Chapter 10: Of Prizes and Spoils

Mediterranean Sea, August 1801

Will was already giving orders to Alwyn and to Carron, the cook, to dole out bread and cheese to the men, and around them, a sense of excitement was spreading. Will thought it expedient to dash into the wardroom and to arm himself with cutlass and pistols. He did not own a sword — that was for commissioned officers only — but he had a well forged cutlass with hand basket and two double-barrelled pistols which he loaded carefully. One by one, the other wardroom members, save for the surgeon, armed themselves, too.

Back on deck, the foreign sail was now visible on the horizon. With three square-rigged masts, she could be anything from a ship-sloop to a first-rate. She must have been hull-up already from the maintop because the lookout sang her out again.

“She’s a ship, Sir! Ten ports to a side; small frigate or post-ship, Sir!”

That made the foreign sail about an even match for Dido.

“Is she flying her colours?” Clyde Barker hailed.

“No, Sir, but she don’t look like none of our sixth-rates, Sir!” the lookout hailed back. He was Stevenson, able seaman, and the oldest of the main top crew. He knew ships.

“We had better clear the ship, Mister Barker,” D’Arcy said calmly.

“Aye-aye, Sir!” Clyde snapped eagerly. “All hands! All hands! Clear the ship for action!”

Clyde Barker was the first lieutenant. He was in his middling thirties, and a single-ship action, if successful, might just bring him the coveted advancement to Master and Commander.

Dido’s crew had been exercised relentlessly over the last weeks, and Clyde could report the ship ready in less than twelve minutes.

“Very decent, Mister Barker,” D’Arcy commented. “Now, please be so kind as to have our colours hoisted.”

“Aye-aye, Sir!”

A minute later, Dido was flying the blue ensign as she hurtled towards the unknown sail. Finally, the other captain saw fit to reveal his identity, and for the first time, Will saw the Tricolour flag on the high seas. He took a deep breath, knowing that soon they would be in a desperate fight with an enemy of equal strength. He briefly thought of Abigail, but he chased those thoughts away. Instead, he ordered more water to be doled out to the men. It was a hot day, soon to get hotter, and the men needed every bit of support.

Captain D’Arcy nodded when he saw Alwyn and two cook’s mates distributing water.

“Good thinking, Mister Potter. Will you kindly hold yourself ready once we’re engaging the enemy?”

“I’ll help wherever I’m needed, Sir,” Will answered, calming down a little, the memory of the long-ago boarding fight in the South Sea coming to his aid. He had held out then; he could do it now.

The two ships were approaching each other quickly now, both using the southerly wind to their best advantage. At the moment, it seemed to Will as if Dido would be able to gain the weather gage, an important advantage as he knew from countless discussions in the wardrooms of the ships he’d sailed in. They were only a mile apart now, and he could see the foam around the bows of the French ship. She had her guns run out already, and Will counted ten muzzles along her port side. That meant that Dido had a small advantage, carrying twelve long nines on either side of her main deck.

Taking a deep breath, he looked over the quarterdeck guns, four six-pounder popguns but also four squat, stumpy 18-pounder carronades. Their small Royal Marines detachment was lined up along their port side, ready to fire their muskets and swivel guns. Everybody was staring at the Frenchman of course, waiting for her to make the first move. As it was, Dido would pass her to windward at perhaps two pistol shots distance.

Echoing Will’s thoughts, the Captain gave a sharp command.

“Everybody, hold your fire! We’ll cross her stern, you hear, and I want you to rake her!”

That was the advantage of holding the weather gage, the ability to turn before the wind at a moment’s notice and to cross the stern of a ship.

The ships were now only four cable lengths apart.

“Mister Barker, get in the t’gallants!” D’Arcy commanded, and within a mere two minutes, Dido was under topsails only. The top men streamed down the ratlines and took their positions on the gun deck.

Now they were just about to pass the French ship when first one, then four more of the French guns went off. Percy Montgomery and James Muir yelled at their gun crews to hold their fire, and then the rest of the French broadside was fired whilst Dido already began to turn. Before the wind, she was now crossing her opponent’s stern. The port side guns fired in groups from fore to aft and Will actually jumped a little when the carronades discharged. The powder smoke that was obscuring the enemy was quickly blown away in the strong wind, and Will could see the outward damage in the Frenchman. The small stern gallery had born the brunt of the broadside and was in shambles, and Will could only guess at the chaos behind it.

Already, Dido was turning in pursuit of the French ship. Will looked up into the rigging, and he saw little damage. Down in the waist, the mangled remains of two men had been dragged to the foot of the mainmast whilst two surgeon’s mates carried another man down the main companionway to where Mathews was waiting. They had not suffered much it seemed.

