Authors: David Donachie
‘I do.’
The face clouded with renewed pessimism. ‘We will be just as much at risk on an open beach as we are on this deck, your honour, happen even more so.’
‘If you have an alternative, Mr Dorling, I will be only too willing to listen to you. We cannot fight and you will now have realised as well as I have that we will be forced into that before we can make the mole at Sapri. Besides I have other hopes. Now please do as I ask.’
Dorling did hesitate for several seconds, but he finally yelled out the necessary commands in a manner that had men running to obey, for surely they too sensed a glimmer of hope. Falls were eased, the sails adjusted as the rudder was swung to take them towards what looked from the deck to be an iron-bound shore, Pearce watching to see how their enemies reacted. They too changed course so that now the fellow who had been astern was off their beam, the other coming up to chase, though Pearce reckoned he could be ignored.
The former represented the greater danger, he being able to cut the angle, while at the same time he would, at a fast approaching point, be able to bring what guns he still had to bear.
One separate difficulty emerged the closer they got to shore, for there was a current running from east to west and one that affected
Larcher
as soon as it became apparent,
pushing her head off true, this felt by John Pearce who was with Charlie Taverner up at the prow now, his friend on the duty to which another had been set to on the previous watch.
‘You got us all guessing when you was up in the air,’ Charlie whispered, so low not even those close could hear him, though his eyes never let off on his task, getting more vital by the moment, given inshore there was bound to be an increase in underwater hazards. ‘Most reckoned you was seeking a different way to get us all killed.’
‘No doubt with me and Emily surviving?’ came the equally soft reply.
‘Suggested,’ Charlie responded, looking round enough for Pearce to see his grin. ‘Though Rufus belted the one who said it.’
‘Rufus!’ Pearce could not keep the surprise out of his voice; to him Rufus was still a young tyro, not yet a man and far from violent by nature.
‘Michael had to step in, as he’s been dying to do so for a while and it came in handy.’ Charlie chuckled. ‘Blood everywhere.’
The sight of that grin cheered Pearce as well as the words; it felt good to know that he still had men who believed in him, but that was set aside as the bows yawed to one side, which had him hooking his splints round a stay to avoid a fall and yelling that it was vital they hold their course.
‘I keep telling them that youse a master of getting out of a fix.’
‘Let’s hope you have the right of it, Charlie,’ he responded as the vessel yawed off course again. ‘But it is all well to recall my gift for getting into them in the first place.’
Telescope up and focused anew he had it fixed on what he had seen from aloft. In among the tiny beaches and water-hewn caves he had spotted a narrow gap in the rock face, an inlet that at its shore end was no wider than the armed cutter. Where it met the sea was not much better and it was reasonable to assume there were other hazards below the waterline. Once in there,
Larcher
would be stuck, very likely holed and certainly doomed to eventual destruction by the power of the first heavy tide.
The inlet lay at the base of a scrub-covered and rock-strewn gully that ran steeply upwards to the hilltops, guarded by some kind of watchtower, an ancient construct, tall and round, set to overlook a whole section of the coast and, given it had no flag, probably abandoned, which indicated a shore that in times past was in need of defence. So there must be a set of paths leading up from the various beaches. He may not find one but surely they could hack out a route.
A swing of that glass showed just how narrow was going to be the gap between him getting there and his being cut off by the enemy, yet it drove home to Pearce that sentiment could not be allowed to enter into any of his calculations. The object now was to save the crew, not the ship and if he was engaged in a gamble it was time to throw the dice.
The shifting of the guns to the taffrail was proceeding apace, overseen by Mr Bird and gunner Kempshall. Others were called on deck to ditch the remaining cannon, for they were now of no use, Pearce reckoning if things were going to blow up in his face this was when it would happen; that it passed with no more than black looks he took as a bonus. It was time to tell Dorling of what he intended and explain the advantages – the downside required no explanation. They were about to try and achieve the sailing equivalent of threading a needle and to err was to run right into the rock face on either side of that narrow inlet and most certainly founder in waters that would lead to many being drowned.
‘Before you tell me what we risk, I have to say we have no other chance of escape that I can see. If we sail on we will be cut off and taken. However if we can get ourselves jammed in that inlet it will be a brave commander who will seek to come too close in pursuit, for one fluke of wind
could see them wrecked and whatever guns they can bring to bear we will match with our new stern chasers.’
