A Shot Rolling Ship (7 page)

The idea had occurred that he and the Pelicans might get off the ship some dark night, close to the French shore in a stolen boat, with either active aid or total indifference of the rest of the crew, but even given the most benign set of circumstances that was a very long shot indeed. What he would not admit was a known truth; that he could not abide to be passive, he had to do something, even if it did not, in the end, advance their cause one jot.

‘I intend to make our presence so troublesome to Colbourne that he will be glad to see us off the ship.’

‘Sounds to me like you just thought of that, brother, which I seem to recall is your way.’

Michael was grinning as he said that, but it was one of those expressions designed to take the sting out of a truth. The Irishman was the only one aboard who knew the real nature of Pearce’s predicament.

‘I have got to do something Michael. I cannot just wait.’

O’Hagan laughed out loud. ‘Sure, I have seen that in you since the day we met, John boy, and I would only say this to you that it is not always wise.’

‘I don’t know why you think I have wisdom, Michael. Charlie and Rufus are the same, and even that scrub Gherson. You all wait for me to decide on a course of action…’

‘I don’t recall you waiting around to hear another opinion. In truth I think that ordering folk about comes to you very naturally. Happen you should be wearing a blue coat instead of sailors’ slops.’

‘God forbid.’

‘So?’

‘What I want is for us to get off this ship, Michael, and to not be too vigorously pursued. That will suffice. But if I have to…’

‘It is us?’

The look the Irishman was giving Pearce now was serious and uncomfortable. Pearce did not want to lie, to admit that he had thought of how much easier things might be if he was alone, responsible only to himself and no other, but it was the prudent thing to do, even to a man he considered close.

‘My actions are for the good of us all, Michael.’

‘You there, you men.’ Midshipman Short glared at them, to very little effect. ‘Enough idling, get on with your work.’

By now the pause before complying was natural, both men waiting till the midshipman swelled to yell at them before replying, ‘Aye aye sir.’ 

As the deck heaved again, Pearce wondered how they stayed afloat, and prayed that they would continue to do so as he struggled to keep a foothold on the continually flooded deck. At the same time he was hauling on the rope that would bring round the topsail yard so that the ship would be brought on to the larboard tack, albeit with only a scrap of reefed canvas drawing. With the crash of the waves hitting the ship’s timbers and a rain-filled wind that was deafening, thoughts were all he could sustain, for so all-consuming was the roar it placed him in near isolation to those within touching distance. Only a shout of the very loudest would convey words from one to another.

The storm had come screaming in from the west at a speed that amazed the Pelicans, who had never seen it happen. One minute they were sailing with a near intolerable level of discomfort, the next the wind had increased ahead
of a slew of black clouds, that accompanied by a sudden rush to shorten sail, and secure anything loose on deck. The shore, a strip of white cliffs to the north had disappeared as if some great hand had drawn a curtain over them, and within no time at all HMS
Griffin
was pitching and rolling in a mad dance. It was not uncomfortable now– it was hellish.

Off the bows lay another labouring vessel, two-masted, of much the same size, one they had spotted and begun to close with before the weather worsened, under a similar scrap of canvas, the rare sight of which, as it rose, fell and yawed, exactly replicating what was happening to the one beneath his bare and frozen feet; he had wondered what this tub would be like in a really heavy sea – now he knew, it was awful. That Colbourne could even contemplate a pursuit in such weather was amazing, all to close on a vessel that had failed to identify itself as friend, foe or neutral, and Pearce was sure that could the lieutenant come up with his intended quarry, he would want his guns run out to demand that she do so, or take the consequences.

The man ropes they had rigged were taut life savers, something to keep a grip on as the deck canted and pitched, tipping the bowsprit into a wall of icy green water that turned white as it was smashed asunder by the prow, sending a mass of flecking foam into the faces of those manning the deck. The tap on his shoulder from the sailor Littlejohn, followed by the jabbing finger, was an admonition that he should get below out of the wind and water till the call came for another change of course. Pearce
was about to follow when he saw the powder monkey go by on the opposite side, a boy practically crawling, one hand using the man rope to make progress, the other clutched to his shirt to keep dry the cartridge he had stuffed inside. Looking to where he was heading Pearce saw a gun crew struggling to lever round one of the forward cannon so that, when
Griffin
tacked once more, instead of pointing towards the empty sea, it would be aimed in the general direction of the chase.

