A Certain Threat (The Merriman Chronicles Book 1) (3 page)

The scorching sun beat down from an almost cloudless sky and sparkled from the waves and spray as His Majesty’s brig
Conflict
crashed through the long Atlantic swell, the legacy of the north-westerly gale which the ship’s company had fought for the last three days.

The wind had since veered to the south west and
Conflict
was making good the time lost.  The sunlit scene, and the strong wind on the larboard quarter made for conditions which should have delighted the heart of any seaman, but the officer dressed in grubby white trousers and faded, salt stained coat saw none of it.

Lieutenant James Merriman stared gloomily and unseeingly along the length of the main deck
.
  When he took command of the ship he had such high hopes, and since then there had been nothing, absolutely nothing to break the monotony of life at sea.   Oh, he knew he did his job efficiently, keeping the ship and crew ready for any eventuality, but all he and the ship had done for four years was to carry despatches.   God, he was bored.

He contemplated the earlier years of his career.  There had always been plenty of excitement and action to keep a young naval officer
’s life interesting, indeed the last action of note he had been involved in was the capture of a French brig off the Malabar coast by the frigate
Calcutta..
  The captain of
Calcutta
had sent him with a prize crew to Cape Town where he had been confirmed in command of the brig, renamed
Conflict.

So lost in thought was he that a
t first he did not notice his First Lieutenant Alan Jones hovering nearby, obviously not wanting to break into his captain’s reverie.  Lieutenant Jones was a stocky, red haired young man, the possessor of bright green eyes, the legacy of some Irish ancestor no doubt.  The two young men had formed a friendship which although never crossing the line separating the ship’s captain from his officers, was nevertheless a close one.

Merriman dragged his mind back to the present, “
Yes Alan, what is it?”

“
Morning report Sir, as in your standing orders.”

“
Of course.  My apologies, my mind was far away.  Anything new?”

“
Nothing Sir.  The storm damage is all repaired except for the torn tops’l, and that is going back aloft even now.  Seaman Smith’s broken leg is healing well and he’ll be fit to return to duty in a day or two. Oh! and that fool Biggins has been up to his tricks again, making a nuisance of himself round the ship. But apart from that the ship is in all respects ready for action.”

The man Biggins that the Lie
utenant referred to was simple minded and fond of playing harmless but annoying tricks on his messmates.  The crew tolerated the poor fellow and kept him from causing too much bother, indeed he was something of a mascot to them and they helped him with his simple duties to ensure that he did not fall foul of authority.  The livid scar on the side of his head received in some long ago fight with the French probably explained his mental disorder.

Lieutenant Jones coughed apologetically.  “
Sir, there is one more thing.”

“
Yes?”

“
The men have asked if they can fish for shark Sir.  The Bos’n has made some very serviceable hooks and there’s that tub of rotten meat we found yesterday which would make bait Sir,” he continued eagerly.

“
An excellent idea. All work and no play…….eh!   But we’ll make a competition of it; that should make a welcome break in routine and cheer the men up.  Have our two midshipmen select teams, of what, six or ten men each, to fish from each side.  And of course there must be a prize. Shall we say an extra tot of rum for the men in the team which is first to hook a shark, two tots if they bring it aboard.”

“
Aye-aye Sir,” said Jones with a huge grin on his face.

When the details of the competition were announced, an excited chattering broke out
on deck as the men clustered round midshipmen Andrews and Dalkeith, hoping to be picked.  Soon all was ready and waiting for Merriman to give the word to start.  He was pleased to see that the strongest men had been selected, as it would take brute strength to haul a struggling, fighting shark aboard.  Knowing it would please the men he made a show of inspecting them.  Looking at the hooks and lines a thought struck him.

“
Mr Jones, they’ll not catch sharks with this gear.  A shark would bite through the lines too easily. There should be a length of chain lashed between the hook and line.  I’m surprised nobody thought of that.”

With the chain added and the hooks baited with the stinking, rotten meat Merriman gave the word to start.  The hooks splashed down a
lmost together and the teams were running the lines out as fast as they could to the encouraging shouts of their shipmates.

Looking astern it was obvious that the weight of the chain was insufficient to take the bait below the water and it could be seen sp
lashing along on the surface.

“
Haul them in lads and add some more chain, that should do it.”

It did indeed do it and the towed bait disappeared below the surface, trailing the scent of putrid meat behind.  It was not long before the sinister fin of a shar
k appeared, soon joined by others.  The seamen on the lines spat on their hands and took a firmer grip.  Men were clustered in the rigging and leaning over the bulwarks, eager to watch the sport and see which team would win.  Bets were laid and the air rang with raucous and rude comments about each team’s ability.

“
Don’t know why you was picked, Jimmy you skinny bugger.  There’s more muscle on a belaying pin” yelled a seaman on the mainyard to his mate in one of the teams.  For answer Jimmy raised two fingers aloft, concentrating his attention on settling his bare feet into the sand which had been sprinkled on the deck to provide a firmer foothold.

For several minutes nothing happened, then suddenly the larboard side team staggered and nearly fell as a shark
took their bait and impaled itself on the hook.  Their supporters burst into cheers and shouts of advice, and then the other bait was taken and both teams were struggling to haul in the frantically struggling creatures as they appeared on the surface.

The
first team had their fish almost alongside when another huge shark appeared and bit clean through the body leaving only the head on the hook.  All eyes turned to the second team who now had their shark hanging alongside with it’s tail just out of the water.

“
Deck there! Sail dead ahead.”  The strident hail from the masthead cut through the clamour on deck.  In spite of the excitement, naval discipline had kept the lookouts aloft and the ship’s wheel manned.

