ANOTHER DARK HOLE IN THE DEPTHS OF ANOTHER SHIP, WITH another battle about to be joined: it was like Trafalgar, only worse. For one thing, I had had some hope of surviving Trafalgar; here, win or lose, I would die. Even more usefully, during Trafalgar I had been blind drunk. What I would not have given for a glass or a bottle at that moment. I fumbled around the dark hutch, wondering if by some divine grace they might have locked me in the purser’s stores, but there was not even the sniff of brandy. With that last hope denied, I lay down on the floor and rested my head on my knees.
Had I had the daring of a Nevell, perhaps I would have prised a splinter from the floor and used it as a picklock; or found a piece of hardtack and gnawed it into a chisel to cut through the hull. Instead, all I possessed was the cowardice of a Jerrold – in which light, surprisingly, my situation seemed rather less dismal. What would escape have achieved? I could hardly skulk around the ship unseen, and there was certainly no way of leaving it. If I dressed myself in slops and pretended to be one of the crew, I would likely put myself in the way of Spanish iron. Far better to cower on the orlop, well out of harm, and survive the battle intact; only once that was assured would it repay me to worry about Lyell’s threat. With luck, the Spanish might even despatch him for me.
It has ever been a fact of my life that no sooner do I resign myself to some present catastrophe then the predicament changes – generally for the worse. Sitting there in safety, however illusory, I could almost forget the dangers ranged against me. But the sound of a key turning in the door banished all respite, and immediately I was drawn back to the horrible, hopeless present. Had Lyell come to put a bullet in my skull while the ship was distracted?
A small figure in a large midshipman’s hat stepped through the door. ‘Mr Jerrold, sir?’ The voice was high and too obviously trying to master its own fears. ‘Captain Chatfield…’ He swallowed. ‘Captain Chatfield requests you join him on deck, sir.’
I found Chatfield still on the quarterdeck, though he now had his sword buckled on and a telescope in his hand. Lyell was nowhere to be seen. The Duke of Gloucester was beating to windward under tops’ls; while I had been below, sand had been scattered over her planking, rolled hammocks stuffed into her breastworks, and netting hung above the decks. Gun crews crouched by their guns with swabs and rammers in hand, while the sail trimmers worked the sheets. Off the larboard quarter, I could see the billowing sails of the Spanish frigate now barely a league distant. Through my aching terror, I felt a strange nudge of nostalgia. I had spent the past year sailing on cutters, brigs, packets and schooners; now at last I was back on a proper man-of-war with long guns and stout bulwarks. It was small comfort.
Chatfield excused himself from the officers and midshipmen around him and ushered me to the side. He showed no apprehension at the prospect of battle, only dogged purpose, but I sensed a tinge of embarrassment in his drawn face as he spoke.
‘I am sorry I was forced to lock you below earlier. It seemed the most convenient course under the circumstances.’
An apology was the last thing I had expected of him. I gaped in confusion.
‘There is much about this business which I do not understand,’ he continued. ‘And this is no time to question it. However, it sits ill with me to imprison a fellow officer when battle threatens, particularly at the urging of a fellow like Mr Lyell. I do not trust him. He is not a gentleman.’
‘He is extremely wealthy,’ I murmured. In some circles, in our modern age, that would have excused any magnitude of faults, but I guessed a man like Chatfield might think otherwise. Indeed, it only seemed to indispose him further to Lyell.
‘Mr Lyell came aboard my ship yesterday afternoon and has made a damned nuisance of himself ever since. He professes to support the plot against Spain yet has done precious little to aid it, and now that we face a Spanish ship in battle he has absented himself to the lower deck.’ He squinted at me, uncertain how much he could say. ‘I volunteered for this business because I wished to strike at Spain, not so that a confederacy of bankers and merchants could profit by it. All I have done is linger in these waters this past month awaiting a message that did not come.’