Curiosity overcame any discomfort – not that there was much comfort to be gained on the lower deck amongst a crowd of dripping, shivering souls – the only benefit being a momentary release from the wind’s howl which assaulted their ears, precious minutes before they would be called on deck again to once more change tack. How in the name of perdition could they even contemplate firing a cannon in such a sea, with so much spume, let alone the scud of the sea itself swirling around their feet? Arm hooked round the stay, eyes slitted to keep out the stinging salt water, Pearce watched as the men worked with their levers, jamming them under the trunnion wheels and pushing to gain an inch at a time, then holding hard as the deck pitched and threatened to undo their efforts.

Colbourne had also made his way past on the opposite side, not a blue-coated popinjay now, but swathed from head to toe in oilskins and foul weather hat, head down and canted forward, that being the only way he could make progress, and never once without a hand to secure himself. Pearce saw the nods and jerks of communication
even if the words were lost to him, saw the gun captain cradle the cannon touch hole to protect the powder in the quill, ready for the charge that another rammed home down the barrel, the ball and wad following quickly to act as a barrier to the seawater that would surely invade. His wonderment as to how they proposed to spark the flint was met by the knowledge that somehow, someone had got a length of burning linstock to the gun.

He did not hear the orders, but all his companions had been called on deck again. Michael was beside him to throw him a bewildered glance, and Littlejohn was slapping each of them to take their place on the rope they had so recently secured. Now they would need to hold it steady once it was released, paying it out, working in tandem with those on the other side of the deck as they hauled, so that it came round steadily, with enough restraint to ensure it was not blown uselessly away. There were no games to play now – things had to be done right or they would be in serious danger. Leaning backwards as the rope slid round the cleat, Pearce saw the gunport opened, watched as the gun crew used the forward pitch of the deck to run the cannon out, tried to follow the track, which was surely coming close to aim as Colbourne, arm raised and bent over, looked down the barrel seeking the point at which it would bear. Something was whipped off the touchhole, perhaps a piece of oiled and waterproof canvas, the quill full of dry powder jammed into the slot as the lieutenant’s arm dropped and he jumped sideways. The slowmatch had to be cupped to keep it dry, the man applying it relying
on the mates who had hold of his clothing to keep him on his feet as he carried out his task. As soon as he touched he too jumped back out of the way.

The crash and subsequent loud bang were enough to overcome the howling wind, that followed by a cloud of black and acrid smoke that swept back along the deck. Pearce strained on tiptoe to see where the ball, now just visible in the air, would land, only to be disappointed when it merely disappeared into a mass of water so disturbed as to kill off any chance of a spout. It had no effect on the quarry except one. Pearce heard the faintest of booms, and saw black smoke envelop the stern of the chase. He assumed they too had fired off a cannon, but they got a result, as carried on the wind the ball sent a spout of water up into the air well off the larboard bow. Also, from being an unknown quantity it suddenly became something else as a flag flew to the masthead. It was not one he recognised, certainly not a tricolour, but the gesticulations from those around the cannon left him in no doubt that it was not a neutral.

The gun was run in and reloaded, though in a fashion far from swift or smooth; in fact it was as if the crew and the officer directing the affair were intoxicated, so much did they stagger around, continually seeking handholds in between the duties they had to carry out to fire the ordnance. Pearce knew what they were doing was extremely dangerous; a nine pounder cannon and its trunnion, which must weigh well over a ton, was enough to crush any flesh and bone with which it came into contact. The only thing
that was stopping that from happening was swift jabs with the levers that had about them an air of desperate reaction as the sea state played upon the ship, the rise and fall far from regular, that made worse by some kind of cross sea forcing the bows to yaw, this while on the quarterdeck half a dozen men fought the ship’s wheel to keep the rudder where it was required.

The curtain of rain lifted just as the cannon fired its second ball and a break above showed some white in the clouds, increasing the light and rendering much more clear the scene before them, though it was not enough to show where the shot landed. The ship they were chasing was much the same size, now identified by a Latimer shout as a ‘Gravelines bugger’, which was rendered as more of an insult than a description. Given that it had aloft only enough canvas to give the thing steerage way there was no way to tell much else about it except that she was struggling more than
Griffin
to deal with the conditions, tacking in the same fashion into the wind. The gain Colbourne was making was imperceptible, but gain it was.

This time Pearce went below with the others to find Latimer was crowing about being right, this while he, like everyone else, was shaking himself to get some of the sea water off his body. So much had come down the hatch on them or with them that Pearce was standing inch-deep in slushing water, which would work its way down to the bilges from where it would have to be pumped out.

‘Spotted the sod right off, knew its lines like the back
of my hand, a Bilander, which ain’t no surprise given the bastards are half-Dutch.’

‘You been in an’ out of Gravelines a few times then, Latimer?’ asked blond Sam.

‘Happen,’ Latimer replied, suddenly more guarded.

Blubber called out next. ‘Come on, Lats, open up and tell for how much you have dunned Billy Pitt.’

