as well, and that handsome ship was probably worth two thousand pounds. Some favourite of the Admiral’s would be delighted to be given her as a command once she’d been armed to the navy’s establishment of guns. And with that command would come a temporary promotion to commander, which would undoubtedly be confirmed by their Lordships with so many ships to be officered and manned as the war escalated. Holbrooke sighed. He wasn’t even remotely a favourite of the Admiral’s, nor would he ever be as long as he was the first lieutenant of a frigate – out of sight and out of mind.
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Down below, in the great cabin, Carlisle was snoring. The surgeon had given him a dose of tincture of opium – laudanum – the equivalent of three grains, and after an hour of nervous vitality, he’d fallen into a deep sleep.