He fixed his grey eyes on mine. ‘Did you deliberately work to thwart our scheme, as Mr Lyell alleges?’
‘Nothing I did contributed to its failure in any way,’ I said honestly.
‘You give me your word of honour?’
‘Of course.’
I would not have valued my word of honour a farthing, but it sufficed for Chatfield. ‘I have heard that you were at Trafalgar.’ He glanced over at the Spanish frigate steering ever closer. ‘I would value your experience on the quarterdeck this afternoon.’
No doubt he meant well, but the prospect appalled me. I could almost have fallen to my knees and implored him to confine me on the orlop again. ‘There is really no need,’ I murmured.
‘As to the uniform, your own blue coat will suffice, and one of my lieutenants will lend you a hat. I can provide a brace of pistols and a hanger, if you require them.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I fear you may have need of them. There will be hot work to do before the day is out.’
*
A quarter of an hour later I stood by the bulwark in a borrowed hat, fingering the gold wire on the hilt of Chatfield’s sword. I had not served in a frigate action before, and had never troubled to read the breathless accounts in adoring newspapers. Perhaps I would have gleaned some wisdom. For the moment the two ships manoeuvred for advantage like prize-fighters circling in the ring, but it would come to blows soon enough. Chatfield was trying to sail upwind of the Spaniard, though it was a dangerous game: each time we came about he had to choose between showing the enemy our stern or risking being caught in irons. The question became more vital as every change of tack took us nearer the enemy.
A tongue of flame lashed out from the Spaniard’s side, and a second later I heard the cannon’s low report rumble across the water. A fountain of water rose where the ball had dropped a few score yards distant.
‘Hold your fire!’ called Chatfield. ‘Wait until we close and throw no shot away.’
I put my telescope to my eye, preferring to view the world through its narrow confines. We were almost level with our enemy now, and I could see her bow coming round towards us. ‘She’s bearing off.’
Chatfield turned to the first lieutenant. ‘Bring the ship about, if you please, and lay her as close to the wind as you can. We will try to cross her stern and rake her.’
Behind me I heard the lieutenant giving the orders, preparing to tack. I kept my gaze on the Spaniard. Her mizzen gaff and mainsail were brailed up to the yards, while all her hands were working to brace the foresails around. ‘She’s wearing ship.’
‘Fore-sheet, fore top bowline and jib sheets let go!’ shouted the lieutenant.
The helm went down and the Gloucester began to turn towards the wind. Her masts and spars creaked with the effort, like rusted hinges pushed against their will.
‘Off tacks and sheets!’
‘She’s passed us to leeward,’ I said. ‘We’ve taken the weather gage.’ A half-hearted cheer rose from the maindeck.
‘Let go and haul!’
As the afterguard ran past to trim the mizzen topsails, I found my sight of the enemy obscured. I put down the telescope and stepped away from the rail. A midshipman had come running aft from the bow and skidded to a halt before the captain. His face was flushed red, though whether by fear, excitement or exertion I could not tell.
‘Beg your pardon, sir, but Mr Timmins got sight of her stern as we came round. She’s the Hernando, sir.’
Chatfield nodded. ‘Very good. Return to your station.’
Never one to lose sight of my enemy if I could help it, I threaded my way through the knot of men at the side and looked out. I put my glass to my eye, then lowered it in surprise. The Hernando was not where I expected her to be off our larboard beam. I turned my gaze to the left, peering through the mizzen shrouds. Further and further round …
‘Captain Chatfield!’
Disrespecting all the conventions of rank, I almost seized him by the shoulder. He had seen it too – indeed the whole ship now seemed to be pointing at her. The Spaniard had followed us right through the wind and now lay on the same tack fine on the larboard quarter, only three hundred yards away.
Chatfield’s jaw tightened. He looked to the sailing master. ‘What do you say? Can we wear ship again and rake her bow?’
The master shook his head. ‘Too close, sir. As like as not she’d ram us.’
