Dakota Viking Sends: What Price Glory?

A Frigate
Dominic Serres
Source

HMS Dunoon was plunging on a following sea, trying to haul closer to the prize, a French merchant alone, rounding the “Rock.”

Orders called, men scrambling in the rigging, loosing a couple reefs out of the sails, canvas snapping taught in the breeze. Surging forward, trying to gain an advantage by angling ahead.

Bow chasers barely in range, their gunners already at their posts Royal Marines crewed the bow guns while the sailors worked to close the distance. Gunners ready, glance at the Captain … he nods … “FIRE” lanyards pulled sending two 9 pound balls from the long barreled bow guns, smoke blows to the side enough to see splashes well astern of the target. Need to get closer. An hour, more?

Time to change the watch, everyone stays on station, action is close at hand. The marines are constantly adjusting their aim on the bow chasers, finally another nod from the Captain. Rounds out … one splash … one hit? Range still closing slowly, they beat to quarters, marines readying muskets and climbing to the fighting tops.

Sailors taking over a majority of the guns, most were 12 pounders but they did have 4- 18 pounders positioned center on the second deck. 2, 9-pound bow and 2, 9-pound stern chasers rounded the main armament.

The bow chasers were now on a fire at will order, random shots, as fast as they can reload. It became somewhat of a speed competition between the two crews. The splashes, while disappointingly common were becoming less frequent.

“Run out the starboard battery!” the captain ordered the helmsman to change course 60 degrees to port, wait for the volley then resume pursuit course.

A deck down, orders barked out, gunports opened, powder monkeys (barely more than little children) ran up with powder charges in bags, these were rammed into the withdrawn barrels, a wad and solid shot was rammed into place, lines through blocks ran the barrel out.

The gunner gave the order for the slight adjustment to the elevation wedges, waited for the order…

“Fire”… the ship was in a slow low roll, wait … others fired immediately rewarded with huge columns of water.  “Wait” ship catching a lower “ditch.” Other crews starting to reload, slight rocking upswing with a roll to port. Yank that lanyard! Deafening blast and whine in the ears. Hearing just became a low thrum. Shouting to be heard … "Reload!"

No splash, hit? or long overshoot? Reload, a practiced dance of deadly intent, everyone has their part. Sponge and worm the barrel, powder charge rammed home, wad and shot added, spike the powder bag, prime … and wait the order.

Bow chasers fire and they can feel the ship rolling to port again, guns run out waiting for the right target picture … there she is, a little more ragged than the last view. “FIRE” the gun captain saw this was nicely timed with the ship’s roll, and the rippling broadside in those tight confines shook your body to the core.

They started to reload, then stopped. The merchant was slowing, rudder damage? Unable to keep the wind. Sails luffing in the breeze. The Frenchman turned full broadside and fired a ripple of cannon fire as she was able. Not a Man of war but she had a punch. Her Master knew she was done, he just wanted to spit his final vengeance out at the Brits.

Raked across the bow, as she was, the wounded among the sailors mounting rigging to drop sails as they prepared to come alongside, was devastating. Splinters, broken woodwork, blood and broken men fell to the deck. The gun crews gave up some of their numbers to the boarding parties, the object was to take her as a prize, not sink her. This should be an easy merchant capture. Not a naval engagement.

Orders barked, experienced men did whatever they did to prepare for a fight, the inexperienced … did what they could to “courage” themselves and not wet their breeches.

Cutlass, boarding axe, pike, and flintlock, bow and stern they formed, Marines still in the rigging were pouring fire onto the French deck, others climbed down to the boarding parties.

Grappling hooks out, French trying to cut the lines, Marines shooting them.  A cannon will fire from time to time, from both sides, more to harass, wound, and kill, than ship damage at this point. The quarterdeck swivel gun barks out, filled with a couple handfuls of musket balls, it causes a sudden change in the mood of the battle, their Captain went down, and a couple dozen French sailors swarmed onto OUR deck.

They were met hand to hand, steel to steel, they came midship our stern party swarmed over the carnage caused by the swivel gun and boarded them. Our bow party and some of the lower gun crews met their boarding party head on. Hack, stab, slash, punch, bite, why were they fighting so hard, what was their cargo?

Over the rail, a slip here will get you crushed between the hulls, a belaying pin in his left and a boarding axe in his right, onto their deck slippery with blood. Clusters of melee fighting, seeing a large French sailor using a pike on his messmates, John charged. Target on the right, left hand cross body the belaying pin thuds into the pikeman’s skull throwing the head back chin up, perfect for an axe strike to the throat. Done.

Look for the next target, a cutlass slashes past him, drive the axe into his armpit and backhand a pin blow to the head. Down, with his axe. Stuck, leave the axe, pick up the cutlass. Not really trained for the sword, he wields it just like an axe, hacking and chopping, with no style but to good effect. He added to the butchers bill. Men fighting their way below, topside the fight was near done and it appeared they might being striking their Colors. Shouts from below, down into the darkness, blind, shadows, grunts, screams, blackpowder blood and bowels assaulted the nose. Why did they defend this so hard?

A cry from his left, oncoming sailor with a pike, smack the shaft aside with the belaying pin and thrust with the cutlass, the pike wielder’s eyes go wide as the steel buries itself in his guts. John smells the sailor’s last breath in his face, and what he had just opened up lower down. Deck more slippery. A halfhearted cheer comes down from above, they’ve struck their colors. Thud, the sailor with the pike hits the deck for the last time.

Just what the Devil did they have as cargo that they put up such a fight?

National treasure? Royalty? Hatred?

Editor's Note: As DV is on a roll as of late, I'm letting him run free. As for me? Je n'ai rien.