All eyes turned to Mandeville. To my surprise he looked unruffled.
‘Gentlemen, another prize awaits.’
This time there would be no long delay before combat. The enemy ship was much closer, and the wind had changed direction. They would be upon us within half an hour. In the brief lull between the fighting, topmen swarmed up the rigging to bind up the damaged foremast and the carpenter’s crew hurriedly set about patching up the holes in the ship.
We had another problem. Although the pale winter sun was still shining in an almost cloudless sky, the sea was growing choppy. A stiff breeze was blowing in from the north-west, and sea water was swilling in through the damaged bow. Some of it ran out through the vents in the strakes, but water was beginning to seep down to the hold. Mandeville called for the ship’s pump to be constantly manned.
By now, in that late afternoon, the effect of the midday grog had worn off. I felt sick with both exhaustion and the horrible sights I had witnessed. The fear I felt at having to fight another frigate hung over me like a clammy thunderous sky. Perhaps the Captain sensed our mood, for we were quickly issued with another double dose of grog.
Before we returned to the gun deck, a few of us were picked at random to clear some of the debris scattered across the upper deck. I found myself grappling with a broken length of yardarm and Silas came to help me heave it over the side of the ship. Lewis Tuck was overseeing the work, and as we strained to lift the yard he hit me with his rope.
‘Put your back into it, y’ lubberly slug.’ Maybe it was the grog that made me do it, but I was so shocked I let go of the yard and furiously turned towards him. Instantly I regretted it, for I had placed myself in danger of a flogging. But before I could turn back to my work he had seized me by my shirt and placed his face right next to mine. ‘What?’ he hissed.
Silas snapped too, and before I could stop him he pushed Tuck away from me. ‘Leave that boy alone,’ he said with cold anger.
Tuck lashed back with his rope. ‘You two get back to work. I’ll deal with you both when this is over.’
I could not believe it. Now, if we survived the coming battle, we both faced the almost certain prospect of a flogging. ‘Silas,’ I said, trying to stop myself from crying. ‘Thank you for trying to help me, but aren’t we both in terrible trouble now?’
Silas looked stunned, as if he too could not believe what had just happened. ‘It’s too late to worry about now, Sam,’ he said. ‘Whatever happens with Tuck isn’t going to be half as bad as whatever’s going to happen in the next hour or two.’
Before I went below I took a final look at our new enemy. She was larger than La Flora, to be sure, and I knew for certain she would prove to be a tougher opponent. Back at our guns we waited in that awful tense silence. We could hear the Captain and First Lieutenant issue increasingly bad-tempered commands to the topmen as they tried to manoeuvre the Miranda with her damaged sails.
Then we caught a glimpse of the approaching frigate on our larboard side. She would soon be near enough to fire her bow chasers. Perhaps she was waiting to get close enough for a really shattering broadside.
‘Heave to,’ shouted Mandeville, and presently the Miranda creaked and groaned as her sails strained against the wind to bring her to a halt. This was too much for our damaged masts and rigging, and we heard a grinding, cracking sound as rope and wood split asunder. Down on the gun deck we did not know for sure which masts or yards had fallen, but judging from the direction of the sound, it was the foremast. This would certainly hinder our ability to outmanoeuvre an enemy frigate.
Ben spoke for us all when he whispered, ‘It’s down to us now, boys. Let’s make quick work of this.’
A bare minute later, the starboard gun crews were ordered to the larboard guns, and we were joined by the six men who worked opposite us. We had trained together almost every day, but they kept to themselves in the mess, and I barely knew them. Almost immediately, Lieutenant Spencer shouted, ‘Fire!’ We set off our guns in sequence along the deck, from bow to stern, as the Miranda passed along the course of the approaching frigate. The orderly sequence of gunshot gave me heart. Again, my ears immediately began to ring, as the noise on the gun deck was deafening. The enemy frigate returned fire too, and shots began to whistle between our rigging.
