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barefoot_bard) wrote2014-02-10 02:15 pm
barefoot_bard) wrote2014-02-10 02:15 pm
Entry tags:
Swiftness and Courage
Title: Swiftness and Courage
Rating: K+ (Suitable for ages 13 and above)
Disclaimers: With the exception of Jack Deering, who is my own creation, all names given in the story belong to men who were part of this action.
Story summary: A seaman takes part in the cutting out of La Chevrette. A prompt fill from this challenge, using this painting.
Author's Note: I have taken some liberties with names and facts, but intend no disrespect in so doing.
The blackness of the night was an oppressive thing. There was little sound, save the light slop of waves against the boat's hull and the occasional quiet rumble of a burlap-wrapped loom in the oarlock. And the breathing of the men around him, a steady huff of air being expelled from each fellow's lungs virtually in the same instant as they worked their oars. Each of the oarsmen were hand-picked, a respectable feat considering that every man in Beaulieu's boats was a volunteer.
"Steadily, my lads," Lieutenant Maxwell whispered, his voice just barely audible. The encouragement was not strictly necessary but Jack Deering appreciated it nonetheless. He sat near the bow, crammed in beside two Marines, his musket wedged between his knees. It had been a long pull so far, with four miles of the estimated six having been covered. The lads at the oars were exhausted but had not lost their stroke. All of them knew how important this task was and none of them were willing to be the one fellow to put the venture in jeopardy.
Being able to see ahead of them was the only blessing to Deering's seat in the boat. The two Marines on either side of him stank of shoe black and pipeclay, mixed in liberally with perspiration and rum. It was a heady blend of odors and it made Deering wish heartily he had taken the offered second tot before the boats had been loaded. It would have helped take the edge off his growing apprehension. Such a long time with nothing to do but wait was not a good thing for a thinking man.
So much could go wrong. The boats could be spotted and fired on by both their target and the shore batteries. Or they could have misjudged their bearing and row straight past the enemy ship. Or the French could have warped the corvette closer into shore and further under the protection of the heavy batteries. Or any number of similar things that might occur and result in many good men being lost for no decent end.
"Quit yer fidgetin'," one of the Marines hissed and ground his elbow meaningfully into Deering's ribs. With a blush, Deering stilled, belatedly realising he had been anxiously drumming his fingers on the stock of his musket. Such an unwise outward expression of nerves! Any sign of fear shown in this company would draw disgust and mistrust, and might possibly spread. Forthright courage was required here and Deering chided himself for faltering.
There was no further speech, for the weight of Lieutenant Maxwell's glare on their backs was more effective a rebuke than words. For many long, aching minutes, beyond Deering's ability to estimate, the boats slid silently onward, until suddenly there was a stilling in the oars. A boat fumbled toward them from larboard, standing off only in time to avoid a noisy, dangerous collision. A hasty whispered conference between officers followed, then the other boat pushed off again. The small flotilla started forward again and Deering, with a glance aft, wondered what the delay had been for and what it might mean.
"Right, Beaulieus," said Lieutenant Maxwell in a low voice. "This is what must happen when we are aboard. Mister Brown shall take his party and cut the anchor cables, this is vitally important, so attend it at once! Mister Wallis, your lads must see that the helm is taken charge of. The French may have cut the tiller ropes so you may do well to set a few men aside should any immediate intervention be necessary. Topmen. You fellows will go directly aloft and make all sail you can. The Marines are to provide covering fire throughout. We shall hook on to Chevrette's starboard bow and, if we can, her starboard quarter as well. All depends on getting aboard her, so those of you with muskets must begin firing as soon as you bear, and mustn't cease, whatever happens, until she is taken. Swiftness and courage only shall answer!"
It was a plain and unmistakeably clear set of orders. Deering found himself gripping his musket, aware that action was imminent. The first and only piece of combat he might ever take part in was soon to commence and he prayed he might survive the experience. What would it be like? He had heard tales of sea-fights from some of the older hands, but those had been of great fleet actions. This was to be a wholly different affair. Close-quarters stuff. The cutlass he wore on a black crossbelt was suggestive enough of that. All of them had been well-drilled in their small arms but now Deering found himself struggling to remember the finer points of those endless hours of training.
