Powder Monkey (18 page)

We were called to quarters every day – it was a tedious drill that had always irked me. But now I could see our months of practice had been worth the effort. It took us barely more than five minutes to prepare the
Miranda
for action. Every man and boy on board knew exactly what he had to do, but this time the significance of what we were doing struck me hard. While some of us hurriedly carried the Captain's furniture and the ship's remaining livestock to the safety of the hold, others soaked the decks, then scattered wet sand around to stop
us from slipping on any blood that was bound to be spilt.

The crews cast loose the guns and opened the gun ports. I ran as fast as I could to the ship's after magazine, to collect my gunpowder. On the way I heard the angry sizzle of water on hot coals as the galley fire was extinguished. On the orlop deck Dr Claybourne would be laying out his horrible implements, saws and forceps and all, to treat any wounded man brought down to him.

When we had crossed the French corvette close to the start of the voyage, it had never felt like we were going to fight. But this, I knew, was going to be the real thing.

Our preparations completed, we waited at our stations. I don't know whether it was because my heart was thumping so hard in my chest, but in those long minutes before action I saw everything with a crystal-clear clarity. I stood behind my gun, watching dust whirl in a thin, bright shaft of sunlight which poured in through a vent in the deck. Ben stood before me in a striped shirt. Next to him was Tom, calm as anything. Surrounding the gun were James and Silas, Oliver and Edmund. Each wore a determined look. Coiled, ready to spring into action. Two of them had taken their shirts off, in anticipation of the hot, sweaty work to come. All of them wore a strip of cloth tied around their forehead and over their ears, to keep the sweat from their eyes and deaden
the roar of the guns.

As the seconds ticked away we waited at our posts, every muscle tense, wondering at the significance of every command we heard shouted out on the quarterdeck above us. We knew the enemy were approaching from the shore, and I kept hoping for a glimpse through the open gun port. But until action began we did not know which side of the ship would fire first. Perhaps we would be called over to assist the starboard gun crews. I hoped not. I had faith in my crew. I wanted us to be firing our gun, and them assisting.

As the Spanish ship drew closer, several of the topmen were called away from the guns. Then we heard Lieutenant Middlewych call out a series of commands concerning the setting of the sails.

‘Mandeville is trying to get astern of the Spaniard,' whispered Tom. ‘If we can rake her, we'll have won the battle from the start.'

If a frigate could get in front of or behind the enemy, she could pour devastating fire right through the length of the ship. If the Spanish crew were as poorly trained and led as we hoped they were, we had a good chance of doing this.

There on the gun deck, waiting for action to commence, we lived in a world of sound. Our view of the outside was restricted by what we could glimpse from our gun port, and what we could deduce from the noises
we heard. So we listened hard to Middlewych call out his commands. Apart from his instructions, the ship was silent. Although we occasionally whispered to each other, most of what I heard was the creaking of the rigging, or the rattle of the ropes of the tiller as the men on the wheel swung the rudder to try to get us in the best position to fire our guns.

They say men in the pit of fear soil themselves. I never understood that. Inside me every bit of my stomach and gut just tensed up fast into some cramped uncomfortable ball. My fingers clutched so tightly to my cartridge box I wondered how I might ever let go . . .

When I had long ceased to expect it, I heard two loud explosions rolled across the sea. An instant later, there were two great splashes of water either side of our bow. Instinctively I reached to touch Rosie's letter in my shirt pocket. ‘Keep me safe, keep me safe,' I whispered to myself. A rumble of muted voices swept through the ship. I heard Silas say, ‘She's firing her bow chasers,' before Lieutenant Spencer shouted us all back to silence.

So, our opponent was now in range, although she had already wasted her opening salvo. We too had a pair of guns in the bow, and Spencer issued the order, ‘Bow chasers, fire when ready.'

We waited in tense anticipation. Then, after a minute, both our bow guns were discharged. One shot brought
a splash of water, the other a rending crunch of metal on wood. The crew gave a triumphant cheer and Spencer yelled, ‘Steady, boys, steady. Bow chasers, fire when your target presents. The rest of you, await your orders.'

‘First blood to us,' whispered Ben. I sensed a growing excitement among the crew.