“
Up you go Mr. Andrews.  Take a glass and tell me what you see.”

“
Aye-aye Sir.”  The midshipman scampered aloft, settled himself on the fore tops’l yard and focussed the heavy telescope.  “It looks like an Indiaman Sir, she’s lost her fore and main topmasts.  There are two smaller ships close by.  There’s gun- smoke Sir, they are fighting.”

“
Very good Mr. Andrews, stay there and keep your eyes peeled.”  Merriman looked round for his first lieutenant, “Ah -  Mr. Jones, have those fish cut loose. Beat to quarters if you please and clear for action, lively now.  And I’ll have the last reefs taken off the tops’ls.  Mr. Dalkeith, we’ll have the colours hoisted.”

Merriman, gloom and boredom and fishing forgotten, watched as the small midshipman called his assistants to the flag locker and began to bend on the en
signs to the halliards.  With no marine drummer on board, a ship’s boy was beating to quarters somewhat erratically and the ship came alive with the noise of running feet, shouted orders and the bangs and crashes from below as partitions and non-essentials were hastily taken down to the hold.

“
Sir, Sir,” shrilled young Andrews from his perch, “They must be Algerians, they’re full of men and one of them is trying to go alongside the Indiaman.”

“
Thank you Mr. Andrews, come down now and stay by me.”

Merriman
’s thoughts raced.   The Indiaman must have lost her spars in the recent gale which had blown her nearer to the African coast than was usual.  No action for four years and now his small ship
Conflict
would have to face not one but two of the typical low, open ships with lateen sails, which would be full of bloodthirsty Algerian fighting men, known as corsairs, probably based in some small harbour on the West African coast which could just be seen as a vague shadow on the far horizon to starboard.  From there they could dash out and with their greater speed and handiness, catch any slow and lumbering merchantman they could find, although it was unusual for a fast, well handled Indiaman to fall into their hands.  Any male passengers and crew who survived the attack had only a life of slavery to look forward to and as for the women
their
fate could only be imagined.

Merriman thanked his stars that he had insisted on daily gun drill, exercises with half the crew pretending to be sick or injured, seamen given unexpe
cted orders in the middle of sail practice or other manoeuvre so that in spite of grumbles from some, the crew were as well trained as he could make them, although shorthanded due to the usual losses caused by sickness and accidents inseparable from a life at sea.

The lack of crew was only one part of his problem. He was under orders to proceed with all despatch to Gibraltar with urgent documents.  If he attacked the two corsairs and he won,
he would most likely be court–martialed for risking his ship and the papers and disobeying orders and be dismissed from the navy.  On the other hand, if his ship was overwhelmed, the papers would not reach their destination and he would be -- -- well, he would be dead.  But, there could be women on that merchantman,  how could he avoid the action? He was damned if he did and damned if he didn’t.

“
Ship cleared for action Sir” reported the first lieutenant, “and we cut five seconds off our previous best time.”

“
Very good Mr. Jones, that was well done.  Stand by.”

Merriman w
as surprised to see how close they were to the other ships.  Already they were hull up and could just be seen from the deck.  Gun smoke was billowing out around the Indiaman but the sound of gunfire was carried away from them by the wind.

“
Mr. Jones, I want all guns loaded with grapeshot and run out.  Make sure that every man has his weapons to hand.”

Merriman waited until they were much nearer to the other ships before t
urning to the first Lieutenant, I’ll have courses and royals off her if you please and brail up the spanker.   We’ll fight under topsails and headsails this day.”

“
Aye-aye Sir” he responded, turning to bawl the necessary orders.

Men swarmed aloft hastened by the curses of the boatswain
’s mates, each trying to ensure that his group of men was faster than the others.  The courses and royals disappeared like magic and the ships ahead were clearly seen.

One of the attackers was now alongside the Indiaman and he could see the Indiaman
’s crew fighting desperately to hold back the flood of boarders.

He wondered what effect his nine-pounder popgun
s would have, but they were the best he could do.  There was no time for further speculation, one of the corsairs had seen them and was trying to turn to meet them.

“
Pass the word to the gun crews Mr. Andrews, we will engage the enemy to larboard first as we pass then we will go about and give him the starboard battery.  All to fire as their guns bear, aimed low to sweep her deck.”

The midshipman ran off and then they were engaging.  The little nine
– pounders erupted one after the other in flame and smoke and as they passed, Merriman could see the carnage wrought by the grapeshot as it ripped along the packed deck of the corsair.

The gun crews were working like madmen to sponge out and reload as Merri
man ordered “Bring her round Mr. Jones.”  The sails were shaking and flapping as
Conflict
turned across the wind, the seamen hauling madly on the sheets and braces and then she was round and under way again, close hauled on  the other tack..

Merriman felt
the old excitement gripping him again.

“
Ready lads, pound the devils hard. Fire!”  The starboard cannon roared out and Merriman saw the screaming mass of humanity heave as the blast of shot hit.  Blood was running out of the scuppers of the corsair and much of the rigging seemed to be gone.

The single mast swayed and fell.  A few hardy souls still brandished swords and muskets and screamed oaths but they were finished as a threat to
Conflict.

“
By God Sir, two broadsides and nothing in return” shrieked Andrews, capering about with excitement.

“
There will be” retorted Merriman, “Now we’ll see what we can do against the other ship.”  He turned to the First Lieutenant, “Round again Mr. Jones, if you please.”    The ship spun about and the guns delivered a third smashing blow to the corsair as she passed.