Odyssey - 60. Chapter 60

August 4, 1798

HMS Bacchante, aground

“Alright men,” Humphreys said loudly to the crew. Everyone stopped to listen to him except the men loading and aiming the carronade. “Those natives are looking to board us. We’re going to fight them off, and after that, they’ll leave us alone.” Humphreys was fairly certain they would do no such thing, but he was trying to inspire them. “There will be no quarter. You saw what they did to our jacks, and they’ll do the same thing to you. So we will fight until we are victorious, or until we are dead.” They gave him a rousing cheer, one that was ended by the sound of the carronade discharging. The shot went wide, a potentially fatal error.

Humphreys gauged the distance to the canoes. “One more round shot, then we’ll switch to grape,” he said to Kenny.

“Aye aye sir,” he said. They loaded the carronade and aimed, and this time hit a canoe, leaving all of its surviving occupants to deal with the sharks. But there were too many canoes, and too little time before they closed the range. Taking out one at a time was not going to prevent the savages from boarding them. He watched hopefully as Kenny’s gun crew loaded grapeshot into the carronade.

Humphreys saw the small craft moving toward them quickly, their sleek shape and ample human propulsion making them fast and maneuverable. The carronade went off again, and grape shot sprayed into the boats, wounding some, but not enough of the natives.

“Ready with your muskets, Mr. Carter!” Humphreys said to his marine lieutenant. He waited until the canoes were within range, and then gave the order to fire. The sound of musket fire, punctuated by the less frequent sound of the carronade, permeated the morning. Humphreys saw man after man get plucked from his canoe and tossed into the water, where the most likely fate waiting for him was to be attacked by a shark. They were taking out a substantial number of the natives: Humphreys estimated that they’d killed fifty of them already. But that wasn’t enough.

The firing went on even as the canoes got closer. The first one reached the side of Bacchante, and most of its men were killed within thirty seconds of doing so, but the challenge with battles like this is that the men in the first canoe were merely sacrificial lambs, charging in to distract them so the others would be able to board. And that is exactly what happened. While they were focused on slaying the men in the first canoe, the other canoes swarmed alongside the ship.

Humphreys saw a native charging on deck only to be cut down by a marine with a bayonet, followed closely by another one, who was slashed with a cutlass. Humphreys readied his sword to tackle the next one when a native spear flew through the air and hit Humphreys full in the stomach. He reeled from the impact, the pain searing through his abdomen, and fell backward, collapsing on the deck. His body was sending him reports of the extensive damage that intruding spear had caused, using pain to explain to Humphreys how badly he’d been wounded. Intuitively, Humphreys knew that the internal damage the spear had caused him was too great for him to survive, and that he would not live to see another day. Kenny knelt down to help him, but Humphreys stopped him. “Go, fight. I am done for,” he said.

Weston had seen Humphreys fall, but had no time for sadness or reflection, as he battled two determined natives at once. It was maddening beyond belief, because it seemed as if no sooner had he dispatched one of the savages when another would appear. The lesson they’d learned from watching Humphreys fall from the spear was that they needed to stay engaged closely with the natives, so they would as likely kill their own men with errant spear tosses as they would the crew of Bacchante. But even as they engaged these savages at close range, the tide of the battle was turning against them; they were slowly being forced backward, toward the stern.

Kenny and the gunner had the sense to train the carronade in on the deck of the ship, and loosed a round of grape, which gave them time to regroup, but only a little time. They were fighting off natives coming at them from the bows, but also over the starboard side. They were lucky the natives had not yet worked their way around to the stern and to the larboard. Weston fought on valiantly, even as the numbers of men with him kept shrinking. They’d started with approximately a hundred and fifty men, and now they were down to a hundred twenty-five. Then it was a hundred. He watched in emotional agony as the men, his men, fell all around him. And as they fell back, they had no time to drag their wounded with them, so the savages would then spear them to make sure they were dead.

The decks were littered with dead and wounded men, so much that they could almost form a carpet fully covering it. They had killed many more natives than they’d lost of their own men, but then again, there were more natives to begin with. When they’d started this battle, they’d estimated that there were close to three hundred of the bastards. Surely they’d killed that many of them by now. Weston took a second to glance over the side, and saw something that made him realize how hopeless and futile their battle was, because rounding the bend were even more canoes, full of even more native warriors. They would be swamped.