We heard another loud bang, and a terrifying crash. The air was immediately rent with screaming from a couple of badly injured men. I hardly dared look, yet could not help a glance up to the bow. A cannonball had blown one of our bow chasers off its carriage. Fortunately for the rest of us, the gun had blocked the enemy shot, and it had carried no further along the deck. One of the gun crew, horribly injured, was turfed overboard. Another was swiftly carried to the forward hatchway by four of his companions, and down to Dr Claybourne.

The First Lieutenant called out, ‘Port your helm . . . steady!' and we could sense the ship slow down and turn in the water. ‘Steady! Standby larboard guns. Prepare to fire when target in sight . . .'

Oliver Macintosh, nearest to the gun port, caught a glimpse of the enemy frigate. ‘She's got her stern to us. We're all set to rake her.'

It was a perfect manoeuvre. Mandeville had succeeded in getting the
Miranda
behind his foe.

‘Larboard guns. Fire when ready!' yelled Spencer. As
the
Miranda
sailed on, each of us, from the bow to the stern, unleashed our shot. At intervals of a few seconds, five cannon fired before us. Every shot but one hit home with a violent crash. I waited for our turn with an unholy eagerness. As the frigate came into view I could see the damage we had done. Most of the windows in the Captain's cabin were smashed, giving the stern the appearance of jagged teeth in a gaping mouth. I saw, too, that the vessel was called
La Flora
. Then, Ben yelled, ‘Make ready!' – the signal for all of us to stand clear of our gun before firing.

He pulled the trigger lanyard for the gunlock and the gun lurched back with a huge roar. I could not see whether our shot hit home, as smoke immediately obscured the view through the gun port. Neither could I hear, as the discharge of our gun had set my ears ringing. But I imagined our shot ripping through the gun deck of the ship, leaving carnage and chaos in its wake. Four shots had gone before it, carving great chunks from the insides of
La Flora
.

Through the smoke and the singing in my ears I suddenly became aware that Ben was yelling at me. ‘Powder, Number Twelve. Jump to it!' I took the top from my cartridge box, pulled out a cartridge and handed it to Tom. As the rest of the crew loaded the gun for the next salvo, I ran as fast as my legs would carry me to the after magazine. Ahead of me, waiting by the wet
curtain for his next cartridge, was another powder boy. It was Michael Trellis. He looked as white as a sheet, and had a purple bruise on his forehead.

‘What happened to you?' I said. The boy said nothing, but instead of hostility I saw only shame. The marine guarding the powder room spoke harshly.

‘Tried to run and hide in the orlop deck, didn't he! Mr Neville walloped him with a pistol butt to send him back up here.' The marine turned directly to Trellis. ‘You're damned lucky Mr Neville didn't shoot you dead, son. I would have done.'

I disliked Trellis too much to feel sorry for him, but I could not despise him for his actions. He was nearer to the bow gun than me, so he must have seen the effect of the enemy shot in sickening detail. I decided to say nothing more to him, and nodded grimly. I could still hear muffled screams, though, from the orlop deck. Whoever had been brought down there was howling like a banshee. Above us, to add to the noise, four more of the larboard gun deck guns fired their shot, along with the guns and carronades on the quarterdeck above them.

When I ran back with my cartridge box, I immediately noticed how much hotter it had become on the gun deck. All around was frantic activity. Every gun was at various stages of reloading. Barrels were being swabbed, burning fragments hooked out, cartridges and
cannonballs loaded, and wads rammed home. I had been gone barely sixty seconds, and already our crew were needing my cartridge, which was snatched from my hand the moment I returned.

‘You need to be quicker than that, Sam,' scolded Ben. I could only just hear him. ‘We've been waiting a good ten seconds for this.' I shot off again for the next one, not wanting a further telling off.

On the way down into the ship my hearing returned, and I heard the First Lieutenant call, ‘Brace up the weather yards' – further orders for the topmen to turn the
Miranda
around, so that the crews on the starboard side could discharge their guns. Moving swiftly within a lurching ship is very disorientating – especially when you have no way of seeing outside to determine your bearings. I returned to the gun deck, and needed to check where my crew were, in case I rushed to the wrong side of the ship.

