WINDS were light and variable during the latter part of the night and it was broad daylight when the Merlin came slowly into the anchorage off St Peter Port. There was the harbour in the foreground, with red-roofed houses huddled beside it and straggling up the hillside. There was a faint haze of smoke from the chimneys and the cry of the gulls as they circled round the fishing craft. Among the houses facing the harbour was the one where Richard Delancey had been born. Although strangers lived there now, he still had the sense of homecoming.
With conditions so ideal for the purpose, he could not resist the temptation to show off a little, performing a trick which is just possible for the well-trained crew of a crack ship in what was almost a dead calm. As the sloop drifted into the anchorage her guns saluted Castle Cornet, the boom of each gun echoing off the cliffs. For a space of perhaps three to four minutes the Merlin was hidden in a cloud of smoke. When the smoke finally cleared, she was seen to be at anchor, her sails neatly furled, with a boat alongside in the water, looking for all the world as if she had been there for a week.
There were appreciative comments along the waterfront and exclamations from women on their way to market. The trick had been worth watching and one or two seamen ventured a guess as to who the sloop’s commander must be. The man who had no need to guess was old Captain Savage, who had last seen the Merlin in Grand Harbour, Valletta. He was on the jetty when the gig pulled into the steps and called for three cheers from the longshoremen and idlers who were assembled there. “And three more cheers for Sir James and the victors of Algeciras!”
Delancey stepped ashore while the boat’s crew tossed their oars and was greeted by Savage at the top of the steps. “Welcome home!” cried the old man, and Delancey, with Northmore and Stock at heel, stepped ashore amidst raised hats and shouts of welcome. He had not counted on making any such triumphant entry—he had planned, indeed, to be there at daylight—but it came, as he had to admit, as a pleasant surprise. Moving up High Street, he was greeted all the way, pausing here and there to shake hands with old privateersmen and schoolfellows.
After calling on the Governor, who was not at home, he went on to call at the Saumarez town house. Lady Saumarez received him and welcomed him home to Guernsey. In return, he gave her his own account of her husband’s victory, adding his assurance that Sir James was unhurt and in good health. If he had no specific message it was because his visit to Guernsey had not been planned. So kind was his reception that he asked for a word in private, leaving his aides-de-camp to talk with the other members of the household. He then told Lady Saumarez about the slave market at Tetuan.
“She was a mere child,” he explained, “and I couldn’t leave her to be sold into a life of suffering and shame.”
“But of course, you couldn’t!” exclaimed Lady Saumarez. “Your action does you credit.”
Then Delancey explained that what he did was easy to misunderstand. “The stories told in Gibraltar were greatly to my disadvantage,” he went on, “and the Admiral himself thought the worse of me.”
He hoped that Lady Saumarez would some day let the Admiral know the truth. She readily agreed to do him justice and guessed that her husband would himself have had second thoughts about it. She made it clear that Delancey would always be welcome at her home. He left with the feeling that this was true and that his career might prosper accordingly.
He met Captain Savage by previous arrangement and they dined together at the Golden Lion. During dinner the landlord brought them news that the Dove was entering harbour. A message was sent down to the harbour with the result that Sam Carter and young Topley came to join them in a glass of wine.
“Well, Sam,” said Delancey, “we managed to give that frigate the slip!”
“So we did, Richard, but I owe my escape to Mr Topley here!”
“Tell me what happened.”
“Well, things looked bad. Five of my men deserted and there was none I could depend on save my mate and boatswain. Then these two Frenchmen came aboard, a man called Delmotte and another called Guichard and they had four of their men behind them. Their idea was that I should sell them the Dove for a quarter of her value, otherwise they would betray me to the police. Yes, things looked bad. I didn’t know what to do.
“But then there was a lamp alongside and the sound of voices and into the cabin comes your Mr Topley. The mere sight of his uniform put new heart into me. He didn’t say much but I told him in a few words what was happening. It is odd, come to think of it, that Delmotte allowed me to explain: I suppose he thought Mr Topley a mere boy.
“Anyway, Mr Topley asked just one question, ‘Which of these two men is the better local pilot?’ I replied, ‘Guichard,’ and pointed to him, knowing that he lived there, although Delmotte was the leader in this affair. A moment later Mr Topley drew his pistols, shot Delmotte through the heart and pointed the other at Guichard. ‘Disarm him’ was all he said.”