‘Very well.’ Chatfield raised his voice. ‘Heave to, then get to your guns.’
All our manoeuvring had been to no advantage. Glancing back, I saw that the Spanish captain had acknowledged Chatfield’s challenge. He was backing his own sails, and sending his men to the guns. There would be no subtlety or stratagems in our encounter. Instead, in the best tradition of the navy, we would pound each other broadside to broadside.
The Gloucester slowed until it seemed only the current moved us. With her steerage way gone, the bow began to drift towards the wind. The Hernando was overhauling us, though losing momentum, and as she came into our lee her progress halted. The two ships faced each other little more than a hundred yards apart, like duellists drawing breath and waiting for the handkerchief to drop.
Chatfield drew his sword and raised it in the air. ‘Run out the guns!’
Men hauled on the tackles. Ports squeaked, and eighteen cannon rumbled to the gunwale. Across the water the Hernando did the same. It was like looking in a mirror: we were so close that I could see every one of the officers clustered near her wheel, the marines in her tops and even the glow of the slow matches on her maindeck.
‘Fire!’
Forty guns – eighteen of ours, twenty-two of theirs – exploded almost as one. For a split second I saw the line of flames erupt from the Hernando’s hull like a giant scar opening along her side. Then her broadside struck. Her iron screamed above our heads and ripped into the cordage; several lines broke loose and snaked down through the smoke. Some of the shot had gone lower: I could see at least one man clutching the shoulder where his arm had been, and one of the stern lanterns had been cut clean away. Beside the gunwale the black-faced crews worked feverishly with swabs and irons to ready their guns. A hundred yards away our enemy’s deck had disappeared in a teeming cloud of white smoke, and all I could see were her masts rising from the fog like gibbets.
‘Fire!’
Though the terror of battle was a familiar companion, I had forgotten the sheer overwhelming noise that accompanied it: the thundering discharge of the guns, the whip-crack of the breeching ropes and the thud of the recoil; the shouts of the officers and the screams of the men; the crack of musketry from the tops and the grate of cannonballs which had fallen loose and rolled across the deck. Even the smoke itself seemed to roar like a torrent in my ears.
Another broadside bellowed out from the Hernando. The flames were little more than smudges of orange behind the fog, but the impact was sharp as ever. Spars shattered, blocks and tackles fell on the netting above, and men died. Enemy musket balls ricocheted off the deck – I could have sworn I heard one striking the ship’s bell.
‘That’s the way, Mr Jerrold. Show them no fear.’
I turned and saw Chatfield striding across the deck. Apart from the sword in his hand and the graze above his eye, he might have been exercising his dog, so calm did he appear. I stared at him, wondering at his compliment, until I realized that in my awestruck shock I had stayed rooted to my spot.
‘That’s the way you did it at Trafalgar, I suppose. And Nelson.’ He paused beside one of the gun crews. ‘Do you hear that? You’re firing twice as often as those shiftless Diegos. A few more broadsides and you’ll have her timbers for—’
He broke off, spun around and fell to the deck. Blood bubbled from the small hole just below his collarbone. For a moment, our small corner of the quarterdeck was an island of silence amid the cacophony as the gun crew, the attendant midshipmen and I all gaped at his body.
I looked to one of the midshipmen. ‘Help me take his arms.’ We knelt beside Chatfield and raised him from his waist. ‘No, wait. Hold him there.’ The midshipman held Chatfield upright, pressing a handkerchief to his wound, while I pulled away his uniform coat and hat. Taking them in my arms, I ran forward to the capstan and draped the coat over it, putting the hat on top of the drum. As I returned to Chatfield’s body I noticed the midshipman gazing on me with suspicion. ‘That will give the Spanish sharpshooters something to aim at,’ I explained.
‘Is it honourable, sir?’ the boy asked doubtfully.
‘Nelson himself did it,’ I lied.
