Breaking the line

Captain Richard Ridley lay on his bunk a little longer, listening to his ship come to life around him; the ship's bell signalling the half hour, occasional crack of a rope hitting the mast in an all too brief gust of wind, the midshipmen at their studies and his officers change watch. These and a hundred other small sounds filtered down through the skylight in his quarters, he rose and dressed swiftly, John would be in any moment now to shave him. He ran a hand over his chin, feeling the rough hairs already there.  He took a deep breath, savouring the smells around him that made this ship his home; the stale sweat and alcohol of his men, the salt air and fresh tar of his world. He could even taste the salt on his lips. He still couldn't believe his luck in getting this command; HMS Agamemnon was a sixty four gun ship of the line. She'd been fresh from the shipyard when he'd taken charge of her, one hundred and sixty foot long and forty four at the beam she was far larger than his last ship, as was her compliment of four hundred and ninety souls. Men that would be looking to him to keep them safe in the coming battle. It had been four days since the French force had been spotted by the frigates escorting a convoy. The wind had been too intermittent to engage the enemy properly so they had both settled for exchanging long shots instead, but that wouldn't last. It couldn't last. 

"Shave, sir?" John Aldridge's voice interrupted his thoughts.

"Sounds good, John, thanks." Richard said, turning to face his old friend, it always surprised him how freely John moved around the ship, even the marine sentry at his cabin door failed to stop him. "You hear any news from the fleet?"

"The convoy made it through, though a couple of the escorts collided, never catch us so off guard, sir." John said as he began lathering up the captain. "Hood had a go, so he did, but I think he just annoyed them."

"Enough to make them turn and fight?"

"Aye, sir." He said, moving the knife across Richard's face with the skill of a barber, it was his way of letting him know the conversation was over, anything else would be down to his lieutenants to tell him. 

***** ***** ******

"Captain." His first lieutenant, Thomas Unstead, said with a nod of greeting as Richard climbed the gangway to the quarterdeck. The bell sounded out the hour.

"Morning, Tom."

Richard listened as Thomas proceeded to brief him on the night's events, it had been the same as he'd already heard, for the most part, but it was part of the morning rituals of ship life.  A single shot rang out in the still morning air.

"Signal from flag, sir." The signal midshipman called out, training his glass on Admiral Sir George Rodney's ship, HMS Formidable. "Form line of battle, sir."

"Acknowledge, Mister Beattie" Richard ordered, "Lieutenant Unstead, have the ship cleared for action then beat to quarters, Master Jones bring her about two points, bring us into line with the others."

"Aye, Aye sir," they both responded, before calling out orders of their own.

"Have them load with chain for the first volley. And get the nets up." Richard added. It took his mind off the fact that even now his men were disassembling his cabin, moving the furniture below the water-line to allow the gun crews room to ply their craft.

It took them a little under ten minutes, a little slower than he'd have liked, but not too bad. He felt the familiar pang of regret as the ship's boats were lifted overboard; he knew it was for the best, though, it was better to drown than have them add their splinters to the fray. Yet it still made him sad. He lifted his arms automatically as his Coxswain and constant companion strapped his father's old sword round his waist. He took the dress uniform jacket and his hat from him and slipped them on. It was a ritual they had developed over the years. Some captains remained in their sea coats, but he had always chosen to lead by example his dress coat and hat signalled to enemy snipers that he was in charge; he was the target they should be aiming at.  A gun, deeper than the signal gun, reverberated round them, followed by another as one of the ships down the line began a rolling broadside.

"Make a note in the log, Master Jones, enemy engaged at a little after six bells in the forenoon." He said, checking his watch. He looked over to the frigates, well clear of the action, with a longing in his eyes.

"I miss'em too sir, the Admiral loves his orders, so he does." John said quietly beside him. 

"That he does, old friend, but I'd not change the Agamemnon, not now." Richard said as he laid a hand on John's shoulder, "I fear the French have the wind for this one, it's going to be a hard fight." He added as the ships drew nearer.

"You know how fickle these winds can be."

Richard gave John's shoulder a squeeze, and released it. He always seemed to find the right words no matter the situation. Captain Ridley looked down the length of his ship, watching the gunners grow restless at the wait. It was always the worst part he thought, in battle there was no time to think about what could happen to you but in those minutes, sometimes hours, between sighting the enemy and engaging them provided plenty. The gunfire of the ships already in range continued to echo round them, thick smoke clung to the ships like a hungry beast; the wind too light to disperse it effectively. With a nod to John he went down to the main gun-deck. He stopped at every gun on the starboard side, exchanging jokes and banter with the men that manned them. He knew all their names, something his father had told him always stuck with him whenever he took a new command.  'Sometimes, all they can call their own is their name, don't deprive them of that.'