Surrender wasn’t an option for any of them. All they could do is fight until they were killed, and so they did, slashing and stabbing at these brutes, even as they were forced to give up valuable deck space.

Then Weston heard something that truly surprised him: he heard a cannon fire. He looked at the carronade, which they’d been forced to abandon as they retreated along the quarterdeck. It was the only loaded gun on the upper deck, and it hadn’t fired. Besides, that gunshot had come from a long gun, not from a carronade. He wondered if some ambitious men had rigged up one of the guns below, but dismissed that. Bacchante was listing too badly for them to be of any use. Then he heard more guns, 12-pounders, and turned just as Santa Clarita loosed her broadside onto the canoes.

Weston had never seen such a beautiful sight as the captured Spanish frigate, loosing her guns at these savages. Her first broadside of grape and langridge had swept a dozen canoes off the water. People tended to underestimate the power of naval guns, but Santa Clarita alone mounted more firepower than most siege trains attached to an army. She was a potent weapon, especially since she was afloat and maneuverable, unlike Bacchante, which was aground and helpless. The natives on board did not seem dismayed by the arrival of this new ship, and fought on with dogged determination. Weston wanted to watch Santa Clarita’s attack, but he was too embattled to spare much time and attention on the small frigate.

He darted a glance at Santa Clarita in time to see her fire again. The second broadside was less effective, only because she had fewer targets, but the carnage she had wrought had convinced the canoes that were trying to join the battle that they were better off not risking those broadsides. Waving their spears in defiance, they turned to head back to the land, leaving their comrades aboard Bacchante to win or lose on their own.

“Lads, we’ve got help now!” Weston called. His men gave a feeble cheer, all they could muster with their energy sapped from the fight, and found their second winds. They’d been falling back, giving up ground to the natives, but now with their newfound energy, they actually halted the assault of the savages, and began to drive them back. As soon as the tide began to turn against them, the natives began to flee the Bacchante, even as Santa Clarita kept up her fire.

Despite their exhaustion, and despite the fact that many of Bacchante’s crew were wounded, now that the natives were fleeing, the remaining crew members of Bacchante charged forward with a ferocity matched only by the natives who had attacked them. Furious at the murder of their ship’s crew, and enraged by the killing or wounding of half their shipmates, they turned into killing machines, and all but swept the remaining savages off Bacchante’s deck. Weston thought briefly of trying to halt them, of trying to act in a humane way even when these people had not, but they obviously did not understand civilized warfare, and in any event, his own anger and rage at them was too great for him to conjure up any sympathy for them. He let his crew sate their vengeance, killing every native aboard the ship, and even hastening the end for those natives who were wounded.

With the battle won, and Bacchante free of those murdering savages, Weston hurried over to Humphreys and knelt next to him. “Sir, they’re retreating. Santa Clarita is here. She’s arrived to take us off.”

Humphreys looked at Weston, his eyes barely focusing. “I did my best.” Weston had been tempted to call for the surgeon, but as he looked into Humphreys’ eyes, he knew it was too late. There was nothing to be done for him but to ease his transition to the next life.

“You fought them off,” Weston said. It wasn’t entirely true, but he wanted to help this man he liked and respected feel better during his last moments on earth. “You saved the day.”

“Tell them,” Humphreys said, evidently worried about posterity, and how he would be remembered.

“I will,” Weston said. “I will tell them how brave you were, and how you led your men to victory even in the face of certain defeat.”

“Thank you,” Humphreys said softly. Weston gripped Humphreys tightly, as if trying to save him with his own strength, but it was to no avail. Humphreys’ body went limp, as the last breath of life exited his body. Weston let him fall gently out of his arms and onto the deck, and fought back the tears of losing this man with whom he’d sailed halfway around the world. Humphreys was a good lieutenant, and a good captain. He was humane, he was smart, and he was inquisitive. His loss would be deeply felt, not just because of the officer that he was, but because England would not benefit from the officer he could have been.