We took Chatfield to the lower deck. He still breathed, though barely, and the surgeon grimaced at the sight of him. Everything in the room was doused in blood – the surgeon’s arms and face, his apron, the floor and even the ceiling timbers – all mingled with piteous cries of despair. I might otherwise have lingered to stay out of the battle, but even the quarterdeck seemed a more appealing hell than that shambles. As I left, I saw the surgeon put down his saw and take a bloodied pair of forceps from his assistant.
Just as I came to the top of the ladder on the gundeck, the cannon fired again. The bellow rang in my ears, and I squeezed my head between my hands to try and damp it out. Deafened, I looked around. I was in the waist of the ship, behind solid walls but with the sky open above me, though I could not see it for all the smoke and tangled cordage. I moved along the deck so that I stood under the overhang of the quarterdeck. At last I felt some small crumb of safety. I might even make myself useful, or at least hide my cowardice, for I could see no officer commanding the guns. Drawing my sword, I stepped towards the nearest cannon, waited until the crew had sponged, reloaded and run out, then shouted, ‘Point your gun!’
The gun captain looked at me as though I were mad. His shirtless back shone black with sweat and grime, and he had a red cloth tied around his ears; without speaking, he gestured with his powder horn towards the gunport. Crouching down and squinting through, I saw his reason. Between the smoke from her own guns, and the smoke from ours being blown down on her, the Hernando had entirely disappeared in a white haze. We might even have disabled her: it had been some moments since I heard her broadside.
‘Fire!’ I ordered, undaunted.
The gunner took hold of his lanyard and stepped aside; the rest of his men turned their backs and covered their ears. And then, just as he was about to fire, a new, alien sound tolled through the din. It was a hollow echo, like a ladle knocking against a bowl, only far deeper. The cannon rocked on its trucks.
I leaned down and peered out through the gunport again. The white fog had vanished, but in its place a black wall had appeared, filling the horizon entirely. Our cannon must have struck it, for as I watched I saw the muzzle pressed back with such force that the gun rolled inboard.
An instant before we collided I recognized the black wall for what it was: the hull of the Hernando. A profound shiver rippled through the Gloucester’s timbers, from her keel to her topmast, as the ships collided. The impact threw me gasping to the floor, and I heard frantic shouts from the deck above.
‘Boarders! All hands to repel boarders!’
We had no time to prepare ourselves; they were on us in an instant. Those of us in the waist of the ship were trapped like cocks in a pit: men poured over the Hernando’s side onto the gangways above, then leaped down to the attack. Some were thrown back by the marines’ musket-fire, but many more gained the deck. One foolhardy soul swung across on a rope which dangled from the main yard; he fell from the sky but landed badly, and lay on the planking screaming until one of the gun crews stove his head in with a worm-iron.
Men were all around me; I did not know where to look. I saw one Spanish seaman with an enormous boarding axe moving towards me, and in an instant I had discharged one of Chatfield’s pistols at him. In the tumult and the choking smoke I did not see if I had hit him. The crew around me fought ferociously with whatever tools were at hand. One man drove a marlinspike into his opponent’s chest; another whirled a rope-rammer above his head like a mace, cracking any forehead which came within his compass. Some even picked up weapons from the Spanish dead and turned their enemies’ weapons against them.
Even so, we were outnumbered and outgunned. Gradually, we were pushed back towards the side. I stepped in some blood and slipped; looking down, I saw one of the Duke of Gloucester’s marines lying dead by my foot, still clutching his musket. I bent down and tugged it free – just in time, for as I did a Spaniard came looming out of the surrounding fray. I pointed the musket at him and pulled the trigger, though of course it was not loaded; I lunged with the bayonet; he sidestepped the thrust and seized hold of the barrel, pulling it and me towards him. For a moment I could not even think to let go, but clung on like a fish on a hook. Then I released my grip. The Spaniard lost his balance, and as he stumbled back another bayonet plunged into his chest. A marine had come up beside me, though he barely seemed to notice me. With a snarl, he pulled the bayonet free and plunged forward.
