Chapter 47: The Final Battle

In the moonless night, the first broadside fired by HMS Hades blinded them temporarily. The big three-decker was abeam of the French lead ship, and for the surprised French the impact would be nothing else but devastating. Now, Nero opened fire, a crashing broadside with lowered muzzles. Captain Bohun was a simple man but a dyed in the wool sailor who could be trusted to make the most of his first broadside. A second thundering broadside came from the Hades and in the muzzle flash of over forty guns Tony saw the second French two-decker keel over under the impact. Nero‘s second broadside roared out before Rodney joined the action, firing into the Turenne, the single French ship that still carried all her masts.

A first shot roared out from the citadel, but in Tony’s opinion the fire from the citadel was more than useless as the British ships were close enough to the anchored French battleships to be almost shielded against the shots from land. If anything, the big 42-pounders would wreak havoc among their own ships.

Achilles and Repulse were now engaging the French, too, firing into the hapless and already heavily damaged ships. It was time now for the coup de grace. Tony turned.

“Signal lieutenant! Hoist two red lanterns abaft! Sir August, kindly square away for the French line.”

In response, two lanterns were hoisted up the mizzen mast, the signal for the fireships to follow. In the darkness, Tony could barely make out the shape of the small vessels in their wake as they sailed towards the line of anchored ships. There! A dark shadow loomed perhaps two points ahead and to starboard. A watch ship of sorts. Hohenstein was ready, turning the Clyde slightly to port.

“Permission to open fire, Sir Anthony?” he asked with assumed calmness.

“At your leisure, Captain,” came Tony’s equally casual reply.

Hohenstein’s battery pipe shrilled, and seconds later, Clyde‘s starboard broadside roared out. The small vessel was almost torn to shreds when the storm of iron reached it. Behind them, Mersey fired to port, obviously aiming at another watch boat. They sailed on, past the already sinking guard ship, and towards the anchored French flagship.

Tony turned to the signal lieutenant. “Hoist the third red lantern, if you please!”

That was the signal for the fireship captains to pick their targets. Burroughs could be trusted to pick the Turenne as his prime target as she was the only seaworthy ship at anchor. By this time, the French were finally returning the fire of the British battleships, but their fire was sporadic. Tony suspected that a great number of guns had been disabled in the first broadsides, and to ready a ship for action whilst already under fire required a discipline which the barely trained French sailors could not have acquired yet.

They were about to cross the bow of the French lead ship. Tony gave a nod to Hohenstein in response to his silent request. Hohenstein picked up a speaking trumpet.

“Mr. Trent! We’re crossing her bows. Passing honours!”

Hohenstein even had the topsails backed to slow them down, and the port side battery discharged gun after gun as they passed the looming two-decker’s bows. Almost last came the huge 68-pounder carronade mounted on the quarterdeck. In the flicker of the blue lights that were burnt Tony could see that the huge ball hit the bows right in the waterline. A crippling hit!

Clyde was turning already whilst Mersey took a turn firing into the French two-decker as well. Now it was the time for the fireships. Burroughs’ brig had been sailing in Mersey‘s wake, but she had turned to port already. Once steady on her new course, Tony could see the red glow in the brig’s waist. Seconds later a boat cast off from her side, just as the first bright flames burst up.

The big ships had seized fire, and in the ensuing silence the cries of alarm could be heard in the French ships. Unfortunately, the second fireship was slow to follow and already going off course as its crew bailed out prematurely. Burrough’s vessel, however, was aimed perfectly. Just as the fire reached the rigging and sails, the burning ship bumped against the Turenne. Within seconds, the flames danced up the Frenchman’s rigging. Over the desperate cries Tony heard the sound of axes. Of course, the other captains were cutting their anchors to escape the menace of the fireships.

One by one the four other fireships drifted towards the French line. Except for the Turenne which was already engulfed in bright flames the French ships had cut their cables and were drifting towards land. With long spars their crews tried to fend off the fireships, holding them at a distance with desperate efforts. It seemed to work mostly, but then the night was shattered by the explosion of the Turenne. Her magazines must have caught, and she went up like a volcano, spewing flaming timbers for a cable length around. Small fires showed on the other ships, but somehow their crews were able to put them out. Tony tore himself loose from the sight.

“Captain, kindly see to picking up the fireship crews.”

Slowly, Clyde and Mersey made their way out of the bay, picking up three crews. In the backdrop, a second large fire was seen: it was the Sunderland that was burning, set ablaze by a different boat crew so as not to leave her to the French. From what Tony could see the well planned action was a full success.

