A Shot Rolling Ship (24 page)

‘Let fly the sheets,’ called Colbourne, and that obeyed the way came off the ship.

Waiting a minute he ordered them sheeted home again, then braced round to sail on a different tack. He was being shrewd, changing course and speed to confound the enemy, waiting for the larger ship to come up and split the onslaught from those bow chasers. HMS
Centurion
was close now, they could see the men on her deck, though only those close to the bulwarks, given her greater height, but most on the
Griffin’s
deck were more interested in the rum cask and the ladle Short was using to distribute the contents. Neat, with no lime juice to thin it, the rum made even the hardiest tar gag a bit, but there was no doubt it was welcome, a bit of fire in the belly for the coming fight.

The next boom did not come from the Frenchman but from
Centurion
, its bow chasers speaking out to tell the enemy that they were coming into range and that their fire was now to be returned. If the captain had hoped that would spare the
Griffin
he was immediately disabused, as another pair of balls arced through the clear air, one of which removed the top of the mainmast, and the lookout who was still up there.

‘Topmen aloft,’ Colbourne shouted, adding as they raced up the shrouds, ‘secure anything loose, and report the damage.’ Then he rushed to the side, searching for the man who had been blown overboard, in the vain hope that he might have survived. ‘Mr Pearce, an axe at the double, and cut the line holding the ship’s boats. If the lookout can get to them he will have a chance.’

Pearce was moving before the sentence was finished, and did as he was bid, though he could see no sign of the lookout in the water. ‘Resume your place, Mr Pearce. God will decide whether he survives or not. We cannot heave to and search for one man.’

‘
Griffin
!’ The voice boomed over the intervening water between the two British vessels. ‘Your name, sir.’

‘Lieutenant Colbourne.’

‘Captain Marchand, at your service. Let fly your sheets and take station in our wake once we are by you or I fear you will be sunk.’

‘Aye, aye, sir.’

The order was obeyed with as much alacrity as Colbourne could muster, with that damage aloft. Once in the larger vessel’s wake, following it as it tacked and wore, they became blind to what was happening over the bows, except for the sight of what shot missed, landing in the water to either side. That was until one ball from the Frenchman overshot and, having left a neat hole in the mainsail, landed in the white water of
Centurion
’s wake just a few feet from the bowsprit, which brought all work aloft to a halt, as the topmen worked to secure flapping
lines and the blocks necessary to get what was left of the topmast out and a jury one set up.

Then the
Centurion
’s captain was over his taffrail, as below him men worked to block off the casement windows of the various rear cabins, issuing orders through his speaking trumpet.

‘Mr Colbourne, I intend to try to get across the stern of the enemy and give him a drubbing, my aim to disable as many of his cannon and gun crews as possible. If I can get past him I will have the weather gage. He, I suspect, will continue to fire into my rigging hoping to disable me and board. I want you, once we are close, to come out of my wake and make as much of a nuisance of yourself as you can, but do not linger in the arc of his larger guns, for I doubt you would survive it. My advice then is to take station on his bow and play upon his rigging.’

‘I will do my best, sir.’

‘Of course you will, Mr Colbourne, and your crew I’m sure. And should we be successful I think we might look forward to the gratitude of the nation. Why, I would be damned surprised if you were not made post.’

‘Coffin more like,’ spat Latimer.

Pearce could see that the man speaking had said just the right thing to Colbourne. It was almost as if his whole shape changed, shoulders going back and head lifting as if to sniff a bright future. But his new midshipman’s concerns were different; if it was going to be bloody, was there anything he could do to survive himself and help those under his charge to do the same.

‘Well it won’t do you no good standing there like a statue,’ said Latimer. ‘Keep moving up and down, ’cause if they has muskets it’ll be you they’ll take aim on. If you think they are loading grape, lie down. Being brave will fill you full of holes.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Pray!’ This was no time to say what he thought of that idea, but he did ask for what? ‘That our Frenchie is short-handed, that his crew ain’t worked up right and are not handy on the guns, that their captain is as thick as the bitts holding his anchor cable, and that Marchand, or whatever his name is on
Centurion
, gets in a full broadside afore he is shot to pieces.’

Looking past Latimer he saw his Irish friend, eyes closed and mouth moving silently.

‘I think Michael is doing enough for all of us.’

‘I doubt it, ’cause there is unlikely to be enough prayers in the world.’

The air was suddenly full of booms, so much that Pearce was sure he could feel the pressure of them in the air. Then the waters around
Centurion
boiled, but not all the shot had missed and, as well as several holes appearing, they heard the sound of cracking timber, that followed by screams. The captain had been replaced at the taffrail by a midshipman there to relay his orders, so that it was the voice of a near child that informed Colbourne that it was time for him to alter course, this as the huge rudder on the ship ahead began to swing.

