Dead Reckoning (36 page)

“Listen, lads, the French are astern of us and will presently try to board. Our first move will be to load every gun with grapeshot. When we have cleared their decks, we shall board
them! So
be ready for the order “Boarders away!” and at that we'll board them in the smoke!” There were loud cheers at this speech, which was repeated at different places round the ship. Then Delancey returned to the quarter-deck where he had the marines drawn up as if to repel boarders. Only then, when the
Fidèle
was two miles away, did Delancey back topsails and allow the
Clorinde
to overtake him.

As the French ship came near, Delancey went through the motions of accepting a challenge to mortal and personal combat. Drawing his sword, he waved defiance and called for three cheers from his quarter-deck gunners, who waved cutlasses before returning to their carronades. As soon, however, as the
Clorinde
's bowsprit approached the
Minerva
's stern, he abruptly made sail again, altering course so as to frustrate any attempt at boarding. A minute later the
Minerva
's guns fired almost together, sweeping the
Clorinde
's decks with grapeshot. The French captain had foreseen this but his order for his men to lie down came just too late. His decks were covered by the wounded and dying and he lost all interest in the possibilities of hand-to-hand conflict. As if to taunt him, his opponent hove-to again, ready to meet his challenge. The French captain knew now what would happen if he renewed his attempt and rather doubted whether his men would respond again to any brave gesture. Uncertain what to do next, he passed the
Minerva
at fairly close range, firing and receiving a broadside and planning some further move
the exact nature of which escaped him. Making sail again, Delancey steered for the French ship's beam and shouted “Boarders away !” As he dashed for the forecastle the
Minerva
's bowsprit crashed into the
Clorinde
just abaft her forechains, bringing her foremast down with the impact. The two ships were hooked together by a tangled confusion of spars and ropes and the
Minerva
's bowsprit provided the necessary bridge.

“Follow me!” Delancey shouted as he sprang forward. Mr Stock and the boarding parties were after him in an instant, a torrent of men armed with boarding pikes, axes, and cutlasses. From the quarter-deck the marines provided covering fire and men in the foretop threw grenades. There was pandemonium as the fight surged around the
Clorinde
's forecastle, the clash of steel mingling with cheers and groans. Delancey was not actually the first man to reach the enemy deck—two or three seamen had passed him and one of them had already been killed—but he killed one opponent with his pistol and severely wounded another with his sword. A third man who attacked him with a cutlass was foiled by the speed with which Delancey threw a pistol in his face. David Stock, on Delancey's left, sent down a French petty officer with his cutlass. Tanner, at his captain's side, wielded a boarding pike with great effect and suddenly, it seemed, the French were gone from the forecastle but collected in strength on the quarter-deck. The secret, as Delancey knew, was to prevent them finding time to reorganize.

“Follow me!” he shouted again and his men surged aft with a mingled noise of cheering and blasphemy. For the only time in his career as a navy captain, Delancey was suddenly possessed by the devil. He ran at the enemy, screaming with fury “Kill the French bastards!” Raging on, he killed a private soldier but failed to extract his sword. Grabbing a fallen boarding pike, he stormed
on, hurling it at another soldier and then grabbing the man's musket. He was now at the break of the quarter-deck, where he broke in a door with the butt and wounded a mess servant with the bayonet. For a few minutes he had literally gone berserk, creating a legend of ferocity his men were never to forget. Then he as quickly recovered his senses. He was in the main cabin of the French frigate, where the French captain was offering him his sword. Accepting it, he handed the weapon to Tanner and asked Northmore whether the French ensign had been lowered. This had apparently been done and the fight was over. “Drive the prisoners below decks,” he said to Northmore, “and put sentries on each hatchway. You are in command of this frigate. It remains now to deal with the other one.”

Back on board the
Minerva,
having left fifty sailors with Northmore, Delancey sent his other men back to their guns. Faithful as her name, the
Fidèle
had been loyally coming to the aid of her consort. She was now half a mile distant and could see the British ensign hoisted over the tricolour. Crippled as she was, escape for her was out of the question. But did her captain mean to make a fight of it? That query was soon answered. As soon as a gun was fired in her direction the
Fidèle
's colours were lowered. The battle was over and Delancey ordered his crew to man the launch. “Mr Topley,” he said, “you are acting commander of the national frigate
Fidèle.
Take thirty men to board her and send her officers back to me. Mr Stock, you are acting first lieutenant of the
Minerva.
Mr Lewis, you are acting lieutenant in this frigate. Tell Forbes, someone, that he is acting boatswain . . .” He issued a stream of directions, attempting to produce order out of chaos.

That evening the three frigates were hove-to in close proximity while the final arrangements were made to proceed in company to the Cape. All French officers were brought on board
the
Minerva,
most of the marines divided between the other ships. At Simonstown the bulk of the prisoners could be put ashore. In the meanwhile every precaution must be taken to prevent them rising against their captors; the first and obvious precaution being for the captured frigates to remain in company with the
Minerva.
On board the
Minerva
there would be no great problem over the French officers, who were likely to give their parole, but there was a nightmare shortage of navigators. With Stock, Ledingham, and Lewis, the
Minerva
had her theoretical quota but all had been midshipmen a few weeks or days ago. Ragley had died and there could be no proper replacement as master. Midshipmen he had none and the two prizes had just one officer apiece. The return passage was going to involve gross overwork for Delancey himself and an almost crushing responsibility for Northmore and Topley, who would scarcely be able to quit the deck until they reached Simonstown. Of all this Delancey was well aware but in the background to all his gloomier thoughts was his knowledge that he was on the way home. He would reach Portsmouth somehow and with two captured frigates in company. He would reach Guernsey and would be with his love once more. Would he ever go to sea again? He doubted it. For the first time in his life he felt that he had done enough.

