The Devil's Own Luck, page 18
“In our berth, sir. Both the gunner and the senior mids have made it plain, though I noticed at Spithead it seems common enough in other vessels.”
“Certainly in every ship I’ve sailed in. Did they say why?”
“Most emphatically, sir. I was informed not to draw attention to myself in any way. And it was represented to me that there was no quicker method than that.”
“Does the name Larkin signify?”
Prentice looked slightly alarmed. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, Denbigh’s voice cut in.
“Have you no duties to attend to, Mr Prentice?”
Without another word, Prentice dashed off. Denbigh gave Harry that cold stare again, before turning away.
Craddock was now on deck, doing what he had done hundreds of times in many seas: making the ship secure. The topgallants were being struck down. Extra ropes were bowsed tight over the ship’s boats, slung above the waist. Men were checking the lashings on the great guns. One of those guns (two tons in weight if you included the carriage) loose on deck in a storm could wreak havoc. The guns below were even heavier, rising to nearly three tons on the gundeck. Harry looked out over the windward side, the freshening breeze whipping his hair. He heard the orders given that brought the Magnanime round to sail as close as possible into the approaching storm. With a lee shore to larboard, Craddock was gaining as much sea room as possible. Perhaps it was just a squall that would pass over quickly. But at this time of year, and in these waters, it was just as likely to be a full south-westerly gale which could last for several days. To the east lay the rocky shoreline of northern Spain and Portugal, the graveyard for many an unprepared ship.
The pumps were clanking away, sending spurts of water over the side. The Magnanime was dry and weatherly but in a storm she could ship a great deal of water over her decks, some of which would find its way into the bilges. And in a heaving, pitching ship, some water was bound to make its way through the seams. Harry could see the men on deck and in the rigging going about their duties quietly and efficiently. Carter was lucky. Unhappy ship she might be, but the Magnanime had been in commission at the outbreak of war. All the hands were volunteers. He had at least been able to man his ship with proper seamen. Those coming after him would not be so fortunate, and a fair proportion of their crews would be landsmen.
Not that Carter was a bad seaman himself. He was a fine navigator and Harry guessed that in his disputes with the master, the grumbles of which were loudly proclaimed in the wardroom, Carter was as likely to have got the course and position correct, while the master had been some way off in his reckoning. And Carter trusted Craddock to do his job too. His absence from the deck proved that.
Craddock had everything in hand, with men working efficiently all over the deck, when the cry from the mast-head froze them in a dumb show. Two sails, fine on the starboard bow, as yet unidentified. The news brought Carter out of his cabin, telescope in hand, though it was far too soon to see them clearly from near sea level.
Harry, itching to go aloft himself, looked with envy as Mangold was sent to see what he could make of them. Men returned to their assigned duties on deck, but with a detached quality to their work. All eyes were pulled to look over the starboard bulwarks, to where the storm clouds gathered. Harry could imagine their thoughts. They would be praying for a pair of fat merchantmen, laden with wealth and only too keen to surrender without a fight to a ship the size of theirs.
“Seventy-fours,” shouted Mangold from the tops. “Can’t see their colours, sir.”
Craddock looked to Carter for an order. Carter said nothing, merely walking to the windward side and raising his glass to look out over the side. He stood for a while doing nothing then turned and spoke. “I think we best wait until we have identified them,” he said at last.
If Craddock was disappointed, he showed no sign of it. Harry could see the logic in Carter’s thinking. In these waters, given their course, it was a fair chance that they were hostile. In calmer seas, without the possibility of an approaching storm, Carter would probably have cleared for an action right away. But to undo all the precautions that had been undertaken to secure the ship for a rough sea would be foolish, and possibly dangerous, if the seventy-fours turned out to be friendly.
“French, sir,” screamed Mangold. “They’re hoisting more sail.”
Carter still paced up and down. He did have a difficult choice to make. How long before the storm was upon them? He had to assume that the French would fight if they could, just as no one aboard expected him to turn away from a superior force. Harry did not envy him, for the safety of the ship was paramount. Few captains would choose to face a storm cleared for action, with guns cast off and the multitude of things necessary for a battle at sea lying around the deck. And the French had the weather gauge, giving them the right to accept or decline battle in their own time.
“They’re coming on, sir.” Mangold must have been, like everybody, in an agony of suspense, lest they turn away. At least he was in a position to influence the debate.
“Can you see their decks yet, Mr Mangold?” shouted Carter.
“No, sir.”
“Then let me know the minute you can. The very minute, you hear!”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
With that Carter tucked his telescope under his arm and, again, he began to pace up and down the quarterdeck. You had to approve of the display of calm. For most men’s minds would have turned from the prospect of wealth and comfort. Now, with odds of two to one, they would be thinking of survival and possible glory. Mangold called down to the deck, identifying the enemy as the Achille and the Jemmapes.
The Magnanime ploughed on, her bowsprit now dipping into the rising seas as the swell increased, all the time her course converging with the enemy, bringing them closer. All the excuses were there for Carter to decline immediate battle. The odds, the weather, the direction of the wind, now moving round into the west, and the possibility that if he turned tail, he might well lead them towards a superior force. And even as a superior force, the French might in the end decline battle. The choice would be theirs right to the point where the ships engaged.
