A Shot Rolling Ship (21 page)

Isolated in darkness, with nothing really to do, it was easy to sink into a near comatose state, so the first rumble made him jump. But the dull thud as the cannon ball hit
 the side was unmistakable, that soon followed by another rumble as the ball was shifted by the pitch of the ship. Peering forward he could see nothing, but he knew it was a problem with which he would have to deal, for if he did not, it would go on and on. It was the kind of noise designed to wake everyone on board – he knew that from his own shot rolling – and it would keep them awake as well. Stepping forward beyond the binnacle it was even darker; he could see nothing at all, not the side of the ship, the shrouds, or the gun carriages, but he could hear the cannon ball, though fixing it by sound alone was impossible.

Pearce suddenly crouched down, hands out in front of him, in a forlorn hope that the damned thing would oblige him by trundling in the right direction. The swift movement of air, just above his head, removed his hat but missed his head, and he heard a muttered curse as he instinctively rolled sideways, ramming into a gun carriage and jarring his shoulder. The pain of that he would feel later; right now he had someone in the Stygian blackness who could seemingly see better than he and was trying to brain him; whatever had removed his hat had been solid enough for the purpose. Safety lay on the quarterdeck, by that binnacle lantern, but whoever had tried to clout him would know that, so he moved slightly towards the prow, which placed his assailant in silhouette. Pearce could not see much, an indistinct shape, an arm raised with the outline of a marlin spike, but it gave him some idea of where to aim.

 The temptation to shout out was huge, but he resisted it; would the quartermaster or his mate leave the wheel to come to his aid anyway? He was damn sure no one would come from below for that purpose. There was no clear process of thought, he just knew he had to deal with this himself and using the gun carriage he hauled himself to his feet and kicked out, feeling the toe of his shoe make contact. Now his attacker was right between him and the light, and Pearce belted him with a swift jab to the head that hit bone and hurt his knuckles, that followed up by another kick that landed on something and the silhouette disappeared. That damned cannon ball rumbled again, coming aft and getting louder; if it came quickly enough to hit in the right spot it was enough to break a bone or two and the confusion about what to do gave his assailant the time he needed to get away. There was no more than a sliver of faint light as the hatch lid lifted and dropped, but it was enough to let Pearce know that, barring that rolling shot, he was in no more danger.

‘On the wheel there, get a lantern lit and fetch it forrard.’ Seeing no movement Pearce lost his temper, and shouted in a way to ensure that any soul who could sleep through shot rolling would wake now. ‘Damn you man, do as I say and do it at the double.’

The effect was gratifying, even if, with his anger subsiding, he felt slightly foolish. The quartermaster’s mate used the binnacle flame to light an oil lantern and came forward gingerly, it held high above his head, during which time Pearce had got himself, by feel alone, behind
one of the gun carriages. It took no time at all once the tiny deck was lit, to find and secure the cannon ball, at which point Pearce resumed his position, with both men back on the wheel, and now that it was quiet again he could think over what had just happened, on the level of that threat and how he was going to have to deal with it.

‘The glass, Mr Pearce. It needs turning,’ said the quartermaster.

It was sheepish Pearce who replied. ‘How many bells? I’ve forgotten.’

‘Seven.’

The way the man audibly sighed as he replied was strangely reassuring, for it indicated to Pearce that he had no idea of what had happened in the darkness beyond the binnacle, and that seemed to imply whoever had attacked him was not doing so on behalf of the whole crew. He might be wrong, of course, clutching at straws, but it made him feel good to believe it, for the alternative, with three weeks at sea, was deadly. The sand ran through the glass one more time before a grumpy and uncommunicative Short came up to relieve him, but he waited for a bit before he made his way to his hammock, for just as the watch changed on deck, so it would below, with half the men being turned out of their hammocks so as to be ready to work the ship should that be necessary. When he did descend the companionway he was forced by the lack of room to crawl under sleeping bodies, every nerve tingling, for all would know where he was going at this time and
anyone who wished him ill, either awake or just pretending to be asleep, would have another opportunity to attack him.