“What did their men do?”
“Nothing. With Delmotte dead, there was no fight left in them. We let them go, tied Guichard to the mizen-mast, cut the cable and hoisted sail.”
“It must have been a difficult passage.”
“You can call it that. But Mr Topley here told Guichard that he would have a bullet through his head the moment our keel touched bottom. He was a good pilot after that, attentive and careful.”
“So Delmotte thought Mr Topley a mere boy, did he? He was wrong, Sam. Mr Topley is a man!”
“He is that, Richard; and thank you for the loan!”
All this time Topley was the picture of confusion, looking more like a child, but Delancey put him at his ease by saying “Well done!” and sending him off with a message to the first lieutenant. Then he turned to Captain Savage: “You see, sir, I had a difficult choice. Here was this smuggling craft held to ransom. Had she been a real merchantman under the British flag I might have sent her an officer and a party of seamen. But she was a smuggler and in a French port. Should I leave her to her fate? I couldn’t do that either. So I decided to send her one man. But which man to send? I seem to have chosen the right one!”
“You did that—and Sam here was in luck.”
“That’s true,” said Sam, “but in years to come I shall wake up screaming in the belief that I am in the Pertuis d’Antioche in pitch darkness on an ebb tide. And now, Richard, I want to show you how grateful I am. I made some inquiries about that ship, the Bonaparte. I reckon she’ll be off Cape La Hague in three days’ time.”
“And the war not over?”
“There’s no word of peace yet, although news is expected almost any day now.”
“So there’s still a chance?”
“Yes, but I’ll have another talk first with Citoyen Guichard, who is still aboard the Dove. Dine with me tomorrow, Richard—you, too, Captain Savage—by which time I may know more than I do now.”
Delancey and Savage accepted the invitation with pleasure and they went on together to buy some supplies for the inevitable parties which would mark the end of the commission: wine, rum and tobacco included. Then Delancey returned to the Merlin and heard the story from Topley of how the Dove made her escape. Topley was thanked and congratulated on a tricky piece of navigation. Thanks to him the French had been cheated of their prey.
That evening Delancey had Mather and Northmore to supper with him at the Golden Lion. Over their wine Mather expressed his sorrow that the Merlin’s commission was coming to an end.
“It takes so long to bring a crew up to our present state. Take that little display as we entered port this morning—we could never have done that a year ago and few other ships could do it at all. Week by week, month by month, we have promoted the good men, trained the unskilled, cured the idle of idleness and found simpler work for the stupid. We have worked at it, sir, and the result is the crew we have. We were lucky, though, in one way. We had no men who were actually disloyal.”
“That wasn’t luck,” said Delancey, “I got rid of those at the outset.”
“How did you do that, sir?”
“I sent them ashore under the command of young Topley—this was in the early stages of his career, before he had gained confidence—so they all deserted and poor Topley was mastheaded for neglect of duty.”
“I remember that, sir,” said Northmore, “I wondered at the time why you should have sent Topley instead of me.”
“But you see what I mean,” Mather persisted, “we have, at long last, an effective man-of-war and now she is to be paid off. It seems almost a waste of effort!”
“It is not a waste of effort,” Delancey replied, “and that for two reasons. In the first place we have also trained ourselves. What we have done before we can do again but next time more quickly. In the second place this commission is not yet at an end. We may encounter and capture a French corvette between here and Plymouth. That is certainly not inevitable and may not even be likely, but bear the possibility in mind. The war is not ended yet.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
The party ended pleasantly and Delancey sent Mather and Northmore on board again so as to relieve Stirling and Topley whose turn it would be to come ashore. These last two would meet Delancey on the quayside at eleven.
With a feeling of temporary freedom from other responsibilities, Delancey strolled around the town and looked in at another inn, one he knew to be a haunt of smugglers and privateersmen. Delancey was recognised at once by several of the inn’s regular patrons, acquaintances he had made during the privateering period of his life. He was asked at once to join them. “It’s good to see you, captain,” said one of them, “and the way you brought your ship into port was worth watching!” There was a chorus of agreement on this score and Delancey joined the party around the fireplace.
