In the Navy
Copyright© 2005/2020 to Argon
Chapter 58: The Furieux
September 1813
With the wardroom located underneath their cabin, Tony and Andrew heard Monroe’s tirades and loud complaints from below. Those ended after two days when Macallis ordered Monroe to keep a still tongue in his head or be locked up in the brig. This and the concurring shouts from the rest of the wardroom sent the young man into sullen silence, no doubt plotting the summary downfall of all commissioned officers in the Saturn. So long as he plotted silently, this was fine for Tony.
Fortunately, after five days of sailing on southerly courses, livened up by frequent sail and gun drills, a major diversion was coming their way. It was early afternoon, almost 3 bells, when Hazard signalled an approaching sail. Once their own lookout saw it, too, Andrew climbed up himself to see. He stayed in the masthead for almost a half hour before the descended again and rushed aft.
“A frigate, Sir Anthony, and not one of hours.”
“Portuguese?”
“Does not look Portuguese either, Sir Anthony. She looks French to me.”
“How big, Captain?”
“I should guess a forty-two, Sir Anthony.”
Tony thought briefly. Where could a big French frigate come from? The French had lost all their overseas possessions, with Mauritius falling to the British in 1810, over three years before. Even the French relief squadron, sent to bring soldiers and supplies and coming too late, had been caught and largely captured in 1811, and the sole escaping frigate had made it back to France in ignominy, with her captain cashiered for deserting the other ships. Escaping from Brest or Rochefort was equally unlikely, given the stranglehold the blockading fleets had on the French. Slipping out of the Mediterranean, perhaps?
“Captain, please signal to the squadron, ‘general chase’!”
Andrew sprang into action. “Mister Milton, signal to squadron, ‘general chase’! Mister Macallis, all hands on deck! Courses and royals! Stuns’ls, too!”
For the next ten minutes or so, the hands were busy setting all plain sail, and Saturn was lying over under the eastern breeze.
“Mister Macallis, beat to quarters, if you please,” Andrew commanded next.
“Aye-aye, Sir! What about Mister Monroe?”
“Send him below decks under guard, but keep him shackled.”
“Aye-aye, Sir!”
Once the big frigate was ready, with the gun crews standing by, there was time to study the approaching ship. One thing was obvious: she was not fleeing from them.
“Strange. You’d think she’d beat feet, wouldn’t you?” Tony asked his brother-in-law.
“Maybe she’s taking us for a fifth-rate?” Andrew hazarded.
“Still, they must see Cossack and the sloops.”
“We shall find out.”
That the other ship had no peaceful intentions soon became clear, since the newcomer was showing her teeth now, displaying 14 gun ports to a side on her main deck. A big frigate, Tony mused, likely as powerful as his old ship, the Clyde. She must have been at sea for quite some time, too, giving her officers time to drill the crew. This might become a hot affair. Now she was showing her flag, too, the Tricolour of France.
“This one’s not going to be an easy prey,” Tony said through his teeth.
“But our prey, she’ll be!” Andrew answered grittily. Her stood tall and raised his voice. “We’ll soon have our hands full with that one. Let’s make those first broadsides tell, you men. Aim truly, you gun captains. We have the bigger guns and the sturdier timbers, so we’ll win. Just don’t get careless, you hear?”
The men nodded solemnly, some of them even grimly. The gun crews were exchanging hugs, and all over the spar deck, Tony could hear men naming their heirs in case of their deaths. Here was John Little, helping Tony into his fighting kit — blue coat without epaulettes, a bicorne hat without facings, and sea boots instead of buckled shoes. Two pistols, carefully loaded as Tony was sure, and the Toledo sword completed Tony’s gear. He was breathing a little faster now, preparing for just another pitched battle, after surviving so many before. He could only hope that his luck would not run out here, on an uninhabited coast of the South Atlantic.
Tony looked up to where his broad pennant was flying. Damn it! He was Lucky Tony, and whoever sailed that French frigate had no idea with whom he was tangling! Suddenly calmer, he nodded to Andrew.
“Just another good frigate to add to the Royal Navy!”
