The Patriot's Fate (32 page)

From the quarterdeck Banks could see as much as he needed to. The masts and sails were apparently unaffected, although shots that had struck them low in the hull were still an unknown danger. But even if
Scylla
had been especially unlucky and sustained some terrible damage below the waterline, he felt she would now stay afloat long enough to complete her task. Relieved, he went to speak to Caulfield and was surprised to see him bending over a crumpled figure on the deck.
 

Young Parfrey had been injured and was bent double, his hands held tightly to his face. Banks moved across and laid his arm across the lad’s shoulder: the woollen cloth was warm and wet. The volunteer raised his head to look at his captain; his cheek had been neatly split, either by a wooden splinter or some other piece of flying debris, and was bleeding profusely.

“Get below, lad,” Banks said, forcing himself to look the boy in the eyes. “Let the surgeon attend to you.”

Parfrey mumbled something incoherent but Caulfield was already summoning a hand.

“Take Mr Parfrey to the surgeon,” he said. The man went to knuckle his forehead but quickly realised this was not the time for formality, and gently took hold of the boy’s arm. Banks watched them go, relieved in part that the lad had not been killed and would now be relatively safe. He had seen flesh wounds every bit as bad heal up sound enough, even if some of Parfrey’s youthful looks might suffer.

The French were that much closer now, almost within range of
Scylla
‘s forward guns. The British cannon were double shotted; the gunners would be retaining their first broadside for the time when they were hard up against the enemy, and the place where they should cause the most damage. Banks could see King standing in the waist waiting for the order to open fire, and next to him Rose, the midshipman that he could remember so well as a young and innocent volunteer in
Pandora
. Lewis, a master’s mate, was on the forecastle, another face from his previous ship, and Fraiser, the ever reliable sailing master, stood next to the binnacle. They were all men he knew well and trusted; in addition there were many others whom he had grown to like and respect even so early into the commission. He still considered Warren a fool to treat his frigates like so many liners; a general chase would have used their sailing qualities to far better effect, and
Scylla
would not have been placed in such an exposed position. But if he had to take his ship into danger, he could think of no better men to face the peril alongside.

Chapter Forteen
 

The crew on the quarterdeck carronade were working like a machine. As soon as the British seventy-four came alongside they had been released from the strictures of broadsides, and each gun was discharged as soon as the weapon became ready. There was neither the time nor energy to measure their work against any other crew, but the Irish served cannon must have been one of the faster and more efficient of the killing devices in use that day. The British were also keeping up a substantial rate of fire, and both ships began to show signs of damage. Crowley, who was working the rammer, had time to glance back while Walsh primed the piece, and saw the second British ship closing on them from astern. The gun was fired and all became temporarily obscured by smoke, but when the air was clear once more, and a fresh charge and round had been tamped home, he looked again. The seventy-four alongside was spilling her wind to maintain position, while the frigate immediately behind had put her helm over to avoid a collision. It was the sort of confusion that would do no harm to the French effort, and Crowley was just starting to feel his spirits rise when a shot came through the bulwark, scattering splinters in every direction and sending him gasping into the scuppers.
 

He pulled himself up and snatched angrily at the rammer that had fallen on the deck beside him. His breath was coming in short shallow draughts; he must allow himself time to recover: men had been known to die from the wind of a passing ball, but the tumble had both shaken him up and strangely ignited his wrath. The gun was still and silent as he clambered to his feet and glared about.

Doherty was dead. Crowley took in the fact without emotion. There could be no doubt; the poor devil must have taken the shot full on. And Walsh had been badly wounded: his left arm hung limp and lifeless and his trousers were soaked in blood. He looked to MacArthur and Doyle; both were as dazed as he was, and no man moved for several seconds.

“What are you doing there?” It was the voice of Wolfe Tone. Still dressed in that absurd rig, he stepped nonchalantly over Doherty’s body as he approached them. “A silent gun is an insult to the cause,” he said in that same patronising voice, and Crowley found himself reacting without thought. With a straight right that came as a surprise to both parties, his swung his fist at the lighter man. Tone caught sight of the move at the last moment, but was fast enough to both dodge the blow and catch the outstretched arm of his assailant.

“Hey, there, Michael; be still, be still.” Both men were panting but the fire was dangerously bright in Crowley’s eyes. “Fine, I was a little hasty, and spoke out of turn. But we’ll look after your man, and tend to Liam, so we will.”

Crowley felt his anger dissipate, and knew that tears were very close, but Tone continued. “Hey there, you; deal with this and take this gentleman to the surgeon:
Allez chercher le chirurgien!”

Two young soldiers came and collected what was left of Doherty. They looked no older than fifteen, yet picked up the body expertly enough. Crowley knew that on a British ship his friend would have been despatched straight over the side, but the French, it seemed, were a little more sensitive. Walsh followed them on foot as they made their way towards the hatch while Tone returned to the remaining three.

“So,” he said, looking especially at Crowley. “We have wasted enough time, and will still be one man down, even if I joins you. But what say we get this gun back to its proper job, and we to ours?”

“It is loaded,” Doyle told him warily. “Just need to prime and fire.”

Tone glanced at him for a second, then bent down and collected the priming horn that had fallen to the deck and gave his attention to the gunlock. Easing the hammer back, he poured enough of the fine meal powder into the touch-hole and snapped the frizzen shut. There was little need to lay the gun; the seventy-four was in plain view and at point blank range. Tone stood to one side and tugged at the firing line, watching as the cannon recoiled, and the shot smacked visibly into the hull of the British ship.

