Arthur Conan Doyle
The "Slapping Sal"
It was in the days when France's power was already broken upon the seas,
and when more of her three-deckers lay rotting in the Medway than were to be
found in Brest harbour. But her frigates and corvettes still scoured the ocean,
closely followed ever by those of her rival. At the uttermost ends of the earth
these dainty vessels, with sweet names of girls or of flowers, mangled and
shattered each other for the honour of the four yards of bunting which flapped
from the end of their gaffs.
It had blown hard in the night, but the wind had dropped with the dawning,
and now the rising sun tinted the fringe of the storm-wrack as it dwindled into
the west and glinted on the endless crests of the long, green waves. To north
and south and west lay a skyline which was unbroken save by the spout of foam
when two of the great Atlantic seas dashed each other into spray. To the east
was a rocky island, jutting out into craggy points, with a few scattered clumps
of palm trees and a pennant of mist streaming out from the bare, conical hill
which capped it. A heavy surf beat upon the shore, and, at a safe distance from
it, the British 32-gun frigate Leda, Captain A. P. Johnson, raised her black,
glistening side upon the crest of a wave, or swooped down into an emerald
valley, dipping away to the nor'ard under easy sail. On her snow-white
quarter-deck stood a stiff little brown-faced man, who swept the horizon with
his glass.
"Mr. Wharton!" he cried, with a voice like a rusty hinge.
A thin, knock-kneed officer shambled across the poop to him.
"Yes, sir."
"I've opened the sealed orders, Mr. Wharton."
A glimmer of curiosity shone upon the meagre features of the first
lieutenant. The Leda had sailed with her consort, the Dido, from Antigua the
week before, and the admiral's orders had been contained in a sealed envelope.
"We were to open them on reaching the deserted island of Sombriero, lying
in north latitude eighteen, thirty-six, west longitude sixty-three,
twenty-eight. Sombriero bore four miles to the north-east from our port-bow
when the gale cleared, Mr. Wharton."
The lieutenant bowed stiffly. He and the captain had been bosom friends
from childhood. They had gone to school together, joined the navy together,
fought again and again together, and married into each other's families, but so
long as their feet were on the poop the iron discipline of the service struck
all that was human out of them and left only the superior and the subordinate.
Captain Johnson took from his pocket a blue paper, which crackled as he
unfolded it.
"The 32-gun frigates Leda and Dido (Captains A. P. Johnson and James
Munro) are to cruise from the point at which these instructions are read to the
mouth of the Caribbean Sea, in the hope of encountering the French frigate
La Gloire, which has recently harassed our merchant ships in that quarter.
H.M. frigates are also directed to hunt down the piratical craft known
sometimes as the Slapping Sal and sometimes as the Hairy Hudson, which has
plundered the British ships as per margin, inflicting barbarities upon their
crews. She is a small brig, carrying ten light guns, with one twenty-four pound
carronade forward. She was last seen upon the 23rd ult. to the north-east of
the island of Sombriero."
"(Signed) James Montgomery,"
"(Rear-Admiral). H.M.S. Colossus, Antigua."
"We appear to have lost our consort," said Captain Johnson, folding up his
instructions and again sweeping the horizon with his glass. "She drew away
after we reefed down. It would be a pity if we met this heavy Frenchman without
the Dido, Mr. Wharton. Eh?"
The lieutenant twinkled and smiled.
"She has eighteen-pounders on the main and twelves on the poop, sir," said
the captain. "She carries four hundred to our two hundred and thirty-one.
Captain de Milon is the smartest man in the French service. Oh, Bobby boy, I'd
give my hopes of my flag to rub my side up against her!" He turned on his heel,
ashamed of his momentary lapse. "Mr. Wharton," said he, looking back sternly
over his shoulder, "get those square sails shaken out and bear away a point
more to the west."
"A brig on the port-bow," came a voice from the forecastle.
"A brig on the port-bow," said the lieutenant.
