Chapter 8: The Fair Sex

August 1801

Like Mister McIntyre, Cormorant’s sailing master, Mister Wallace was a Scot and well schooled like many of his countrymen. The classes he held under the quarterdeck and in which Thomas took part, required substantially more understanding of trigonometry than Thomas had learned in the Latin School he had attended for three years in Guildford, but fortunately, the midshipmen were not better schooled, forcing the navigator to begin with basics.

Before Theodore Grey became captain of the Squirrel, no such classes had been held, much to the detriment of the young officer candidates, and Wallace was now trying to instil an understanding of the principles in his students. He was not a bad teacher, but much like any specialist in the fields of human knowledge, he could not understand that others might have a harder time than himself understanding what he taught. This caused much repetition in the lessons, but gradually, the young men and boys began to see the light, and on this twenty-eighth day of August, he felt that enough theory had been taught and had his students practice with the sextant. At least, the sextant was something with which the midshipmen and Thomas were familiar.

Shooting the height of the sun over the horizon at noon was fairly easy with the small post ship sailing with a light breeze over an almost flat sea. Yet, Mister Wallace also had them shoot the sun at quarter hour intervals before and after noon to determine the longitude. This required some complex calculations, and the results at which his students arrived did not really please the master. Of the three young men and one boy, Thomas came closest to what was deemed right, but pressed hard, he would have admitted to having sheer luck. With a deep sigh, Wallace went over their calculations with them again, until they saw where they had erred. By then, it was already four bells in the afternoon watch, and they were sent on their ways to tend to their tasks and duties.

At least, Thomas now knew that Squirrel was sailing at three knots on a southeastern course, between St. Martin and St. Bartholomew, which was quite obvious since they had passed St. Martin just three hours ago.

Thomas had not much time to perform his tasks in the cabin before the gig was called. Making use of the weak breeze, the coxswains of the ship’s boats were ordered to drill their crews, rowing alongside the ship and performing the manoeuvres ordered from the quarterdeck. Thomas as the slightest of the crew manned the gig first as it was lowered into the water, hooking onto the mizzen chains, until the rest of the crew had joined him. Once all the boats had been lowered and manned, they were ordered to form a line ahead, with the gig in the lead, followed by cutter, longboat, side boat and jolly boat. The crews had done a lot of rowing during the repairs at English Harbour, and they showed no weaknesses.

Then the order came to arm longboat and cutter, and both boats lay alongside the ship, received the small swivel guns with cartridges and handling tools, and mounted them in the bows, whilst side boat, gig and jolly boat received small arms for the crews. They were then ordered to attack the ship from the stern, lay alongside, and then enter the ship at four points.

There were a few mishaps during the first attempt. In his haste and excitement, Thomas failed to hook onto the foremast chains at first, making a second attempt necessary. Likewise, the cutter bumped against the ship’s side too hard, damaging the starboard gunwale and throwing the crew from the thwarts. Another attempt was made then, and this time it went well enough.

By now, the first dogwatch approached, and the boats were swayed up onto the deck or into the davits. Grog hour was next, and whilst the crew enjoyed their late meal, the officers congregated in the cabin to receive orders. Signals had been exchanged and acknowledged between the Squirrel and the small port of Gustavia on the west coast of St. Bartholomew, and two hours after dark, Squirrel’s boats were sent to the shore to ‘attack’ the port.

They had to row a full mile through the darkness, with only the fluorescent surf around the island as orientation for the longboat. The other boats followed the stern lantern of the longboat, which was shaded to the forward and the sides, allowing only the following boats to see the light.

Mister Tiernay, in command of the boat flotilla, found the landing point, east of the Fort Karl, where a small beach allowed them to land. Once landed, they were properly welcomed by a captain of the Army garrison, who shook hands with Tiernay and handed over a bottle of Danish Akvavit to ransom the island from the invaders. It was only a sip for each man in the boats, but enough to warrant a cheer for their gallant ‘foe’.

Matthews, the coxswain of the longboat then burnt a blue light to report the ‘taking’ of St. Bartholomew, and by the answering light from Squirrel they navigated safely back to the ship.

After rowing the boats for over two miles in the dark, the crews were sent into their hammocks for some much needed sleep. For Thomas, this had been a grand adventure, and he lay awake for a while, imagining how it would feel to attack an island for real, surprising the defenders, and carrying away the spoils.