Carter would not decline battle. Harry instinctively knew that there would be no room in the captain’s mind for such a thought. The man was no coward, and all his life he could wait for a chance like this, and it would never come again.
He would fight them if they showed a desire to engage, weather permitting. He would seek to stay with them if it did not, ready to take them on when the weather moderated. The odds meant glory and honours if he was successful. Possible death or capture if he failed. But still glory, in a battle it would be no shame to lose. Harry would have done the same in Carter’s place.
“They’re clearing for action, sir.” Mangold could now see their decks.
“Then we shall do likewise. Beat to quarters, Mr Craddock. Note the time, Mr Denbigh.”
The marine drummer, who had been standing with his sticks raised, immediately started to beat the tattoo on his drum that sent men racing to their various duties. Bulkheads would come down, furniture would be shifted. Breakables would be packed and sent down into the hold. Guns would be cast off and powder bags filled in the magazines. More shot was being fetched from below, to be stacked alongside the guns. Netting would be rigged to catch falling blocks and spars.
The wardroom would soon cease to exist. From Harry’s cabin right to the front of the upper deck would be a clear space. Home most of the time, it would become a fighting platform, painted red so that spilt blood would not show. Two decks below, in the cockpit, Outhwaite would be putting the midshipmen’s sea-chests together to form a table and laying out his instruments, ready to go to work on men whose blood had stained that red-painted deck. A swig of neat rum, a leather strap in the mouth, and lashings to hold you still. Then the surgeon would go to work, ignoring the curses and screams from his patients. Harry shuddered at the thought. He’d seen a cockpit during a battle. It was as close to a living hell as any man was likely to witness.
“Mr Ludlow, sir,” said Pender, who had come up unnoticed. “I took the liberty of fetching these.” His servant held out a pair of pistols.
“Thank you. But I shan’t need those for some time yet.” This would be Pender’s first battle. The man showed no fear, still prepared to smile. They walked off the poop and down to where Craddock stood. On another ship he would have addressed the captain, but he could not bring himself to address Carter.
He steadied himself on the pitching deck. “I am at your service, Mr Craddock. Please feel free to employ me in any capacity you wish.”
Craddock lifted his hat to acknowledge the offer.
“You may remain on deck, Mr Ludlow,” said Carter, without turning round. “And you may employ yourself where you see fit.”
There was no way to say anything to the man’s back. “Have I your permission to go aloft?” he asked Craddock.
“Most certainly, sir. And please take a glass with you.”
“I have them now,” said Carter, acknowledging that the two Frenchmen were visible from the deck. The sun had a cover of wispy cloud now, and just to the west light-grey clouds merged, behind the French ships, into a rapidly blackening horizon. The barometer in the wardroom was still falling, presaging very foul weather. Which would engage them first: the enemy or the storm?
Harry ran for the shrouds. He reached the cap and started up towards the crosstrees. Up here the pitching of the deck became a wild gyration as the mast exaggerated the movement of the ship. He slipped his leg across one of the upper yards, and found a line with which to lash himself on.
Keeping his glass steady was difficult, since he was travelling thirty feet in either direction. And up here the roll was as pronounced as the pitch. Still, he had them in his glass now.
A whole host of questions come calculations were subconsciously going through his mind. How do they handle? How well are they manned? This could indicate whether they intended to try boarding, or to stand off and use gunnery to subdue the Magnanime. How long had they been at sea, these two? Was their rigging worn and sparse, or could they, fresh out of port, risk losing spars in a close engagement? Where had they come from? The West Indies, where their crew would have been exposed to yellow fever and thus weakened, and their rate of sailing affected by the weed covering their bottoms? The East? Or from a French port, which would see them with clean bottoms and a full complement, albeit inexperienced?
His mind turned to the coming battle. They would seek to engage with both ships at once. Carter would be best to try to avoid that, and attempt to fight them one at a time. And how much time would there be? The weather was worsening, and the wind was singing through the rigging. This, and a heaving sea, would make manoeuvre difficult. That counted against the inferior force, especially as Carter would have to keep his lower gunports closed. In this sea, opening ports so close to the water-line was to invite disaster.
On the other hand the same weather would likewise induce a degree of caution in the enemy. They would not wish to sustain serious damage with a gale in the offing. Closer now, and much closer in his telescope, Harry watched the crew going about their duties. A mite slow, he reckoned. And much shouting of orders and the need to push men to their duty. More importantly, neither ship had nettings rigged to deter boarders. The lead ship, Achille, was shortening sail, allowing the Jemmapes, her consort, to come up. Harry watched intently, noting how long this activity went on. And having gained her purpose, it took some time for her to set those sails again. Those sails? They seemed in very good order, with none of the patches of a ship that had spent a long time at sea. What about the captains, now sailing neck and neck with less than a cable’s length between them? What would they make of the Magnanime? She too looked like a ship just out, but if they had properly observed the way she handled, they would smoke that she had been at sea for a long time.