The topgallants were set again, and Dido was catching up whilst the French crew were slow to respond. Of course, when a ship is raked from stern to bows, the quarterdeck suffers the most, and it was more than likely that the French ship had lost officers already. Still, some sort of order must have been restored, since her topmen scampered up, and the unfurled upper sails gave her more speed. Still, she was in easy reach for Dido’s foremost guns as the two ships raced along, and the Royal Navy nine-pounder was renowned for its accuracy. Time after time, the nine-pounders barked, and even in the choppy waves, every third or so shot hit the Frenchman. It was only a matter of time until they could score a crippling hit.

As it were, it was the larboard Nº 1 gun that shot away the French mizzen top. Bereft of the stabilising effect of the mizzen topsail, the hapless ship turned before the wind. For a minute, hectic activity ensued on Dido’s deck and in her rigging, as D’Arcy had his frigate wear, too, and then suddenly, both ships were side by side, and the broadsides exploded. Then everything became a chaotic. Whilst the English gunners had fired a carefully loaded broadside of round shot into the French hull, the French must have loaded dismantling shot. A rain of spars and severed lines came down on them, and the ship slowed immediately as sails were torn and braces cut. Yet, the gangways Dido had between forecastle and quarterdeck protected the gun crews on the main deck from the falling debris, and the larboard guns roared out again.

“There goes her maintop!” Will heard somebody yelling, and indeed, the topmast had been hit and fell over the enemy’s starboard side, effectively silencing most of her guns. Will could see the French sailors hacking away at the wreckage with axes and cutlasses, but then Dido’s next broadside hit them.

With the last of Dido’s momentum, D’Arcy steered his ship alongside the disabled French.

“All hands! All hands, prepare for boarding!” D’Arcy yelled through the speaking trumpet. “Mister Barker! Take their Fo’c’sle! Mister Montgomery! Follow me!”

A wave of men stormed forward or aft to join the boarding parties, and Will found himself following them and yelling as madly as any of the tars. By now, the French ship was hooked properly with grapnels, and with D’Arcy in the lead, the boarding party jumped over the gap and onto the French quarterdeck, with Will in their midst.

As soon as he landed on his feet, he drew and cocked his pistol with his left hand and brandished his cutlass. There came a line of French marines, their muskets levelled and their bayonets planted. They did not fire their muskets and Will realised that they must have fired them before, with not enough time to reload. They were only five or six, and their heavy muskets were no match for the British boarding pikes. One guy aimed for Will with his felled bayonet, but Will was faster firing his pistol. He fired low, as he had learned to avoid misses, and the man broke down, clutching his stomach, his musket dropping onto the deck.

Grabbing his cutlass, Will joined the others who were now facing off against another small group of defenders, but more British sailors were now coming from behind, and the quarterdeck was secured. Will saw a man a in splendid uniform leaning against the foot of the mizzenmast, but the man had no head. Obviously, the French captain had not survived their first, raking broadside.

D’Arcy made his men join the melée on the gun deck where the French were still holding out. A fierce fight ensued at the foot of the companionway, but now the footfall of boots could be heard over the din. The Royal Marines were joining the fight. Lining his men up along the quarterdeck railing, Peter Murdoch had them fire a volley into the mass of defenders below. With practiced precision, the Lobsters reloaded and fired again, causing more men to drop all over the gun deck.

“Avast firing!” D’Arcy yelled at the top of his lungs, and the Marines froze in place, their reloaded muskets at the ready. Then turning to the French on the main deck, “Vous vous cédez?”

One of the French lieutenants looked about for a few seconds, hoping for an inspiration, but none came.

“Je me cède!” He cried back, dropping his sword on the blood-stained deck.

Following their leader’s example, the hapless French dropped their weapons. The Marines descended from the quarterdeck and herded the prisoners forward. Swivel guns were loaded and directed at them, and then small parties began to search the prize for possible pockets of resistance.

With both ships and the transports hove-to, Dido’s crew toiled until nightfall to repair the damage to Dido’s rigging and to repair the holes in her hull. The ships remained hove-to over night, and in the next morning, work parties started to rig jury masts in the French ship.

She was a post-ship of 24 guns under a capitaine de corvette, a very useful vessel that would be taken into the service without doubt. Capturing her was a small but significant victory against an enemy of almost equal strength. Captain D’Arcy would not get a knighthood out of this action, but it was a solid mark in his favour regarding future postings. More importantly, Clyde Barker, as the 1st lieutenant of the victorious ship, could now entertain the hope of advancement to commander, which — strangely — was primarily a compliment for the captain. Will wished his old shipmate only the best.

Furthering his Nº1’s chances, D’Arcy gave Barker the command over Le Poule (The Hen), the somewhat strange name of the prize. He was to sail her to Malta for adjudication, and if necessary, to Gibraltar, once he had landed the prisoners and found some extra hands for a barebones crew. Will made sure to wish Clyde success and a good fortune before he left the convoy.