Having lain hove-to for the night, Squirrel braced her sails again with the first light and took a course for St. Kitts, sailing past St. Eustatius on the way. That tiny island, not even three miles long, though now under British control, was too small to warrant a garrison, and it had last been patrolled a month hence. Hugging the coastline, Squirrel proceeded in southerly direction when the lookout in the foretop hailed.

“On deck! Ship right ahead, mebbe a mile to for’rard. She’s ship-rigged an’ anchored, Sir!”

Theodore Grey reacted immediately. “Mister Tiernay, beat to quarters! Guns loaded and run out! As soon as she is cleared for action, take in the courses!”

“Aye-aye, Sir! Mister Phillips, pipe up the hands. Clear the ship for action!”

A moment later, the pipes shrilled through the ship, and a few moments later, the Royal Marines drummer boy started his roll. Men were running to and fro, hastening to their stations. The cook and his mates threw the galley fire over the lee side, whilst the detailed crews already struck down the bulkheads. The nettings over the bulwarks were stuffed with the hammocks and the gun crews uncovered the nine-pounders and readied them. Meanwhile, Thomas and the other ship’s boys were strewing sand all over the main deck, forecastle and quarterdeck, to give the gun crews better footing. That done, they rushed down to the handling room off the magazine to receive the first buckets filled with cartridges, before running up the companionways to ‘their’ guns.

For Thomas, those were the two 18-pounder carronades on the quarterdeck, and he arrived just in time for the first loading of those guns. With the cartridges distributed to the loaders, he ran back down to receive a second bucket with which he waited at the foot of the companionway, and still on the orlop deck. Soon, all the ship’s boys were standing there, waiting for the command to bring fresh charges.

They heard Midshipman Bromley hailing down from the foremast. “She’s slipped her anchor, Sir! They’re going to quarters now!”

“She looks like a small frigate, Sir, but there’s boats on the shore and lots of men, soldiers too!”

Thomas eyes went wide. “They’ve half the crew ashore!” he told the others around him. “Her soldiers, too. We’ve caught them with their pants down!”

“Buts she’s a frigate!” young Samuel White, the youngest almost whimpered.

“With half the crew ashore, she can’t be sailed and fought at the same time,” Thomas gave back.

“F’sure,” Wally Penryn agreed. “Should’ve kept to their anchor an’ rigged a spring cable.”

“Not enough time for that,” his brother replied. “God, but to be on deck now!”

Just then, they could see through the open hatch that the topmen were climbing into the upper masts, likely to furl the topgallant sails. The lookout hailed at the same moment.

“On deck! She’s hoisting her colours. She’s Dutch, Sir!”

Dutch meant the Batavian Republic, the Dutch client state under French control. Yet, Dutch sailors had a stellar reputation. This could be a close thing, Thomas thought, but he said nothing. The officers would know, and the boys around him would not need the news.

“We’ve shortened sails. Soon it’ll start!” Harry Penryn observed, more to himself than. to the others.

He was not wrong. Less than five nerve-wracking minutes later, Squirrel wore sharply.

“St’b’d guns, take aim! On the even keel, fire!”

The broadside exploded with deafening noise.

“Swab the breech! Fresh charges! Load and ram home! Run out! Fire!”

Not a minute later, the second broadside roared out.

“Fresh charges!” Mister Sorger yelled down from the main deck, and forgetting their fears, the boys ran up to bring cartridges to their guns.

Whilst handing out the powder charges to the carronade crews, Thomas could look around, before he rushed down again. One look told him that Squirrel had sailed past the other ship’s stern and raked her. Now they were coming up again, this time with the larboard guns ready. He was down in the handling room, receiving a fresh bucket, when the port side guns fired.

Then, just as they were going about again, he heard the other ship firing, but he did not hear the telltale crashes of hits. The surprised Dutch crew had to be firing wildly.

“Secure the main t’gallant yard!” he heard the boatswain’s voice. So the enemy had fired too high.

“St’b’d battery, give them passing honours!” Sorger could be heard, and the starboard guns fired in quick succession, likely raking the small frigate again. Thomas just asked himself how long the decimated crew of the frigate would keep fighting, when the lookout hailed.

“They’re striking, Sir! They’re hauling down the flag!”

Pipes sounded through the ship. “Hold your fire! Cease firing!” Thomas heard his father over the general din of the engagement, his voice sounding strained.

“Avast bringing up charges!” Mister Walley shouted down from the main deck. “Stay ready!”

Thomas took a deep breath. He had come through another engagement without harm. There was Wilkerson.

“Come quick, Thomas! The captain’s been shot!”