Hove-to just out of the French guns’ range, Clyde was sailing past the Bay of Rosas. Two captains were sitting in the crow’s nest with their telescopes and scanning the anchorage. The Turenne was gone entirely, blown to smithereens in the explosion of her magazine, and the remnants of the Sunderland could barely be made out. The French flagship, the Ville de Bordeaux, was grounded under the citadel on rocky shore. There was no way to salvage that one, Tony decided with satisfaction. The Meduse, 80, had also run aground on a sand spit and it was clear that her back was broken during the low tide. The Didon, 74, was aground on a sandy stretch, and she might be salvaged, but only with a dry dock close by which Rosas could not boast. Tony nodded to himself. The Royal Navy could dispense with any efforts to keep watch over those French ships.

Later on that day the captains assembled in the Rodney for a debriefing. Tony let Hohenstein report their observation and leaned back instead, watching the other officers. Langton was missing. He had been gored by a wood splinter when a shot from the French had hit a side boat. Captain Ellington of the Hades had a few things to explain, in particular why he had his side boats in the davits whilst sailing into action.

Rear Admiral Martin was all kindness, though. He thanked all the officers for their contribution to their success, and he toasted to the recovery of Admiral Langton to which they all drank. It was less a debriefing than a subdued celebration of sorts. Tony assumed that Hades with her wounded admiral would sail for Gibraltar and that Nero would follow, seeing that the squadron was an admiral and a ship short of its complement. However, Admiral Martin held a surprise up his sleeve.

“Sir Anthony, I must ask you to fill in for Sir Percy Langton. Of course, it will be for Sir Charles Cotton to make the decision, but in the meantime I would ask you to shift your pennant to Hades and combine the two squadrons under your command. Sir Percy should be conveyed to the Gibraltar lazaretto with utmost expedience. I suppose that Clyde would be best suited for that purpose?”

Tony swallowed briefly. That was unexpected. Getting over his surprise, he appreciated the idea though. Rather than having two ships of the line lay idle waiting for the recovery or succession of Admiral Langton, the combined squadron could be used effectively against the French supply lines. Besides, Captain Ellington of the Hades was indeed three months Tony’s junior in captain’s rank. It was something that happened to Tony with increasing frequency that he found himself senior to other captains.

“Any particular tasks to be performed, Sir Byam?” he asked matter-of-factly.

“Just keep the Frogs on their toes,” Martin grinned. “Any orders from Sir Charles will be sent to Port Mahon. It would be advisable to call there once in a while.”

“Aye-aye, Sir.”

That was it. After a brief discussion with Hohenstein, Tony had himself rowed to the Hades. Langton’s day cabin was testimony to his tastes or the lack thereof. There was a lot of gilding and massive silver involved, and a large painting of Lady Laura Langton dominated one side of the cabin. Sir Percy’s steward intimated that Sir Percy had only recently married. All of the wounded admiral’s personal possessions were hurriedly put into crates and shifted over to Clyde. On the return trips, Tony’s own, far more spartan furnishings made their way over to Hades where John Little saw to the proper distribution.

Then there was the moment when the unconscious Langton, tightly lashed to a transport plank, was swayed into a waiting longboat and his flag was lowered. As the longboat made its way over to the Clyde, Tony’s own broad pennant was hoisted to a six-gun salute. The transfer of command was official.

Not quite an hour later, Clyde under all sails raced away on a southern course. Tony watched her with dismay. She was the finest ship he had ever commanded, and chances were he would not sail in her again. By contrast, Hades was a behemoth. She was not quite the size of the Royal Sovereign but close. Tony was under no illusions that his command of the combined squadron would last longer than it took for the reports to reach London and for a rear-admiral to travel to the Mediterranean Sea. Yet, he was determined to make the most of this transient command. After all, it might be his only chance ever to lord it over a squadron this size.

Once Clyde was hull under, Tony snapped his telescope shut. His eyes sought out a midshipman.

“My compliments to Captain Ellington, and will he see me in my cabin!” he ordered curtly before stalking down the companionway to the upper gun deck where his cabin lay.

Ellington came not two minutes later. “You called for me, Sir Anthony?”

“Indeed, Captain. Have a seat please, and kindly fill me in on the current shape of your ship. What damage did you sustain and how are we provisioned?”

“Hr-hm, Sir Anthony. I should need to consult with the carpenter and the purser first to answer such questions...”

His voice tapered off when he saw Tony’s raised eyebrows.

“Perhaps, Captain, you can join me for a lunch in two hours? That should give you ample time to collect the information I shall need. From this day onward, however, I expect my captain to have such information ready at all times.”

Like a beaten dog, Ellington withdrew. Tony had to shake his head. Ellington was somehow related to Langton, and it was obvious that he had not received his command based on his merits. Then he shrugged. He had to make do with him.

Whilst Rear Admiral Martin with his three sails of the line and the Cassandra sailed northward to re-join Sir Charles Cotton’s Mediterranean Fleet, Tony ordered his squadron to square away on a southern course. He had the smaller ships fan out to either side of the two ships of the line to sweep the coast line in their usual fashion whilst he prepared for the second interview with his new flag captain.