My dearest Fiona—We sail for England in a few days' time and I have no certainty that this letter will arrive there before I do. Our passage cannot, however, be as fast as I could wish because the
Minerva
must sail in company with her two prizes, the
Clorinde
and
Fidèle.

We fought an action off Madagascar in which these two frigates were finally made to haul down their colours. Northmore commands the one, Topley the other, and I am left with acting lieutenants (all recently midshipmen) to do duty in the
Minerva.
It was my hope that we might recruit some officers here at the Cape, if only invalids on their way home, but all I could find—and glad I was to offer him a berth—was a master's mate, Mr Rankin, who is now my acting master.

The voyage here following the action meant hard work for everyone, especially in refitting the almost dismasted
Fidèle.
Topley brought her in safely, nevertheless, and we have since rigged her (or at least jury-rigged her) in a fashion which should bring her safely to Portsmouth. With the help of the dockyard here, we now have the other two ships in fairly good order. I find myself in the position, in effect,
of an Acting-Commodore commanding a frigate squadron. I should never have believed that there could be as much work to do! But we are all in good heart, having been feted as heroes at Capetown, and more indeed than we deserve.

If I have more praise now than I merit it may serve to console me for years of effort which brought me no credit. Admiral Pellew, for example, gave me the task of hunting down a single French privateer, the
Subtile.
You will remember her, I dare say, from my previous letters. It was a far more difficult operation than this recent action and involved heavier losses, at least through sickness, but I could finally claim that my orders had been carried out, that the
Subtile
had been burnt. Much good did it do me! Admiral Pellew had gone home before I was able to make my report. His successor had never heard of the
Subtile.
And what praise can anyone expect as a result of destroying a mere privateer? It means no more than squashing a cockroach with one's slipper! So if I should be praised overmuch now I can reflect that I did more on earlier occasions and had no praise at all.

I learn here at the Cape, and with great satisfaction, that Josias Rowley is to be made Baronet for the campaign in which he restored the situation after Pym's defeat at Grand Port. If ever a man deserves recognition it is he. His achievements were brilliant and should always be remembered. Unluckily for him, his battles were fought a long way from home, a success in the Indian Ocean having less appeal to the public than an action off, say, Cadiz. As against that, his victory immediately followed a defeat and was the more welcome, I should suppose, to the Admiralty.

I think I stand to gain a little from the same contrast,
my little victory doing yet more to wipe out the memory of that earlier setback. I am lucky in one other respect—even as compared with Rowley—for I shall have the chance to bring my prizes into Portsmouth, almost as if from a victory in the Channel. On this subject I must add—strictly between ourselves, please—that I shall cheat a little over the importance of the
Fidèle
(known to my seamen as the Fiddle).

According to my guest, Capitaine Peynier, recently of the
Clorinde,
she is a large corvette of 24 guns. In comparison with our ships, however, her dimensions are those of a small frigate. So I have taken the liberty of shifting four guns into her from the
Clorinde—
some of whose guns could have been and actually were destroyed in action—which allows me to describe her as a frigate, the
Fidèle
(28). This will do something to ensure the promotion of Topley; that of Northmore being, I take it, certain.

All my officers did extremely well, I may add, but I have since had to load heavy responsibilities on mere children. Alongside them, I feel as old as Methuselah. Young David Stock is now my first lieutenant, if you please, and it seems only the other day that he was a nondescript boy I picked up on the coast of Ireland when he was far too young to be a midshipman. He fought by my side, killing at least one Frenchman and disarming two others.

I should perhaps add at this point that I have acquired a scar on the left forearm. A French seaman aimed a cut at my head with a cutlass. I took the blow on my raised arm and Tanner ran the fellow through with a boarding pike, perhaps saving my life for the second time. Oddly enough, I felt nothing at the time and only discovered afterwards
that my sleeve was soaked in blood. I thought at first it was the blood of my enemies but found, rather to my annoyance, that it was my own.

Should this letter reach you before I do, you must understand that I am bound for Portsmouth. The
Minerva
will be paid off there and I shall make my report to the Admiralty. Afterwards I shall return to Portsmouth and eventually sail from Southampton for Guernsey. It would be wonderful if you could meet me in London but I think we are more likely to meet in Portsmouth—or Guernsey. At Portsmouth I shall be staying, no doubt, at the George, where the staff will be told to refer to me as Commodore. I am, of course, nothing of the kind but merely a rather senior captain. This fact makes me the more eager to quit Portsmouth—I am just the sort of man who could be asked to sit on a court martial or court of inquiry when all I want is to be with you again at Anneville, at peace and at rest.

This service of mine in the East Indies has kept us apart for longer than we expected, for longer than was fair. I mean now to make up to you for all the time we have lost. Much is made in the ballads and broadsheets about the heroism of men in battle but all too little about what their womenfolk have to endure.

I could wish that my services had gained me a large fortune but we have at least a small estate, a sufficient income to keep a carriage, and some little repute. More than anything we have each other and I can give you my assurance that I am little the worse for serving so long in the tropics. My fear has been that I should reappear in Guernsey without an arm, lacking a leg, blind in one eye, or the worse for some more serious mutilation. There was still
greater danger, in fact, that I should die of malaria or hepatitis like so many other officers have done.