All present wanted to know about Sir James at Algeciras and some of them could name the other Guernseymen who had been serving in the flagship. Delancey told them the story, feeling at the same time that he was gaining stature by his association with the local hero. Then he led the conversation round to privateering and was told that business had declined of late. There had been too many British men-of-war in the Channel and too few French merchantmen. Delancey asked whether the talk of peace might not lure the French from their harbours.
“We’ve thought of that,” said Will Duquemin, “but what if peace is made and we in Guernsey not the first to hear about it? We should be in court and accused of piracy, murder and heaven knows what.”
“Or accused at best of wrongful detention,” added Luke Tostevin. “No Letter of Marque holds good after the war is ended. Any mistake the like of that could ruin captains and owners alike. Several of our regular privateers are laid up already and those at sea have mostly been sent letters of recall.”
“Things were better in the first few years of the war,” maintained Will, “and people here still talk of the way you captured the Bonne Citoyenne. No cleverer capture was ever made, and no private man-of-war out of Guernsey has ever taken as big a prize with as small a loss. We used to talk in those days about Delancey of the Nemesis. No, sir, you have not been forgotten.”
“What has happened to that other ship which used to frequent Cherbourg? Do you hear of her these days?”
“Ah!” said Tostevin. “You mean the Liberation, sister ship to the Bonne Citoyenne, trading out of Rochefort. They have changed her name and she is now called the Bonaparte.”
“And has no one tried to capture her?”
“No.” Duquemin shook his head slowly. “When you captured the Bonne Citoyenne, the other ship was given six more guns and another twenty men. She is too strong for us now even if she wasn’t before. We have talked it over time and again—haven’t we, Luke?—but we have agreed in the end to let her alone. She would outgun any privateer we have. She might be taken by any two of our ships but the result would be to wreck all three of them. As you know, captain, that sort of action is never worth while.”
Conversation became general and Delancey was glad to hear the local gossip. Then another group of men arrived and he was made to repeat the epic story of Algeciras for the newcomers’ benefit. There was a chorus of approval for Sir James Saumarez, of whom Lord Nelson was regarded, in St Peter Port, as a poor imitation. Sir James was the man to beat the dagoes or the frogs. “Did you ever hear about Sir James in the Crescent?”
The tales were told again, having lost nothing in the telling. A toast was drunk to the Hero of Algeciras and another to Captain Richard Delancey. The time had come, it was now generally agreed, for Paul Rouget to sing his song. In the midst of this performance, the verses being innumerable, Delancey quietly left the room and found himself in the deserted street. The town church clock struck eleven as he reached the quayside where Mr Stirling and young Topley were waiting.
As they were rowed out to the Merlin, Delancey asked Stirling what he thought of St Peter Port, which was looking very picturesque in the moonlight.
“A fine anchorage, sir, and pretty well sheltered, and there are some useful shipbuilding yards, all well covered by the guns of the castle. There are some good shops in the High Street and one, a little further to the north, has a sign painted with your name, sir. It is rather faded, though, as if it referred to some earlier corn chandler, not to the man who lives there now. There are plenty of wine merchants and I would guess that they sell wine more cheaply than the merchants of Southampton.”
“And what is your opinion, Mr Topley?”
“I suspect that there are two sides to St Peter Port. There are the town houses of the island gentry, all very elegant and neatly painted, placed in some respectable streets and close to some useful shops and counting houses. But down below, nearer to the harbour, there are dark lanes, narrow stairs, mysterious cellars and crooked entries. I can see that lower part as a scene for secret meetings, conspiracies and plots.”
“You have used your eyes, young man,” said Delancey with approval, thinking to himself that Topley was nearer the truth than he would ever know. “But a black cellar is sometimes merely filled with coal.” He looked back at the dark waterfront with its few lighted windows still reflected in the water. Of the darkened windows, one (he could just identify it) had been his bedroom. How remote his boyhood now seemed! But he had slept there once or twice even when already a midshipman, of much the same age as Topley. What Topley had said about St Peter Port was perfectly true, as Delancey was in a good position to know.