A shout from the quarterdeck cut through the battle. ‘She’s struck her colours!’
I looked up in despair. Had the Duke of Gloucester struck? Down in the waist we still opposed the Spanish, but perhaps they had taken the quarterdeck and cut down our ensign. I looked to the mizzen. The broadsides were long since finished, and the battle was too close for muskets and pistols to be reloaded, so the pall of smoke had begun to clear. To my surprise, the shout seemed to have been a lie: the red ensign still flew proudly above the ship, and the fierce struggle on the quarterdeck showed no hint of defeat. Had I misheard? Or …
I turned my gaze to the Hernando. Her masts and rigging were far more intact than our own, for our guns had aimed lower than hers, but I had a clear view of her stern. Her flag was gone, and with most of her crew aboard the Gloucester her decks were almost deserted.
I did not pause to consider that curiosity. ‘She’s struck!’ I shouted. ‘The Spaniard’s struck her colours!’
The sight sparked new hope among the Gloucester’s crew. Men who moments earlier had been on the brink of surrender now lifted their weapons and redoubled their onslaught. The Spaniards, by contrast, were failing, staring back at their ship in incomprehension. Some threw down their weapons and capitulated immediately; others fought on but without conviction. On the gangway above, I could see our enemies clambering over the bulwarks and retreating to their own ship, our own seamen and marines pursuing them.
Not all the Spaniards had fled though, and not all would admit defeat. Distracted by our changing fortunes I almost failed to see a Spanish officer coming at me. He had lost his hat, and bled from a wound in his arm, yet his eyes were wild with bitter hate: perhaps, I thought, in a moment of inconsequence, he had expected to command the Duke of Gloucester as a prize. He drove towards me; I had just time enough to draw my second, unused pistol and fire it at him. In my panic I pulled the trigger too soon and the ball went wide. He slashed at me with his sword, missed, and as his arm went past me I hurled myself into him, knocking him backwards. It gave me space to draw Chatfield’s hanger, then he was on me again, and I was frantically parrying his swingeing attacks. There was no refuge, for the crowded battle around us seemed to have moved on and we were in open space. I had no thought of attack: Chatfield’s unfamiliar blade was heavy in my exhausted arms, and it was all I could manage to lift it to fend off my opponent. I gave ground easily, blocking and retreating, edging towards the bow and wondering when someone would recognize my plight and rescue me. If they could only have tripped him with a mop-handle it would have sufficed.
The Spanish officer came at me again, and this time my clumsy defence was too weak. The blade came past my guard and hummed before my eyes, so close it almost took off my nose. With a squeak of fear, sparking contempt in my adversary’s eyes, I leaped back. As my foot touched the deck it slithered in blood; I stumbled backwards and flung out my arms for balance. It was tantamount to suicide: my blade slipped from my hand, and my wide-open arms almost seemed to embrace the killing blow as the Spaniard lunged for my chest.
He did not strike. Already reeling, I felt my heel knock against some obstruction at my feet and pitch me backwards. Yet I did not land on the deck as I had expected. In a floundering jumble of limbs and rungs and blows and darkness, I fell through the hatchway and crashed to the bottom of the ladder. I lay there a moment, bruised and winded, wondering if I could possibly have survived such a fall without breaking my neck. Miraculously, I seemed undamaged.
The Spanish officer stood on the deck above me framed by the open hatch. His sword was still in his hand, and he seemed minded to leap down and finish me; then some other danger must have threatened, for his head snapped around and he vanished from my sight. I was left lying in a heap at the foot of the ladder, battered and defenceless but alive.
‘Jerrold?’
I turned. Through the ache in my skull where I had knocked it on the ladder, and the bleariness in my senses, I heard something familiar in the voice which had spoken my name. I knew the sneer, the haughty superiority and the chill absence of any emotion, all present even in the two meagre syllables of my name.