He was up with everyone else before first light, in command of the larboard guns as Colbourne swept the increasingly defined surroundings. Not that it was clear, heavy cloud and a grey sea made the point at which the sky ceased and water began indistinct, but it was empty, so the guns could be housed and the naval day could commence with the cleaning of the decks. Pearce was examining every man as they carried out their duties of wetting, sanding, sweeping and flogging, looking for signs of a limp or a bruise to the head. He was also looking for the furtive glance in his direction that would indicate a conspirator. He naturally paid particular attention to his Pelicans, and was relieved that they did not look at him at all. Then he saw Gherson rub his lower leg, and noticed that the bandana he was wearing was tied a lot lower than normal. So perhaps there was a bruise under there.

That, however, set off a train of thought. Gherson was a pest, but he was malleable, a crawler, an easy man to persuade to undertake the task of braining Pearce and coward enough to wait until dark to do it. As far as he knew he had betrayed him to Colbourne for little more than the captain’s gratitude and he would do the same for another. That begged the question of who put him up to it, because with his previous behaviour of interfering with Pearce’s possessions it could again be Colbourne, a doubtful
scenario, for there was no logic in it, but one that had to be considered. So were there others, who had put the sod up to it? Who were they and did they have the intention of making another attempt, this time by somebody more competent?

‘Pipe the hands to breakfast,’ said Colbourne, at which point Pearce moved close to him so that the exchange would not be overheard.

‘Permission to address the crew, sir.’

Colbourne’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Address the crew, Mr Pearce. I do believe that is a captain’s prerogative.’

‘I suspected it would be, sir, but I have something I wish to say to them that may well increase the efficiency of the ship.’

‘No more rolling shot?’

That was Colbourne’s first acknowledgement of the fact that he had heard it.

‘More than that.’

‘Believe me, Mr Pearce, that is enough. You may address the hands below as they take their breakfast. I will not oblige you by assembling them on deck.’

‘That suits me, sir, and with your permission I will close the hatch. I have no mind to let either you or Mr Short hear what I have to say.’

He would listen, of course he would, but he could not say so and the knowledge that he would eavesdrop stopped him from checking Pearce for words that were definitely insubordinate. Waiting till all the men were finishing their breakfast, Pearce slipped down the hatch and closed
it behind him, amused because the sound of feet moving forward was clearly audible. He stopped on the bottom rung, as Colbourne had done that first day aboard, and looked at the crew, waiting till they, made curious by his staying where he was, stared at him.

‘Right,’ Pearce said. ‘I am going to say something to you all, and be assured there will be no repetition. I don’t expect you to like me…’

‘Never fear that, mate,’ said a low hidden voice, which he recognised as that of Blubber.

‘…nor do I care if you respect me, but I will from now on, when I am on watch in the dark, have close to me a pistol, primed and loaded. So if anyone is thinking of repeating last night’s little escapade, be warned, it is a weapon I know how to use.’

His eyes ranged over the group, looking for the reaction, trying to see who they were that would happily kill him, and how many. Gherson was looking at the deck but everyone else was giving him a stare to equal his own, not friendly, but not guilty either, more the look of folk wondering what the hell he was on about, which made him question if he had made a misjudgement; could Gherson have acted on his own?

‘Apart from three of your number, I have no loyalty to you, which means I owe you nothing.’

‘Is this another story, Pearce?’ demanded Latimer.

‘If you don’t know now what the story telling was about, ask Michael over there, for he will tell you. Or Gherson, who stole a letter from my ditty bag.’

‘That’s a lie.’

Not a head turned at that, so Pearce had no idea if they believed him or not. ‘I did it for my own reasons and for my own reasons I am a midshipman aboard this ship. I am telling you here and now that if I am given the responsibilities of an officer I will act like one. I have no mind to spend the whole voyage either watching my back or getting myself dirty doing the work you are supposed to carry out. I will, if I have to, report you to the captain for punishment.’