Another man to profit from their victory was Percy Montgomery who was now the acting 1st lieutenant. A midshipman, Albert Norton, joined the wardroom as acting lieutenant. As had to be expected, he was a distant cousin of the captain, but he had also shown promise over the last months.

With the detached prize crew and the losses incurred during the engagement — four dead and eleven wounded — Dido was undermanned, but as they continued their run towards Alexandria, the boost to their morale made up for most of that shortage.

For Will, the effects of the battle were mixed. On one hand, his participation in the boarding had been noted, and his already good standing with the lower deck — for a purser — improved further. On the other hand, the sight of the headless French captain had shaken him more than a little. He was a newly married man with a lovely and cheerful wife, and yet, everything he had achieved would avail him nothing if blind fate directed a cannon ball at him. He let a little of his thoughts out in one of the next evenings, sitting with Angus Donovan, the sailing master, who had a different perspective.

“Will, what difference will it make if you’re hit by round shot or crushed by a falling spar? ‘Tis a profession fraught with dangers we have. At least, Monsieur Le Frog never felt any pain.”

“There is that, Angus, but still, he was a gruesome sight.”

“Aye, my young friend, that is the truth, but you need to get over him. If he’d been a better captain, we would’ve never been able to cross his stern.”

“Yes, that’s a good point you make. D’ye think Clyde will get his promotion?”

“It’s a good chance. We’re far enough from home, so the Admiral gets to decide. No meddling from parliament or from court, you see? Then again, the Admiral may have a favourite to promote. You can never tell. It’s a pity she isn’t a sloop. A post ship is tricky; they’d have to post him, and that’s a big step for a lieutenant without interest.”

“Damn, this is complicated,” Will opined.

“Yes, my lad, but what’s it to us? We’ll never have that problem.”

Gradually, Will’s apprehension waned, and when the small convoy reached the British fleet off Aboukir four days later, Will was largely his self again.

After delivering the transport and the two brigs into the safety of the British squadron, Dido was anchored and her crew was able to complete the repairs. Captain D’Arcy reported to Lord Keith and returned over two hours later and in excellent mood.

In the evening, the wardroom was invited to dine with the captain. The small after cabin of the frigate offered only limited room, but somehow, everybody found a seat at the table. Whilst they were waiting for the first course, D’Arcy gave his officers an update of the situation.

“Gentlemen, things are looking up for our side. As His Lordship kindly informed me, our land forces have thrown back the French in two heated battles. Regrettably, Sir Ralph Abercrombie succumbed to his wounds after repulsing a French attack on our positions. Major General Hely-Hutchinson has taken over the command. The French are now under siege in Alexandria proper and we are instituting a naval blockade.

“The siege is likely to take longer as the French are well entrenched, and we are to escort another convoy to acquire provisions from Malta. Mister Potter, kindly see Mister Daniels in the flagship for directions. He and Lieutenant Crompton, the Army quartermaster, will give you the specifications.”

“Aye-aye, Sir,” Will answered. He had almost expected that.

“This time, we’ll take more victualling ships, so it will take a while longer to find cargo for them, right, Mister Potter?”

“I expect so, Sir.”

“Well, that cannot be helped. We’ll also get some replacements. One of the armed cutters ran aground, and we’ll get twelve of her crew to replace our losses. Happy, Mister Montgomery?”

“Very, Sir,” Percy smiled.

“I thought so. Now, Admiral Keith is very satisfied with the capture of Le Poule. As a sign of his esteem, he gifted us a case of French wine to celebrate. He also promised to support Mister Barker’s ambitions. I therefore raise my glass now to Admiral Lord Keith, and may he always hold us in good esteem!”

D’Arcy raised his glass, and the wardroom officers gladly drank to the toast.

“Now, gentlemen, let us enjoy our dinner!”

It turned out to be a pleasant evening. Nobody became overly drunk, but the conversation flowed freely around the table. Captain D’Arcy entertained his officers with news from England that he had picked up in the flagship, and the wardroom members had to contribute, too. Of course, they all knew about Will and his young wife from Clyde, but he had to tell them of his experiences sailing the Great South Sea. He was in fact the only one to have sailed around Cape Horn, likely in the entire ship, and he answered the questions as best as he could. The dinner party broke up at four bells after which Will quickly fell asleep.

Come the next morning, a mail bag was delivered from the flagship, and wonders over wonders, there were three letters from Abigail. In her first letter, she only wrote about mundane topics, nevertheless pointing out how much she missed Will. The second letter, by contrast, was quite a bombshell for Will. Abigail wrote in great detail how she had been missing her monthlies for the second time and how a visit with a midwife of good repute had confirmed that she was indeed with child, probably two months along. She felt only a little sickness in the mornings, but otherwise no ill effects, except for being subjected to the well-meant fussing to which she was subjected by Jane Brewer and Belle Faversham.