A Divided Command (24 page)

Against that, these brigantines would have seen his flag and would know he was hostile to them, so he had to reckon they were banking on one of two things for success: him deciding the odds were too great or their carrying the merchantman before he could intervene. Having had his glass trained on the stern of the ship, he had seen the female figure on the poop and even if it was not certain, he was sure in his own mind it was Emily.

His thighs were aching from being sat in such an unfamiliar position, pains that the men who normally occupied the spot were no doubt immune to. Shifting did little good, providing only a few seconds of less discomfort, and in truth he was not doing any good up here other than occupying his own mind.

Down below all was ready, the fires for the coppers now doused and one of the ship’s boats loaded with what livestock they carried within the ship – the chickens in their coop, a pig and a small calf that Bellam had bought in Leghorn, as well as the ship’s goat, all ready to be put over the side and out of harm’s way. When the first shot was fired the line holding it to the ship would be cast off.

‘Mr Dorling,’ he shouted, ‘I doubt those fellows yonder think us friends, but let us emulate them and give them a waterspout to look at. It may alter their thinking.’

Pearce resisted the temptation to pun and term it a long shot; this was no time for levity. The gun was fired, sending
forward on the wind another billowing cloud of black smoke, the smell of which rose to hit the captain’s nostrils. He watched the ball, fired high, land well short, which meant an impressive plume of water, or, he could not help but think, a signal to a potential enemy that he was a dolt.

Pearce nearly slipped off the pole on which he was sat – only his leg hooked round a yard prevented it – as he saw the
Sandown Castle
suddenly yaw in a more telling way than previously, to present its side to the approaching brigantines. One by one it fired its cannon, sending up spouts of water alongside the leading adversary, a signal that the merchantman had heavier ordnance and intended to use it now the target was within their range.

Obviously the man had his crew on the sheets for they were hauled hard before the smoke cleared and the yards, which had swung loose, were pulled back to take the wind, the canvas billowing out as the way came back on to the vessel. If he had lost time by the manoeuvre, the man in charge had told those seeking to overhaul him of his intention to fight.

‘Perhaps you are a terrier after all, sir.’

The way the pair of brigantines checked their speed was the next surprise, which left John Pearce puzzled as to why. They had the ability to manoeuvre in a way denied to a broad-beamed merchant vessel and the option of ranging along two sides, which the
Sandown Castle
would struggle to reply to, given it would take seven or eight men to reload each of her cannon and they would not be either as numerous or as nimble as the navy with swabbing and ramming.

‘They fear for their hulls,’ he said to himself, that being the only conclusion he could draw. ‘And maybe their masts.’

The more he gnawed on that the more sense it made: if a British fleet with a secure base and local ports to go to had that as a problem, how much more so a vessel without a nearby haven into which they could sail, for if they were, as their flag claimed, from Barbary, there was not an anchorage capable of providing repair that would welcome them within a hundred miles.

He felt better, for the odds had evened if not tipped; the nature of the contest had changed and he knew he must send to them the impression that he would sacrifice his ship to protect his fellow countryman, for he was sure they would not. Tucking the telescope into a loop of rope set there for the purpose, Pearce grabbed a backstay and, hand over hand, slid down to the deck.

‘Mr Dorling, we will maintain our present suit of sails until we have loosed off our first broadside.’

‘Am I allowed to say there is risk in that, sir.’

‘Never fear to say to me that I am wrong, Mr Dorling, for the whole ship’s company is well aware of how often that is the case.’

Every man who could see their captain was gifted a wide grin, which cheered them: if John Pearce was up for the fight and in that mood, things must be on the up.

‘I intend to visit some surprises on yonder fellows; that, Mr Dorling, will be the first.’

The entire nature of the potential fight had changed; the brigantines were splitting up, but doing so at a slower rate of sailing than hitherto. Watching them, Pearce could work out the tactic, which would be to come within long range of the
Sandown
’s cannon and get them to loose off a salvo.

The man working out how to proceed was no fool: he knew what kind of crew such a vessel carried, could analyse their proficiency, and while one vessel took a risk the other could seek to get closer on the other beam. The action would be reversed until an opening came in which one could get alongside and board.

If either could get men on to the deck of the merchantman and overcome resistance the cannon then became the weapon of the corsairs, which threw all the advantage their way, for they would have three sets of ordnance to employ against
HMS Larcher
, added to which the heavier-calibre cannon, worked by men who better knew their trade, would mean suicide for any
attempt at rescue. If the odds had shifted they still looked unfavourable.

Unbeknown to John Pearce he had a soulmate in Captain Fleming. The man had been at sea since he was a toddler, his father having been a merchant captain and uxorious enough to wish to sail in the company of his wife, as well as his numerous children. If he was wont to bluster a bit, and had a questionable sense of humour, he could see what needed to be done to preserve his vessel: Fleming knew that if he did not somehow combine with the approaching armed cutter he was in danger of being taken.

