His Majesty's Ship (24 page)

      
“They're keeping together, sir” said Dyson, echoing Shepherd's earlier thoughts. “It appears that they don't intend taking the others.”

      
Shepherd nodded, that was good; although it did make their own capture more likely.

      
“When I was a midshipman, the French held me for two years.” Dyson continued, almost absent-mindedly.

      
The captain turned to look at his first lieutenant. It was relatively rare for Dyson to volunteer any information about himself. Shepherd supposed the impending action had loosened his tongue.

      
“I was not aware of that.” he said, hoping to coax more. “How was it?”

      
Dyson's face was blank. “Frustrating.” He said. It was about the only emotion Shepherd had heard him admit to.

      
The captain smiled, “You have my word; I will try to avoid it a second time.”

      
Dyson was nettled. He moved across to the binnacle and picked up the traverse board to hide his anger, before realising that the remark was meant as light. After all, a joke proffered by a captain did not have to be riotously funny. He glanced at the traverse board, the rough slate that kept record of the ship's last few hours before being copied out into the log. For the hundredth time he reminded himself that he was completely without social skills; in a perfect world he should not be allowed in company with others.

      
“What speed, Mr Dyson?” asked the captain.

      
“We're currently averaging three and a half knots, sir.”

      
Both men looked up to the sails; the wind had increased slightly, and there was plenty of power available, if only they were allowed to use it.

      
“What do you think she'd do?” The captain had sensed that he had hurt Dyson's feelings, and was trying to make amends, however unintentional his offence.

      
“Probably double that, sir, if we were on our own.”

      
Shepherd nodded. If they were on their own they may well avoid the French altogether. As a sixty-four
Vigilant
was different from the normal ship-of-the-line. Captains either swore at them, or prayed for them, and Shepherd was one of the latter. He believed, indeed he had proved on occasions, that
Vigilant
could match or out sail most of her larger cousins. Of course her broadside was that much lighter; the thirty-two pound gun of the seventy-four was undoubtedly a far superior weapon, although one that took longer to load. In the captain's eyes the rapid fire of twenty-four pounders made up for the weight of slower, heavier, broadsides.

      
That extra weight would also make the enemy's line ships less handy, even taking into account the sleek designs of French built vessels. If
Vigilant
was alone he could probably play a pretty game, possibly to the extent of luring them into the guns of the Channel Fleet, provided they were stupid enough.

      
“And the French, what speed?”

      
“Reckon they'll be making seven, sir, maybe more.” That was over doing things a little, although Shepherd did not contradict his junior. He would not have expected them to see anything past six, which meant they were being overhauled at roughly three nautical miles an hour.

      
The motion was increasing; both men could feel the ship as she butted into the deeper swell. There was no sign of a squall on the horizon, although the outline of the pursuing ships was a little less distinct, despite the lessening distance between them. Shepherd sniffed the breeze, which was dry and lifeless; the storm, if there was to be one, would not be from that angle.

      
“I think we might give our merchant friends some exercise,” he said, smiling at Dyson.

      
“Yes, sir?”

      
“Let's start by getting them to show more canvas, and then set them into a “V” formation:
en echelon
.”

      
Dyson felt that something more was called for from him, and that this was one of the occasions when he should discuss matters with his captain. “They'll be less easy to control then, sir. At least when they are in a tight body we can signal to them as one.”

      
“Yes, but spreading them now will use what wind there is to the greatest advantage. Ideally I’d like the enemy separated as much as possible. When the French close, our merchant friends are bound to scatter and with luck the enemy will be forced to divide. I'd wager
Vigilant
is faster in stays that any of their line ships; what say we run amuck between them before they account for us?”

      
Dyson nodded, pleased with the prospect of selling his ship dear. “We may give them a few surprises, sir.”

      
The captain continued in a quieter voice. “In a ship to ship I feel we could take at least one Frenchman with us and it would all be over in an hour. I intend to damage three or possibly four. The action will take longer with a butcher's bill to match, and we probably won't actually destroy a ship.”

      
“There's a chance that help will come through.”

      
Shepherd smiled. “We'll have to string it out a long time for that, but at least Admiral Howe will know where to look, and the French won't be so able to run. If we can keep them away from the commodore’s ship for now, then damage them enough to slow at least some of them down, I will be more than happy.”

      
It made sense; taking one from their number and leaving the others relatively unharmed might reduce the enemy’s strength, but the rest would be free to reach their destination without delay. If Shepherd’s plan was successful the entire force would remain intact, but delayed to the extent that their eventual destruction became inevitable. However, both men were aware how the Admiralty, and other officers, might interpret their actions. No one would expect much with the odds as they were, but to go down without taking another ship as well might be judged disappoint-ing; little value would be placed on partially disabling more ships, even if they were captured later. Some would understand their motives, but others, and the British press and public come to that, would be quick to damn their sacrifice—and some would call them cowards.