Weston stood up and gathered himself together, then surveyed the deck of his ship, such as she was. Some men were tending to the wounded, while the others were focused on clearing Bacchante’s decks of the savages. They were throwing them over the side, whether they were wounded or dead, and that had created a frenzy feeding zone for the sharks off Bacchante’s starboard side. Weston was of a mind to stop them, to stop the brutality, but when he stared down at Humphreys’ dead body, he changed his mind. These savages had attacked them and tried to murder them in cold blood, so now they would pay with their lives.

“Boat ahoy!” came a cry from his own ship, pulling Weston out of his daze. He saw a boat rowing toward them, toward their larboard side, studiously avoiding the starboard side where the water was red with the blood of the savages and grey from the sharks that feasted on them.

“Santa Clarita!” came the response. Weston hurriedly put together a side party to welcome Calvert aboard. He watched as his former first lieutenant pulled himself aboard with little effort, since Bacchante was sinking, and her freeboard was so low. Calvert was still the handsomest man in the Navy, or at least one of them, made more attractive still by a playfulness that was almost flirtatious. That playfulness used to contain youthful exuberance, only their voyage and their experiences had changed Calvert. The young lieutenant was gone, replaced by a much steadier captain. Calvert exuded strength and a maturity that was not there when they’d left England. Calvert had grown into the role of a frigate captain.

“Welcome aboard, sir,” Weston said. “Your arrival was most timely.”

“Thank you, Mr. Weston,” Calvert said formally, but smiled slightly, making himself look even more handsome. He glanced at Humphreys’ lifeless body and shook his head sadly. “It would have been better if I’d gotten here sooner.”

“Yes, sir,” Weston said. “We ran into what must have been a hurricane and ended up being flung ashore, as you can see.”

“We must have encountered the edge of that storm,” Calvert said. “It was formidable, and we shipped a goodly amount of water.”

“Yes, sir,” Weston agreed. “We rigged for storms and had weathered it, since Bacchante is a good ship in a storm, but visibility was bad, and we had no sight of land, to position ourselves. We fought the storm all night, but when first light came, we found ourselves right amongst these rocks. We tried to lower the anchor, to keep ourselves from being flung on them, but there wasn’t time.”

Calvert studied Weston and could see the agony and fatigue he had endured. “I have lost a ship too, Mr. Weston. I understand. It is one of the most wrenching things a sailor can experience,” he said gently.

“Thank you, sir,” Weston said.

“Excuse me for just one minute, Mr. Weston,” Calvert said. He strode to the side and shouted to Santa Clarita, which was just now anchoring about half a cable from Bacchante. “Mr. Robey! I need all the boats in the water and over here at once! Alert Dr. Jackson that he’ll have wounded to attend to!”

“Dr. Jackson is with you, sir?” Weston asked. “Did His Lordship not join you?” Weston liked Calvert, but Granger was something of a hero to him. He realized that he didn’t know if Granger had survived his fever or not. “Did Lord Granger survive the fever?”

Weston noted that the men around him who had been working paused to blatantly eavesdrop when they heard him mention Granger’s name. After all, this was Granger’s crew, and they were quite devoted to their captain. Calvert picked up on that too, and kindly spoke loudly so the men could hear. “He managed to survive the fever, but was trying to catch this ship before she reached England. His plan was to travel overland through Egypt. He had left before I arrived at Amboyna.”

“That is good news, sir,” Weston said, and saw the men who heard Calvert smiling, happy that their captain had survived his battle with fever.

“It would appear that there is little chance of salvaging this ship,” Calvert noted, bringing them back to their current situation.

“That’s correct, sir,” Weston said. “Her back is broken, and she’s been deteriorating quickly. We’ve been here for three days, and if the seas had thrown any waves at us at all, we would probably be broken up by now.”

“We must evacuate your men and any cargo that can be saved,” Calvert said. He motioned Weston to the rail, away from prying ears. “We were sent to try and intercept you in order to effect the return of Albert Granger’s correspondence. It was stolen by Sir Tobias Maidstone.”

“You missed Sir Tobias by but a few hours, sir,” Weston said. “The day after we ran aground, we sent a boat to the north with Mr. Eastwyck, Lord Kingsdale, and Mr. Andrews, to try and get help from Gorée. We hadn’t heard from them, so today we dispatched a boat to head south. Sir Tobias insisted on going along with Mr. Fowler, the master’s mate in command. When the boat was a few miles away, it was intercepted by the natives and everyone aboard was killed, including Sir Tobias.”