As I ran from the magazine with a new cartridge, the crew were waiting for another clear shot. ‘She’s called the Gerona,’ said Tom, who had caught a glimpse of her stern as she passed by. Although my hearing was returning I could still hardly make out what he said. Then, we waited. No shots came from either side, and only the creaking rigging and sloshing of the sea could be heard. We strained our ears to give us some clue as to the course of action. Spencer called for the starboard men to return to their guns, and for us all to fire when the enemy came on to our sights.
‘Make every shot count, lads,’ shouted the Lieutenant.
In the silence we heard a lieutenant order the quarterdeck gunners to move the two 6 pounders to the stern gun ports. My stomach turned over. This could only mean that the Gerona was trying to place herself behind us. We heard the exertions of the men above us, and the creaking and grinding of the gun carriage wheels against the deck. We understood from the angry shouting that moving the guns was a desperately urgent task.
As we waited, an awful air of expectation filled the gun deck. I glanced fearfully down the ship, and wondered how the men closest to the stern were feeling. If we were raked, they would be the first to suffer. Then we all heard a distant bang, followed a second later by horrible pandemonium. A shot from the Gerona came crashing through the starboard deck. I looked over to see the two aftermost guns mangled together – their crews crushed and dismembered. All at once an horrific screaming came from that quarter of the deck, before another shot whistled through on the starboard side. This one met nothing more solid than flesh and bone as it passed the length of the ship, before lodging near to the bowsprit. Men on the starboard side were torn in two, or had arms or legs plucked away by the speeding cannonball. Blood and worse began to cover the deck, and the doctor’s men rushed to carry the less seriously wounded below. Those who had escaped the carnage had to gather up the remains of their dead and mortally injured friends and send them tumbling through the gun ports and into the sea, before their lifeblood and innards made the deck too slippery to work on.
God forgive me, but at that awful moment I thought, It’s them, not us. Let it keep being them. Please, God, don’t let me be thrown over the sides with half my insides spilling out.
Among the chaos, I became aware that our ship was again crossing the path of the Gerona. Spencer yelled, ‘Larboard guns. Fire when ready!’ and once again we started to set off our guns. As the Gerona came into view, and just before we fired off our shot, I noticed she was now close enough for us to see her crew on deck and in the rigging.
We closed in, side by side. Once again Spencer commanded the starboard gun crews to join the larboard men. The Gerona was firing steadily too, and we could hear parts of our masts and rigging crack and fall. Mandeville must have decided to slug it out, because from this moment on we kept getting closer and closer. Among the deafening noise and bright flashes, I ran back and forth to fetch powder while people mouthed words I could not hear. Amid the drifting smog and encroaching dusk, everything happened with a strange slowness or impossible haste. The gun deck became unbearably hot, and I was drenched in sweat. The smoke from our guns caught my parched throat and I ran to the water barrel to quench my thirst.
Hurrying between decks I began dreading the return to my station. I began to long for the moment when I could run below for another cartridge to the safety of the mess deck and magazine where enemy shot would be less likely to fall. As I emerged from the mess deck companionway and back on to the gun deck, I knew that death was waiting there for me.
Events began to merge into one swirling blur. Sometime during the action, I could not tell you when, rigging and canvas from the foremast fell over the gun ports of the forward guns, and the crews were immediately dispatched on deck to help clear the debris. As we closed in on the Gerona, their gun crews turned their fire away from our masts and sails and on to the hull. One shot crashed into the quarterdeck. Another shot landed on the gun deck near to the bow. At this point I sensed that our crew began to work even faster and with greater fury than even before. We were matched one to one against our opponents in a duel where rapid fire was the only thing that mattered. I stood by my gun, waiting for the wall to crumple before me, clutching the box of gunpowder. If anything hit it I would be blown to pieces. Then, this overwhelming terror would ebb away as soon as the cartridge was taken from my hand, and once again I had the blessed relief of rushing down to the magazine for a few moments’ safety.
I returned to an utter shambles. While I was gone, the gun crew next to ours had been hit. Three men around the gun were sprawled in various positions, dead, unconscious or screaming. The boy who served that gun was lying dead on the deck. Let it be them. Not me. That was all I could think. Now I would have to take over his job and serve the surviving crew as well.
