The Devil's Own Luck (25 page)

Harry’s plan, if he could call such a desperate throw a plan, envisaged waiting until one section of the
Magnanime
’s crew seemed to falter. Then he would endeavour to take the attackers in the flank and check their progress. But he had pitifully few men to effect any change in the outcome, and he fully expected to be the guest of a French commodore at dinner that evening. Either that or he would be dead.

I pray that I am not wounded, he thought, his imagination picturing the coming scenes in the cockpit. I would face anything rather than Outhwaite’s knife. That vision proved a wonderful aid to his concentration.

“Mr Prentice,” he cried, completely putting aside his earlier reservations about the proper chain of command. “Go below and tell the officer in command of the party manning the relieving tackles to send his men to the forecastle forthwith. Say it is the captain’s express wish that he do so.”

Prentice hesitated, looking at Harry with fear in his eyes.

“Go on, boy. I will take the responsibility.”

“But the captain’s express wish?” said Prentice.

Harry looked back over the bowsprit. Prentice followed his gaze. The French ship loomed very large now.

“You must say ‘wish.’ Do not, under any circumstances, say it is an order. We need those men, Mr Prentice, for they are useless where they are.”

The relieving tackles were ropes connected to the rudder. Should it become impossible, through damage sustained, to con the
Magnanime
from the quarterdeck, then these men on the ropes would be employed to haul on their lines to steer the ship.

“We will be engaging in no manoeuvres, Mr Prentice. Once we are alongside, those gentlemen will bring us to.” He did not add that the men below were very likely the most useless in the crew, picked for muscle. Hands whose only skill was to haul on a rope when told. But they would be brawny men, and that was what he needed.

“Aye, aye, sir,” said Prentice, running off. Harry wondered what persuaded him, for the boy could be in serious trouble if the truth came out. He put the thought out of his mind as he set Pender and the others to gathering weapons for another forty fighters. Prentice arrived back with Denbigh, who had commanded the party. He was leading his hands behind him. Prentice was well in front.

“Did anyone ask you what you were about?” said Harry quietly.

“Several people. But I told them what you suggested.” The boy indicated that his fellow midshipman was one of them. Prentice then turned to Denbigh. “Mr Craddock has put us both under Mr Ludlow’s instructions.”

Harry smiled at the boy’s cheek. Having burnt his boats, Prentice probably thought he had nothing to lose by telling another lie. And it showed good sense, him saying Craddock. No one would have believed that Carter would have given Harry such powers. Denbigh stared coldly at Harry, then half turned, as if to go and check the veracity of Prentice’s words.

“There is no time, Denbigh,” said Prentice. The boy swung his arm in a heroic gesture. “The enemy will soon be upon us.”

Harry bade the new arrivals to join their fellows behind the bulwarks. He looked out again. Now the faces of the enemy were clearly visible. They too had men in the tops with muskets, but very few. They would be husbanding the rest, keeping them to swell the tanks of the boarders. He could see the French officers on the quarterdeck, silent and still, like those aboard the
Magnanime.

The forward guns on both sides could have been brought to bear, but both Carter and the French were saving all for the first rolling broadside. Given the pitching of the ships it would be a barrage which would either clear the rigging or the lower gun-decks. Carter was down to fighting topsails now, and given his course he had very little forward movement, even with his yards braced hard round. His ship slowed even more as the bulk of the lead French vessel took the wind out of his sails. But it also took some of the swell out of the sea, and Harry, hearing a creaking sound, looked over to see the lower gunports opening. Carter was taking a risk, but if he was right, he would double his firepower with that one stroke. He hoped to God that Carter had given standard instructions to fire on the up-roll, for if the French had not manned theirs likewise, those great guns would be firing into an empty enemy gundeck.