“I see,” Calvert said. Neither one of them bothered to mourn Maidstone’s loss. They did not have time or energy for contrived emotions. “What of the correspondence?”

“Sir Tobias tried to take a large metal box with him, but Mr. Humphreys stopped him and inspected the contents. He found the correspondence in there, so he pierced the box with a marlin spike, put a ball in it, and tossed it over the side. I daresay it is still there, astern the ship, but I would suspect the sea will make short work of the letters.”

Calvert nodded. “What of the treasure?”

“It is still safely stored in our aft water tank, sir,” Weston said.

“Very well,” Calvert said, firmly taking charge. “We will evacuate the wounded men first, then retrieve the treasure and send it over to Santa Clarita. In the mean time, I will ask you and your men to find anything useful that can be salvaged. We will then remove those stores and items, along with your men. After that has been accomplished, and assuming these wretched sharks have gone, we will attempt to raise the box with the correspondence in it.”

“Aye aye sir,” Weston said. Boats began ranging alongside them, boats from Santa Clarita. Weston supervised the loading of the wounded into them, although there were not all that many, only about twenty, since the natives had killed most of them. After they had been sent off, he tasked the cook to prepare dinner. Thankfully, the galley stove was still above water. While that was taking place, he worked with Lieutenant Gatling to begin transferring the treasure over to Santa Clarita.

Calvert saw none of this, as he descended the ladder and entered Bacchante’s great cabin, a place he knew all too well. It was not exactly as it was when Granger was in command, because it had been partitioned to accommodate both Sir Tobias and Humphreys, but the basic components were still there. He walked across the plush carpet to Granger’s beautiful mahogany table and ran his fingers across it. Hanging on the walls was the artwork Granger had brought with him. Calvert found himself staring into the painted eyes of the Earl of Bridgemont, a powerful man, and could almost feel his presence. He glanced at the next painting, one of Caroline, a woman who had hated him so much she’d almost sent him to his death, but one with whom he’d since worked out a détente, such that they were more or less friends. He tore himself away from these visual links to Granger, roiled again by the conflicting feelings they aroused, the conflict between his love for Granger and his love for Gatling. He distracted himself by heading to Granger’s desk. Calvert retrieved what papers he could, then went up on deck to get the key to Granger’s safe, feeling positively macabre as he took it from around Humphreys’ neck. He removed all of the papers there, and scoured the cabin for anything else that may be confidential. After putting them all in a dispatch bag, he returned to the deck to find men loading the reales into the boats.

“Mr. Weston, I will leave you in charge here. After you have taken the silver off, make sure to remove the fixtures from Lord Granger’s cabin, taking special care with his artwork and china,” Calvert said.

“Aye aye sir,” Weston said.

Calvert lowered himself over the side, an easy task with Bacchante so low in the water, and had himself rowed back to Santa Clarita. He found his own ship in relative chaos as they made arrangements to store the silver and take on board the additional men and supplies.

“We’ve cleared away space in the hold, sir,” Robey said. “It’s a good thing we’ve been at sea so long. We have ample storage area.”

Calvert nodded. “Indeed, although we are short on stores as it is. We will have to hope there are enough still useable aboard Bacchante such that we may make it back to England. We will have a number of additional mouths to feed.”

“Yes, sir,” Robey said.

Calvert saw Fitzwilliam standing off to the side, looking over at Bacchante with concern. “Mr. Fitzwilliam,” Calvert called.

“Sir?” the young lieutenant asked.

“I am sorry to tell you that Lieutenant Humphreys was killed by the assault we witnessed. Mr. Weston tells me he died most bravely, rallying his men to repel the savages,” Calvert said.

He watched Fitzwilliam reel at that news, the sorrow breaking through his smooth aristocratic shell. He had been a midshipman under Humphreys, and they had served together for quite some time. They had endured captivity together, and even transited the Panamanian Isthmus together. Calvert also knew they had been intimate, although he could only guess at the degree of their feelings for each other. Based on Fitzwilliam’s reaction, his feelings for Humphreys must have been quite deep, indeed. Calvert stared intently at Fitzwilliam, willing him to lock eyes with him, something Fitzwilliam finally did. “He was a brave man, and an excellent officer, sir,” Fitzwilliam said, pulling himself out of his grief.