The captain sprang upon the bulwarks and held on by the mizzen-shrouds, a
strange little figure with flying skirts and puckered eyes. The lean lieutenant
craned his neck and whispered to Smeaton, the second, while officers and men
came popping up from below and clustered along the weather-rail, shading their
eyes with their hands — for the tropical sun was already clear of the palm
trees.
The strange brig lay at anchor in the throat of a curving estuary, and it
was already obvious that she could not get out without passing under the guns
of the frigate. A long, rocky point to the north of her held her in.
"Keep her as she goes, Mr. Wharton," said the captain. "Hardly worth while
our clearing for action, Mr. Smeaton, but the men can stand by the guns in case
she tries to pass us. Cast loose the bow-chasers and send the small-arm men to
the forecastle."
A British crew went to its quarters in those days with the quiet serenity
of men on their daily routine. In a few minutes, without fuss or sound, the
sailors were knotted round their guns, the marines were drawn up and leaning on
their muskets, and the frigate's bowsprit pointed straight for her little
victim.
"Is it the Slapping Sal, sir?"
"I have no doubt of it, Mr. Wharton."
"They don't seem to like the look of us, sir. They've cut their cable and
are clapping on sail."
It was evident that the brig meant struggling for her freedom. One little
patch of canvas fluttered out above another, and her people could be seen
working like madmen in the rigging. She made no attempt to pass her antagonist,
but headed up the estuary. The captain rubbed his hands.
"She's making for shoal water, Mr. Wharton, and we shall have to cut her
out, sir. She's a footy little brig, but I should have thought a fore-and-after
would have been more handy."
"It was a mutiny, sir."
"Ah, indeed!"
"Yes, sir, I heard of it at Manilla: a bad business, sir. Captain and two
mates murdered. This Hudson, or Hairy Hudson as they call him, led the mutiny.
He's a Londoner, sir, and a cruel villain as ever walked."
"His next walk will be to Execution Dock, Mr. Wharton. She seems heavily
manned. I wish I could take twenty topmen out of her, but they would be enough
to corrupt the crew of the ark, Mr. Wharton."
Both officers were looking through their glasses at the brig. Suddenly the
lieutenant showed his teeth in a grin, while the captain flushed a deeper red.
"That's Hairy Hudson on the after-rail, sir."
"The low, impertinent blackguard! He'll play some other antics before we
are done with him. Could you reach him with the long eighteen, Mr. Smeaton?"
"Another cable length will do it, sir."
The brig yawed as they spoke, and as she came round a spurt of smoke
whiffed out from her quarter. It was a pure piece of bravado, for the gun could
scarce carry halfway. Then with a jaunty swing the little ship came into the
wind again, and shot round a fresh curve in the winding channel.
"The water's shoaling rapidly, sir," repeated the second lieutenant.
"There's six fathoms by the chart."
"Four by the lead, sir."
"When we clear this point we shall see how we lie. Ha! I thought as much!
Lay her to, Mr. Wharton. Now we have got her at our mercy!"
The frigate was quite out of sight of the sea now at the head of this
river-like estuary. As she came round the curve the two shores were seen to
converge at a point about a mile distant. In the angle, as near shore as she
could get, the brig was lying with her broadside towards her pursuer and a wisp
of black cloth streaming from her mizzen. The lean lieutenant, who had
reappeared upon deck with a cutlass strapped to his side and two pistols rammed
into his belt, peered curiously at the ensign.
"Is it the Jolly Rodger, sir?" he asked.
But the captain was furious.
"He may hang where his breeches are hanging before I have done with him!"
said he. "What boats will you want, Mr. Wharton?"
"We should do it with the launch and the jolly-boat."
"Take four and make a clean job of it. Pipe away the crews at once, and
I'll work her in and help you with the long eighteens."
With a rattle of ropes and a creaking of blocks the four boats splashed
into the water. Their crews clustered thickly into them: bare-footed sailors,
stolid marines, laughing middies, and in the sheets of each the senior officers
with their stern schoolmaster faces.
The captain, his elbows on the binnacle, still watched the distant brig.