‘Man turns easy,’ said Latimer.

‘Don’t bait me.’

‘Why is Coal Barge at the same game, Pearce?’ asked Matt.

‘He’s enjoying himself. Every time you torment me it gives him pleasure, for that is what I did to him when I was last aboard. Anyway, I have said my piece, and I will say no more.’

Blubber again. ‘Thank Christ for that.’

Pearce ignored him, taking it as just a standard reaction. Instead he looked right at O’Hagan. ‘Michael, I want you, Rufus and Charlie on deck now. I have something to say to you.’ Charlie opened his mouth with the clear intention of saying no, but Pearce cut him off. ‘And that, I’m sorry to say, is an order.’

Waiting in the bows, Pearce was never sure what brought them up. Not fear for sure, more likely curiosity, and perhaps the other crew members had goaded them out of the same sentiment. The way they approached was
almost amusing, the walk of each trying to send him the message that they were his equal. Michael carried it off with ease, Charlie with a swagger that was too obvious to be anything other than an act. Rufus tried to look as if he was tough, and ended up looking like a fool. Behind them Gherson came on deck, until Pearce called out.

‘Go below, or I’ll rip that bandana off your head and have a look at what you’re hiding underneath it.’

No more proof was required that Gherson was the culprit; he shot below like a scalded cat, leaving Pearce looking at three faces in various expressions of distrust.

‘I want to say I’m sorry, and explain.’

‘You’d need to be more than sorry,’ said Taverner.

‘Then I don’t know what that is Charlie. Beyond a sorry and meant there is nothing.’

‘Talk,’ said Michael.

‘I would not want you to turn around, but if you did you would see Lieutenant Colbourne staring at us, and I think it won’t be long before he asks what we are about. So…’

Pearce wondered as he spoke, not for the first time in his life, why explanations always sounded like excuses, even when they were true. Try as he might to find a tone in his voice that would convey the veracity of his words he could not do it and nothing on the faces of the trio of men before him led him to believe he was succeeding, for their expressions remained blank.

‘The trap was sprung on me, and Colbourne was clever in his timing leaving me no margin to include any of you.

I had to decide between you three, who faced no threat, and my father, who faced a very real one.’

‘We only have your word for that,’ said Charlie.

‘It was real Charlie. I found out when I got to London that he had been imprisoned in Paris. That is where I have been…’

‘Don’t tell me, you went and rescued him. The hero Pearce.’

‘No Charlie, though I wanted to.’

‘You went all the way there?’ asked Rufus, his eyes open in wonder.

‘He was my father, my only relative living, so what choice did I have. I found him in his cell…’

‘Was?’

Pearce, as he looked at Michael, felt the tears well up once more in his eyes, felt again that sensation of not knowing if they were caused by grief or self-pity. ‘Ten days ago they took my father, in a cart, from a prison called the Conciergerie in Paris, to a square called the Place de la Revolution.’

Michael was ahead of him and his malice evaporated. He had obviously picked up the catch in the voice, and he could not fail to see the wetness around Pearce’s eyes. He put a gentle hand on his forearm. ‘There, with a crowd who had no idea of his name screaming for his blood, he was, like a dozen other poor innocents, strapped to a board, and his head was cut off.’

‘John boy,’ said Michael, ‘we need no more.’

‘You do Michael, you do, for I was there, in the crowd,
and I saw it happen. And do you know Michael, I did nothing.’

‘Mr Pearce, I am wondering what you are doing loitering in the bows with those fellows?’

‘I will get you off this ship, I promise, all three of you. I owe you that.’

‘How do we know we can believe you?’ asked Rufus.

It was Michael who replied, looking right into Pearce’s eyes. ‘I believe him.’

‘What about you?’ asked Charlie.

‘I’ll stay if Colbourne let’s me. Right now I have nowhere else to go.’

Ben Walker heard the voice above him shout that he had sighted a sail, but bent over the yard, untying a knot, and supported only by his upper arms and a dipping foot rope, he declined to react. Martin Dent, being more accustomed to being aloft, did, but swore he could see nothing.