From not too far ahead came a shout in French, followed shortly by the boom of a gun firing. Almost immediately, an ominous whine rent the air and somebody in the boat just behind them cried out in pain. Muskets and more great guns were firing, from Chevrette and the shore batteries. They'd been spotted and now were receiving what felt like the full weight of multiple broadsides.
"Grapeshot!" One of the Marines bawled, ducking as low as he could despite the boat's being crammed with men. "Heads down, boys, if you dunner wanna lose 'em!"
"Pull for her, Beaulieus!" Lieutenant Maxwell roared, standing carelessly up in the sternsheets. "Marines, fire! Spare her nothing!"
The boat rocked violently as the murderous hail of grapeshot peppered it, striking down two oarsmen and the Marine who'd warned them all to keep low. The bodies were hauled unceremoniously over the gunwale and the two oarsmen were immediately replaced. Nothing must stop them now. With trembling hands, Deering fumbled through the loading of his musket, striving to not spill too much powder owing to motions of the now-unsteady boat. A Marine beside him did not seem affected by the lack of a stable platform and instead stood with his feet braced between an oarsman's legs, loading and firing as smoothly as if he was on flat earth.
Deering did not dare stand but settled for kneeling on the thwart he'd previously been sitting on. Aiming was utterly impossible. All he could do was point the musket at the semi-distant hulk that was the French corvette and pull the trigger. Then it was time to attempt to reload the firelock again. All the while, the boats were charging headlong toward the enemy ship, undaunted by the heavy fire coming at them from her. Away to starboard, in another boat, some fool was singing 'Hearts of Oak'.
"Bowmen! Stand by!"
A seaman fell against Deering, knocking his musket downward so the ball he'd just fired cut uselessly into the sea. He swore, for once not ashamed at such rough speech, and scrambled to reload. Broader details of the French ship were discernible now, though the blinding flashes of the enemy's great guns made Deering's eyes burn. Another wave of grapeshot swept over their heads, miraculously sparing their own boat but decimating those following. The roar of those guns ahead was almost continuous. The French must have had their gun crews sleeping near their guns, ready to receive the British.
All at once, the boat ground roughly against Chevrette's hull, snapping one oar cleanly in two and pitching the unfortunate seaman straight into the bottomboards. Above them, French sailors were pouring musket fire straight down into the boat, doing all they could to turn back the attack. They stood a fair chance of that, unless the British could get out of their boats and up onto the ship's deck.
"Boarding nets! Boarding nets! At their boarding nets!" The boatswain, Mister Brown, thundered. "Hack them down, me bold beauties!"
Men were swarming forrard, cutlasses drawn and ready. Deering and his fellow musketeers fired up over their heads, doing their own best to push the French defenders back. It was to no visible effect. The Beaulieus succeeded in cutting away the obstacle of the boarding nets, but this only made it easier for the French sailors to make their own boarding attempt. The shouting corvette's crew doubled their musket fire, covering their comrades who were skipping down over the bowsprit with axes and cutlasses in hand.
In a moment, Deering found himself face to face with a screaming Frenchman whose mustached face bore the most awful scar he had ever seen. Utterly startled, he could only fall back under the French sailor's attack, until a Marine managed, somehow, to level his musket and shoot the man point-blank in the stomach.
"You useless twat!" The Marine snarled at Deering. Scarcely a heartbeat later, however, the bullock was a corpse, having been hacked down by another French sailor wielding an axe. Deering stirred himself to action and, throwing his empty musket down and drawing his own cutlass, swiftly avenged the surly Marine. It was the first time he had killed a man and the bile rose at once in the back of his throat. He could not be ill or upset, however. He, as a topman, was expected to get aloft and shake out sail. Somehow!
Lieutenant Maxwell had come forrard in the boat, his sword in hand and slick with blood already. "Get up her, lads! Turn the beggars back!"
Two men with boarding pikes were thrusting them at the wave of Frenchmen trying to gain the boats. Deering hacked his cutlass with its ground edge across an enemy sailor's neck and, feeling his fighting blood rising, stepped onto the dying man's slumped body in a bid to reach the lower edge of the corvette's bowsprit. Other Beaulieus were following, some merely shoving past the French boarders. It was a violent, bewildering chaos. Musket balls slashed down in a constant rain and the clash of steel on steel rang out in counterpoint, all amid a ceaseless clash of shouting voices and intermittent gun fire.