Her crew were tricing up the boarding-netting, dragging round the starboard
guns, knocking new portholes for them, and making every preparation for a
desperate resistance. In the thick of it all a huge man, bearded to the eyes,
with a red nightcap upon his head, was straining and stooping and hauling. The
captain watched him with a sour smile, and then snapping up his glass he turned
upon his heel. For an instant he stood staring.
"Call back the boats!" he cried in his thin, creaking voice. "Clear away
for action there! Cast loose those main-deck guns. Brace back the yards, Mr.
Smeaton, and stand by to go about when she has weigh enough."
Round the curve of the estuary was coming a huge vessel. Her great yellow
bowsprit and white-winged figure-head were jutting out from the cluster of palm
trees, while high above them towered three immense masts with the tricolour
flag floating superbly from the mizzen. Round she came, the deep-blue water
creaming under her fore foot, until her long, curving, black side, her line of
shining copper beneath and of snow-white hammocks above, and the thick clusters
of men who peered over her bulwarks were all in full view. Her lower yards were
slung, her ports triced up, and her guns run out all ready for action. Lying
behind one of the promontories of the island, the lookout men of the Gloire
upon the shore had seen the cul de sac into which the British frigate was
headed, so that Captain de Milon had served the Leda as Captain Johnson had the
Slapping Sal.
But the splendid discipline of the British service was at its best in such
a crisis. The boats flew back; their crews clustered aboard; they were swung up
at the davits and the fall-ropes made fast. Hammocks were brought up and
stowed, bulkheads sent down, ports and magazines opened, the fires put out in
the galley, and the drums beat to quarters. Swarms of men set the head-sails
and brought the frigate round, while the gun-crews threw off their jackets and
shirts, tightened their belts, and ran out their eighteen-pounders, peering
through the open portholes at the stately French man. The wind was very light.
Hardly a ripple showed itself upon the clear blue water, but the sails blew
gently out as the breeze came over the wooded banks. The Frenchman had gone
about also, and both ships were now heading slowly for the sea under
fore-and-aft canvas, the Gloire a hundred yards in advance. She luffed up to
cross the Leda's bows, but the British ship came round also, and the two
rippled slowly on in such a silence that the ringing of the ramrods as the
French marines drove home their charges clanged quite loudly upon the ear.
"Not much sea-room, Mr. Wharton," remarked the captain.
"I have fought actions in less, sir."
"We must keep our distance and trust to our gunnery. She is very heavily
manned, and if she got alongside we might find ourselves in trouble."
"I see the shakoes of soldiers aboard other."
"Two companies of light infantry from Martinique. Now we have her!
Hard-a-port, and let her have it as we cross her stern!"
The keen eye of the little commander had seen the surface ripple, which
told of a passing breeze. He had used it to dart across the big Frenchman and
to rake her with every gun as he passed. But, once past her, the Leda had to
come back into the wind to keep out of shoal water. The manoeuvre brought her
on to the starboard side of the Frenchman, and the trim little frigate seemed
to heel right over under the crashing broadside which burst from the gaping
ports. A moment later her topmen were swarming aloft to set her top-sails and
royals, and she strove to cross the Gloire's bows and rake her again. The
French captain, however, brought his frigate's head round, and the two rode
side by side within easy pistol-shot, pouring broadsides into each other in one
of those murderous duels which, could they all be recorded, would mottle our
charts with blood.
In that heavy tropical air, with so faint a breeze, the smoke formed a
thick bank round the two vessels, from which the topmasts only protruded.
Neither could see anything of its enemy save the throbs of fire in the
darkness, and the guns were sponged and trained and fired into a dense wall of
vapour. On the poop and the forecastle the marines, in two little red lines,
were pouring in their volleys, but neither they nor the seamen-gunners could
see what effect their fire was having. Nor, indeed, could they tell how far
they were suffering themselves, for, standing at a gun, one could but hazily
see that upon the right and the left. But above the roar of the cannon came the
sharper sound of the piping shot, the crashing of riven planks, and the
occasional heavy thud as spar or block came hurtling on to the deck. The
lieutenants paced up and down the line of guns, while Captain Johnson fanned
the smoke away with his cocked-hat and peered eagerly out.