But the two aspects of St Peter Port were less distinct than a chance visitor might suppose. Some stately houses in High Street had cellars which opened into alleyways off the quayside. There were fine ladies in the parlour and rats down below. Further south he could just make out the gable of the warehouse which the Prince of Bouillon had used as his headquarters. He could remember the time when the Prince had his spies in France, when the French aristocrats thronged the High Street, when Republican agents were plotting the invasion of Ireland. He had been a junior lieutenant in those days and had come to know of some of the plots and counterplots.
The British secret service was now based in Jersey—so much he knew—but there would still be French agents in St Peter Port and as active, maybe, as they had been in 1794. He hoped that no rumours could reach them of what he intended, with the result that an escort for the Bonaparte would be sent out from Cherbourg. But Sam, he knew, was not the man to divulge secrets, and there was little time left in which the French could take action.
Next day Delancey met Savage and Sam Carter at the Golden Lion and they dined together very pleasantly.
“I have made some inquiries,” said Sam, “and am fairly certain that the Bonaparte should be off Cape La Hague within the next few days. It would seem just possible that the French might delay her passage until after peace has been made. That would, in fact, be the sensible thing to do. But they may believe that the war is already over; and, for all we know, they could be right at that!”
“It is now October 9th,” said Delancey, “I shall sail this evening and be in a position to intercept the Bonaparte tomorrow. I shall have to ensure somehow, that I am not seen from the French coast, which would give the game away.”
“For my part,” said Sam, “I shall try to send you a message if we have news here of the war being ended. Where will you be?”
“This side of Alderney.”
“I’ll sail that way when we have the news. When you catch sight of the Dove with ensign reversed, union down, you will know that the signal means ‘Cease Fire.’”
“Thank you, Sam, for all your help, and I’ll hope to God I don’t glimpse that signal through the smoke when my wretched opponent is about to sink!”
“But look, Richard,” said Captain Savage, “how are you going to capture this ship without great damage to either side? I think you told me that she actually mounts more guns than you do?”
“She is said to have twenty-four guns. The ideal plan would be to capture her by boarding.”
“What, in daylight?”
“It has to be in daylight. All my information leads me to expect her off Cape La Hague at daylight in two or three days’ time. The voyage is timed to ensure this, so that she passes Jersey in the dark, for safety, and then has daylight for entry into Cherbourg.”
“So you mean to disguise the Merlin as a French merchantman?”
There isn’t time for that, sir. The most I could do would be to pass, at a distance, as a British privateer.”
“Would that serve any purpose?”
“It would encourage the French captain to fight rather than to try to escape.”
“But I know, Richard, what gives you the idea,” said Sam with a laugh. “You captured the Bonne Citoyenne by disguising your privateer as a man-of-war. Now you want to capture her sister ship by disguising your man-of-war as a privateer. This is your artistic approach to life—your idea of—what do I mean?”
“Symmetry,” said Captain Savage. “We know your weakness, Delancey! You want to make your battle a work of art.”
“There’s something in that,” Delancey admitted, “but I also need to make some money. I may be on half-pay for the next ten years and this may be my last chance to win an estate.”
“That reminds me,” said Savage, “I went to see Anneville Manor the other day. You told me in Malta—do you remember?—that you were trying to rebuild that ruin, which once belonged to your mother’s family. So I decided to visit the place on your behalf. I found your builder on the site.”
“Old Mr Renouf.”
“Yes, old Mr Renouf. He told me a long story about how difficult it is to find good workmen these days. There is so much building on the island, much of it by newcomers to the place, that folk are wondering where the real Guernseymen are to live. He asked me whether I had seen Hauteville lately. Anyway I had a look at the building, which is not yet habitable. Mr Renouf wants to demolish the old chapel but I told him you would never agree to that. ‘It’s not everybody’s idea of a home,’ he said finally, ‘but the coach-house is good and so is the water supply.’ Completion of the work will take years, Delancey, and will cost hundreds of pounds. Your best plan would be to sell the old ruin and buy a modern cottage in St Sampson’s. Come and stay with me while you are furnishing it.”
“How kind of you, sir, to make the offer! You will understand, however, that I have to decline. My plan is to live at Anneville in any part of the building that has a roof and so be able to stand over Renouf, see what he does and urge him on!”
