The Devil's Own Luck (26 page)

The noise seemed to die suddenly, as though by a prearranged signal. With a great cheer the boarders leapt from their ship on to the side of the
Magnanime.
Turnbull had already brought forward his marines and they formed two ranks, one kneeling, the other standing. Carefully, picking their targets, the marines poured fire into the men seeking to board, quickly cutting down their numbers. The gun crews were now engaged in hand-to-hand fighting, using clubs, swords, pikes, axes and knives. Harry could see one of the
Magnanime
’s crew with a huge lump of wood in his hands, which he was using to fell as many Frenchmen as he could. Guns were going off singly with a loud crash, drowning out the noise of screaming and shouting, of cursing and dying.

“Sir?” said Prentice. His thin face was still anxious, but he also looked determined to get at the enemy.

“Not yet, Mr Prentice,” shouted Harry. “This is not the main assault.”

Harry pointed one of his pistols to where the whole process was being repeated on the larboard side. Grape was fired into the back of the defenders, catching some of the attackers as well. Men fell and were trampled on in the mêlée. Not warned through the speaking trumpet this time, it took a greater toll, especially amongst the file of standing marines. Turnbull was looking wildly from one side to another, not sure which way to face his men. His hat was whipped off as a sharpshooter’s bullet took it on the brim. Blood from dozens of bodies was running across the deck, to fill the scuppers and trickle over the side.

Great yells were emanating from the throats of the
Achille
’s boarders. But the quarterdeck had seen their move. They suffered too as Craddock’s orders sent a fusillade of grapeshot into them. Carter was directing as much musket fire as he could into the seething mass. But undeterred, full of the lust for battle, they were soon jumping aboard, using the billowing smoke to camouflage their attack. Again French guns smashed the side of the British ship, trying to create gaps for the second wave of attackers to pour through.

Harry had his pistols cocked now. He knew, even though the smoke made it hard to see, that the crisis was approaching. If the French could gain enough of a foothold on the
Magnanime
’s deck there would be no getting rid of them. Sheer weight of numbers would tell in the end.

The second wave of
Achille’s
attackers leapt over the gap between the two ships, slipping on the blood and tripping over the bodies of their fellows. The starboard attack was being contained, but this new assault faced a less organized defence, and try as they might, the
Magnanime’s
gun crews, still firing, could not prevent the French from getting aboard in numbers.

“Ready, men!” shouted Harry above the screaming, gunshot, and wind. “Steady until I give the command. And when we attack, I want to hear you!” Harry’s party stood up, crowding towards the larboard gangway. Pender was right beside him, sword in hand. Prentice pressed forward gamely. He bent to give his orders to the two pale midshipmen. Looking back at the deck, he could see one of them had been sick. Harry did not ask who.

“We will concentrate on the larboard side. Our aim is to break up their attack, and if possible push them back over the side. Sweep the gangway forward to the quarterdeck. And gentlemen, kill if you can, maim if you can’t. Accept no offers to surrender. Once we have dealt with the
Achille
’s boarders, we support the starboard. Keep an eye on me.”

Both nodded. Harry looked overhead. The storm was on them now. The sky was full of black rushing clouds and the sea had ceased to be an even swell. The water was now full of spume and waves of differing heights, as well as bodies and parts of all three ships. The seventy-fours’ sides were grinding together and the waves lifted them in turn. God help those who fell between them. There would be no rescue in this sea.

“Good-luck.” Harry was calm, for the situation was developing just as he had predicted. What he intended might not work, but he hoped that the sudden appearance of a disciplined body of attackers, at the height of the crisis, would turn the tide. The right moment? That would be a guess. Too soon, and the French would repulse them. Too late, and their number would be insufficient to affect the outcome.