"This is rare, Bobby!" said he, as the lieutenant joined him. Then,
suddenly restraining himself, "What have we lost, Mr. Wharton?"
"Our maintopsail yard and our gaff, sir."
"Where's the flag?"
"Gone overboard, sir."
"They'll think we've struck! Lash a boat's ensign on the starboard arm of
the mizzen cross-jack-yard."
"Yes, sir."
A round-shot dashed the binnacle to pieces between them. A second knocked
two marines into a bloody palpitating mash. For a moment the smoke rose, and
the English captain saw that his adversary's heavier metal was producing a
horrible effect. The Leda was a shattered wreck. Her deck was strewed with
corpses. Several of her portholes were knocked into one, and one of her
eighteen-pounder guns had been thrown right back on to her breech, and pointed
straight up to the sky. The thin line of marines still loaded and fired, but
half the guns were silent, and their crews were piled thickly round them.
"Stand by to repel boarders!" yelled the captain.
"Cutlasses, lads, cutlasses!" roared Wharton.
"Hold your volley till they touch!" cried the captain of marines.
The huge loom of the Frenchman was seen bursting through the smoke. Thick
clusters of boarders hung upon her sides and shrouds. A final broad-side leapt
from her ports, and the main-mast of the Leda, snapping short off a few feet
above the deck, spun into the air and crashed down upon the port guns, killing
ten men and putting the whole battery out of action. An instant later the two
ships scraped together, and the starboard bower anchor of the Gloire caught the
mizzen-chains of the Leda upon the port side. With a yell the black swarm of
boarders steadied themselves for a spring.
But their feet were never to reach that blood-stained deck. From some
where there came a well-aimed whiff of grape, and another, and another. The
English marines and seamen, waiting with cutlass and musket behind the silent
guns, saw with amazement the dark masses thinning and shredding away. At the
same time the port broadside of the Frenchman burst into a roar.
"Clear away the wreck!" roared the captain. "What the devil are they
firing at?"
"Get the guns clear!" panted the lieutenant. "We'll do them yet, boys!"
The wreckage was torn and hacked and splintered until first one gun and
then another roared into action again. The Frenchman's anchor had been cut
away, and the Leda had worked herself free from that fatal hug. But now,
suddenly, there was a scurry up the shrouds of the Gloire, and a hundred
Englishmen were shouting themselves hoarse: "They're running! They're running!
They're running!"
And it was true. The Frenchman had ceased to fire, and was intent only
upon clapping on every sail that he could carry. But that shouting hundred
could not claim it all as their own. As the smoke cleared it was not difficult
to see the reason. The ships had gained the mouth of the estuary during the
fight, and there, about four miles out to sea, was the Leda's consort bearing
down under full sail to the sound of the guns.
Captain de Milon had done his part for one day, and presently the Gloire
was drawing off swiftly to the north, while the Dido was bowling along at her
skirts, rattling away with her bow-chasers, until a headland hid them both from
view.
But the Leda lay sorely stricken, with her mainmast gone, her bulwarks
shattered, her mizzen-topmast and gaff shot away, her sails like a beggar's
rags, and a hundred of her crew dead and wounded. Close beside her a mass of
wreckage floated upon the waves. It was the stern-post of a mangled vessel, and
across it, in white letters on a black ground, was printed, "The Slapping Sal."
"By the Lord! it was the brig that saved us!" cried Mr. Wharton. "Hudson
brought her into action with the Frenchman, and was blown out of the water by a
broadside!"
The little captain turned on his heel and paced up and down the deck.
Already his crew were plugging the shot-holes, knotting and splicing and
mending. When he came back, the lieutenant saw a softening of the stern lines
about his eyes and mouth.
"Are they all gone?"
"Every man. They must have sunk with the wreck."
The two officers looked down at the sinister name, and at the stump of
wreckage which floated in the discoloured water. Something black washed to and
fro beside a splintered gaff and a tangle of halliards. It was the outrageous
ensign, and near it a scarlet cap was floating.
"He was a villain, but he was a Briton!" said the captain at last. "He
lived like a dog, but, by God, he died like a man!"
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