His Majesty's Ship (26 page)

      
It was hard to argue in the face of a compliment.

      
“The midshipmen are trained up, sir. All have been in signals longer than me—and I hope to be coming back.”

      
“We will still be sacrificing a merchant ship, and her cargo.”

      
That was inevitable, King fought hard to suppress his frustration.

      
“Sir, at the rate the
Hampshire Lass
is falling behind, they'll snap her up in a couple of hours. This way we will rescue her crew, divert one, maybe two of the French frigates, and at the very least see they do not benefit from the ship, or what she carries.”

      
There were numerous precedents where vessels had been sacrificed to prevent them falling into enemy hands: the idea of fire ships was almost as old as the sea itself. He had also been looking for a way to divide the enemy, and King’s plan would seem to do exactly that. No, it was just the potential loss of men that worried Shepherd. He looked through the plan once more. Ingenious and quickly, if not thoroughly, thought out. Shepherd looked across at King. The lad had done well; he had a future in the Navy and it would be a shame to lose him. However the Navy existed because men like this were prepared to take risks and to deny him the chance because of the danger would be wrong.

      
The final and deciding factor was no more than a hunch; one that Shepherd had been harbouring for a while. The enemy were still making for them and had shown no sign of dividing to take the faster ships, which were steadily heading for safety. Clearly their commanding officer was cautious, either by nature, or due to orders. A shock like this might do more than simply divide his force; it could dissuade him from risking more by pursuing the rest of the convoy, and might even give him an excuse to break off altogether. It was a long shot, but one Shepherd felt worth the taking.

      
“You'll need volunteers; genuine ones mind—even from the marines.” There was a slight pause as the captain caught his eye. “And I am sure you are aware of the laws of war? Any man captured in this type of venture can legally be put to death.”

      
“Yes, sir.”

      
“Then you had better see to it that your party does as well. Choose from your own division by all means, it is better the people know each other if they are to work together.”

      
King nodded.

      
“And both cutters.”

      
“Both, sir?” he had only asked for one.

      
“Yes, spread the men out. They'll have more space, and if one is sunk we might at least see half the force back.”

      
“Yes, sir.”

      
“Ask Captain Carling and Mr Dyson to see me immediately, and arrange for cutlasses and pistols for the men. The gunner will advise you to the rest of your requirements. Take who you want from the midshipmen as your second. You're sure of the cargo?”

      
“Dockyard stores: Petersburg hemp, coal, Stockholm and Archangel pitch, tar, candles, rope, blocks and powder. She was due to leave the convoy at twenty degrees, and make her own way across the Atlantic. I saw the manifest before we left Spithead.”

      
“Powder?”

      
“Yes, sir. For small arms, but a considerable amount.”

      
“Very well.” An expensive cargo, worth a small fortune to whoever was financing it; this was one entrepreneurial venture that had failed at the first hurdle. They were also essential stores, ones that the French would find extremely useful; it might be considered his duty to deny access to them.
 

      
“Drogher she may be, but she is someone else's property, although considering the situation you shouldn't have much trouble clearing her crew; I'm sure you can cope with it if you do.”

      
King nodded, conscious of the pulse in his neck that had begun to drive at an incredible rate.

      
“Better get on with it, the less the enemy expects the better.”

      
Shepherd stood up and extended his hand. ”I wish you luck, Thomas.”

      
“Thank you, sir.” The captain's unexpected use of his Christian name shocked him almost as much as his acceptance of the plan. He took the outstretched hand awkwardly, before turning and heading from the cabin and into the brightness of the quarterdeck. His head was filled with a jumble of tasks he had to complete in very little time, and there was a faint feeling of nausea that had just made itself known, deep in his stomach.
 

*****

      
Flint had finished his dinner and was relaxing in the maintop. After standing the forenoon watch he was technically off duty, although he had seen enough in the morning to realise there would be no time for leisure that afternoon. From his lofty position he watched as two signal mid’s attempted to coax the merchants into order. The ideal formation for ships pursued without the windward advantage was roughly “V” shaped, with
Vigilant
at the head, and the others trailing to either side. So far two ships had been persuaded to their correct station, and a third seemed likely to follow shortly. They would have problems with the last; she had been slow for the entire voyage, and even the prospect of being the first to meet with the French had not given her extra impetus.

      
The enemy were in clear sight; two liners sailing abreast, with a couple of heavy frigates ahead and to his right. Flint considered them without emotion. They were sailing with the wind six points large, or on the quarter, aiming for a point a good way ahead of
Vigilant
and her charges. Presumably they considered that the British would not alter course, and they might be right, although Flint had noticed the signs of oncoming bad weather and felt a change was in the offing.

      
“You know we got the Irish aboard.” The voice of Dreaper, newly promoted from landsman to ordinary, cut into his thoughts. Flint glanced over to where he sat, fingering the end of his short, tarred, queue as he stared back at the distant enemy.

      
“What was that?”

      
“Revolutionaries: The U.Is, they're aboard.” Dreaper was several years younger, and far less experienced, than Flint. Normally a boisterous man with a ready wit, he seemed decidedly subdued as he watched the steady approach of the French.

      
Flint nodded. “Aye, they been with us for a while now.”