Ignoring the continual difference in height caused by the two ships being tossed in the rising waves, the enemy was pushing aboard in great numbers on the larboard side, their weight causing the defenders to fall back. It was an inch-by-inch affair, each width of planking fiercely contested. Swords slashed, pikes jabbed, but worst of all, the axes, in the hands of strong and battle-crazed men, hacked limbs and cleaved heads. It was hard to keep upright with the slippery blood and flesh that covered the deck. Guns were still being fired into the
Magnanime.
That was another factor in the timing of Harry’s attack. When the French commander was sure of the outcome, he would cease firing, and order every available man on his ship to cross to the other deck. Harry must strike before that happened.

Turnbull, foolishly, had split his marines. Harry saw them fix bayonets, present, and attack in both directions. They made little difference to the state of either battle, being thrown in piecemeal. Turnbull should have withdrawn to the quarterdeck, regrouped, then attacked. Now the starboard crew, sensing rather than seeing the weakness at their back, began to falter too.

“Now!” shouted Harry. And his party, sixty men yelling like banshees, swept down the larboard gangway. It was hard to keep together on the pitching slippery deck, and the narrowing gangway pushed them into a tight mass which caused their attack to lose some of its impetus. But the defenders took heart at the sight, and brought the enemy’s progress to a halt. Harry’s men careered into their backs, clubbing, stabbing, and cleaving. Harry stood back, firing his pistols, before cutting off the last section of his party. He set them to fighting the Frenchmen still trying to board.

Those attackers who had got on to the
Magnanime
’s deck were now between two forces, and had no immediate prospect of support. What Harry had prayed for came to pass very quickly. Their frenzy slackened. They started to think as endangered individuals, rather than a cohesive attacking group. He spotted a French officer, a tricolour wrapped around his waist, trying to rally his men. Grabbing a sword from a dead man at his feet, he charged into the mêlée with Pender at his back. Cutting his way through, using his sword and his pistol butt as a club, he got on to the quarterdeck and went straight for the boarding party’s commander. As if by magic a space cleared as the defenders fell back. The man turned, warned by one of his men, just in time to parry the thrust that would have cut him through. But Harry’s knee followed, catching the officer in the groin. As he jerked forward, Harry struck the back of his neck with the hilt of the sword and the officer crumpled on the deck.

Was this decisive? Or was it the sudden torrential downpour that cascaded down on attackers and defenders alike? Harry could not tell. Water engulfed him till he could hardly see, as the gap closed and the fighting intensified. But the French pressure was slackening as some of them tried to get back aboard their own ship. It only took a few to break the spirit of the attack. They had lost all cohesion now, and that made them vulnerable. Some were even trying to surrender to avoid injury.

“Mr Prentice, Mr Denbigh! To starboard!” shouted Harry, glad of the water that filled his mouth as he did so. He was almost pitched into the scantlings as the
Magnanime
lurched suddenly, taken by a freak wave. He prayed that Carter had closed the lower ports. If ever water got through them the ship would sink like a stone. One quick look confirmed that the French ships were in the same unstable condition. The sea was worsening further, and the wind was now drowning out the sound of the ragged gunfire.

That pitch of the sea added extra momentum to his party’s charge across the deck. They practically bundled the French back into the
Jemmapes.
Carter was still yelling commands. Even fighting hard, slashing and stabbing, Harry could hear the orders to cut the ropes that were binding the ships together. Perhaps the French would regroup, but if that could be delayed then the
Magnanime
might get free.

Suddenly he realized that the French were trying to cut free as well. Shouts rang out, ordering their men back aboard. With the state of the weather, all three ships were now in grave danger: for if one ship foundered then, lashed together, they would all go down.

Sporadic gunfire was being exchanged again. The discipline and greater experience of the British sailors told here, and very soon the
Magnanime
was inflicting damage on the enemy. Their actions kept the French at bay while men in the rigging, using axes and swords, cut the last of the bindings. With a great wrenching sound, the wind tore the
Achille
away from the
Magnanime.
The Frenchman’s mizzen topmast, still attached, went by the board. The
Achille
’s captain must have realized his peril, for he ordered his men to cut his ship free from the wreckage and make sail. In this sea and with this wind, with a mast trailing over the side, to have no way on the ship was to invite almost certain doom.