Within a couple of minutes the
Miranda
was sailing back across the stern of our opponent. One by one our starboard guns began to splutter out their deadly load. Once again my ears began to ring, and although I could see Ben or Tom shouting orders to me, I could not hear what they said. I felt grateful for those endless afternoons of gun drill. I knew exactly what to do, and exactly where to stand.

Again, the First Lieutenant called out to the topmen
to adjust the sails, and again we turned to allow the larboard guns to bear.

‘I'll wager we're closing in to board,' said Ben.

‘So soon,' I said, with more apprehension than I meant to show. After such a long wait for action to begin, I never expected things would be moving so fast.

Sure enough, the
Miranda
began to edge towards
La Flora
. ‘Larboard side. Prepare to fire,' shouted Spencer. ‘Guns one to five reload with chain shot and aim at the rigging. Guns six to ten load with grapeshot and aim at the upper deck.'

As we grew level with
La Flora
I could see she was in distress. Only one of the gun deck guns was still firing. Others poked out of their gun ports at odd angles, or not at all. From two ports towards the stern, smoke poured out. I caught a glimpse of angry yellow flame in the inside of the ship. Our raking broadsides had wreaked terrible destruction. But the quarterdeck was not badly damaged, and as we grew closer, the guns began to fire.

Again, the gun crews on
La Flora
let her down. The first three shots fell wide, causing great fountains of water to shoot up in front of our bow. But others hit home. One shot slammed into the foremast with a sickening splinter, and I heard something – almost certainly one of the yards – crash on to the deck. Further sounds of splintering and crashing followed. I heard a man
scream, and a bosun call for help. I prayed it wasn't Richard that was hurt, and all at once I felt mortally afraid.

The next shot from
La Flora
landed near us, showering our crew with dust, tar and debris. A hole appeared in the deck timbers close above us, and one of the mizzentopmen lay sprawled across the gap, his head and arms dangling down. I looked into his face and could see at once he was dead. A steady stream of blood began to pour down one of his arms, collecting on his outstretched fingers, and dripping down on us. The poor man was grabbed by a couple of unseen hands, and pitched over the side. If this was not enough of an indignity, they lugged him over right by our gun, so his lifeless body crumpled into the neck of our gun, before sliding off and into the deep.

An instant later,
La Flora
came within scope of our gun. ‘Make ready!' We fired. As soon as I had delivered my cartridge for the next shot I hurtled below for another. By the time I returned, the crew had already fired again, and were waiting for me. Ben clasped an encouraging hand on my shoulder, and so we continued as the
Miranda
edged closer to her quarry. Our gun-fire was devastatingly effective. The Spanish broadside that had damaged our foremast and upper deck were among the last useful shots the enemy gunners discharged.

Through the ringing in my ears, and constant series of
explosions, I sensed the bosun's whistle. Then I heard the command: ‘Prepare boarders.'

This was the moment I had been dreading. But now I felt only great excitement.
La Flora
was struggling terribly. We were winning, just as the men had said we would. I sprang to pick up a pistol and a cutlass from a rack placed in the centre of the gun deck, and charged on deck to await further orders. There was Richard, safe, thank God! It wasn't his yardarm that had fallen to the deck. He looked quite exhilarated, having watched the whole action from high in the mizzenmast.

Now I was out on deck it was possible to see just how much damage the
Miranda
had sustained. Our rigging was a shambles and shots had ripped many of our sails. Worst of all, our fore yardarm was lying across the forecastle and the foremast leaned giddily awry above the topsail yardarm.

But when I looked over to
La Flora
, she was in a more pitiful state. Sails were torn and drooping, and her yards and upper masts had crashed down on her deck. Just at that moment a loud explosion erupted near her bows, and thick black smoke billowed out. She was now on fire on the gun deck both fore and aft. We were close enough to see that the crew were in disarray. I could hear officers shouting orders, but no one was taking any notice. One officer tried to gain the attention of a cluster of men on the deck by drawing a pistol and firing it
into the air. This had no effect so he fired his other pistol at one of the men. This worked, but not in the way he intended. Two of the men stepped forward, ran him through with daggers, and threw him over the side.