For once, the Mediterranean Sea showed its unpleasant face. A heavy winter storm was whipping up the waters in the Gulf du Lion, and HMS Hades was wallowing in the short waves. Top heavy as Hades was she was a terrible sailor. The British-built second rates were infamous for their poor handling, and Tony’s flagship was a shining example.

Clyde had returned from Gibraltar with the sad news that Admiral Langton had succumbed to his wounds not two days after their arrival. He would be conveyed to London for burial whilst Clyde provisioned and returned to the squadron before anybody could give her captain different orders. Tony was sorely tempted to shift his pennant back to her, but it had become clear to him that Captain Ellington needed close supervision. He was not entirely certain to what extent the late Admiral Langton’s lacklustre reputation was owed to his flag captain’s performance. In his report to Sir Charles Cotton, Tony had given veiled reference to his captain’s shortcomings, but he did not expect anybody to react to a mere commodore’s complaints.

They made little progress on their northern course against the north-eastern gale since Hades drifted worse than a haystack. It was a complete nonsense, Tony decided, to detach a three-decker to cruiser warfare. It was probably owed to the late Admiral Langton’s vanity. His father was a London Alderman who wielded influence, and Sir Percy had obviously thought a mere 74 as below his dignity as a freshly minted rear admiral.

In this weather they could not venture close to the coast. Hades had almost capsized once in a gale a year before, losing all her masts and being lucky that Captain Bugler in the Sunderland had been sailor enough to tow the damaged three-decker to safety. Thus, they kept to the open sea whilst the smaller ships fanned out in their usual fashion.

Not that anybody expected French ships under these conditions. If they knew their business they were holed up in some secure port waiting out the bad weather. Tony decided to follow the same wisdom.

“Captain Ellington, kindly have the ship wear. Course south. We’re sailing for Port Mahon. Signal lieutenant! ‘Commodore to squadron: course south, destination Port Mahon. Form line ahead.’ See that every ship affirms!”

With the wind from their quarter Hades would make at least some speed. It was a small consolation for a man used to sail seaworthy ships. Ponderously, Hades turned. Ellington’s timing was not the best for a big roller hit the ship’s bows and almost stalled her in stays. Fortunately, the momentum of almost 3,000 tons carried her through the turn, and then they were on their new course under doubly reefed topsails. The roughly 150 nautical miles to Port Mahon should take them little more than a day and a night, Tony guessed, and he was looking forward to having a proper dinner on shore.

Over the next 24 hours the gale did not abate. The fires were out in the ships, and the officers and men were getting weary of cold food and cold drink in cold weather. The small inlet into the harbour of Mahón was a welcome sight, and once inside, the calmer water was a reprieve. An unknown Navy sloop was at anchor in the harbour. She was flying an admiral’s flag, and Tony knew immediately what this entailed. To his surprise he felt nothing but relief. Let somebody else worry about the elephantine three-decker and her simpleton captain. Let somebody else deal with the infernal winter gales.

When a flag signal called him over to the sloop, he was already wearing his Nº2 uniform, and his steward was busy packing his belongings. The barge carried him over to the sloop, and a fresh faced commander met him at the port.

“Commander Barlow, Sir Anthony. Sir Edward is waiting for you.”

Thus forewarned, Tony took the sight of Rear Admiral Sir Edward Fanning with equanimity. His former captain and commodore grinned at him.

“Welcome to Port Mahon, Tony,” he grinned. “I came to relieve you of the command over your squadron. Somebody high up thinks you are too junior.”

Tony had to smile. “You are welcome to the command, Sir Edward. It is something I expected. What are my orders?”

“Much as I would like to keep you as my flag captain, I fear that you are too senior for that by now. Their Lordships wish for you to return to England.” Tony’s smile was too open to be overlooked. “I take it that you look forward to seeing your lovely wife? She assured me that she, too, is looking forward to having you back.”

“Then, Sir Edward, you are doubly welcome to the command of this aquadron,” Tony answered, indeed grinning like a school boy.

“I would like to invite you to a refreshment, but this nutshell is not quite equipped for grand invitations. You will sail back to England in the Clyde. They want your princeling back in London. King George was declared insane, and a Regency will be established. The new Prince Regent wishes for his cousin to attend the ceremonies.”

“His wife will be delighted, Sir Edward,” Tony answered with another grin.

“I am certain she will. We met her at your wife’s house. Now, how long will you need to shift your dunnage to Clyde?”

“Two hours at the most, Sir Edward. My steward is already packing.”

“You are in a hurry. Is there something about Hades about which you want to enlighten me?”

“She’s a dismal sailor, and frankly, commanded by a captain I would never pick given the chance.”

“How is Captain Bohun then?” Fanning asked bluntly.

“A tar if ever there was one, but a very good sailor and disciplinarian.”