“Fire as you bear,” came the command from the quarterdeck. Even with the noise of the wind, Harry was sure he could hear similar instructions from the French officers. The
Jemmapes
came alongside on the starboard quarter. Both sets of guns opened fire simultaneously, and suddenly the air was full of sound. It was gunnery at point-blank range. Carter had the luck with the pitch, his lower-deck guns firing straight into the Frenchmen’s upper deck, and his upper-deck and quarterdeck guns swept the rigging, slicing rope and cracking wood, causing blocks, sails, and spars to fall on the crowded deck. The
Jemmapes
’s guns seemed aimed at a point below the gundeck as they went off. The
Magnanime
shuddered as their shots struck her, then the pitch of the sea reversed itself and Harry was staring through the Frenchman’s gunport at the eager faces of the men manning the upper-deck guns.

The
Achille
was now coming alongside on the larboard quarter and again the guns opened fire simultaneously. The Frenchmen had both backed their topsails and spun their wheels to trap the
Magnanime
and turn her into the wind. Carter was in no mind to avoid this manoeuvre, and the ship seemed stationary as all three of them exchanged incessant fire.

The
Magnanime
’s guns were being reloaded and run out, but with little discipline or coordination. It was every man for himself, and the results were immediately apparent. The lack of firing practice would now cost Carter dear. Nothing is so telling as a rolling broadside delivered from each gun in turn. The fire is continuous, allowing the enemy no time to gather himself to resist. But although Carter’s guns were achieving a better rate than the French, they were firing piecemeal, so that a great deal of the effect was lost.

The French ships were edging closer. Men stood ready to cast grappling irons into the
Magnanime
’s rigging. If the Frenchmen could get close enough there was a fair chance that one of them would foul the
Magnanime
’s shrouds, and they would really be locked together. The guns were more stable now as the proximity of the three great ships created a calmer sea between them. A steadier platform meant a steadier aim, and damage was being sustained on the decks on both sides. Harry could see that one of the
Magnanime
’s quarterdeck cannons was dismounted. It was hard to detect through the billowing smoke what effect the fire of the remaining guns was having on the enemy, but from the screams that came across the intervening water, they were suffering as much damage, if not more, than the British.

Harry could see Carter, obvious in his best uniform, calmly directing operations. Craddock stood beside him, a speaking trumpet in his hand. Men were now being carried below, some dead, some badly wounded. A midshipman lay at Carter’s feet, his blood staining the deck. All down the sides of the ship men sweated and cursed, as they strained to reload the cannons, working the guns, pushing wads or shot down the barrels, or hauling on ropes to pull the charged guns up for firing. Powder monkeys ran from the after hatch carrying gunpowder and shot, as a cascade of wood, ropes, and the occasional body fell amongst them. And all the while the whistles of bullets cut through the surrounding air.

A great clanging sound, and Harry saw that a huge gap had been torn in the side of the ship, hard by the forrard forecastle gun on the larboard side. Men had been blasted aside like dolls. One headless body twitched as a fountain of blood spurted from the neck. More men were wounded as great splinters of wood flew through the air, embedding themselves in soft, pliant flesh. The shot had hit one of the twelve-pounders square on, severing its breachings and tipping it on to its side. The
Magnanime
pitched suddenly as a heavy wave rocked the three ships, and the gun and carriage, two tons of wood and metal, started to slither across the deck, gouging the planking as it went. Harry shouted a warning to the crew opposite, but to no avail. The noise of guns going off, of men shouting and screaming in pain, was too great. Concentrating on reloading, they were too busy to notice the danger. Too late, one of the gun crew saw the monster nearly on them and yelled a warning, himself jumping over his gun to escape. His mates were too slow. Men were crushed by its great weight, as one cannon careered into the other. The sound of crushing bones and the cries of men in agony were plain, even above the crash of the other guns.

“Follow me,” shouted Harry to those near him. Pender, Denbigh, and half a dozen hands rushed forward, Harry grabbed a line as they did so. They were not alone. Others had seen the danger of this huge gun slithering around the deck. They too rushed forward and threw ropes round the first protruding piece of the gun and carriage that presented itself. They would have to pin it where it lay. Men were still trapped between the two guns, but their fate was second to that of the ship. They would have to remain there, to die if need be. Harry got his rope round the upturned carriage wheel and quickly lashed it to a cleat on the side. More lines were lashed to the tompion and the carriage wheels to secure it to the side. Bullets whistled around them as the French sharpshooters tried to disrupt their efforts. A sailor beside Harry spun round suddenly and collapsed at his feet, blood spurting from his chest. Tying the last half-hitch, Harry and Pender bent and lifted him, calling for help from some of his party who had followed them.