The French 74 soon came into view, having luffed up
and fired her broadside at
Centurion
, and was now busy getting under way again to headreach her and give her a second broadside at close quarters, square on to her bows. Whatever damage the fifty-gun ship had suffered did nothing to hamper her sailing qualities, for as soon as the Frenchman was under way, Marchand spun his ship to first run alongside the Frenchman and then with luck to get across his stern. The boy on the taffrail relayed the order for Griffin to hold her course and carry out the previous instructions that had been given by the captain.

Now they were in full view of the enemy, just as he fired a second broadside, this answered by
Centurion
. There was no doubt about the pressure now, Pearce could feel the air movement in his ears, as Colbourne ordered Short to fire his cannon, that followed by an order to the quartermaster to note the time on the slate. So the guns of HMS
Griffin
spoke out, and battle was joined.

Close to, from their lower deck, the enemy was a frightening sight, two long rows of open gunports, empty, but shrouded with the leftover smoke from their broadside, the great masts and topsails high above their heads, with men in the tops aiming muskets, even a swivel gun on the mainmast cap. The shot from
Griffin
did little damage, the balls from nine pounders skidding off the Frenchman’s upper scantlings because they had not been aimed high enough to reach the bulwarks. The eighteen pounder carronade balls did strike home but, at the range they were fired, though they did some damage, they did not penetrate the thick planking, and all the while they got closer and closer. Busy reloading, the gun crews failed to see those empty ports fill one by one, dark muzzles poking out, until each contained a cannon. With a clarity that surprised him, Pearce could see they were aimed high, the side of the ship suddenly
shrouded in thick black smoke belching out behind the fired shot. Through that smoke came
Centurion
’s reply, her cannon balls smashing into the enemy at maindeck level, the clang as metal struck metal reverberating across the water in between. As the wind blew the smoke clear, he could see that two of those French gunports had been blown asunder.

They were closer now, and with better aim
Griffin
’s guns did some damage on the second broadside, though mostly just to the top timber near the bowsprit, decorative stuff rather than anything vital. The next broadside came from
Centurion
, quicker to reload than her opponent, but that was only seconds and since the two capital ships had closed the gap between them it seemed that the intervening space was nothing but a maelstrom of death and destruction. So much smoke billowed across the face of the French cannon that those aboard
Griffin
did not see that on reappearing, the forward guns were aimed not at
Centurion
but at themselves. They found out, to their cost, within seconds, as the deck and the lower tops were swept with grapeshot.

Pearce felt the small metal balls whistle past his head, so close he wondered how he survived and he heard the screams from behind of those that took them. With his gun crews reloading, most in crouched positions because of that, it was the men waiting by the starboard guns that bore the brunt, and turning he saw half a dozen writhing in agony, while two or three more appeared to be already dead. Midshipman Short, who had stood rigid as he thought it his duty to do, was lying in the middle of the
deck, a pool of blood spreading from his body, one hand clutching at the air as if a grip would give him a hold on life, but it was by the wheel that the worst damage had been done. Colbourne was on his knees, holding a shattered and badly bleeding arm, head bowed, while the quartermaster and one of his mates were sprawled against the side, clearly in deep agony. It was instinct that took over then, and he called to those on the starboard battery who had survived.

‘Three of you, get on the wheel and hold our course. The rest get the wounded below, and any not occupied to this side and get your heads down.’

‘Cannon reloaded,’ shouted Latimer, that repeated by the forward quarter gunner.

Pearce shouted his reply without looking round, ‘Fire as soon as you can.’

‘Ain’t never heard that one afore,’ the old seaman replied, as he ordered the gun captains to pull their lanyards. Not paying attention, trying to order the decks cleared of wounded, Pearce had got too close to the recoiling guns, and it was one of the gun captains jumping clear that knocked him clean over on to the deck just as the next set of shot from the Frenchman swept across the deck. This time it was roundshot and aimed into the rigging, and, lying on his back looking up he saw ropes cut through, with blocks blown asunder and a mast knocked out of its chains, so that he had to cover his head as the debris rained down on the deck. Yet he was aware and deeply impressed by the fact that much was going on regardless; powder monkeys
still moving towards the guns with their cartridges while they were being swabbed and reloaded; men looking to their fallen comrades without instructions, others going aloft unbidden to see to the damaged rigging.