*****

      
Throughout the ship men began to prepare for battle, spreading stories and opinions about the French ships as they went. The surgeon and his assistants started to move instruments and supplies from the sick berth down to the midshipmen's quarters on the orlop. A methodical man, who knew a little medicine and a lot of surgery, Wilson laid out and inspected his tools at leisure, while his loblolly boys checked needles and horsehair, gags, turpentine, and tow needed for the inevitable operations. An empty barrel was procured for the “legs and wings” that the surgeon would discard, and canvas piled in readiness to cover the decks when the order was given to clear for action. In addition, bandages and tourniquets were parcelled up to be left at strategic points throughout the ship, where they could be used for first aid. A good supply of rum was also raised and brought down to the makeshift operating theatre. This would be used when the work was hottest, to calm the waiting injured and, all too frequently, Wilson and his helpers.

      
On the main deck, just under the forecastle, the cook watched as his mates stoked up the galley fire, while stewards emptied the day's meat rations out of the steep tub, and checked their lead tags. In a gesture of rash generosity he laid out several pots of slush; the fat skimmed from the boiling coppers of meat, and normally sold to the men to spread on their biscuit. The cook was a veteran of the First Battle of Finisterre, and knew well how easily the men's mouths would dry, even without the smoke and fumes of action. He also authorised an extra ration of one lemon per man. There were no oranges, or any other soft fruit to issue, but a dessert of slush covered biscuits might make the men more comfortable for a time, and the bite of a lemon would clear a fighting man's mouth. He might be losing money on the slush, but he was reasonably certain of being around to make it up later. The cook would see out the action in the grand magazine, ironically a place of relative safety; if death should meet him there he would not go alone.

      
The carpenter and his crew piled wooden bungs, nails and lead sheets in the wings, the narrow corridors that ran along the side of the ship, level with the waterline. The gunner checked his supply of cartridges, and watched while his mates set to sewing more. The boatswain routed out the spare cable, ropes and line that would be needed to keep the ship under command, trying to anticipate the master, who would be bound to call for a certain brace or shroud to be replaced or reinforced before action. The work was carried out with few words of command; the men fell to their tasks naturally before the call to clear for action took them to the next state of readiness.

      
But one man had nothing to do, and no one, apparently, had need of him. His station in action would be with the wounded, where he would make the men as comfortable as possible, both physically and spiritually, while trying not to get in anyone's way. In the dubious privacy of his tiny cabin he clenched the bible his father had given to him, staring at the well thumbed pages with only the vaguest pretence of reading, while inwardly his body trembled.

      
The Reverend William Bryant knew his duty, and it was a hard one. At best he was accepted by the officers, at worst he was despised by the men. Men who begrudged him their groat; the four pence a month they had to contribute towards his wages. Men who openly mocked him, taunted him, and ridiculed his faith, while the God fearing amongst them despised his weakness in accepting the abuse.

      
He had thought it was faith that kept him sane through the last few months, and faith that prevented him from resigning during their recent stay at Portsmouth. In the half light Bryant decided that even his father would have understood, and may even have arranged a safe little parish for him within his own diocese. In his cramped cabin Bryant had time to consider this and, almost for the first time, his life and the mess he had made of it. He knew that to be proud was sinful, but when pride was removed from his faith, there was very little left.
 

*****

      
“Of course, they might not fight.” It was a bold statement, and instantly the other officers gave Gregory, fourth in seniority but more experienced than any other lieutenant present, their entire attention.

      
“Not fight?” asked Rogers. “Why the devil shouldn't they?”

      
Gregory closed his journal and sat back in his chair. The wardroom was unusually crowded, and he felt the need to stretch his legs.

      
“We don't know where they're heading. It could be the Med., it could be America, or the 'Indies for that matter. And we don't know what they intend to do. If their senior officer has orders to meet up with another squadron, he's not going to be thanked for wasting time plundering a convoy.”

      
The others digested this for a moment before Carling, the captain of marines, spoke.

      
“But if they were bound for America or the 'Indies, wouldn't they be halfway across the Atlantic by now?”

      
Rogers snorted into his wine with disdain and went to speak, although Gregory, calmly shaking his head, got in first.

      
“South to twenty degrees, that's the usual way. Past the Canaries, then pick up the Westerlies and let them carry you across. There they could shelter to wait for others; the French have used that trick afore to assemble a fleet. That is if there aren't other ships already awaitin' them”

      
Rogers felt unreasonably annoyed by the older man's confidence and as his anger grew he became scathing; the next stage before denouncement and straight forward abuse. “You're not trying to tell me,” he said, reaching for the black bottle once more, “that a squadron of warships is going to sight a poorly protected convoy, and just pass it by?”

      
Gregory eyed him coolly, noticing the amount of wine that had missed his glass and now lay in a pool on the wardroom table. “Stranger things have occurred, and we must not close our minds to any possibilities. The other is our captain; he may choose not to close with them.”

      
“Shepherd will fight,” answered Tait, who had just come off watch. There was an edge to his voice that was not lost on Gregory; the young man held no affection for Rogers. “Why else would he have split the convoy?”

      
“Right!” Carling now took up the baton. “A man who wanted to avoid action would have scattered them at the first sight.”

      
Rogers was clutching at his glass, as if frightened that someone might take it from him. “Much good it will do.” he said drinking deep and apparently oblivious to the contemptuous looks from his brother officers.

      
Gregory cleared his throat and stood up. “Well, we shall know everything in time. If you will excuse me, I have duties to attend to.”