The
Jemmapes
was still stuck to the
Magnanime,
the pressure of the wind and sea pushing her into her enemy’s side, grinding up and down with a horrible rending sound. But with her consort no longer pinning the opposite side the two seventy-fours started to spin slowly, pushed by the wind.

It was now an even contest. As the wind came between them, they started to drift apart. Then they both jerked horribly, before coming together again with a resounding crunch. Again they drifted apart. Ropes held them, stretching out taut, ready to be cut. Axes flashed on both ships. The crew of the
Magnanime
cheered as the gap opened further. The shots from the remaining British guns went into the water. Craddock yelled loud orders through the speaking trumpet.

“Cease firing. All hands to make sail!” The cheering died as men rushed to their duty. Harry suddenly found himself in the way.

The three ships drifted further apart, each one more intent on survival than any immediate renewal of the battle. Scraps of canvas were hurriedly rigged, storm canvas that would allow the seventy-fours to run before the wind, with enough speed to stop them broaching in the heavy seas. There was precious little daylight left, and given the state of the sky, it was already so dark that it was becoming difficult to spot their enemies through the driving squalls of rain. Craddock was bellowing orders through his trumpet to the teams of hands who were busy trying to repair the damage caused by the recent action.

The two enemy ships, eager to board and capture the
Magnanime,
had not, as was customary with that nation, fired almost exclusively at their opponent’s rigging. No one would want to take possession of a dismasted hulk with a storm in the offing. But the
Magnanime
’s top hamper had not completely escaped the effects of the French bombardment. The pitch of the sea had sent several heavy broadsides into the air. The foretopmast, smashed by more than one heavy ball, was severely wounded above the cap, and frantic efforts were being made to repair it. If the storm grew any worse, there was a general feeling that it could go by the board.

Again a difficult set of choices for Carter. Should he strip it of rigging and canvas, thus reducing pressure on the mast? Proper repair was impossible in this sea. But it was because of that same sea, and the wind that was whipping it up, that he needed the foremast to keep the ship’s head pointed in the right direction.

All that could be done was well in hand. Men were fishing the mast with capstan bars seeking to strengthen it where it was damaged, affixing the lengths of timber and then binding them tightly with a stout cable. Extra stays were being rigged to ease the pressure. That was the most important problem but there were many others, not least the shortage of officers and men, casualties in the recent fight. Harry did not know how high the toll was, but a brief visit to the cockpit had shown the crowded gangways and the blood-soaked Outhwaite, operating desperately to try and save lives and limbs. It had been a shock to see James there, also heavily bloodstained. Craddock had ordered him to be released into the surgeon’s custody at the start of the action. Harry tried to speak with his brother but he was waved away. James was far too busy.

The carpenter kept sending his mate up to report a rising level of water in the well, as the pumps were unable to keep up with the amount of water the ship was making. Parties were slaving down below, shifting stores, bales, and water casks, to come at the places where the
Magnanime
had been holed, so that they could be plugged.

The damage to the decks would have to wait, although one of the carpenter’s mates was repairing the damage to the ship’s boats, hauled back on board as soon as was practicable. A team was manning the capstan and lines were running through the rigging attached to the dismounted guns so that they could be righted and bowsed tight against the side. The only alternative would be to cast them overboard. You could not strike them down into the hold on a deck that was angled like a roof, and pitching like a crazed horse.

CHAPTER TWELVE

HARRY
pulled himself along on the man-ropes to where Carter stood. He was wearing a borrowed oilskin coat and the water from the rain and the flying spray was running off it by the gallon. Carter, similarly dressed, was standing head back looking at the foremast, his face lined with worry. The
Magnanime
was normally a dry, weatherly ship. Given that the damage below was not too great, she should have been capable of riding out this storm. But if that mast was toppled, then all his calculations would go with it, with a consequent increase in danger to everyone aboard.