Rolling to his feet he got to Midshipman Short, taking that still groping hand and using it to turn him slightly so he could see the wound. Eyes closed and in deep pain the little man looked ninety. The shoulder was shattered and blood was pumping out of open veins. He called to two seamen and grabbing a nine pounder wad pressed it against the wound.

‘Don’t take him below, get him against a bulwark and keep that wad in place. Press hard on it to try and stop the flow of blood.’

Latimer was beside him suddenly. ‘You’d best get on that quarterdeck, ’cause there ain’t no other to take charge. Coal Barge is still down.’

‘Guns?’

‘Are being taken care of.’

Pearce got to the wounded lieutenant in three big strides and, kneeling, lifted his head. ‘Mr Colbourne?’

‘Get me to my feet, Pearce.’

‘We must look at the wound.’

The reply was bitter and came through clenched teeth. ‘Dammit man do you ever obey an order?’

Being on the side of the wounded arm Pearce had to cross to Colbourne’s good arm, with just enough time to glance and see that the way on the ship had taken the
Griffin
clear of the Frenchman’s bows. Not that they were
safe, for the two bow chasers they had faced earlier were waiting for them, muzzles pointing down right at the stern. Pearce could never understand then, or afterwards, as they both fired, why he threw himself to cover the lieutenant’s back, he just did it out of instinct. It was not metal in the air now, it was wood blasted from the stern rail and the deck below it. Pearce’s hat went, speared by a sliver of timber and he felt a searing pain across his scalp. Another splinter from the taffrail, pointed like a dagger, embedded itself in the planking right by his hand, shuddering like a thrown knife. Again there were the screams of pain from those who had been less fortunate, not least those men he had put on the wheel, which like them, was smashed, so that the ship was now drifting.

With some effort he got Colbourne to his feet, and watched as the man, holding his shattered arm with his good hand, pulled himself upright, his voice strained by pain as he spoke, and hard to hear over the continuing gunfire that consumed the two larger vessels. ‘Report the damage, Mr Pearce.’

‘I wouldn’t know where to begin.’

The head came up, with a defiant look in the eye, which also managed to convey the fact that he was useless. ‘Send the carpenter into the hold to see if we are taking in water. Make sure that any wounded on the gun crews are replaced. We must get men aloft to secure what needs it, and to run lines so that we can reset our sails and come about to re-engage.’

Most of that, short of checking for leaks, was happening
without his bidding; the men on the ship knew what to do without orders, but the idea of re-entering the fray, after the damage
Griffin
had suffered, seemed mad. ‘The wheel is shattered.’

‘The rudder?’ Pearce looked round, observing that the stern post looked to be undamaged, and he said so. ‘Then we can still, thank God, steer and as long as we can do that we can fight. Get a party below to my cabin and work the rudder from the ropes. You’ll need a relay of messengers.’ Colbourne tried to turn round, but a stab of deep pain stopped him and his head bowed again, the cracked voice evidence of how much he was suffering. ‘How does
Centurion
fare?’

A glance was enough. She seemed to be drifting. The rigging was a mess, broken masts, tattered canvas, ropes hanging loose, the bulwarks too were full of gaps and it was a fair bet that some of the maindeck guns had been dismounted. What it was like below he shuddered to think.

‘Badly.’

‘Has Captain Marchand got across her stern?’

‘No.’

‘And the enemy?’

The Frenchman had swung side on to
Griffin
, and for a moment Pearce had a vision of a full broadside coming their way, but he realised that she was coming round on her undamaged side to engage again with her larboard battery. As a ship of war she looked more complete, with most of the rigging that supported her topsail intact, the most
obvious advantage she had that she could still manoeuvre, though ten seconds watching showed that she did not have to do much, since the leeway was slowly taking her towards the
Centurion
’s side.

‘We must get back into the action,’ Colbourne hissed as he heard what was happening.

‘Lift your head, sir, and look along your deck, then tell me we should get back into the action.’

Colbourne did so, and had he been looking with as much attention as John Pearce he would have seen the carnage. Men still not moving, probably dead. Streaks of blood all across the planking, which was covered with a mass of ropes and blocks. Short against a bulwark with two sailors kneeling beside him, the mid quite clearly having passed out. Pearce could feel blood trickling down his cheek, and then he tasted it as it reached the edge of his lips. There was a dull pain in his head, but nothing he could not bear. That was the moment when the man he was holding upright became a dead weight as the lieutenant, too, passed out.

Then two of the Frenchman’s cannon took
Griffin
low on the larboard side of her stern. There were no flying timbers this time, just the sound of shattering wood, and Pearce knew that the ship had taken a heavy blow. The question was, where?