With two guns to fetch cartridges for, I could spend less time in the shooting gallery, and more below deck. As the battle continued, the deck by the after magazine filled with injured bodies. Some sat waiting, grimly patient – with splinters sticking from their arms or legs. Others, especially those who had lost limbs, writhed in mortal agony. The rules for the doctor’s attentions were fair. Men were dealt with strictly in the order they arrived – with no favourable treatment for officers. On one trip to the magazine I glimpsed my friend Tom Nisbit, with a bloody red stain over his shirt. I had no time to speak to him, and he died soon after. He had been shot through the chest by one of the Gerona’s marksmen. He had survived Captain Bligh’s Bounty mutiny, but not the Miranda.
Soon we were so close to the enemy that we could glimpse inside her gun deck, and see the silhouettes of men darting about their business. The closer we got, the more fearful I became that a gun crew on the Gerona would be able to blast a shot straight through our gun port. Our crew had been firing almost constantly for over half an hour, and must have felt quite spent. But still they laboured, toiling with their hot and heavy gun.
Ben could see a gun inside one of the Gerona’s gun ports right opposite ours, which would soon be pointing straight at us. ‘They’re just swabbing out for another shot,’ he shouted. ‘Quickly, lads, or we’ll all be blown to kingdom come.’
I waited helplessly for Tom Shepherd to take the cartridge off me so I could go and get another. As I waited I checked in my shirt pocket. Rosie’s letter was still there, but the envelope was damp with sweat and the ink of the address had begun to run on to my white shirt. ‘Don’t fail me, Rosie,’ I mouthed to myself.
Then Tom shouted at me to hand over the cartridge. Quick as a flash I unscrewed the top of the cartridge box, whipped out the gunpowder and was gone. Down to the magazine I ran, feeling like the last few seconds of my life were ticking away. When I returned, our crew were just aligning their gun with stays, and Ben was calling for another quoin to lower the elevation.
‘Quick, lads, quick,’ fretted James Kettleby, sweat pouring down his grimy face in rivulets.
‘Steady as she goes,’ said Ben, who was working with an ice-cold determination. Through the hatch I could see the other gun crew trying to aim their gun. I could make out their gun captain placing a burning rope to the powder hole.
‘They’re going to fire!’ I shouted.
Ben didn’t flinch. Then he yelled, ‘Make ready!’ and pulled the cord on the flintlock. Our gun burst into life, and when the smoke cleared I could see our shot had sailed clean through the enemy gun port and knocked their gun right over. We yelled ourselves hoarse with delight. If we had been a second later, all of us would have been killed.
Just then, I was startled to hear the bosun’s whistle calling for the boarders. In all the tumult of battle, I had forgotten this would almost certainly end with hand-to-hand fighting. Ben and I went at once to pick up a pistol and cutlass from the barrel behind us, and headed upward.
The stairway to the quarterdeck was almost immediately forward of our gun, and I was glad I did not have to walk through the bloodbath on the gun deck to get to it. But as soon as I came out on deck, I could see an horrific panorama. Much of the foremast was gone – pitched over the side. The mainmast, too, had been badly damaged, and yardarms and canvas lay in splinters and tatters on the deck. In the confusion of battle I could not recall hearing this happen. Our carefully maintained rigging had been utterly destroyed. All around lay bodies. There were so many that I wondered that there must have been far more killed, and those remaining had not yet been thrown into the sea.
The number of men gathering on our deck to board the Gerona seemed worryingly small, although I was relieved to see Richard still among them. I grinned wildly when I saw him, but all he could manage was a tight-lipped smile. Other men, who had been fighting on the topmost deck throughout the battle, also looked grim. I sensed events were not going our way. Lieutenant Middlewych confirmed my fears.
‘Men, prepare to repel boarders!’
It was us that were about to be boarded, not the other way round. A glimpse over the rail towards the Gerona revealed a much larger number of men on her deck. All were armed to the teeth and boiling with murderous intent. I also looked over to the quarterdeck. Captain Mandeville was lying on the deck, a bright red stain down the front of his white waistcoat. Two midshipmen were propping him up and getting ready to haul him down to the doctor.
Middlewych rallied us for the coming melee. ‘Men, stand your ground. Carronades prepare to fire . . .’