He made his way down to the lower gun-deck and walked back down the starboard side. He couldn't believe how different the ship looked when she was cleared; with all the bulkheads gone it was wide open. It allowed the gun crews more room to ply their craft, though it also made the ship vulnerable to stern attacks. Nothing stood between the men to protect them from the cannonballs and splinters. He pulled himself from his thoughts, he was here to boost moral not destroy it. Continuing his route, one he had used on many ships he made his way to the orlop deck.

"We'll be ready for them captain." Doctor Millar said, though whether he referred to the French or the wounded that would be pouring in wasn't clear.

"We will David, do you have everything you need?" There wasn't much he could do about it now, but he felt a need to ask, perhaps it was the guilt he felt at being responsible for what was to come. They were his men; they trusted him to keep them safe.

"I've all I can hope for, you'd best be getting to your post." David Millar said, "We don't want them thinking you deserted."

"In other words go away and let me get on with it?"

"I liked my version better, but that works too."

"I've my rounds to complete anyhow." Richard said, with a formal nod, heading for the larboard side to speak to the remaining crews and their commanders. The whole thing took nearly an hour. He gave a curt nod to the marine sentry at the hatchway as he climbed out, a tradition to prevent men running below during the fight. He looked at the rest of the marine contingent, the lobsters; most were in the fighting tops, platforms about half way up the masts, the rest assisted at the mizzen mast.

A cannon ball landed a few feet from the ship, a ranging shot, he concluded. The wait was finally over. A second ball hit the netting along the rails. He knew the next one would be on target. "Have the guns run out, Mister Unstead. Have them fire when they acquire a target." He ordered, with a sigh.

As he had thought the next shot found its target; a gun, toppled by the blast, crushed one of the gunners he'd spoken to not that long ago. He heard Lieutenant Browne order him taken below, the gun to be righted and the others to stand ready to fire on his command. He'd make a good captain one day, Richard thought, watching them a moment longer.

The ship rocked as the lower gun-deck fired her volley, followed quickly by the main-deck. The reply was swift and deadly; a ball landed by the mizzen, spraying splinters into the men with the force of arrows and just as deadly. He heard the hiss of the sponges as the cannons were cleaned out and reloaded, even above the screams. The smoke stung his eyes; the salty taste of powder invaded his mouth as the scent, like rotten eggs, beset his nostrils.  They exchanged another round before they had past the ship, moving on to the next target. He paced the quarterdeck. He hated this.Both sides were taking damage, but not enough to be conclusive.

"Captain, wind's veering four points," Master Jones informed him.

"Bring us into it." Richard ordered, glad for some good news at last. This would give them the advantage.

"Looks like the French need some sailing lessons, captain, looks like two of them got caught of guard." John said, pointing to where the French line had opened up in three places.

Richard looked to where his friend was pointing; sure enough they'd been taken aback. He snatched up the glass and looked again.  The Formidable was steering for one of the breaches, going against all standing orders. "What the devil is he doing?" Richard asked no one in particular.

"Whatever it is, the Bedford's doing it too." John said. "Rear Admiral Hood's taking Balfour through the as well." He added.

Trust Captain Affleck to get into the thick of it, he thought. "Master Jones, think you can take us through that gap, over there?" He asked, indicating an area where the French ships were still aback.

"Aye sir, with me eyes shut."

"I'd prefer them open, Alec, just in case." Richard said, "Looks like the lobsters in the tops are going to get their revenge after all."

"Signal from flag, sir. Follow through." Midshipman Beatie called out.

"Acknowledge, Mister Beatie, then get the smashers loaded with grape."

"Aye sir," His reply was a little too eager for Richard's liking, but he could understand it.

"He's young sir, it's his first real battle." John said seeming to read his thoughts.

"Let's hope it's not his last." Richard said, he wondered if he'd been so keen to inflict death and destruction when he had been that age, probably he thought. "How long before we can bring the guns to bear?"

"Not long captain, though we'll take a fair pounding afore we gets there, sir." Alec Jones replied, giving the enemy ships only a cursory glance.

"Time for a tot of rum then, eh?"

"Aye sir, there's always time for that." Alec agreed with a toothless grin.