Above Deering, an officer and two seamen had somehow got to the foc's'le and were fighting for their lives against a veritable tide of determined French defenders. He and his mates had to reach those three, or they'd be lost. A Frenchman stood immediately above Deering, his cutlass already swinging downward. There was only one response. Deering slashed half-blindly upward and speared the man through the leg, which was enough to send the sailor tumbling headlong, his scream cutting off awfully when he struck the gunwale of the boat below.
The way up was, briefly, clear. With a topman's lithe agility, Deering scrambling up to the base of the bowsprit and then over the bulwark onto the foc's'le. Others were hard on his heels. A cutlass blade slashed across his side, knocking him back, but the timely intervention of a Beaulieu seaman wielding a boarding pike saved Deering from worse. He stabbed down at the wounded Frenchman to finish him off. Any feelings of mercy he might have had before were now utterly absent. The enemy had already shown no interest in giving quarter. Thus, no quarter would be given in return.
Brandishing their weapons, Deering and his fellow topmen threw themselves at the Chevrette's defenders. They had won the foc's'le. Now it was on to the shrouds and then upward, where victory would be ensured the moment they cast the sails loose. Deering left his cutlass lodged irretrievably in a Frenchman's chest and, heedless of the slash of a musket ball past his head, leapt for the fore shrouds. So close. He remembered that unknown, unseen fellow singing 'Hearts of Oak' earlier. The words of that old tune came tumbling out of Deering's lips now, wholly unbidden.
Somebody below him cursed him for a fool but what did it matter? Sure there was no outcome but success now, with lads now having gained the foretopyard? Deering felt himself grinning. So this was what a boarding action was like. Now that the initial fear had passed, he decided it was not so bad a thing, once one got in the thick of it. Below, he heard Lieutenant Maxwell shouting, urging the attackers on. More of them had gotten aboard. Aye, this was nothing save a noble action, and he, Jack Deering, former schoolmaster from Suffolk, was part of it.
He grabbed at his sea-knife and sliced roughly at the gaskets, and as the foretopsail tumbled free, he and the lads cheered.
Rating: K+ (Suitable for ages 13 and above)
Disclaimers: With the exception of Jack Deering, who is my own creation, all names given in the story belong to men who were part of this action.
Story summary: A seaman takes part in the cutting out of La Chevrette. A prompt fill from this challenge, using this painting.
Author's Note: I have taken some liberties with names and facts, but intend no disrespect in so doing.
The blackness of the night was an oppressive thing. There was little sound, save the light slop of waves against the boat's hull and the occasional quiet rumble of a burlap-wrapped loom in the oarlock. And the breathing of the men around him, a steady huff of air being expelled from each fellow's lungs virtually in the same instant as they worked their oars. Each of the oarsmen were hand-picked, a respectable feat considering that every man in Beaulieu's boats was a volunteer.
"Steadily, my lads," Lieutenant Maxwell whispered, his voice just barely audible. The encouragement was not strictly necessary but Jack Deering appreciated it nonetheless. He sat near the bow, crammed in beside two Marines, his musket wedged between his knees. It had been a long pull so far, with four miles of the estimated six having been covered. The lads at the oars were exhausted but had not lost their stroke. All of them knew how important this task was and none of them were willing to be the one fellow to put the venture in jeopardy.
Being able to see ahead of them was the only blessing to Deering's seat in the boat. The two Marines on either side of him stank of shoe black and pipeclay, mixed in liberally with perspiration and rum. It was a heady blend of odors and it made Deering wish heartily he had taken the offered second tot before the boats had been loaded. It would have helped take the edge off his growing apprehension. Such a long time with nothing to do but wait was not a good thing for a thinking man.
So much could go wrong. The boats could be spotted and fired on by both their target and the shore batteries. Or they could have misjudged their bearing and row straight past the enemy ship. Or the French could have warped the corvette closer into shore and further under the protection of the heavy batteries. Or any number of similar things that might occur and result in many good men being lost for no decent end.