“What it is to be a romantic!” cried Savage. “I never before met anyone who went into action with half his mind on a gothic ruin. When you sight the enemy you will say ‘This should help pay the builder!’ When you fire your first broadside you will think ‘This should earn me another cart-load of granite!’ When you give the order to board the enemy ship you will somehow have to restrain yourself from shouting ‘On to victory, and on to pay for the carpentry!’ When the Frenchman lowers his colours you will exclaim ‘That takes care of the drainage!’ As for your men, I can imagine one of them whispering, as he dies, ‘Never mind—I have helped at least with the plasterwork and paint!’”
Delancey laughed with the others over this but with a horrid doubt in his mind as to whether there might not be some truth in the caricature. He also had to realise he would have only a share of the prize-money and would face ruin if he unwittingly captured a French ship after the peace treaty had been signed.
The Merlin sailed after dark that evening and without attracting attention, watched only by Captain Savage and by Sam Carter. There was a freshening breeze from the westward and the sloop gathered way as she went up the Russel. Lights ashore in Guernsey slid by and disappeared astern. Alone in his cabin, Delancey sketched out his plan of attack, listing the duties and allocating the role which each of his officers would play. He considered again the idea of disguise and thought of what was and was not practicable. Something might be done but he would be wrong, he concluded, to make too much of it.
It would be easy to fly the privateer’s jack, the union with a broad red border, but what was the point? Of more use would be a foreign ensign, just enough to introduce an element of doubt. His object with the Bonne Citoyenne had been to frighten her into a small harbour. His object this time was the exact reverse, to give the French ship confidence and lure her into a very unequal battle. He made a diagram to illustrate his plan of attack and found himself absent-mindedly adding a little picture of the action as he saw it develop. Yes, he thought, old Savage had been right. He was a romantic, perhaps even a frustrated artist.
He tore up his pen-and-ink drawing and threw the fragments through the stern window. The time had come to be severely practical, a man of action and not a dreamer. He knew what had to be done. Could he now ensure that all would go as he had planned it? Going on deck he saw the ship clear of the Casquets and then hove to at a point west of Alderney. As she idled there, at slack water, Delancey sent for his officers, master’s mate and midshipmen, down to and including young David Stock. To them he issued his orders for the expected action:
“I intend to intercept and capture a laden French merchantman bound from Rochefort to Cherbourg and likely to appear in these waters during the next few days. She is called the Bonaparte and mounts about twenty-four guns. She is well manned and will not easily surrender. She might, however, take refuge in the nearest French harbour if threatened by a more powerful opponent. I shall try to confuse her at first, giving this ship the appearance of a privateer.
“My aim is then to capture her with the least damage to either side. This means a capture by boarding. For this purpose we have, as it happens, some extra soldiers and seamen; not all fit for a desperate conflict but all useful in making a show of strength. Before the engagement I propose to lower our boats and tow them alongside on the side away from the enemy; that is, if the weather should be suitable. I shall then engage with the other, probably the starboard, broadside.
“Mr Langford, I shall place you in command of the three carronades on that side of the quarterdeck and your task will be to concentrate their fire on the enemy’s wheel. Aim each weapon yourself and shoot only at the one target. The main battery will be under the command of Mr Mather and will fire into the enemy’s gunports without injuring his masts and rigging. Mr Topley will be stationed on the forecastle, ready to make a threat of boarding. You will fire grapeshot from the starboard carronade as if to clear the way, and I shall place under your command the supernumeraries. You will not actually board the enemy ship, but will brandish cutlasses and cheer.
“With the enemy thus distracted, Mr Stirling and Mr Northmore will lead half the seamen and all the marines into our boats and so board the enemy on the further or disengaged side, passing just under our opponents’ stern. It will be the special task of Mr Northmore to lower the enemy’s colours, entering by a stern window should one be unguarded. Mr Stock will act as my aide-de-camp. We shall rehearse the operation tomorrow and again on the following day, should the Bonaparte’s tardy arrival give us the opportunity.
“My general purpose is to give the enemy confidence at first, suggesting to them that their opponent is merely a privateer, and then overwhelm them by a direct threat and an indirect assault. I cannot do much to disguise this ship but I might hoist the sort of ensign which a privateer might choose; Prussian, perhaps, or that of the Papal States. It is now your chance, gentlemen, to ask questions. It is important from the outset that every man should know exactly what he is to do.”