“He was,” Calvert said. “Go below and make sure there is a cabin rigged for Mr. Weston.” That was an easy task, but Calvert was giving Fitzwilliam some time to grieve alone, away from the prying eyes of the other officers and the crew.

“Aye aye sir,” he said, and strode calmly below to the wardroom.

August 7, 1798

HMS Santa Clarita

Calvert paced the deck of his ship and noted that the winds were now rising, and so were the seas. They had been lucky in that they’d had three days of calm weather, weather that had allowed them to strip Bacchante bare. Calvert had even managed to have the smashers he’d bartered for in Plymouth transferred to Santa Clarita. He saw Gatling climbing up the ladder in preparation to take his watch and fought back the smile that threatened to break out across his face. That usually happened when he saw or thought of Gatling. The young man was truly exquisite.

“Begging your pardon, sir,” the purser said, interrupting his carnal thoughts. Calvert frowned, because he did not like to be bothered when he was walking the deck alone, especially when thinking his carnal thoughts...

“What is it Warren?” he snapped.

“We’ve salvaged most of the stores aboard Bacchante, sir,” he said nervously. “It looks as if we have enough to tide us over for another three months, even with the extra hands.”

Robey strolled over to join them, which irritated Calvert even more, since that meant that Robey had been waiting for Warren to take the brunt of his foul mood at being interrupted instead of handling it himself. Calvert opted to keep his annoyance to himself. “Bacchante was that well supplied?”

“Yes, sir,” Warren said, as Gatling joined them.

Weston had earlier told Calvert about finding some bad stores in Bacchante, stores they’d gotten in Amboyna, that necessitated a stop in St. Helena. They’d stopped in Cape Town as well, that time for water.

Weston suspected that they had been given foul stores to slow their progress. He also had said that Eastwyck had been most adamant in urging Humphreys to take his time on the return voyage, and there had been some talk in the wardroom that the stores may have been foisted off on Bacchante, as it were, just to help slow her return.

Calvert had nodded and smiled slightly. This would have been Somers’ doing. The man was as sly as he was sexy. He had intuitively known that Maidstone was up to no good, and he must have pulled his cousin aside and urged Eastwyck to slow their journey. As for the stores, Calvert thought that Andrews was the best purser in the fleet, so the only way for rancid stores to be brought aboard was through his tacit approval. He wondered at what machinations Somers had gone through to get him to take them. Those delays had led to the end of Maidstone’s treachery, and Calvert now pushed his thoughts of these men and their Machiavellian machinations aside. His new focus was on getting his ship and her men to England.

“Well, that certainly serves our purposes well,” Calvert said. Since Bacchante had restocked her supplies so recently, they would be able to feast off the bounty of those stores. Santa Clarita had been too determined to catch Bacchante to stop for stores or water, so her hold was almost bare. “I would have thought they would have been destroyed by the water. What of the flour and biscuit?”

“Sir, with Bacchante’s iron water tanks, most of the supplies were stowed on top of them,” Gatling said, telling Calvert something he knew all too well. “The flooding had not reached that level, so most of the stores were saved.”

“Have we removed everything useful aboard Bacchante?” Calvert asked.

“Yes, sir,” Robey said. “There is just a small party of men still aboard, including her carpenter, the bosun, and Mr. Weston.”

“Call away the launch,” Calvert ordered. “You may heave the anchor short. I will return with the other men shortly.”

“Aye aye sir,” Robey said. Calvert thought about inviting Gatling to join him for this, his last visit to Bacchante, but changed his mind. He was conflicted over his feelings for these two men, Granger and Gatling, and found it disturbing to be aboard Bacchante with Gatling there. Bacchante was like a part of Granger, and Calvert wanted to be there alone, to experience this intimate moment without being distracted by his new lover. He lowered himself into the launch and nodded to the coxswain.