"Quit yer fidgetin'," one of the Marines hissed and ground his elbow meaningfully into Deering's ribs. With a blush, Deering stilled, belatedly realising he had been anxiously drumming his fingers on the stock of his musket. Such an unwise outward expression of nerves! Any sign of fear shown in this company would draw disgust and mistrust, and might possibly spread. Forthright courage was required here and Deering chided himself for faltering.
There was no further speech, for the weight of Lieutenant Maxwell's glare on their backs was more effective a rebuke than words. For many long, aching minutes, beyond Deering's ability to estimate, the boats slid silently onward, until suddenly there was a stilling in the oars. A boat fumbled toward them from larboard, standing off only in time to avoid a noisy, dangerous collision. A hasty whispered conference between officers followed, then the other boat pushed off again. The small flotilla started forward again and Deering, with a glance aft, wondered what the delay had been for and what it might mean.
"Right, Beaulieus," said Lieutenant Maxwell in a low voice. "This is what must happen when we are aboard. Mister Brown shall take his party and cut the anchor cables, this is vitally important, so attend it at once! Mister Wallis, your lads must see that the helm is taken charge of. The French may have cut the tiller ropes so you may do well to set a few men aside should any immediate intervention be necessary. Topmen. You fellows will go directly aloft and make all sail you can. The Marines are to provide covering fire throughout. We shall hook on to Chevrette's starboard bow and, if we can, her starboard quarter as well. All depends on getting aboard her, so those of you with muskets must begin firing as soon as you bear, and mustn't cease, whatever happens, until she is taken. Swiftness and courage only shall answer!"
It was a plain and unmistakeably clear set of orders. Deering found himself gripping his musket, aware that action was imminent. The first and only piece of combat he might ever take part in was soon to commence and he prayed he might survive the experience. What would it be like? He had heard tales of sea-fights from some of the older hands, but those had been of great fleet actions. This was to be a wholly different affair. Close-quarters stuff. The cutlass he wore on a black crossbelt was suggestive enough of that. All of them had been well-drilled in their small arms but now Deering found himself struggling to remember the finer points of those endless hours of training.
From not too far ahead came a shout in French, followed shortly by the boom of a gun firing. Almost immediately, an ominous whine rent the air and somebody in the boat just behind them cried out in pain. Muskets and more great guns were firing, from Chevrette and the shore batteries. They'd been spotted and now were receiving what felt like the full weight of multiple broadsides.
"Grapeshot!" One of the Marines bawled, ducking as low as he could despite the boat's being crammed with men. "Heads down, boys, if you dunner wanna lose 'em!"
"Pull for her, Beaulieus!" Lieutenant Maxwell roared, standing carelessly up in the sternsheets. "Marines, fire! Spare her nothing!"
The boat rocked violently as the murderous hail of grapeshot peppered it, striking down two oarsmen and the Marine who'd warned them all to keep low. The bodies were hauled unceremoniously over the gunwale and the two oarsmen were immediately replaced. Nothing must stop them now. With trembling hands, Deering fumbled through the loading of his musket, striving to not spill too much powder owing to motions of the now-unsteady boat. A Marine beside him did not seem affected by the lack of a stable platform and instead stood with his feet braced between an oarsman's legs, loading and firing as smoothly as if he was on flat earth.
Deering did not dare stand but settled for kneeling on the thwart he'd previously been sitting on. Aiming was utterly impossible. All he could do was point the musket at the semi-distant hulk that was the French corvette and pull the trigger. Then it was time to attempt to reload the firelock again. All the while, the boats were charging headlong toward the enemy ship, undaunted by the heavy fire coming at them from her. Away to starboard, in another boat, some fool was singing 'Hearts of Oak'.
"Bowmen! Stand by!"
A seaman fell against Deering, knocking his musket downward so the ball he'd just fired cut uselessly into the sea. He swore, for once not ashamed at such rough speech, and scrambled to reload. Broader details of the French ship were discernible now, though the blinding flashes of the enemy's great guns made Deering's eyes burn. Another wave of grapeshot swept over their heads, miraculously sparing their own boat but decimating those following. The roar of those guns ahead was almost continuous. The French must have had their gun crews sleeping near their guns, ready to receive the British.
All at once, the boat ground roughly against Chevrette's hull, snapping one oar cleanly in two and pitching the unfortunate seaman straight into the bottomboards. Above them, French sailors were pouring musket fire straight down into the boat, doing all they could to turn back the attack. They stood a fair chance of that, unless the British could get out of their boats and up onto the ship's deck.