“Get him below!” he yelled to his servant. “Then back as quick as you can.” Harry, followed by Denbigh, ran back to where Prentice stood. The boy was pale and frightened, as he stood trying to comprehend the death and destruction taking place around him. Harry put his hands on the boy’s shoulder, and turned him so that he could see him smile.

“Grapeshot soon, Mr Prentice. Please get down. You too, Mr Denbigh.”

“Down,” said Denbigh, either uncomprehending, or aghast at the suggestion.

“You’re no use dead, boy. Get down!” he snapped. Denbigh obeyed, throwing Harry a sour look. Still holding Prentice, he shook him slightly, and the youngster forced a smile. “As long as you do your duty, boy. That is all that can be asked. Now down behind the bulwark.”

Harry stayed upright. Pender came back, his trousers drenched with blood, to stand beside him. The fire from the
Magnanime
was slackening, but more on the larboard side than to starboard. The
Jemmapes,
having been subjected to the first British broadside, had probably suffered the most. The
Achille
had fared better, and the British guns aimed at her were in disarray. The enemy would use grape soon, he had no doubt of that. They would have decided before the action commenced which crew would board first, for it was from the
Jemmapes
that the first indications of an impending attack became apparent. Through the smoke he could see men being gathered. The firing from the quarterdeck of the French ship stopped as the whole of the top layer of guns were loaded with grape, and the muzzles trained enough to make sure that the shot swept the British deck. The danger of some shot damaging their consort was obviously a risk they were prepared to run. The
Magnanime
still shook from the shots pounding her side from the French twenty-four-pounders on the
Jemmapes
’s upper deck. And the crash of the guns beneath Harry’s feet was continuous. It would be hell below, on both ships.

“Grapeshot!” Craddock bellowed through a trumpet, his voice carrying over the din. Just in time most of the men ducked as the small shot whistled over their heads. Some, deafened by the sounds of the guns and still upright, did not hear and paid the price.

“Stand by to repel boarders!” shouted Craddock. Harry could see the messengers running to tell the officers on the upper deck to load with grape. The men on the guns rushed to their task, furiously loading the remaining guns as the French ship crunched into the side of the
Magnanime.
Lines snaked out, thrown to lash the rigging together. Men crowded on to the side of the
Jemmapes
armed with cutlasses, clubs and pikes. Harry could see the French officers exhorting their men as their opposite numbers on the
Magnanime
struggled to elevate their guns.

“Fire!” shouted Craddock. It was not a clean affair. Some of the guns were not ready, and some were still loaded with round shot. But it did great damage, tearing gaping holes in the ranks of their attackers. One French officer, standing on the
Jemmapes’s
bulwark, waving his sword, was literally blown in two by round shot. The top half of his trunk disappeared, his blood and flesh spraying out to cover those around him. Others fell back amongst their companions, either wounded or dead. The French had reloaded their guns with proper shot, and they fired at point-blank range, seeking to smash more holes in the
Magnanime
’s side, once more filling the air with deadly splinters. Great billowing clouds of smoke obscured the men on both sides. The noise of the guns and the roars of half-crazed men all mixed together in an endless wall of deafening sound.

The smoke cleared enough to show the
Jemmapes
’s bulwarks full of sailors, some covered in blood already, waiting to jump the last few feet between the ships. Pikes were already being jabbed across the gap, to be parried with a variety of weapons. The French were pressing forward, shouting imprecations at the British defenders. Some lost their footing, to fall to almost certain death between the two ships. The
Achille,
still firing on the larboard side, let off some of her guns at the wrong moment. The shot swept across the deck and cut into her own compatriots on the
Jemmapes.