“Just like old times!” Andrew grinned back. “Do me the favour and don’t get carried away. It’s my ship and my fight! I don’t want to face Harriet and tell her you’re dead.”
“Hell, they don’t call me Lucky Tony for nothing!”
Watching the approaching Frenchman, Tony noticed that she was not displaying the usual speed of a French frigate, and when her bow lifted in the next roller, Tony saw that her underwater ship was overgrown with seaweeds. Andrew must have seen it, too.
“See what I see, Tony?” he whispered.
“Yes, she’s sluggish.”
The Frenchman was just three cable lengths away now. As ordered, Cossack was sailing on their starboard side and shielded against the French fire. Captain Stanfell could then cross the Frenchman’s stern without being shot to pieces first. Just a half cable-length away from the Frenchman and with a wild grin, Andrew had the rudder laid to starboard, and Saturn, under just her topsails, turned sharply to port.
“Starboard battery, ready, take aim, fire!” Lieutenant Walsh sounded, and fifteen 32-pounder guns, double-shotted, spewed almost a ton of iron at the approaching Frenchman. The manoeuvre must have caught the French completely by surprise, and her starboard battery remained silent, whilst Cossack discharged her first broadside, too.
“Helm to windward!” Andrew shouted, and Saturn completed her turn, now picking up speed again and catching up to the badly mauled frigate. Her forecastle was in shambles, her foretop shot away, and her starboard battery was still silent. It was eerily silent when they sailed alongside the Frenchman, but Tony saw movement on her quarterdeck, and suddenly, her Tricolour flag was lowered in surrender.
Tony and Andrew looked at each other, and Tony shrugged. “She must’ve had enough.”
“Avast firing, avast firing!” Andrew shouted through his speaking trumpet. “Stand by the guns!”
The frigate was heaving to now, and Andrew followed suit.
“Mister Macallis, take longboat and cutter, with fifty Marines and sixty sailors, and take possession of the prize!”
Tony felt just a little jealousy that he was reduced to being commodore, not the victorious captain, and he chided himself for it.
“My felicitations, Captain!”
“Thank you, Sir Anthony. Now we’ll find out what’s what.”
“That, we shall.” Tony agreed.
Macallis returned almost an hour later, pale and looking queasy.
“I think, Mister Macallis should make his report in the cabin,” Tony interceded.
The bulkheads had been raised again, and the cabin was close to normal.
“Please, be seated, Mister Macallis. Grimm, a bottle of the Spanish brandy and glasses!”
Soon they were seated, and Grimm poured well aged brandy for them.
“Have a sip before you report, Mister Macallis!”
Obediently, Macallis sipped, then took a deep breath and emptied the glass.
“Sir Anthony, I have seen hell.”
“Please, tell us more.”
“The Frenchman was missing half her crew, Sir Anthony. They’ve been at sea for over two years, victualling from prizes and raids on coastal villages. They were sent from La Rochelle with supplies for Ile de France ... I’m sorry, Mauritius. They didn’t know we’d taken it already. She rounded the Cape and sailed onward, taking water at Madagaskar. Her captain is ... was almost fanatic. They were warned by fishermen that Mauritius is now British, and he decided to go on a raiding cruise instead. Along the route they traded some of their weapons cargo for food and water on some islands. They caught a prisoner transport returning from New South Wales, stripped her of everything and sent her adrift without water and food.
“They cruised around the South Sea for almost a year but failed to catch any other shipping. By then, the crew started getting the scurvy and wanted to land somewhere where fresh food was to be had, but he insisted in sailing south into the Roaring Forties. They took the Southern Route around the Horn and then raided some Brazilian fishing villages for food and water, but they lost many men to the fevers.
“Three weeks ago, they tried to attack Rio de Janeiro, but the Portuguese sent out two frigates and chased them off. Now they were heading for Cayenne, but they were down to maybe a hundred and fifty sailors, sick and weak from the scurvy. When they sighted us, their captain refused to surrender and wanted to fight it out with us. They had not enough men to man both broadsides, so we caught them unprepared when we crossed her bow. The captain was torn to pieces in our raking broadside, and the senior surviving lieutenant decided to strike.