Whether I recognized the voice, or the overweening figure standing in the shadows of the lower deck, or even the blue sheen of the pistol’s barrel, I do not know; thankfully, I had just wit and strength enough to roll away from the ladder as the pistol exploded towards me. By the flash of its muzzle I saw Lyell crouching near the bow, a cruel leer of triumph on his face, and the pale figure of his daughter a little to my left. The leer soured as the ball buried itself in the ladder; then he was lost to sight again. Through the darkness and the smoke I heard the clang of steel as he fumbled with the pistol, trying to reload it. My own guns were spent and my sword lay where it had fallen on the upper deck; with no alternative, I picked myself up and flung myself towards Lyell. I collided with him and tore the gun from his hand. With an oath he reached his fat hands to my neck, trying to throttle me, and suddenly I was fighting for my life again. I kicked against his shins and pulled on his wrists, but my efforts merely rebounded off his vast bulk. I could feel his thumbs squeezing against my throat, his fingers lifting me by my neck so that my head was crushed against the low ceiling. I could not even draw breath to scream.
But Lyell’s time was too short. His shot had echoed along to the surgeon’s table, and the men there, perhaps fearing that the enemy had penetrated to their deck, were running forward. Even through my agony I heard their shouts and footsteps, though I barely knew what they signified. Lyell heard it too, and turned to Catherine while never relenting his hold.
‘Quick,’ he hissed, ‘your gun.’
Twisting my eyes around, I saw Catherine’s dim outline standing to my left. Without pause, her arm came up and I heard the harsh click of the lock being dragged into place.
‘No,’ I pleaded, though nothing emerged save a gurgle.
The cramped deck exploded in a cloud of smoke, flame, blood and bone. I fell to the floor.
The sweet smell of brandy opened my eyes. I was lying propped up against the side, with the blood-soaked surgeon kneeling beside me holding a tin cup under my nose. I snatched it from his hand and put it to my lips. I could taste blood in my mouth as well as the spirit, but that did not deter me from draining the cup and looking about for more.
A little to my right, Lyell lay sprawled on the floor in a pool of blood. The puddle was still spreading, draining out of a hole in the back of his skull. One of the loblolly boys was trying to plug it with a rag, though more for the sake of order than healing, I thought. Lyell was dead. On the far side of the deck, I could see Catherine sitting with her head in her hands while one of the Gloucester’s officers offered comfort. Her small pistol lay smoking on the deck beside her: I supposed I owed her my life, though I was not inclined to gratitude.
‘I thought the brandy would wake you.’
Slowly, so as not to stir the pain in my head, I turned my gaze to my left. Nevell stood at the foot of the ladder, a double-barrelled pistol in one hand and a cutlass in the other. His plum-red coat was torn, his shirt spattered with soot and blood, his face black with powder. Half of his queue had broken free of its binding and flopped down over his cheek. He looked bowed and weary, yet he could not entirely keep the satisfaction from his eyes.
‘Am I hurt?’ I asked, reaching for the fresh cup which the surgeon, who knew his trade, had fetched.
Nevell shook his head. ‘No – or at least, no worse than before.’
‘What happened?’
‘We defeated the Spaniards.’
‘How …?’
‘The Hernando’s crew were so intent on taking the Gloucester that they did not guard their larboard side. Once Mr Strong had put the schooner alongside her we had little difficulty climbing aboard and taking her.’ Nevell offered a tired smile. ‘My first naval action. I think in future I will leave such affairs to you.’
‘Now that I have seen how the Post Office conducts its business, I would rather a sea-battle any day.’
‘Be careful what you wish for,’ Nevell chided me. ‘We still have many miles of hostile ocean to travel before we reach harbour.’
With considerable effort, I raised an eyebrow. ‘Harbour?’
‘Falmouth.’ Nevell crouched beside me and lightly clapped my shoulder. ‘We are going home.’