‘Where away?’ called Lieutenant Glaister, from the quarterdeck.

‘Two sail. Five points free off the starboard bow.’

The orders came to stop the drill, and to set a sail plan more suited to the conditions. Midshipman Farmiloe went past them as they let go of the mainsail, and it was sheeted home by the time he got to the tops with his telescope. Both Martin and Ben Walker were back on deck when he reported what he could see, the shout directed at Ralph Barclay, who had come on deck, happy to leave the mass of paper which littered his desk and the noisy preparations
for yet another dinner being prepared by his wife.

‘Two ships, sir, one square rigged, the other with a single mainmast, though the mainsail, lanteen-rigged seems
over-large
.’

‘Does it have a colour, that sail?’ shouted Barclay, through a speaking trumpet, a question that earned him curious looks, but he, having sailed in these waters before, knew why he was asking.

‘Deep red, sir.’

‘The other?’

‘Three masts, sir, dun coloured sails. I guess it to be some kind of merchant vessel.’

‘Mr Glaister, signal to Captain Gould to come alongside. Helmsmen, we will be coming round on a course to close.’ That led to a string of orders, while in their wake HMS
Firefly
had cracked on some sail to close. As she came alongside Ralph Barclay called out, ‘I daresay your lookouts have smoked those sails, Gould. Close until you can identify them and then let me know what they are. I will be in your wake.’ Then it was another shout to the tops. ‘Mr Farmiloe, keep a weather eye out. I want to know if they change course.’

‘You anticipate that, sir?’ asked Glaister, as
Firefly
pulled away.

‘Most certainly. As soon as they see we are ships of war.’ He pointed to the foremast, where the white pennant streamed out, with the national flag in one corner. ‘That should tell them they have nothing to fear, but it will be some time before they can see it clearly.’

‘Unless they are French, sir.’

‘Take my word for it, Mr Glaister, that they are not.’

His Premier gave a look that encouraged him to disclose his reasons for such certainty, an invitation he declined.

‘Ships have altered course, sir, and they have split up.’ There was a long pause, before Farmiloe yelled again. ‘I think the red sail, sir, is a galley of some kind. I can see what appear to be sweeps hitting the water either side, and she is closing with us. The other ship has held its course.’

‘Sails and oars,’ said Glaister, eyebrows raised.

Every eye was on Ralph Barclay now, waiting for him to react in some way. All he said was, ‘A galley in the name of Creation? I never thought to still see one of them still in use.’ He said no more for an age, until he could see the approaching vessel himself, pleased with his own prescience, for given the colour of the sail he had anticipated the provenance of the sighting, if not the nature of the vessel. ‘An old-fashioned Algerine vessel by the look of it. We will hold our course, and see what Captain Gould discovers.’

It was half an hour before Gould did anything, and that was to drop a boat in the water.

Down below Emily Barclay was anticipating her dinner, having by now become reconciled to the absurd naval habit of having it at three in the afternoon. Unfortunately, due to the sighting, she was having to wait, left to look at the four place settings, because today’s guests, the marine officer and third Lieutenant, Mitcham, were all on deck with her husband.

‘Shenton,’ she said eventually, ‘be so good as to go and tell Captain Barclay that his dinner is ready.’

Though he complied, that request got her an
old-fashioned
look, as though it was not done, but Shenton was like that, the kind to forever shake his head and suck his teeth if asked to do anything out of the ordinary. At least he had got used to her presence, and had learned to knock before entering any of the cabins. He was back in a few seconds.

‘Captain’s compliments, Mrs Barclay, but could he have a plate taken on deck.’