"See to it John, double rations, if the purser objects tell him it's that or he joins us up top." As pursers went Dean Davis wasn't too bad, he had never provided substandard fare; nor did he pay for goods that the ship never received, to be sold for a profit ashore. He did, however, like to stick to his rations and was certainly no fighter. A cheer from the lower gun deck told him that the threat had been enough, it wasn't long before the men on the main deck received theirs renewing the cheering. He hoped it would carry to the French ships; a sign of moral.

The cannons from the enemy ship fired. The shots were high, knocking a few spars onto the netting stretched out above their heads. The French were trying valiantly to reform, but it was too late. The Formidable and Balfour had already passed through, separating six of the ships, including the Ville de Paris, Comte de Grasse's flagship, which continued to fire on them.

The French ship continued its bombardment, shot and splinters rained down on his men and ship; blood, what hadn't been soaked up by the sand laid down for that purpose, flowed down into the scuppers. The screams of the dead and dying echoed round the ship, the orlop deck would be worse, that much he did know.

Balls crashed into the rails at the forecastle. A splinter, the size of his arm, tore into Lieutenant Browne's chest, sending him sprawling to the deck, a confused look on his face that became his death mask. He felt something tug at his epaulette, behind him John grunted in pain. He whirled round, blood oozed from a deep gash in the coxswains arm but otherwise he seemed fine.

"Damned snipers, sir, got a good range on them though."

"Fire!" He heard Midshipman Beatie yell out, now in charge of Browne's division. At last the Agamemnon was able to bring her own guns to bear, even if it was only the forecastle guns, it was time to exact revenge for the damage she had taken in relative silence. The distinctive sound of the carronades added to the cacophony of sound that assaulted his ears, he watched as it struck home on the French forecastle, raining death down on the gunners below. Blood ran in rivulets down the side of the ship, as if she herself were bleeding, even though he knew it was from the scuppers. The larboard carronade added her own voice, severing the steering as it tore through the stern. Richard closed his eyes briefly; he could picture the carnage that shot had wrought in all that open space.

The French ship was slow to respond, a testament to the damage they had inflicted on her. Still the Agamemnon continued to fire into the damaged vessel, the colours still flew from the mast. "Strike them you fool." Richard muttered as each shot struck the stern, where it could do the most harm. "Cease fire." He yelled out, as at last the colours fell from the mast in surrender.

Richard looked at his watch, it was only half ten in the forenoon. It had taken them just over an hour to break the French line and reassemble on the other side. It had seemed longer, far longer.

Most of the French ships had already begun making sail, only the Ville de Paris and the rest of the group that the Formidable and Balfour had separated off remained. He considered joining them, but decided against it, there were more than enough ships already there, the Agamemnon would be more of a hindrance than a help.

"Should we pursue?" Lieutenant Unstead asked, he was bleeding from a huge gash in his forehead, but was otherwise unscathed.
"Not without orders. Mister Beatie, signal flag, permission to pursue the enemy."

"Reply from flag sir, denied, return to harbour."

"Let's get the sails on her, once we pick up the boats, Thomas you can take some men over and take formal surrender of the French ship. Follow us back to harbour in it." Richard ordered, trying hard to hide his disappointment.

"Aye sir," He said, smiling for the first time that morning. "You heard the captain, Master Jones, bring us about."

"I'll be down below if you need me, lieutenant." He hated this next part, the orlop deck, where he'd get the butcher's bill. The true cost of war. He let out a sigh then descended into hell.

The end

Word count:2700 approx.

Historical Note

The ships mentioned in this tale, including the Agamemnon, were at the Battle of the Saintes, though I added her crew those mentioned aboard the other ships were also there. The Battle took place toward the end of the revolutionary war (12th of April 1782) but was still an important action, at least for the British, as it renewed their naval supremacy after Chesapeake Bay as well as protected their Caribbean interests. The title comes from the manoeuvre mentioned here, the breaking of an enemy line. This was the first time it had been used in naval warfare and it is still debated as to whether it was Admiral Sir George Rodney or his Captain of the Fleet, Sir Charles Douglas who gave the order, most believe it was Sir Charles as Sir George was not known for giving is captains any independence. The Ville de Paris, lasted eight hours after the line was broken, finally surrendering to Rear Admiral (as he was then) Samuel Hood's Balfour at 6:29pm. Due to Sir George's reluctance to pursue the enemy only four other ships were captured in the action. Samuel Hood shared Richard's frustration at not being able to give chase, though six days later he was finally allowed to, accompanied by ten ships of the line and two frigates; they captured a further two French ships of the line, a frigate and a sloop of war.