A number of questions were asked and several suggestions were accepted, but the point was soon reached when Delancey could say: “Very well then, gentlemen. We all know the plan. It remains to detail off the various parties and then explain the plan to each.”
When the others had left the cabin Mather remained behind, very much at attention.
“With respect, sir, I have a protest to make.”
“Well?”
“Mr Stirling is to lead the main attack while I merely hold the enemy’s attention. What credit there is will go to the junior officer.”
“Yes.”
“The war is nearly over, sir, and this may be my last chance of promotion.”
“Is that all the protest you have to make?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well then. I want you to sit down, at ease, and forget for a moment that you are under my orders. We are brother officers and—I hope—old friends and shipmates. You see me writing a gazette letter in which Stirling is mentioned as leading the boarding party. But no such letter will be published. We are merely capturing a merchantman. She happens to mount as many guns as we do but that will make no difference. She is not a man-of-war. There will be no credit, therefore, and no promotion for anybody.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I was misled, I think, by the care with which you planned the attack.”
“If it were merely a question of capturing the Bonaparte, no plan would be needed. My problem has been to make this capture without any notable damage to either ship.”
“I quite understand that, sir. Any damage must reduce the value of the prize.”
“But you don’t understand, Mather. What if the war has ended and we none the wiser? I may have to hand this ship back to the French. I don’t want to return them a leaking, dismasted and bloodstained wreck.”
“No—I suppose not.”
“And I don’t want to bring this ship into Plymouth with her topmasts gone, her pumps working and twenty men wounded. I should be asked ‘What have you been doing?’ My answer would be ‘I’ve been fighting a French merchantman.’ Do you think I should be promoted for that? Or you either?”
“No—I see what you mean.”
“But do you? The war is ending—may have ended. Do you think their Lordships of the Admiralty want to promote anyone at this moment? Or even confirm an acting rank? Not they. The peace, for all they know, may last for twenty years, at the end of which time we may be thought too old for active employment. By promoting us now they would increase our half-pay for a lifetime and gain nothing by it.”
“I see . . .”
“There’s another thing you don’t see. Suppose the Bonaparte turned out to be a national frigate and suppose we captured her, we should both be promoted because that is the rule. Suppose there is war within five years you would lack interest to gain a command. But as lieutenant you would be employed and might have a chance to distinguish yourself.”
“Yes, that is true. Forgive me, however, if I am still wondering why Stirling is to lead the boarding party.”
“I’ll tell you why. I have tried to give each man the role in which I think he will do best. For keeping you on the Merlin’s gun deck I have three reasons. First, you are the best first lieutenant I am ever likely to have and I don’t want to throw your life away. Second, I want you at hand to take my place if I should be killed or wounded. Third, for the actual boarding, I think that Stirling is the better man, with fewer brains but more natural ferocity. He is not, I think, your equal in directing, as opposed to leading, an attack.
“That does not mean, however, that you are fitted now to command a man-of-war. You will some day deserve promotion but you are not as yet fit for it. The proof of that lies in all that I have just told you. Had you been fit for promotion you would have known all that already.
“The one thing you must realise is that we have all worked together, trained together, fought together and come to know something of each other’s qualities. It is possible that we are all going to be tested again in action. You will see then whether I have chosen the right man for each task. If I am proved wrong, take careful note of my failure. Remember that, some other time, it may be for you to make the choice.”
Then the exercises began in earnest. Delancey had difficulty at first with the invalid soldiers and convalescent seamen. They found it hard to grasp the idea of a feint attack. To board a French ship seemed reasonable to them but to go through the motions without actually doing it was something outside their experience.
The soldiers and seamen under Topley’s command had been provided with muskets and bayonets—weapons the real boarding party were better without—and Delancey had finally to compromise by allowing them to fire volleys as if to clear the enemy decks before launching their attack. They were to begin the action hidden in the forecastle and they practised a spectacular movement in which the soldiers swept up to the bulwarks and the seamen came after them in a second wave, led by Topley, and carrying a makeshift gangplank. The signal would be made by Delancey and the feint attack would be further dramatised by a bugle call and by beat of drum. Stirling’s men were armed only with cutlass and pistol, leaving them free to scramble on board the Frenchman through the gunports.