As soon as the corsairs split up he spun his wheel to get across the wake of the one to his south-east, taking advantage of his square rig and greater area of canvas to try and steal his wind, but he was not content with that. His cannon boomed once more and if the firing lacked accuracy it did not suffer for effect; the brigantine he was challenging put down her own helm very sharply to widen the gap.

His consort on the other beam thought this to be a chance and aimed his prow for the side of
Sandown Castle
, but Fleming’s precaution of loading all his cannon meant that those on his starboard side were ready as soon as the ports were open and the weapons were run out. The enemy found himself closing at a rate that would make anything that hit him serious, but his only way to avoid that was to let fly his own sheets, so he came to a near halt before seeking to get his cannon to bear.

The exchange left both vessels wreathed in smoke out of which came the red spouts of angry flame. The corsair hit home and even through the haze Pearce could see wood flying, deadly splinters that would slice into any flesh it
encountered, to either wound, maim or kill. What he could not see was that down below, as she had done in the past, Emily Barclay had cleared a space and had raided Fleming’s chests for the means to deal with wounds, this while her fellow passengers cowered in various places pleading with God to save them.

A swift swing of his telescope showed Pearce that one of the merchant guns had hit a sail, leaving a great hole in the canvas, this as the captain of that vessel shifted his own wheel to get clear. It was a moment of crisis: if the second pirate ship could get alongside his quarry
Sandown
was doomed.

What saved her was that sail plan again, for it took nearly all of its opponent’s wind, more and more the closer he sought to close, and that allowed time for the men on the merchantman to reload. If it was not more than five minutes, it seemed like a Creation age from the deck of
Larcher
, where they aimed to get off two salvoes in much less than two minutes. Of necessity, the aim was wild, more designed to scare off than to wound.

‘How long, Mr Dorling?’

‘There’s hardly a grain of sand left in the glass, Your Honour, and we’ll be in range.’

Time, Pearce thought, to pick his own target. The obvious one and closest to him was the vessel on the larboard beam of
Sandown
, but the fellow to starboard was struggling with his wind and if Pearce could get to him with that in his favour then all the advantage lay with him. It was a chance to change the odds entirely in his favour and so not to be missed.

‘Set me on the starboard beam.’

‘Aye, aye, sir,’ Dorling said, as he eased the wheel to comply.

It was immediately obvious that the other corsair was not going to stand by and see his consort suffer, for he got his foremast yards round to draw on that same wind and get, if not in the path of the armed cutter, certainly into a position to inflict damage, which had Pearce wondering if his notion of keeping set a full suit of canvas was going to turn out to be a mistake.

‘Mr Bird, I want those larboard cannon aimed as far forward as is possible. We must strike that fellow yonder before he strikes us.’

How different it was aboard this to something more generously proportioned, like a ship of the line. There the captain would have half a dozen officers standing by on batteries of cannon waiting to open fire, to then follow that with speedy salvoes and firing at will. Here he had a man who carried out a whole host of other duties when not fighting, but had to step into this breach in action. He would only do that which he was told; Pearce controlled every gun as well as its timing.

The rammers were under the trunnions within seconds, levering them until the side of the muzzles rested against the edge of the open port, this while his enemy came on. Pearce knew that he would soon have to put down his own helm so that his guns could bear and it was a case of who would judge it right first. On this occasion the captain of
HMS Larcher
, wanting to badly wound, waited a fraction too long.

The brigantine began its turn early and because of that beat Pearce to the advantage; the enemy guns spoke first, only a few seconds before those of the armed cutter, for sure, but that was significant, for it was enemy cannon imposing confusion before those of
Larcher
could do likewise. His man had wisely
loaded his cannon with chain shot, no doubt intended to wound
Sandown Castle
but equally, if not even more deadly against a vessel that had its full suit of sails still set.

Larcher
’s headsails were ripped to shreds, with blocks falling and ropes flying everywhere as they were either split by chain shot or came under too much increase in strain to hold. It was only by good luck that the bowsprit, vital to sail an armed cutter, was left unwounded. If it was a plus that
Larcher
had taken great chunks out of the enemy scantlings, it was poor recompense for the loss of speed that had been inflicted.

The choice to quickly reload had been taken away from Pearce – he needed that flapping canvas out of the way and some replacement to the upper headsails to give him steerage way, and in this he found out just how proficient was the crew he commanded. While some reloaded, albeit slower than they would normally, others rushed to retie lines and ropes and to get attached those sails that were still of use; sad to say, others were dragging wounded men to the companionway.

‘Gunners, aim for the hull.’

With his enemy still closing it was now a race to reload that Pearce reckoned he must lose, only to find that endless training now paid a dividend. If he did not beat his man to the punch they fired simultaneously, and the wedges having been knocked out from under his muzzles, the shot, at what was a much closer range, slammed into the enemy hull.

One
Larcher
ball went clean through the forward part just above the waterline, which on a fast-sailing vessel was dangerous, and luckily his enemy failed to capitalise on his earlier success. If it was only a subconscious thought, Pearce
was again reckoning that training would tell. Under fire his men would carry out their tasks by habit; men less well honed would rush their reloading and even more so the way they aimed.

