Will Weatherhelm: The Yarn of an Old Sailor

by William Henry Giles Kingston

The ship we were about to attack was evidently much larger than the Glatton, upwards of three hundred tons as it was afterwards proved, but that did not daunt our gallant captain. We continued standing on until we ranged close up alongside her, when our captain hailed and desired her commander to surrender to his Britannic Majesty’s ship. No verbal reply was made, but instead, the French colours and a broad pendant were hoisted, showing that the ship we were about to engage was, as we had supposed, that of the commodore. Scarcely had the colours been displayed, than she opened her fire, her example being followed by the other French ships. We waited to reply until we were within twenty yards of her. Then we did reply with a vengeance, pouring in our tremendous broadside. The shrieks and cries which rose showed the fearful execution it had committed.

Still the French commodore continued firing, and we ran on, keeping about the same distance as before, exchanging broadsides. Meantime the van ship of the enemy tacked, evidently expecting to be followed by the rest of the squadron, and thereby drive us upon the Brill shoal, which was close to leeward. The van ship soon after arrived within hail of us on our weather-beam, and received our larboard guns, which well-nigh knocked in her sides, while the groans and shrieks which arose from her showed that she had suffered equally with her commodore. Anxious to escape a second dose of the same quality of pills, she passed on to the southward, while we cheered lustily at seeing her beaten. We had not much time for cheering; we were still engaged with the commodore on our lee bow, while the second largest frigate lay upon our lee quarter, blazing away at us. Just then our pilot shouted out, “If we do not tack, in five minutes we shall be on the shoal!”

“Never mind,” answered the captain; “when the French commodore strikes the ground, put the helm a-lee.”

Just as he spoke, the French ship tacked, evidently to avoid the shoal, and while she was in stays, we poured in another heavy raking fire which well-nigh crippled her. Meantime the other French ships had gone about.

“Helm’s a-lee!” I heard shouted out, but as our sails and rigging were by this time terribly cut about, it seemed as if we should be unable to get the ship round. The wind, however, at last filled our sails, and round she came. We, as well as the Frenchmen, were now all standing on the starboard tack. The three largest frigates had fallen to leeward, and could do us but little damage, but the three smaller ones kept up a harassing long-shot fire, to which we, on account of the distance, could offer but a very slight return. All our topmasts being wounded, and the wind freshening, it became necessary to take a reef in the topsails. In spite of the risk we ran, the moment the order was issued we swarmed aloft, though we well knew that at any moment the masts might fall, while the enemy’s shot came flying among us.

The frigates and the two corvettes to leeward, seeing us cease firing, stood up, hoping to find us disabled; but springing below, we were soon again at our guns, and gave them such a dose, knocking away several of their yards, that they soon stood off again to join the other ships, which had already had enough of it. I forgot to say that latterly we had had the brig and the cutter close under our stern, and as we had no guns with which to reply to the smart fire they opened, we could only fire at them with musketry. After a few volleys, however, they beat a retreat, and as night closed down upon us, all firing ceased on both sides. The Frenchmen had fired high, and our sails and rigging were too much cut up to enable us to follow them. Strange as it may appear, scarcely a dozen shot had struck the hull, and in consequence, notwithstanding the tremendous fire to which we had been exposed, we had not had a single man killed, and two only, the captain and corporal of marines, wounded. The former, however, poor man, died of his wounds shortly afterwards. During the night every effort was made to get the ship into a condition to renew the action. At daybreak we saw the French squadron draw up in a close head and stern line. By eight o’clock, having knotted and spliced our rigging, bent new sails, and otherwise refitted the ship, we stood down to offer battle to the enemy, but they had swallowed enough of our sixty-eight pounders, and about noon they bore away for Flushing. We followed until there was no hope of coming up with them, when our ship’s head was turned northward, and we steered for Yarmouth Roads, to get the severe damages we had received more effectually repaired than we could at sea.

I afterwards heard that the large French frigate we had engaged was the Brutus, which had been a seventy-four cut down, and now mounted from forty-six to fifty guns. We saw men and stages over the sides of the French ships stopping shot-holes, and we heard that one of them had sunk in harbour.

I was in hopes that we should go back to Sheerness to refit, and that I might thus have an opportunity of getting home. I had done my duty during the action, so had every one else. The wind freshening during the night, the hands were ordered up aloft to shorten sail.

“Be smart, my lads,” I heard the officer of the watch sing out, “or we may have the masts over the sides.”

I was on the main-topsail yard-arm to leeward, when, just as I was about to take hold of the ear-ring, the ship gave a lurch, the foot rope, which must have been damaged, gave way, and before I could secure myself, I was jerked off into the sea. It was better than falling on deck, where I should have been killed, to a certainty. I sang out, but no one heard me, and to my horror, I saw the ship surging on through the darkness, and I was soon left far astern. I shouted again and again, but the flapping of the sails, the rattling of the blocks, and the howling of the wind drowned my voice.