Emily opened her mouth to protest, and to ask what the ‘good’ captain thought he was going to do about his guests, but that died in her throat. It was unwise to be open with servants about anything that smacked of a family dispute; they might know, indeed they always did, but it was a tenet of respectable life to keep a distance. That stricture was doubly applied on board this ship, where the article of discipline, something she was unsure of, added another dimension. The steward, with his long, doleful face and sad eyes, was looking at her in that way he had, almost as if he had yet to comprehend that she was really aboard. That he was unhappy with the fact was not a secret, much as he tried to cover it, which Emily put down to the increase it created in his responsibilities; not his workload, for he passed most of that on to others.

‘Would you go back on deck and ask Captain Barclay if it would be acceptable for his officers to be fed likewise?’

It was with plates in hand that the quarterdeck of HMS
Brilliant
observed Gould’s boat, the gap shortening rapidly as the rowers pulled hard to close, and it gave Ralph Barclay cause for disquiet; it was a strange way to behave, and hinted at a message more complicated than that which could be sent by flags.

‘Mr Farmiloe, do you see anything of interest.’

‘The galley-type vessel is holding it’s course, sir, but, coming into the wind, she has clewed up her mainsail. The merchant ship has ported her helm and is heading due east.’

‘Armament?’

‘Two heavy cannon bows and stern, sir, by my reckoning, but I cannot see what weight of shot they will take.’

‘Mr Glaister. I do not want to clear for action, but I would want some of the preliminaries carried out, so that should we have to, we can get our guns out and into action quickly. Alert the gunner and prepare the ladyhole for my wife.’

Glaister, who had just taken a mouthful of beefsteak and oyster sauce, the last of the Lisbon stores, replied with a muffled, ‘Mye, Mye thur.’

Emily, alone at the table trying to eat the same dish, was rudely interrupted by a posse of sailors, Shenton at their head, not sad-faced now but actually smirking.

‘Sorry, Ma’am, we’s got to strike the bulkheads and cabin furniture below and that means crating the plate and silverware. Captain has sent a party to get some seating and a lantern in the cable tier, just in case we get into a fight.’

With that she was hustled out of her quarters, asking in vain for her embroidery, as the wedges were knocked out and the walls of the cabins began to disappear.

‘Stand by to get a line to haul in that boat.’

Whoever was coxing that knew his stuff, crossing
Brilliant
’s bow to bring himself onto the lee rail, lower in the water than the weather side of the ship, and he spun her expertly so that she was on the same course, only closing to the side when the bowsprit was past. Lines snaked out from the deck to haul her in, at the same time as boathooks were employed to keep a slight gap between boat and the side of the ship, by which time Ralph Barclay was leaning over the side.

‘Captain Gould has identified her as a galley, sir.’

How clever of him, Ralph Barclay thought, testily. Does he think we have no eyes aboard
Brilliant
!

‘Reckons her an Algerine pirate, sir, from off the Barbary Coast, and that merchantman a capture. Galley has sent her away and is likely to challenge our right to bring her to and demand answers.’

‘Does he think she’ll fight?’

‘Rather than give up the capture, yes, sir.’

Ralph Barclay was tempted to say, ‘well at least we agree on something.’ But he held his tongue, disinclined to share the thought with anyone else on deck.

‘Sheer off. We will let fly our sheets and get you aboard.’

The order took Glaister by surprise; he thought closing with the galley more important, but Ralph Barclay was not
about to explain his reason for not leaving a boatload of sailors in the water when a North African pirate, possibly prepared to be hostile, was in the offing. Having served in the Mediterranean as a youngster, he knew all about them. If it did come to a scrap, he had no notion to leave these men in a position where they might be captured, to end up in a stinking North African dungeon or as a slave rower on the kind of vessel he was about to meet. Another order had the cooped livestock in the boat, before it was let aft to be towed astern. The hoofed animals, the goat, a cow, three pigs and a couple of sheep would just have to take their chances in the manger.

‘Sheet home,’ Glaister called, as soon as the tasks were completed, and HMS
Brilliant
resumed her course.