Langford’s gunners were told what they had to do and why. “To shoot away the enemy’s wheel is to cripple her for the time being but without serious damage to the prize.” Mather’s gunners were told what the signal would be to open fire—the firing of the quarterdeck carronades—and also the signal to cease fire; the sound of the boatswain’s pipe, sounding “Belay.” When all arrangements had been made and checked the Merlin settled down to patrol the approaches to Cherbourg.
After various false alarms the expected French merchantman was sighted on the sunny morning of the 13th, the wind southerly and the sea moderate. The Merlin, with a Prussian ensign, stood slowly across her bows with boats already lowered on the side further from the enemy. So far from avoiding battle the Bonaparte shortened sail before heading for the French coast, thus presenting her broadside to the privateer.
The two ships converged under easy sail, the Merlin slightly the faster and ready to accept the leeward position. When the sloop’s bowsprit was overlapping the French ship’s stern, Delancey told a boy to haul down the Prussian ensign and hoist the British. He then drew his sword and ordered Langford to be ready to open fire. Beside him on the quarterdeck he had the boatswain, young Stock and two boys to act as messengers. The minutes passed slowly and Delancey found himself watching a rather similar group near the Frenchman’s wheel. Seen in the sunlight, with the blue sea as background, the Bonaparte looked a fine ship, and sat deep in the water with what was evidently a full cargo. All her guns were run out on what would be her engaged side, thirteen in all and of much the same calibre as those of her opponent.
At last the moment had come . . . Delancey pointed his sword towards Langford and shouted “Fire!” The bang of the carronade was almost instantly followed by the crash of the broadside and the enemy’s reply. The battle was fairly joined and the smoke billowed between the two antagonists, blowing back across the Merlin’s deck. Walking over to the lee side of the quarterdeck, Delancey could see that the boarders were scrambling into the boats alongside, directed by Stirling from the entry port.
There came the crash of the second broadside and another smoke cloud. Langford was aiming each carronade in turn but had not yet hit his target. The sloop was still overhauling her opponent, however, and the two quarterdecks were not yet opposite each other. Round shot were flying overhead and one of them had already splintered the spanker boom. Making less noise were the musket-balls, fired from the French ship’s gangway and thudding into the woodwork.
Then came a crash and confused noise forward and Delancey could see that the Merlin’s foretopsail had come down. He jumped at once to the wheel and told the quartermaster to put the helm hard over. The Merlin’s bow swung towards the French ship, her bowsprit being entangled with her opponent’s mainmast shrouds. This was not a manoeuvre which Delancey had planned but there was no alternative. The Merlin would otherwise have dropped astern and, with both ships still very much under way, the boats could not have attacked. The impact of the collision and the fall of the Merlin’s foretopsail, had now brought both ships to a virtual standstill. The bow cannon on either side were now engaging at very close range, those further aft being more distant from each other. As guns began to fire independently the din and smoke became more continuous.
Leaning over the lee bulwarks near the break of the quarterdeck and using his speaking-trumpet, Delancey shouted down to the boats “Carry on, Mr Stirling!” Only when he had seen them push off did he turn back and call “Away boarders!” in the direction of the forecastle. There came a bugle call in reply and the measured beat of the drum. A minute passed and then the soldiers poured out of the forecastle and lined up as if to attack. They had no means, in fact, of reaching the enemy but their menacing appearance was very much as planned and rehearsed. Under the orders of a corporal they presented muskets and fired a volley.
There was a pause while they reloaded and then the bugle sounded again, to be followed once more by the drum beat. A wave of seamen, also armed with muskets, came up on the soldiers’ right and presented their muskets.
As their volley crashed in turn, Delancey sent the boatswain to take some sail trimmers and shift the foretopsail from where it buried the forecastle carronades. Once that had been pulled away it might have been just possible for the seamen to board the enemy ship by means of the bowsprit and covered by the soldiers’ fire. To underline this threat he ran forward, waving his sword as if to urge on the boarding party.
