Patrick O'Brian - H.M.S. Surprise

‘Mr Babbington, the corvette will engage us presently. When I give the word, let the maintopsail come down with a run, as though her fire had had effect. But neither the yard nor the sail must be hurt. Some puddening on the cap - but I leave it to you. It must look like Bedlam, all ahoo, and yet still be ready to set.’

It was just the kind of caper Babbington would delight in; Jack had no doubt of his producing an elegant chaos. But he would have to go briskly to work. The Berceau was coming down under a cloud of canvas, as fast as ever she could run; and as Jack watched he saw her set her fore-​royal flying. She was steering to cross ahead of the Surprise - she lay on her beam at this moment - and although she was now within range she held her fire.

‘Mr Babbington,’ cried Jack, without taking his eyes from the Berceau, ’should you like your hammock sent up?’

Babbington slid down a backstay, scarlet with toil and haste. ‘I am sorry to have been so slow, sir,’ he said. ‘All is stretched along now, and I have left Harris and Old Reliable in the top, with orders to keep out of sight and let go handsomely when hailed.’

‘Very good, Mr Babbington. Mr Stourton, let us beat to quarters.’

At the thunder of the drum Stephen took the startled chaplain by the arm and led him below. ‘This is your place in action, my dear sir,’ he said in the dimness. ‘These are the chests upon which Mr M’Allister and I operate; and these’ - waving the lantern towards them - ‘are the pledgets and tow and bandages with which you and Choles will second our endeavours. Does the sight of blood disturb you?’

‘I have never seen it shed, in any quantity.’

‘Then here is a bucket, in case of need.’

Jack, Stourton and Etherege were on the quarterdeck; Harrowby stood a little behind them, conning the ship; the other officers were at the guns, each to his own division. Every man silently watched the Berceau as she ran down, a beautiful, trim little ship, with scarlet topsides. She was head-​on now, coming straight for the frigate’s broadside; and Jack, watching closely through his glass, could see no sign of her meaning to bear up. The half-​minute signal-​gun beside him spoke out again and again and again, and yet still the Berceau came on into the certainty of a murderous raking fire. This was more determination than ever he had reckoned on. He had done the same himself, in the Mediterranean: but that was against a Spanish frigate.

Another two hundred yards and his heavy carronades would reach the Bereau point-​blank. The signal-​gun again; and again. ‘Belay there,’ he said; and much louder, ‘Mr Pullings, Mr Pullings - a steady, deliberate fire, now. Let the smoke clear between each shot. Point low on her foremast.’

A pause, and on the upward roll the purser’s gun crashed out, the smoke sweeping ahead. A hole appeared in the corvette’s spritsail and a cheer went up, drowned by the second gun. ‘Steady, steady,’ roared Jack, and Pullings ran down the line to point the third. The ball splashed close to the corvette’s bow, and as it splashed she answered with a shot from her chaser that struck the mainmast a glancing blow. The firing came down the line, a rippling broadside: two shots went home in the corvette’s bows, another hit her chains, and there were holes in her foresail. Now it began forward again, and as the range narrowed so they hit her hard with almost every shot or swept her deck from stem to stern - there were two guns dismounted aboard her, and several men lying on the deck. Broadside after deliberate broadside, the whole ship quivering in the thunder - the jets of flame, the thick powder-​smoke racing ahead. Still the Berceau held on, though her way was checked, and now her bow-​guns answered with chain-​shot that shrieked high through the rigging, cutting ropes and sails as it went. ‘A little more of this, and I shall not need my caper,’ thought Jack. ‘Can, he mean to lay me aboard? Mr Pullings, Mr Babbington, briskly now, and grape the next round. Mr Etherege, the Marines may -, His words were cut off by a furious cheer. The Berceau’s foretopmast was going: it gave a great forward lurch, the stays and shrouds parted and it felt in a ruin of canvas, masking the corvette’s forward guns. ‘Hold hard,’ he cried. ‘Maintop, there. Let go.’

The Surprise’s topsail billowed out, came down, collapsed; and across the water they hear a thin answering cheer from the shattered corvette.

A forward gun sent a hail of grape along the Berceau’s deck, knocking down a dozen men and cutting away her colours. ‘Cease fire there, God rot you all in hell,’ cried Jack. ‘Secure those guns. Mr Stourton, hands to knot and splice.’

‘She struck,’ said a voice in the waist, as the Surprise swept on. The Berceau, hulled again and again, low in the water and by the head, swung heavily round, and they saw a figure running up the mizen-​shrouds with fresh colours. Jack took his hat off to her captain, standing there on his bloody quarterdeck seventy yards away; the Frenchman returned the salute, but still, as his remaining larboard guns came to bear he fired a ragged broadside after the frigate, and then, as she reached the limit of his range, another, in a last attempt at preventing her escape. A vain attempt: not a shot came home, and the Surprise was still far ahead of the Marengo on her larboard quarter and the two frigates away to starboard.

Jack glanced at the sun: no more than an hour to go, alas. He could not hope to lead them very far this moonless night, if indeed he could lead them at all for what was left of the day. ‘Mr Babbington, take your party into the top and give the appearance of trying to get things shipshape - you may cockbill the yard. Mr Callow - where is that midshipman?’

‘He was carried below, sir,’ said Stourton. ‘Hit on the head.’

‘Mr Lee, then. Signal partial engagement, heavy damage; request assistance. Enemy bearing north-​north-​east and north-​north-​west, and carry on with the half-​minute gun. Mr Stourton, a fire in the waist would do no harm:

plenty of smoke. One of the coppers filled with slush and tow might answer. Let there be some turmoil.’

He walked to the taffrail and surveyed the broad sea astern. The brig had gone to the assistance of the Berceau: the Marengo maintained her position on the larboard quarter, coming along at a fine pace and perhaps gaining a little. As he expected, she was signalling to the SŽmillante and the Belle Poule - a talkative nation, though gallant - and

she was no doubt telling them to make more sail, for the Belle Poule set her main-​royal, which instantly carried away. For the moment everything was well in hand.

He went below. ‘Dr Maturin,’ he said, ‘what is your casualty-​list?’

‘Three splinter-​wounds, sir, none serious, I am happy to report, and one moderate concussion.’

‘ How is Mr Callow?’

‘There he is, on the floor - on the deck - just behind you. A block fell upon his head.’

‘Shall you open his skull?’ asked Jack, with a vivid recollection of Stephen trepanning the gunner on the quarterdeck of the Sophie, exposing his brains, to the admiration of all.

‘No. Oh, no. I am afraid his condition would not justify the step. He will do very well as he is. Now Jenkins here had a truly narrow escape, with his splinter. When M’Alister and I cut it out -’

‘Which it came off of the hounds of the mainmast, sir,’ said Jenkins, holding up a wickedly sharp piece of wood, two feet long.

- we found his innominate artery pulsing against its tip. The twentieth part of an inch more, or a trifling want of attention, and William Jenkins would have become an involuntary hero.’

‘Well done, Jenkins,’ said Jack. ‘Well done indeed,’ and he went on to inquire after the other two - a forearm laid open, and an ugly scalp-​wound. ‘Is this Mr White?’ catching sight of another body.