‘Michael,’ Pearce called. ‘Help me get him below. He needs a tourniquet on that arm. I think he has passed out from loss of blood.’

Wiping the blood from his own face, his eyes searched
for Charlie and Rufus as he and the Irishman carried Colbourne towards the hatch, and he was relieved to see that though both men looked shocked and confused, they were whole. That was when he spotted Gherson cowering right in the bows, and he yelled at him like the most stentorian bosun in creation.

‘Move, you scum, or as God is my witness I’ll strap you to the muzzle of a carronade and fire you at the enemy.’

‘Now which God would that be John boy?’ asked Michael, as he took the weight of the lieutenant, and eased both him and his charge down the companionway ladder. Pearce followed him and passed by, heading for the stern, shouting down the hatch to the carpenter to get aft and assess the damage if he could. Standing in what had been Colbourne’s cabin he was sure he could hear running water below his feet, but he could also see that the rudder ropes and the tackle that they ran through were intact.

Michael was beside him again, whipping off the bandana he had had on to protect his eardrums, wrapping it round Pearce’s head, just as another sailor appeared.

‘Carpenter says to tell you he can’t get to the stern, with too much in the way of stores to shift.’

‘So how do I find out if we are taking in water?’

The sailor looked shocked to be asked, either that or the shock was at Pearce’s ignorance. ‘You’se got to check the level in the well, to see if it’s getting deeper.’

‘Make it so,’ Pearce replied, thinking that at least sounded like a correct form of words. Looking up, he saw
above his head Colbourne’s sword, as well as a ceremonial sort of dagger. He grabbed both and, Michael at his heels, he made his way back to the deck, past the men laid out in what had been their living quarters. Midshipman Short had been fetched below as well. He was still in that sitting position, though the wad had been strapped on tight. There was a couple of hands aboard who knew a smattering of how to aid the wounded and they, like so many of the crew, had gone to work without instructions. Not that they were doing much in the way of pain relief, their only medicine being the residue of that rum cask that Short had passed round before the engagement started. They were dulling their patients, not curing them.

‘Jesus, it’s enough to tempt you to a wound,’ said O’Hagan, eyeing the cask.

Pearce grinned, though it was a weary jest that followed. ‘Don’t get drunk Michael, you might get into a fight.’

‘Sure if I’m not in one already, pinch me.’

‘Orders, sir?’ demanded Latimer, as Pearce’s head came through the hatchway.

Orders? He was in charge, and once he had got fully on deck the unpleasant shock of the fact hit home, with any number of men looking at him silently demanding to be told what to do, his Pelicans included. To give himself a moment to think he looked aloft, to where the topmen were still working, securing what they could not repair. Then he realised that the firing had ceased and given the near silence he looked aft and asked the most obvious question, ‘Those cannon?’

‘Think they have seen to us,’ the old man replied. ‘Ain’t shown since that last salvo.’

It had only been a temporary respite, and the two major vessels, with the Frenchman now stern on to
Griffin
, resumed their battle, with guns blazing and great swathes of smoke billowing up between them. It was obvious that
Centurion
was not giving as good as she was getting, obvious that in the contest, in which her captain had been a fool to engage, she was losing, drifting away from
Griffin
, with the Frenchman doing likewise, though at a barely perceptible, faster rate.

Another head popped up though the companionway, that of the sailor who had checked the level in the ship’s well. ‘We’re taking water in fast, sir, round an inch a minute. Carpenter’s asked for extra hands to get some of the stores shifted so’es he can get a look see, but I reckon the time he will take he might be too late.’

‘There’s no time for that. Get some axes and stove in the planking astern on the lower deck, see if you can get to it that way.’

‘Still need help.’

‘Latimer, you know the men, you detail them.’

The old sailor laughed out loud, though Pearce could only wonder at how anyone could see humour in the situation in which they found themselves. ‘Rank at last, happen your old Papa was right.’

Mention of his father suddenly brought back to Pearce that whole scene in Paris, that stinking, yelling mob salivating for blood, not just his father’s blood, but that
of anyone that their damned tribunal condemned. Ever since that day he had harboured a desire to retaliate, to do something to those vipers that would redress the pain and guilt he felt. From indifference he had moved over the intervening weeks to a visceral hatred of the French Revolution and what it had produced, the rule of the mob, the death of the innocent, the traducing of everything his father had worked all his life to promote, and ever since that day he had felt his own life to be worthless, something of no account, his self respect so damaged that he had no care for his fate. Here he was in a sea fight with that same idea; perhaps not the same people, but the dogma they represented. He had felt useless since that day, impotent. Now he had a chance to do something, one that might never recur again.