“Sir Anthony, it was horrible. There are three dozen wounded, two dozen dead, and the rest look like corpses as well. They’re starved almost to death.”
“Why didn’t the captain find fruits for his men when they landed for water and provisions?” Andrew asked.
“I didn’t ask, Sir. The acting sailing master, he’s a Breton and has some English. He says their captain had been a major of the artillery before and never sailed a ship in his life. He volunteered to command the ship, and he was related to the admiral in La Rochelle, so he was posted.”
“A lubber in command? That is a new low for them,” Andrew mused. “I suppose we can send over Mister Latimer and some casks with lime juice.”
“That would help, Sir, but it’ll be too late for many of them.”
“We could land the prisoners in Cayenne,” Tony thought aloud. “The people there are mostly French. They can nurse them or bury them. At Port Royal, they’ll waste away in the prison hulks. You know how it is.”
“Seven hundred pounds in head money? Well, I suppose it’s better to be rid of them, if Dom Pedro accepts them,” Andrew nodded. “Better than depleting our stores. We should keep the officers, though. Leyte may not cherish to host French officers. The ratings he can employ once they’ve recovered a little.”
“Let us try that then,” Tony agreed. “Mister Macallis, we shall distribute the prisoner ratings amongst the squadron, and you can sail the prize to Cayenne with us, and then onward to Port Royal. I’d say fifteen each for the sloops, thirty for Cossack, and fifty in Saturn. The rest can remain in the prize.”
Andrew nodded. “I’ll organise the transfer, Sir Anthony. Mister Macallis, I’ll send over the carpenter and his mates for the necessary repairs, but we should set sail before night fall.”
“Aye-aye, Sir. I’ll return to the prize with Mister Latimer. There’s no surgeon in the prize; he died of the ague two months ago, I was told.”
A lot had to be done, and the other ships of the squadron were involved in it, too, and by nightfall, the prize had a jury rig, and the surviving French were distributed over the ships of the squadron, indeed leaving Macallis with only a dozen prisoners and a prize crew of fifty. The carpenters of the squadron stayed on board the prize, too, and did their best to perform the most important repairs during the night and over the next forenoon. By then, the Furieux had three topsails and a number of staysails driving her, and she made almost five knots.
It still took the squadron over four days to reach Cayenne, with every morning seeing burials when prisoners succumbed to sickness or wounds. This time, Tony had the entire squadron enter the port, and when the anchors dropped, he had himself rowed to the shore to see the governor again.
His Excellency made a face at first when Tony asked him to take over more than a hundred French prisoners, but then, one of his aides whispered something into his ear, and his face cleared.
“You say that most of them are starved and sick from scurvy?”
“Yes, Your Excellency. Sailing them all the way to Port Royal might cause more of them to die, and we thought that perhaps the French amongst your citizenry might volunteer to nurse them back to health and then give them work? In Port Royal, they would be locked into prison hulks.”
“That is of course a consideration. Would you agree to let me sound out the leading French citizens before I give you my decision?”
“Of course, Your Excellency, and I thank you for considering my offer.”
“Of course. In the fight against Bonaparte, we are allies after all. You will also be pleased to hear that Capitano Freytas was disciplined by his regimental commander.”
“Thank you. My lieutenant will face a court martial for his deplorable conduct.”
“That is harsh, isn’t it?”
“Not for his quarrelling with your officer, but for disobeying his captain. We cannot have that.”
“Of course, Sir Anthony, you are the judge of that. It confirms the high opinion I have of the British Royal Navy.”
“Your Excellency is too kind! With your leave, I shall bid my farewell and await Your Excellency’s pleasure.”
“Of course. We can see that your beautiful prize needs repairs.”
Soon after, Tony was back in the Saturn. The purser, Mister Mulliner was already ashore, buying fruits and vegetables for the crew and the forty-seven prisoners they still had on board, whilst sixteen of the latter, who were able enough, were employed with scrubbing the decks against extra food rations. To Tony’s biased eyes, they already looked a little better than a few days before, and he knew that Saturn’s crew had volunteered to share their grog rations with the emaciated French sailors. It was a noble enough gesture, and Andrew was proud of his men.
