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Bernard de Silva
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« on: May 03, 2007, 07:46:39 PM » |
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“Sodden Banners …Somewhere Deep”
With billowing canvas her true colours displayed,
bold tars keeping watch, the first mate at the helm.
‘Sail bearing to starboard’ is the message relayed,
swift to heading she answers, a ship of the realm.
‘No trooping of colour, no flags at her masthead,’
yet our banners aloft, tell all the world who we are.
Stand to action stations, be she ally, or foe instead,
a Spaniard or French privateer now roaming afar.
Load swivels with grape, in all fore guns load ball,
to those larger cannons, go chained balls and steel.
For marines, issue muskets, flints, powder and all,
tell surgeons make ready, their grim skills to reveal.
To sailors, present cutlass, wicked grapples or pike,
orders to board or repel, but to let none overwhelm.
Let them stand ready for battle, every bold tar alike,
tell them, show valour befitting, a ship of the realm.
A commander’s orders, to the ranks clearly relayed,
a waiting game, crews readied, each man at his post.
Shouts the watch, “French, Sir, tricolour displayed,”
she’s a warship, Captain, three cables off at the most.
A broadside she’ll offer, we’ll be close should we pass,
for her cannon outnumber ours, likely two is for one,”
The Captain uttered, eye unblinking, held to the glass.
“Mr. Mate, a bouncing ball, may best get this begun.”
“Gunnery master, can we reach her with one ricochet?”
out-gunned as we are…some surprise, I shall enforce.
The sea appears calm, our foe seems not too far away,
and though your target moves it holds steady to course.
Bow guns spew forth fire, the balls sent on their way,
steel orbs to strike midway, to the man-of-war’s prow.
Close beneath her figurehead break showers of spray,
the watch calls out, “A hit…their sail shortens now.”
Below tricolour banners, a French captain commands,
“shorten sail,” he orders, “let her lounge in the swell.”
“Let the Englishmen think they hole us,” he demands,
“gunners, load heavy, aim true…make each volley tell.”
Two man-of-war manoeuvre, each with devious intent,
then join in battle, the fearsome hail, of shot and shells.
Close quarters, the cannons thundering, without relent,
muskets blaze, until gutted hulks, sink ’neath the swells.
The tall masts shattered, spars and rigging intertwined,
taunt grapple lines form lethal bondage, nobody to save,
Tricolour and British Ensign, to cold depths consigned,
debris and torn corpses to sink later, to one weedy grave.
Nobody left can survive...most sad traces, soon disappear,
left only the bobbing flotsam, to drift upon offshore tides.
Tormented souls cry no more, now the wind only, to hear,
futile banners wave sodden, down where Neptune resides.
©. Copyright: Bernard de Silva 3/05/07.
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