We waited in fearful anticipation as musket shots from marksmen up in the Gerona’s rigging whistled between our ranks and over our heads. When the Gerona was about fifteen feet away two of our carronades fired a volley of grapeshot into the Spanish warship. The shot thudded violently into the deck rails and scythed through her crew. Splinters flew in all directions. We followed this up with a barrage of ‘stinkpots’ – hand missiles. One of these exploded in the hand of the man who lit it, blowing his hand off and killing the marine next to him. It was not a good omen.
When the smoke cleared from our grapeshot and stinkpots, the Gerona was a bare ten feet from us. There were fewer men standing on her deck, but I could be sure they still outnumbered us. She was slightly taller in the water, and looked menacingly over our upper deck. One bear-like man was standing on the rail swinging a grappling hook. Just as he let go, one of our marines shot him and he fell into the water. But his grappling hook lurched over, and landed with a splintering clunk on the deck. Others quickly followed. Soon the Miranda was caught tight in the Gerona’s grip.
Seconds later, the Spanish crew began to swarm aboard like a great human wave – over us, left and right of us . . . Almost at once, I found myself facing a tall, handsome Spaniard. I engaged, I parried, I lunged, but he was both bigger and stronger. As I backed away, Ben leaned over from nowhere, and ran him through. ‘Gerroutofit!’ he yelled in a fighting frenzy. It was the last thing he did. An instant later a Spanish sailor planted a boarding axe in his forehead. He dropped like a stone. I turned to face his attacker, only to find myself fighting a huge brute of a man. I had picked the most mismatched opponent. He seemed puzzled by my impudence, then lunged over to cut me down. I remembered I had a pistol at my waist, drew it and shot him at point-blank range. The expression on his face changed to startled surprise, then horror, as he fell to his knees.
After the first mad rush of combat, I looked around and saw that we were overwhelmed. Yet I dared not surrender, for fear of being accused of cowardice.
It was then I heard a whistle pipe and Middlewych shouting through the confusion. ‘Men, we must strike. Throw down your arms.’ It was not a moment too soon. Three Spaniards had surrounded me, each pointing a cutlass at my chest. I stood, cornered by the starboard rail, and prayed they would have the grace to let me live.
Some men, still locked in a frenzy of combat, fought until they were pulled apart. They continued shouting obscenities at each other until they were hustled behind their comrades. I stood there panting, exhausted but relieved to still be alive. Richard was there too, and Robert Neville. For the first time, I noticed a sharp pain in my left arm, and saw that my sleeve was covered in blood. I lifted the sticky fabric to look inside. There was a shallow cutlass slash near to my shoulder. I had been lucky.
The Spanish sailors stepped aside to let a tall, noble-looking fellow pass between them. We knew at once that this was the Gerona’s captain. He stepped forward, distinctive in his navy-blue and scarlet uniform, a bright feather plume waving to and fro atop his hat. I thought he looked rather gaudy compared to our captain in his splendid outfit.
Middlewych greeted him with dignity, and the two men spoke with admirable civility. ‘Your men fought with great courage, Lieutenant,’ I heard the Spanish captain say. Middlewych bowed his head, then handed over his sword.
The surrender ceremony over, we were quickly herded below decks. Those of us untouched by the battle or wounded and able to walk were placed to the rear of the gun deck, just outside the Captain’s cabin. There we collapsed, exhausted.
Then it hit me like a boulder. Ben had been killed. My friend, my Sea Daddy. I had seen it, of course, but now it came back to me with awful clarity. So too did the moment when I had fired my pistol into the Spaniard who was trying to kill me. I had actually taken the life of another man . . .
I sat down on a bench, and wept. At a time like this it would be Ben who would come and put a comforting arm around me. Not any more. Richard came instead. He hugged me, and he cried too.
‘That was so horrible,’ he said over and over.
Middlewych came over to us and said, ‘Pull yourselves together, boys,’ but he didn’t have the heart to be angry. The rear of the mess started to fill up with survivors of the battle. I noticed with some relief that Silas and the rest of my gun crew were still alive. The hand-to-hand fighting had been over so quickly they had not even been called from their posts to fight.