“Well, ain’t that a satisfying experience?” he said, turning and grinning at the rest of the gun crew. “Why don’t we tries it again?”

* * *

The wind had shifted marginally in their favour and
Scylla
made the last few hundred yards to the French line in something of a rush. In the waist King was walking backwards and forwards behind his gun teams, his eyes constantly roaming about those under his command. It was important that order was maintained; the natural reaction for any man going into battle was to fire at the first opportunity. But if any of
Scylla
‘s great guns were let off early much of the impact from the initial broadsides would be lost. And there could be no denying the psychological power of her opening attack. The position they were claiming should place the British frigate at the stem of one enemy vessel and the stern of another. Both areas were fragile in any warship, and allowed shot not only to penetrate, but travel the entire length of the hull. King was determined to time each barrage so that the maximum effect could be gleaned. Were the broadsides despatched too soon, the blows would strike the side of the hull, and might even be deflected; he must avoid that, and the only way to do so was through control.

“Hold it, hold it…” he said, pacing back and forth, while Rose peered through a starboard gunport and Barrow to larboard. “Anyone even thinks of firing and I’ll see them at a grating tomorrow, and their back bones shortly afterwards.” It was a measure of King’s desperation that he had descended to threats and outright bullying. But the men knew him well enough, and understood the reason for his concern.

“Starboard ship is turnin’ to leeward,” Rose shouted.

That was to be expected, and meant that at least one of the enemy had given up trying to turn them away. The move might lessen the impact of
Scylla
‘s broadside somewhat, but it would take time to shift the hull, and King was still hoping to achieve a partial rake. But the news contained greater significance, which he was quick to appreciate. Having an enemy ship wear out of the column meant that most of their task was already achieved; the French had been stopped, and without a shot being fired.

They
would be arriving a full cable behind the leading frigate, and slightly more than half in front of the second. The two ships were more or less in line, so he would have to order close on simultaneous discharges. Then both batteries would continue to fire for as long as the enemy remained in range.
Scylla
was well manned, but her gun crews would be stretched considerably. Some would remain effective, others, the weaker ones, must inevitably slow. King felt that two broadsides from each battery would be sufficient, then the individual gun captains could be given their heads, and independent fire ordered. But it was important that the first barrages were powerful enough to knock the stuffing, and most of the fight, from the Frenchmen.

Rose raised his hand, and King thought he saw the shadow of the second enemy ship’s bow loom through the starboard gun port. From above they could hear the sound of the marines as they started to take pot shots. It would be long range for their muskets, but there might be psychology involved there as well, and it was faster to reload a Bess than an eighteen pounder carriage gun. Barrow’s hand was also up, and both were peering out intently; it could not be long, and some of the gun captains were standing to one side, eager to hear their weapons speak.

“Hold it, hold it…” King repeated, willing the ship on. It could only be a matter of seconds now. A crack came from above, clearly the leading enemy had stern chasers, and was firing on them. Someone shouted and one of the British forecastle carronades went off. Then both lads brought their hands down at almost the same time and King bellowed the command for his guns to open fire.

The cacophony of a double broadside was deafening, even to men who had been used to the sound of cannon fire for most of their working lives.
Scylla
trembled dreadfully beneath their feet, and as the emptied barrels were sponged out, reloaded and heaved back, King even worried that they had caused some major internal damage to the frigate’s fabric. But all such thoughts were soon wiped away as the first gun captain signalled his piece ready. King could have no exact idea of the reload time, but knew that it was fast. Rose and Barrow had rejoined him; clearly Banks had brought the ship to a halt, and
Scylla
was ideally placed for another onslaught. The larboard battery was ready first and he despatched it. Two guns from starboard joined in, but that mattered little now. Soon the rest were ready, and the second starboard broadside was released. Then he gave the command for all to fire at will, and the race was truly on.

* * *

The wounded had started to appear on the orlop deck and both surgeons were at work. Mr Clarkson, assisted by two loblolly boys, had a member of the afterguard on the operating table and was attempting to stitch a gash to his calf. The man was clearly terrified, and quite convinced the surgeon wanted to cut the leg off. Meanwhile Manning, his assistant, was examining a marine who had been struck on the head and appeared concussed. The women had three more waiting for them, none of whom seemed to be in any great pain, and Sarah was just getting used to the idea of tending to injured seamen when the casualties from the last broadside began to be delivered.

These were of a different order; the wounds were horrific and demanded immediate, if not necessarily expert, attention. Mrs Porter applied a tourniquet to the leg of a man who was surely about to lose his foot, and soon moved on to comfort a lad with a large splinter in his right thigh with all the assurance of his own mother. Betsy Clarkson was also occupied with a seventeen stone gunner who had lost an ear and was crying like a child. But Sarah hesitated. There could be no denying it, she found the patients intimidating, and was suddenly aware both of what everyone expected of her and how hopelessly inadequate she was to the task.

“If there is bleeding, try to stop it,” Betsy called across while her current charge began to shake uncontrollably. “For those that need dressings there are bandages a plenty, and you can use one of these if it is a limb,” she said, pointing to a pile of tourniquets. “But make sure you chalk a mark on the forehead, in case they gets left for too long.”