Ralph Barclay went to the weather side of the quarterdeck to pace up and down, head down and hands behind his back. It was a telling fact that a galley was at sea at all, for it must be an old vessel, they having not been in use for near a century for any kind of fighting, though still common in coastal trading and port work. Even North African pirates used Xebecs these days, small and fast, if no match for a frigate, but he supposed, with the seas clear of French warships because of the decimation of their navy, and Spaniards who were gathering at Cadiz to re-enter the Mediterranean in force, the way was clear for all sorts of vermin to emerge. If that galley was a corsair, then he had every right to employ whatever force he needed to stop her activities. As against that, there would be no proof; that, if it existed, was sailing away from him as fast as
the wind would carry her. This would be the Algerine’s ploy, to delay him as long as possible so that he could not chase the other vessel, which could never hope to outrun a frigate, let alone HMS
Firefly
.

He tried to put himself in the mind of the galley commander. He would come alongside Gould with expressions of cordiality, and keep him occupied till
Brilliant
closed. There would, no doubt, be an invitation to visit, and an offer of food, talk of many things, anything to keep the two British warships where they were. If that was successful and he had taken an illegal capture, it would be near his home port long before they could come up with her. Ralph Barclay could not decline an offer of hospitality without causing offence and his orders obliged him to treat with neutrals carefully, and that included the various Bays and Deys of the North African coast, who could cause no end of trouble to a fleet trying to control the Mediterranean, quite apart from the fact that it was a place to secure supplies to maintain that fleet. The normal tactic was to bribe them to stay out of the way, and leave alone supply ships and merchantmen.

Not one man in a thousand believed the Algerines to be neutral in any other sense than they were not fighting the French. If they came across a British merchantman, bribed or not, they would take her if they thought they could get away with it. Was that fleeing merchantman that very thing, a well-laden Levant trader that had sailed before any convoys were formed or one on the way home, laden with silks and spices? Whatever, it would be worth a mint
of money, and Ralph Barclay was minded to secure that rather than leave it to a bunch of sea-borne brigands. In his mind he formed a plan, one that might be profitable if he was right, which would keep him out of trouble if he was wrong.

‘Mr Glaister, I want the larboard battery loaded with powder charges only. Tell the gunner to use his worst leavings, the bottom of the barrel stuff, for what I want is smoke. Let us ease our braces a little and signal Captain Gould to come about and close with us. And ask my wife to come on deck.’

By the time
Firefly
was sailing on her previous station, with Gould, like
Brilliant’s
officers fully appraised of what to do, the deck of the galley was in plain view through a telescope, a clutch of turbaned and gaudily dressed individuals on a raised poop, watching him as they were being watched themselves. They would have observed the two warships resume their previous course and speed, sailing easy, braces not stretched, in the manner of vessels concerned to spare their canvas, no great activity on deck, for that had ceased an age ago on the frigate and had not taken place at all on Gould’s ship. To complete the tranquil scene, they would see a captain in full uniform walking the weather rail arm in arm with a pretty young woman.

They were not talking, for Ralph Barclay was thinking, and Emily was obliged to respect that. He suspected that the galley’s guns, in both prow and stern, would be loaded and bowsed against her gun ports, an act which would
have been carried out long before her deck came in view. He had examined the ship closely while she was further off; what was showing of her well-reefed great mainsail, hauled right round, was not doing much to propel her – if anything it was slowing her progress. Forward motion was being provided by the poor souls pulling on her sweeps below the maindeck, slaves of many nationalities, some bound to be Christians.

But they were rowing easily too; there was no attempt to close at speed for the longer it took the better. Calculation was continuous, as well as futile; he could not tell from looking through a telescope how large was her crew – for instance, did her captain have enough men to put a whole new set of rowers on the sweeps – whether indeed her cannon were loaded, or if the supposition he was making was correct. All he knew was that it made sense.

‘What a fine looking ship,’ said Emily.

‘Over decorated to my taste, my dear, and old-fashioned as a gun platform. For her size too much space is taken up by rowers, as well as her shape, to mount the kind of cannon she should, and as a fighting vessel they are utterly useless in foul weather. Algerine’s are the only people who would still use them in the open sea and only then when the weather is calm.’