      
The mainyard below gave a groan as the wind shifted slightly.

      
“Never sure who's with them, or with us,” Dreaper continued. It was true, the membership of the United Irishmen was by no means confined to countrymen, and there were many sons of Cork or Dublin who were pleased to defend the British Crown, and would die doing so.

      
“They're no harm to us,” Flint reassured him. “Their fight's elsewhere. It's the officers who have to watch theirselves.”

      
Dreaper turned to Flint, his blank expression softening slightly. “Hear one o 'em planted a dead rat in t'wardroom fruit bowl.”

      
“Aye,” Flint grinned. “I heard that n'all.”

      
The yard creaked again as the braces were tightened.

      
“Wonder how they'll measure up when this little lot comes to blows.” Dreaper's voice was low and completely lacking in emotion, although Flint could tell the subject worried him.

      
“They'll fight,” he said, with utter certainty. “They'll fight, 'cause if they don't they're liable to be killed.”

      
“French are s'posed to be with them though,” there was a hint of relief in Dreaper's voice. “You don' think they'll pox it for us?”

      
Flint shook his head. “How they gonna do that? Haul down the colours when no one's lookin'? French don' know the're U.Is, an probably don' want to, neither. Meantime anythin' they do to wreck us is liable to snare them as much. Na, they'll fight for as long as they has to, an when it's all over, they'll go back to rolling shot at officers.”

      
“Rum lot,” mused Dreaper.

      
“Aye, rum lot, right enough,” Flint agreed. He glanced down to the quarterdeck, where Dyson had appeared from the captain's quarters looking cold and severe; a sure sign that something was afoot. Captain Carling then turned up with a corporal in tow. The boatswain joined them, then King who began sorting through the watch bill with Dyson.

      
“Sommat going on down there,” said Dreaper. “Be clearing for action afore we knows it.”

      
Flint nodded, although he felt something other than striking down bulkheads was brewing. King was a popular officer; one with an eye for adventure, as Flint had discovered on at least one memorable occasion. If he was looking for men, as the watch bill indicated, then Flint wanted to be in on it.

      
“I fancy takin’ a look for myself.” He grinned briefly at Dreaper, before transferring himself to the backstay, and sliding down to the deck as easily as a bead on a string.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

      
It would take several years and the influence of Admiral Sir John Jervis to allow the British Marines to be officially distinguished as “Royal”, but long before then the elite band of sea soldiers had no doubt that they were special.

      
Corporal Jackson surveyed his men as they mustered for inspection on the upper gundeck. Contrary to the majority of the crew, and indeed a good proportion of the British Army, these men were true volunteers and, as such, trusted above all others. A trained and businesslike force, more versatile than any foot soldier, as disciplined as a crack Guards regiment, and the main reason why the common seaman was still living in conditions and on wages that had not altered in a hundred and fifty years.

      
The idea of mutiny loiterd on the horizon of most men's minds and, when circumstances became unbearable, it was the discipline and presence of the marines, standing sentry on every companionway and outside the captain's quarters, and even berthing between the officers and the men, that usually stemmed the revolt before it had even begun. It was the marines who deterred deserters, by walking patrol on the channels, and the marines who would drag back any drunken seaman that, on the rare occasion when shore leave had been granted, abused the privilege. It was the marines who provided the main muscle power of the ship. The turning of the capstans, and pulling of the braces was mostly down to them; men who were in no way qualified as seamen, but could stand and work on a deck in the worst of weathers.

      
But it was in action that the marines showed their true colours; standing firm in conditions that would horrify many professional soldiers, firing quickly and accurately with single minded determination. So deep was the discipline instilled that even in the thickest battle the idea that their NCO should hold a rod against their backs to ensure a straight line was considered completely normal.

      
Jackson walked along his squad, subconsciously checking the kit and clothing of each man, and grudgingly pleased to find no fault or variation. These were his men, he had trained them, he knew them totally and, although he would have instantly rejected the idea, he was fond of them.

      
“I'm going to ask you to a party,” he said, in his customarily gruff manner. No man moved, but all were aware of the subtle change of atmosphere.

      
“We're goin' to meet up with some Frenchmen, and have a high old time.” The men remained still, as he expected them to be, as they would be if he'd openly insulted their god, mother, or anything else they might hold dear.

      
“There's not gonna be room for many: twelve is the number I've been told. Anyone interested in comin' along, make himself known. Anyone not, you know me; there'll be no 'criminations.”

      
As a body the men advanced one pace, until the line, unbroken as before, lay eighteen inches further forward.

      
Jackson smiled grimly to himself, it was just as he had expected, and he was satisfied. There were exactly twelve men in the squad.
 

*****

      
“You looking for volunteers, sir?” Flint asked, as he approached King standing on the quarterdeck.

      
“Might be, Flint,” King grinned. “You game?” The two eyed each other, conscious of the past experiences that bound them. Flint had been present when they had cut out the coaster off the West coast of France, and had been part of the prize crew that saw her back to England.

      
“I'll come along, sir.”

      
“Right, go back to the poop,” King made a small mark on the watch sheet. “We'll be using the cutters,” he said, winking at Flint. “And it's small arm stuff: pistols and cutlasses.”