HMS Larcher
had not completely lost way but her ability to both sail and manoeuvre was badly compromised, and even if he could count some success, Pearce still had two enemies to fight and the other one was heading to catch him between two fires, ignoring
Sandown Castle
on the very wise principle that if they could see off this warship then the merchantman must easily fall.

He did not have the advantage in any area other than the speed of his gunnery, which left Pearce no choice but to invite his enemies into a slogging match of exchanged cannonballs and chain shot. His aim was to so scare them that, if he had guessed right, they would sheer off for fear of sustaining wounds beyond repair. There was no standing around like a statue now; if it was a small deck he traversed it all, kicking out of the way fallen blocks and bits of rigging and wood to encourage his men.

His voice became hoarse from shouting as he ordered those seeking to effect emergency repairs to belay and man the cannon on both sides. One battery had yet to be fired and that he saved for the second brigantine, not that he had the choice now to spin and engage his original opponent.

He was calling for those supplying the guns to emulate his enemies and get up from below some bar shot so he could scythe the enemy rigging in the way they had done to him. With what he was sure he had, superior skill, he would be able to alternate firing at hull and rigging so his enemies would not know what next to expect.

With a brigantine on either beam now, what followed was murderous and it was only after several salvoes that he realised he had, if not taken the initiative, evened matters up: his cannon were being loaded at near twice the speed of his enemies and his shot, with more studious aiming, was striking home with more effect. The hulls of both brigantines were holed and their rigging had suffered, albeit not to the measure of his own.

Yet in the cacophony of noise and the billowing acrid smoke, Pearce also knew how his vessel was suffering; it could not be otherwise and he was losing men, which if a bloody-minded captain would not have taken into consideration, Pearce could not countenance. Also, he suspected that if anything major went, like his main and only mast, he would be at the mercy of his enemies. Yet he had a friend:
Sandown Castle
had come about and was labouring to come to his aid against the wind, which presented a solution to what was fast becoming a fight he could not win.

‘Mr Dorling, we need some sail set and we must get way on the ship. You see to that and I will take the wheel.’

It was with admiration, and also with much ducking as shots were aimed in his direction, that he watched Dorling, and the man was not alone, go about his duties as if there was no battle taking place. From his vantage point he could see Charlie and Rufus plying one gun, with Michael O’Hagan on another, all black from head to foot now but toiling away. His master soon had men knotting and splicing, a feat under fire and one not without casualties, but soon they had canvas rigged which would bear a load of wind.

As he began to pull out of the zone of deadly danger his
opponents were forced to react, for their prows were facing counter to that of
Larcher
and they were now making a desperate attempt to swing round to close and trap him by fouling what rigging he had assembled; if that was a worry it meant the firing of cannon had dropped away.

The armed cutter was moving like a tub, but it was progressing and Pearce aimed the prow then lashed off the wheel, before running to the side and plucking out a musket, shouting that anyone idle should do likewise. Taking an aim he suspected to be useless – the short Sea Service Brown Bess was notoriously inaccurate – he tried to shoot the man on the wheel on the nearest enemy deck, this to disrupt what he was being ordered to do.

It failed completely: the bowsprits were round and aiming for
Larcher
amidships, though the brigantines had practically nothing in the line of cannon they could bring to bear, and what guns Pearce had that were still firing began to take chunks out of the enemy bows.

‘Arm yourselves with axes,’ he shouted to one group. ‘If they foul our rigging, get us clear.’

He grabbed one of the swords his Pelicans had been sharpening and set himself to use it, only then realising that his activities had opened the wound inflicted by Lipton. That, apart from an odd twinge, was an injury he had forgotten. He was bleeding again but that did not signify in such a contest; had he stopped to look he would have seen that half his crew had some kind of wound and it had to be the case that some of them, taken below, had succumbed to much worse.

Larcher
was so very nearly pinned, only just escaping the trap, but now Pearce had two vessels on his stern, which
exposed him to their broadsides. It was hunger for the trophy that saved him, for both men in command wanted to see their cannonballs run the length of his ship, the best way to kill and the sure way to disable an enemy.

They got in each other’s way, which led to a panicked effort to back off and avoid them snagging their own rigging. This meant that very few cannon actually fired and nothing hit anything vital, except a ball that, with a loud clang, caught a muzzle and ricocheted off into the sea. Pearce was back on the wheel, shouting through a rasping throat to people seeking to still effect repairs, willing his vessel to go faster by pushing at the wheel, so desperate was he.

And there before him was
Sandown Castle
, inching towards
Larcher
at no greater speed. He could see the man on the forepeak, the captain by his braided coat, urging him on and he needed no encouragement. Pearce did not see the block that broke his arm, how could he since it fell from above, sliced from its place by round shot, gunfire which had recommenced. Perhaps if he had not had such a firm grip on the spoke of the wheel it would have done less harm.

The weight of the triple block took him to the deck and he only knew the bone was gone when he sought to put his weight upon that arm, his scream of pain loud enough to carry over the mayhem all around. The blackened face that appeared above him was welcome indeed, as was the Irish accent, Michael aiding him to his feet.