"Boarding nets! Boarding nets! At their boarding nets!" The boatswain, Mister Brown, thundered. "Hack them down, me bold beauties!"
Men were swarming forrard, cutlasses drawn and ready. Deering and his fellow musketeers fired up over their heads, doing their own best to push the French defenders back. It was to no visible effect. The Beaulieus succeeded in cutting away the obstacle of the boarding nets, but this only made it easier for the French sailors to make their own boarding attempt. The shouting corvette's crew doubled their musket fire, covering their comrades who were skipping down over the bowsprit with axes and cutlasses in hand.
In a moment, Deering found himself face to face with a screaming Frenchman whose mustached face bore the most awful scar he had ever seen. Utterly startled, he could only fall back under the French sailor's attack, until a Marine managed, somehow, to level his musket and shoot the man point-blank in the stomach.
"You useless twat!" The Marine snarled at Deering. Scarcely a heartbeat later, however, the bullock was a corpse, having been hacked down by another French sailor wielding an axe. Deering stirred himself to action and, throwing his empty musket down and drawing his own cutlass, swiftly avenged the surly Marine. It was the first time he had killed a man and the bile rose at once in the back of his throat. He could not be ill or upset, however. He, as a topman, was expected to get aloft and shake out sail. Somehow!
Lieutenant Maxwell had come forrard in the boat, his sword in hand and slick with blood already. "Get up her, lads! Turn the beggars back!"
Two men with boarding pikes were thrusting them at the wave of Frenchmen trying to gain the boats. Deering hacked his cutlass with its ground edge across an enemy sailor's neck and, feeling his fighting blood rising, stepped onto the dying man's slumped body in a bid to reach the lower edge of the corvette's bowsprit. Other Beaulieus were following, some merely shoving past the French boarders. It was a violent, bewildering chaos. Musket balls slashed down in a constant rain and the clash of steel on steel rang out in counterpoint, all amid a ceaseless clash of shouting voices and intermittent gun fire.
Above Deering, an officer and two seamen had somehow got to the foc's'le and were fighting for their lives against a veritable tide of determined French defenders. He and his mates had to reach those three, or they'd be lost. A Frenchman stood immediately above Deering, his cutlass already swinging downward. There was only one response. Deering slashed half-blindly upward and speared the man through the leg, which was enough to send the sailor tumbling headlong, his scream cutting off awfully when he struck the gunwale of the boat below.
The way up was, briefly, clear. With a topman's lithe agility, Deering scrambling up to the base of the bowsprit and then over the bulwark onto the foc's'le. Others were hard on his heels. A cutlass blade slashed across his side, knocking him back, but the timely intervention of a Beaulieu seaman wielding a boarding pike saved Deering from worse. He stabbed down at the wounded Frenchman to finish him off. Any feelings of mercy he might have had before were now utterly absent. The enemy had already shown no interest in giving quarter. Thus, no quarter would be given in return.
Brandishing their weapons, Deering and his fellow topmen threw themselves at the Chevrette's defenders. They had won the foc's'le. Now it was on to the shrouds and then upward, where victory would be ensured the moment they cast the sails loose. Deering left his cutlass lodged irretrievably in a Frenchman's chest and, heedless of the slash of a musket ball past his head, leapt for the fore shrouds. So close. He remembered that unknown, unseen fellow singing 'Hearts of Oak' earlier. The words of that old tune came tumbling out of Deering's lips now, wholly unbidden.
Somebody below him cursed him for a fool but what did it matter? Sure there was no outcome but success now, with lads now having gained the foretopyard? Deering felt himself grinning. So this was what a boarding action was like. Now that the initial fear had passed, he decided it was not so bad a thing, once one got in the thick of it. Below, he heard Lieutenant Maxwell shouting, urging the attackers on. More of them had gotten aboard. Aye, this was nothing save a noble action, and he, Jack Deering, former schoolmaster from Suffolk, was part of it.
He grabbed at his sea-knife and sliced roughly at the gaskets, and as the foretopsail tumbled free, he and the lads cheered.
no subject
Awesomely done! :D
no subject
Thank you!