Thomas stood there, not comprehending for a few moments. Wilkerson took his arm and shook him. “Get a grip, Tomcat! Your father needs you. He’s for’rard, in the lazaretto. The sawbones is working on him! Come!”

With a great effort, Thomas stiffed his back. His father needed him. But what could he do? Be at his side, give him comfort, help him through the ordeal! Yes! He nodded.

“Lead the way, Jimmy!”

The lazaretto as run by Mister Dugan was an altogether different sight than the one where Thomas had unloaded Jim Wilkerson, almost a year ago. For one, there was only one patient, Theodore Grey. For another, Mister Dugan wore an unblemished frock, and his instruments were clean and shiny. This did not help Thomas’s father, who was held down by two helpers, a strip of leather between his teeth, the sweat running down from his forehead, and his body straining against the surgeon’s mates as Dugan probed in his thigh.

“One o’ them Dutch sodjers hit him with a musket. Mister Dugan is looking for the musket ball,” Wilkerson whispered. “Stand by his side, m’lad, and let him know you’re here.”

With some trepidation, Thomas stepped closer, but them he had an idea. Unbinding the kerchief from his own head, he dipped it into a pail of seawater and started to wipe the sweaty forehead with the cool cloth.

“I’m here, Father; I’m with you. Mister Dugan’s almost done.”

That was not far from the truth, for the surgeon was now inserting a long forceps. The body of the wounded man strained again, but not for long. With a satisfied sigh, Dugan dropped a deformed lead ball into a small basin.

“The musket ball’s out, Father,” Thomas whispered excitedly, whilst Dugan was using the forceps now to dig for any scraps of cloth brought into the wound. Indeed, two blood-soaked scraps came out.

“I’m done probing the wound, Sir. I’m binding up the leg now,” Dugan cheerily told his patient.

With the probing done, Theodore Grey relaxed a little, and when finally the thigh was wrapped in fresh linen strips, he spit out the leather strap.

“Bloody hell, but that hurt!” he exclaimed with a scratchy voice, causing relieved chuckles all around.

“I’ll have my men carry you to your cabin, Sir,” Dugan told him. “You’ll be laid up for a week at least. I cannot close the wound yet, for we must allow the malign fluids to seep out. I could get out the whole musket ball and some scraps of your breeches, so you should heal just fine.”

“Thank you, Mister Dugan. At least I am assured now that you master your profession.”

“Thank you, Sir. I did but my duty by you and the ship. We’d hate to lose you, Sir, if I may say so.”

“And I’d hate to be lost,” the captain jested tiredly. “Well, get me to my cabin to I can dictate the bloody report the admiral will expect.”

The Batavian ship was identified as the 26-gun Haarlem, a small frigate, reactivated from the Batavian reserve fleet, and sent to the former West Indian colonies to incite a rising against the British occupation. Her captain and two of her officers had indeed landed weapons for the Dutch settlers, and were now stranded on the small island.

With Thomas tending to his father’s needs, he witnessed much of the orders the elder Grey gave from his sickbed. Haarlem was to be made seaworthy in haste and then sailed to Antigua, to report about the situation whilst Squirrel would keep a watch over St. Eustatius.

Indeed, by evening, Haarlem, under her jury rig, squared away and took a course for Antigua and English Harbour. With the trade winds blowing steadily, she would be there by the next noon, even with her damaged rigging. With this achieved, Mister Dugan insisted on Theodore Grey getting his sleep.

It was a good thing that Thomas and Wilkerson had learned a thing or two from Cubah Cornwallis about caring for the sick, and Thomas was not squeamish at all about helping his father with the night pot and other ministrations. One of the chickens that were cooped on the poop deck was butchered, and Thomas spent two hours in the pantry, boiling a chicken broth over the fire. This he fed to his father whenever he had hunger, with hard tack crumbs soaked into it.

Thus, Squirrel spent the next day patrolling the island to prevent the Dutch captain from escaping, whilst her captain lay in his cabin, recuperating and being mothered by his own son. He had a light fever as could be expected, but according to Mister Dugan, the wound smelt good and not gangrenous, and the amount of pus seeping out was normal.

Nevertheless, Thomas diligently changed the wound dressing twice daily, washing the used bandages with soap and lye, remembering Cubah Cornwallis’s teachings, also with Jim Wilkerson’s help, who had also paid attention to the healer.

When, early in the forenoon watch of the next day, sails were sighted, Theodore Grey insisted on being carried out to the quarterdeck, and he stayed there even when the lookout recognised the Leviathan, Duckworth’s flagship. She came not alone, but in the company of the Andromeda frigate and a transport brig.