That set a few voices going, with comments that Latimer was ‘a rich bugger in secret’, and ‘that he had a coach and four, an’ only came to sea with the Navy for the fresh air.’

‘What are they about?’ said Michael, looking at John Pearce.

He could only shrug. Where the ship was from, or its type, meant nothing to him, apart from the vague recollection that the port of Gravelines was in Flanders, and had been one of the places he and his father might have gone when they fled England. In fact he was ruminating on the very obvious fact that, even soaking wet and freezing cold, heaving about in these cramped surroundings, all it took to alter the mood of these men was a slim prospect of a prize and a bit of money. The men fighting the wheel and rudder were probably the same and that led him to the conclusion that he was probably wasting his time in his efforts to undermine Colbourne’s authority.

It was Littlejohn who answered Michael’s question. ‘Gravelines is the port the East Coast smugglers make for to pick up their goods. The town lives off such trade and it’s castle pennant is known to all.’ He then called to Latimer.
‘Reckon she stuffed with brandy and lace, do you?’

‘Not this far down Channel, mate, when there’s a crossing to the Kent coast that can be done in a night even on a headwind. No, she’ll be armed and prize hunting, and if she’s new out she’ll be crammed to the gunnels, so let’s hope she is not fresh for if she is, we’ll have a right fight on our hands.’ If that was intended as a warning of possible tough times ahead it had no effect. ‘Mind,’ Latimer added, ‘if she can stay out of range till nightfall, which will come early given the cloud, she might just get clear.’

‘Then it be best we crack on and bring her to,’ called Blubber.

‘God forbid with this wind,’ said Littlejohn quietly.

The hatch above Pearce’s head was lifted and Midshipman Bailey’s voice rang out. ‘All hands to make sail.’ That was followed by another stream of cold green seawater.

‘Christ Almighty! Make sail,’ crowed Blubber, as jolly as ever. ‘Old Coal Barge must have heard me.’

There was an eagerness to the way the crew ascended the companion ladder that had been lacking this last week; clearly nothing that anyone said would puncture their love of a fight. Colbourne was back on the quarterdeck, speaking trumpet in hand, to direct things as the Pelicans found themselves, soaked once more, hauling on the falls to bring round and hold the upper yard so that the topmen could get on to it from the shrouds, this while the rudder was eased to allow the ship to fall off on to the wind. If the weather had changed, apart from the lack of teeming rain, Pearce could not detect it; the wind seemed as strong
as it had been previously, so loud through the rigging that it was a permanent, near-deafening whistle.

The topmen went aloft with all the assurance on which they prided themselves, acting as if the ship was on a mill pond, making John Pearce grateful for his lowly, landsman rating. Even running before the wind
Griffin
was heaving fore and aft and what he felt on deck would, he knew, be exaggerated ten times aloft. Spreading out along the yard the topmen lent over and quickly, on command, they undid a set of knots to let a reef out of the topsail, that followed by a command to those on the falls to sheet it home. The effect of that was immediate as the bows, pressed so much harder, went right under the first wave they met, washing aft two of the gun crew, who had been left at their post, leaving the rest hanging on for dear life. One was brought up by a second cannon, the contact so painful that his scream could be heard clearly above the noise of wind and rigging. The second had good luck, missing that same obstacle by a whisker and being washed towards the open hatch from which the crew had just emerged. A desperate hand got hold of the edge and brought him to, while others grabbed for his hurt companion to hold him from pitching toward the bows as they dropped into a trough.

‘Topmen down,’ Colbourne yelled.

As soon as that order was obeyed, with those sailors still on the shrouds, he ordered the yard braced round and the helm ported so that they could come back into the wake of the chase. Not that anyone could see a wake; in fact as soon as the they hit the base of the trough all they
could see was a wall of water, into which disappeared the bowsprit, followed once more by the bows, deeper than they had been hitherto.

‘Saints in heaven,’ Michael screamed, ‘The bastard wants to drown us.’

Pearce heard his friend, but his eyes were on the faces of those men who knew more about seafaring than he, and the look of doubt they were displaying did nothing to reassure him. Charlie Taverner had his eyes closed and was praying silently, young Rufus had his wide open, and he looked as if he had just seen the Grim Reaper. Slowly the ship began to heave over, the deck beneath their feet falling alarmingly and the other bulwark rising. Pearce was sure he could see the unused cannon straining to break free from their lashings. Unmistakable was the plight of the men who had got hold of the injured member of the bow chaser gun crew, hanging on to him with one hand while the other sought to keep them on their side of the ship. Down they dropped, Pearce feeling his stomach rise and his foothold begin to give, so quick was the motion.