The trip to the dying frigate took longer today, since with the weather picking up, Calvert had ordered Santa Clarita to move further offshore. It would be a fine ending to their evacuation if Calvert allowed Santa Clarita to get tossed ashore next to Bacchante, he thought ruefully. He’d already lost one ship, the Intrepid, by running her aground. The Admiralty would be loath to forgive him for sinking another one. He felt the sadness envelop him as he neared this frigate that was once one of the best in the fleet. Her keel was broken, so her deck was bent near the middle where the fore section had stayed more level, while the aft section had sagged. There was no sign of the natives that had so plagued her. They’d given the two frigates a wide berth after Santa Clarita had chased them off and thwarted their initial attack.

“Boat ahoy!” came the call from Bacchante’s deck.

“Santa Clarita,” shouted Calvert’s coxswain in response. Calvert boarded the ship and saluted the sagging quarterdeck, acknowledging that Weston had managed to put together sideboys to welcome him.

“Welcome aboard, sir,” Weston said pleasantly. He had seemingly recovered his normal, jovial nature, despite the traumas he had witnessed.

“Thank you, Mr. Weston. Have we managed to clear the ship of her stores and men?” They’d been unable to reach the chest with the correspondence Humphreys had thrown overboard. It had fallen beyond the rocks into a deeper abyss, and they had no divers who could reach it.

“All but the fifteen of us still here on deck, sir,” Weston said.

“Excellent. Then let us prepare to fire her,” Calvert ordered.

“We have done that, sir,” Weston said. “We’ve gotten piles of flammable items next to the masts on the deck below. We are only waiting for your orders to abandon her.”

“Well done, Mr. Weston,” Calvert said, impressed that the man had planned everything out. “Abandon ship.” Calvert said those last two words with considerable sadness, sadness he was unable to hide. He saw the look in Weston’s eyes, and saw that he felt it to. Losing Bacchante was like losing a loved one.

“Aye aye sir,” Weston said. “Hercule, light those pyres below. Mr. Kenny, lower our colors!”

“Aye aye sir,” they chimed. Kenny walked to Bacchante’s taffrail and lowered her ensign, folding it up reverently as he did. He handed it to a seaman, who placed it into the launch, along with Bacchante’s logbooks.

If it weren’t for the noise below, it would seem as if nothing was happening, as there was no outward sign of anything. Then smoke began to rise from the waist, growing as the flames took hold and spread. “You may evacuate the crew, Mr. Weston.”

“Aye aye sir,” Weston said. He gave the orders that sent everyone but Weston and Calvert into the launch. The two men stood side by side on the tilted quarterdeck, watching the clouds of smoke grow, staying to make sure that the fire had firmly taken hold of Bacchante, and relishing these last few moments with her. “She was a good ship, sir,” Weston said, and wiped at his eyes, pretending that they were irritated by the smoke, when in fact he was wiping away a tear.

“That she was,” Calvert agreed. “Let’s go. I will give you the honor of being the last one off.”

“Thank you, sir,” Weston said with a smile. Calvert descended into the launch, and a moment later, Weston followed.

“Santa Clarita!” Calvert said to the coxswain. The men put their backs into it, rowing away from Bacchante, while the officers in the back turned so they could watch the once-magnificent ship burn.

At first, only the smoke had been visible, but now the flames made their appearance, flicking up out of the waist and the gunports. Calvert was surprised when he heard the hail from Santa Clarita’s deck, announcing that they’d arrived back at his ship. He boarded her, pausing only briefly to acknowledge Robey and the others, and watched as the flames spread throughout Bacchante. There was no hope for her now; there was no need to linger any longer.

“Mr. Robey, get us underway. Course northwest,” Calvert ordered. “Mr. Weston, until further notice, you will assume the duties of second lieutenant of this vessel.”

“Aye aye sir,” Weston said.

“That puts us one lieutenant over compliment,” Calvert noted. “Mr. Robey, you may allocate the watches accordingly. With the extra officers and men, I fear you gentlemen will think you are on a pleasure cruise.”

“Aye aye sir,” Robey said, smiling.

Weston and Calvert strode to the side and looked out as the flames devoured Bacchante. They stood there, staring, as Santa Clarita sailed away. By the time Santa Clarita was beyond sight of shore, the only thing left of Bacchante was her charred remains.