The surviving French 2nd lieutenant, Monsieur Albert Renoir, was also on deck, free to move after giving his parole, but Tony knew that he spent hours every day in the sickbay with his wounded or sick ratings. He had asked for paper and quill to write letters for those crewmen who wanted to send notes to their families, and Andrew had promised to forward those letters.
It took until evening before a boat came out from the town, a young Portuguese lieutenant in the stern sheets, who delivered the governor’s answer to Tony’s request. In it, His Excellency agreed to take over those French sailors who were able to walk, but not the severely wounded. Tony nodded. That was good enough, since most of the wounded had already recovered somewhat and were able to stand and walk, or had succumbed to their wounds and were buried at sea. This left only the few officers and eight wounded men to remain with the squadron, and Tony sent an answering note, thanking His Excellency and offering to land the prisoners come the next forenoon.
Using Mister Durgan, who had a little French, as interpreter, Monsieur Renoir was informed of the plan, and he, in turn, let his men know of it. On the whole, the prisoners were happy to be landed, but three of them asked to volunteer for service in the Saturn, preferring to sail in a sound ship and with regular provisions. Those and the Breton sailing master, who also volunteered, were read in come the next morning, the latter detailed to serve as quartermaster at first.
By the middle of the forenoon watch, 109 prisoners were landed from the ships and escorted into the town by a score of Portuguese soldiers, and after meeting the governor once again and having an afternoon chocolate with him and his staff, the squadron prepared to weigh anchor with the sunrise.
An hour after weighing anchor, Tony was still on deck, Lieutenant Walsh escorted Carlton Monroe to the spar deck, where he was allowed to stroll for a half hour every morning and afternoon. The hands looked at the pair with a mix of morbid curiosity, pity and unashamed glee. Monroe had not really striven to endear himself during his short tenure as third lieutenant. According to Mister Macallis, he was behaving himself now, and Andrew had given orders to leave off the shackles during the day. On the other hand, Andrew was not backing down on the court martial, insisting on the charges of disobedience and unbecoming conduct, and Tony saw no valid reason to persuade his brother-in-law otherwise.
Lieutenant Durgan would serve as Monroe’s friend during the court martial, and Tony had made use of a quiet middle watch to advise the young third lieutenant of the best course to steer in the proceedings, namely to accept guilt, but to blame Monroe’s conduct on the heavy wines served at the soiree and to express his remorse over his ill-advised behaviour. This would then lead to a severe reprimand and possible dismissal from the Royal Navy, but prevent him from facing a firing squad. So far, Tony had no idea of whether Durgan had been able to persuade Monroe to follow that course.
Tony could not but compare Monroe to Andrew. The former saw himself entitled to a quick rise through the officer ranks simply because his father was sitting in the Lords and could pull some strings for him, such as providing the monies to make Captain Woodrow resign his command of the Menai frigate. He had seen it as his unalienable right to succeed Woodrow as captain and had schemed against Captain Bush, a lowly upstart in his eyes. By contrast, Andrew Lambert had never been anything less than conscientious and loyal, even though his father was a full admiral with friends and allies at the Admiralty and at Court. He had never served on a staff or on any plum assignment and never asked for one, as far as Tony knew. He did his duty ably and with a full commitment, and his handling of Saturn in the short battle with the Furieux had been brilliant. He had won the loyalty of wardroom and crew, too, with the exception of Monroe, who was probably incapable of loyalty.
He was torn from those philosophical thoughts by one of the subjects.
“Sir Anthony, may I speak in private to you?”
“Of course, Captain. Let us go aft.”
In the cabin, they asked Grimm to brew coffee for them, and whilst the steward tended to this task, using a noisy crank mill, Andrew filled Tony in on a new development.
“Young Durgan seems to have talked some sense into Monroe.”
“Now, that would be a feat,” Tony sighed. “So?”
“Monroe offers to express his remorse and a full apology for his unbecoming conduct, and then resign his commission.”
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