Harry, having seen everything he needed to know, made his way quickly back to the deck. Their aim was now plain to him. They intended to engage on both sides, firing several broadsides into the Magnanime, then attempting to board in the smoke and confusion. A quick affair, with capture rather than destruction the aim. No doubt they were relishing the prospect of taking a French ship that had, for so long, been in the possession of their ancient enemy.
Harry reported his observations and conclusions to Craddock.
“Fresh out of port with an un-worked-up crew. Sail handling and gunnery likely to be poor. Numerous however, and well-fed. Their intention is to board as soon as practical, having attacked both sides.”
The acting premier acknowledged the information, looking slightly bemused at the certainty in Harry’s face. He then passed it on to Carter. If that caused him to adjust his intentions, there was no sign of it. The Magnanime, now cleared for action, ploughed on towards the approaching enemy. Harry waited for further orders, but Carter gave none.
Again Harry felt the frustration. He knew what he would do. Perhaps Carter intended the same, but his silence gave no clue. The Frenchmen were not going to engage in any fancy seamanship, which was probably just as well. Without being fully worked up as a crew, it would endanger them more than their enemy. So it made sense for the French to rely on weight of metal and manpower, rather than sailing qualities to defeat the Magnanime.
By the same set of calculations, Carter had an experienced crew, who could be relied upon to outsail the enemy. Harry, well aware that the French had telescopes trained on the Magnanime, could have deliberately slowed the preparations to make the hands appear inexperienced. Carter, if it had occurred to him, decided against any such subterfuge. But surely he must see that being the lesser force he must seek to redress the balance by splitting the enemy, driving them apart, and away from their plan, so that he could exploit their weaknesses.
Time was rapidly running out. Carter should have already got his topgallant masts rerigged, and some men aloft ready to increase sail. True, the storm was approaching, and he’d likely have to get them down again in difficult circumstances. But the French were going to fight, and beating them was the first task. Those telescopes, seeing the British sailors rigging masts to carry more sail, might presume that the Magnanime intended to flee, causing the subsequent actions to come as even more of a surprise.
By staying on this course, with perhaps a touch more southing, suddenly increasing his speed would produce a definite gain, since the French would take much longer to achieve a similar result. If he could achieve sufficient speed, their courses would converge at a moment more of Carter’s choosing, the aim being to force the French into line ahead, to be fought one at a time. If not that, he still held an even stronger card simply because of the nature of his crew and officers. By letting fly his sheets and bearing up at the right moment, he could cause them to overshoot enough on their converging course to nullify the advantage they now held with the wind in their favour. If he could get windward of the Jemmapes, it was only a short step to getting athwart her stern. A modicum of luck would see such a weight of shot pour through her rear as to render the ship useless.
And if all that failed Carter could wear, turning away from his enemy and forcing them into a stern chase. Not glorious perhaps, but that at least would be a situation pregnant with possibilities for splitting the enemy, given that he could manoeuvre so swiftly. To Harry, taking the initiative was vital. For if Carter did not negate that numerical advantage, and tried to fight both the Achille and the Jemmapes, then he was courting almost certain defeat.
The minutes ticked away. Still Carter did nothing, simply standing staring at the approaching enemy. Not even a rousing speech to the men, silent beside their guns. Harry looked at Craddock and the other officers to see if they too had any doubts about their captain’s behaviour. All he saw were set jaws and an air of keen anticipation.
“Captain Carter,” said Harry, walking over to where he stood. “Would it be in order for me to suggest a course of action?”
“It would not, Mr Ludlow. Making yourself useful does not extend to interfering in the running of the ship.”
“Then might I ask what your intentions are?”
“Intentions?” Carter turned and looked at Harry without comprehension. “Why, I intend to fight these two Frenchmen.”
“I was more curious about the method you will employ.”
“Method? I shall put myself alongside the enemy and engage them.” There was a note of exasperation in his voice, as though the question was stupid.
“Yard-arm to yard-arm?”
“Precisely!”
“Mr Craddock passed on to you my observations?” It was a great temptation, this desire to tell the captain the foolishness of this course of action. Harry fought to keep the strain out of his voice, but time was rapidly slipping away.
“I have received a lot of information, most of it with my own eyes, Mr Ludlow.”
“Then you will be aware that the enemy will probably attempt to engage you on both sides?”
“I am.” Carter’s shoulders tensed.
“You have the ability to outsail them, even in a rising sea. Could I not suggest to you, as a more profitable course of action . . .”
Carter spun round, his face suffused with anger. “Damn you, Ludlow. Will you never cease to carry a superior air. It is insufferable to be addressed so at such a time.”
Harry was aware that he was incurring the disapproval of everyone on the quarterdeck, not just Carter. He was indulging in a shocking breach of manners.
“I would wish you to be successful, sir, for my country’s sake, if no other.” This was said in a loud voice to carry to all of them.
Carter, turning away again, replied through clenched teeth. “Then, sir, please leave the running of the ship, and the conduct of this action, to the person your country has seen fit to put in command!”
There were many more things he could have said. Like Carter’s aversion to exercising his guns meant that his crew would have a slow rate of fire. Faster than the French perhaps, but too slow to make up for the effect of shot coming from both sides.