Looking across at the Bonaparte he could see, between clouds of drifting smoke, that the French crew had been assembled to repel boarders. All the men not at the guns were grouped forward, with boarding pikes and cutlasses. Delancey longed to look astern and see whether his boats were disappearing, as they should be, round the French ship’s stern. He knew, however, that he must not so much as glance in that direction. He must have every Frenchman watching for the rush across the bowsprit.
To make doubly sure of that he joined the party on the forecastle, shouting through his speaking-trumpet, now towards the boatswain and now towards Mr Topley. “Come on, men!” he yelled, pointing his sword towards the enemy ship.
He was answered by another bugle call, by beat of drum and a further volley from the soldiers. Then he called for three cheers, which were given with enthusiasm. It would take a very level-headed Frenchman to realise that all this noise was unaccompanied by a single move in his direction.
While the smoke billowed from the cannon fire Delancey ran aft again and saw that his boats were safely out of sight. Swearing when he realised that he had lost the boatswain, Delancey sent young Stock to request Mr Mather to cease fire and one of his boy messengers to ask Mr Bailey to pipe “Belay.” Then he looked across to see whether the tricolour was still flying. To his annoyance it still was.
But Langford’s fire had cleared the enemy’s quarterdeck. Without smashing the wheel, which seemed to be intact, his fire had driven away both officers and helmsmen. “Shall I shift to another target, sir?” asked Langford. “No, cease fire altogether,” replied Delancey.
As he watched he saw Stirling and his men pour from the Bonaparte’s main hatch and sweep forward to where the Frenchmen were still facing the threat posed by Topley and his men. Taken thus unexpectedly from behind, the enemy had no chance at all. There was some feeble resistance but most of them dropped their arms and called for quarter. The men who manned the battery that had been in action had surrendered more easily still, being caught unarmed.
The action was virtually over but Delancey was able to watch another scene, all the more clearly visible now the smoke had all but dispersed. From the hatch on the French ship’s quarterdeck there emerged young Northmore, cutlass in hand. He walked straight to the ensign halliards and pulled down the tricolour from the mizen peak. He rolled it up carefully and walked back to the hatch. A minute later he had gone below, leaving the quarterdeck again deserted. Watching this scene with a smile, Delancey wondered for a moment what had happened to the French captain. Perhaps he had gone below and had been secured in his cabin.
Going forward, Delancey shouted across the gap between the two ships to Stirling to free the Merlin’s bowsprit, cutting away the Frenchman’s rigging as necessary. Then he told Langford to pass a line over to the prize, attach a rope and then haul the two ships alongside each other. As this was done he told young Topley to go and find the captain of the French ship and bring him on board the Merlin. “Should he retain his sword, sir?” asked the midshipman, to which Delancey replied, “He won’t have one. Be off with you.”
Then Delancey went down to the main deck to learn from Mather what the casualties had been. “Four seamen slightly wounded,” was the answer. “The French fire was mostly ineffective.” “And damage?” “Nothing much, sir.” Delancey paid a quick visit to the sick-bay and was told that there were five wounded altogether, all from wood splinters. He had a word with the bandaged men and told them that the French had surrendered.
He then went to see whether the carpenter was examining the bowsprit. He was. He knew already that the well had been sounded and that the ship was not leaking. He came to the conclusion that his tactics had succeeded and that casualties and damage on board the Merlin were negligible. The foreyard was gone—broken in three places (hence the failure of the slings) and so was the spritsail yard, but there was nothing else beyond repair.
The Bonaparte, he realised, would not have escaped so lightly but she was not dismasted and could make harbour without difficulty. It remained to detail the prize-crew and set a course for Plymouth. In the circumstances he did not expect to be questioned too closely about the capture he had made. The two ships were now lashed together, the French crew battened down under guard and sentries placed over the Bonaparte’s spirit room, arms racks and officers’ quarters. The officers of the Merlin had done or were doing all that had to be done and Delancey, as captain, had little else, seemingly, to worry about.
Mr Midshipman Topley could now be seen on his way back from the prize, crossing by the improvised gangway and heading for the quarterdeck.
“Well,” said Delancey, “where is the French captain? Was he killed or wounded?”
“No, sir,” replied the youngster, white-faced. “He is in his ship’s powder magazine. His gunner is with him. So far as I can understand their language, sir, I think they mean to blow us all up in ten minutes.”