‘And then what?’
‘We march inland and find some way of getting to Naples, either by boat or on foot and from there back to the fleet.’ Sensing hesitation, Pearce added, ‘It is called staying alive, Mr Dorling, to fight another day.’
Pearce was not insensitive to what he was proposing, for if he had something of a care for the armed cutter then he could multiply that a hundredfold for Dorling. The man was being asked to sacrifice his first appointment as a warrant, the very vessel from which he had hoped to so cement his reputation that he would be shifted to a series of post ships of increasing size.
‘I realise this does not sit well with you and if there was an alternative I would be taking it. But there is not and, much as I value the deck on which we stand, I value the men we carry more, even if a goodly number of them reckon otherwise.’
A slow and resigned nod was the response.
‘Now we need to get ready for what we face and we have little time.’ Pearce handed him the key he had previously demanded back. ‘Also, Mr Dorling, it would be a pity to sacrifice the rum and probably make me even more unpopular than I have been hitherto, but if carried it must be rationed ashore as it is afloat, do I make myself clear?’
‘Best to arm those with charge of it.’
‘When the time comes to abandon ship, Mr Dorling, we will all be armed, so you and your fellow warrants must rely on your standing with the crew to see that the necessary discipline is maintained. But rest assured of
this, I will, myself, shoot anyone who gives you trouble.’
‘Then I pray to the Lord it does not come to that.’
The man meant it, which further lifted his captain’s spirits. ‘The only way out of our present predicament is by acting in concert, which I’d be obliged to see told to the men. But as of this moment you have a more pressing duty to perform.’
The response, for the first time in two days, was brisk. ‘Aye, aye, sir.’
Pearce then issued a stream of orders as the needs he anticipated occurred to him. The boats had to be hauled in and emptied, as much to provide portable food – a chicken coop weighed little – as to act as a backstop in case of disaster. Some would be able to get away if they struck the rocks, perhaps to a nearby beach. He put aside the notion that in a panic both he and those he counted as his personal responsibility might not be included in that.
If they did get ashore some method of carrying the remaining water must be contrived; it would be too much of a burden for any one man and possession of such a resource he reckoned essential. Having looked at the far from fertile shore he had no idea how long it would be before they come across some hamlet or even a spring.
Likewise Mr Bellam must distribute things like the bread bought in Palermo and still near fresh, as well as contrive some way of allowing them to take sustenance enough to last several days. Each man must get out his shore-going rig though it would be shoes that really mattered on the rough ground and he also must insist on heads being covered. As for their other possessions, short jackets and their fancy pantaloons, they could not to be allowed to overburden
themselves; if it was warm at sea it would be ten times that on land.
Everyone not occupied was set to various tasks; the gunner’s mates filling powder horns for the muskets, cutlasses being sharpened both for defence and what Pearce suspected would be a hard climb through wild undergrowth. Slings of rope were being fashioned for carrying what they would need and all the while, by the stern, the blocks and pulleys were being fitted to the deck that would allow them to run in and out the two remaining cannon.
Rufus Dommet was ordered to fetch from below every block of pitch and to line them across the deck behind the two newly rigged stern chasers, with the addition of rags around them ready to be turpentine soaked, while he ensured the lantern in his cabin was alight and the tallow had plenty of time to run, everything proceeding as if there was no enemy closing on them at a telling pace.
That illusion was soon shattered: the first ball from the closest brigantine fell well short, more a signal of intent than a threat, as well as an attempt to kill the wind and slow the progress of
Larcher
towards the shore. What lay before her was easy to see now and far from reassuring, for if the rocks were not towering massifs they were high enough, while the waters at their base, in what was not much of a sea, showed a lively amount of spume, a clear indication of what lay beneath.
With every eye, at every opportunity, cast towards that it was not necessary to impart the obvious: if
Larcher
could not hold its course then the chances of success were slim. Pearce did not enquire of Dorling if he was aware of the risks; he had to believe, even as he watched with anxiety
the master’s actions, that if anyone could get them to where they wanted to be it was the man steering the ship, not him.
In the fine set of new calculations Dorling decided the makeshift jib was not aiding their cause. The pressure of the wind on that was constantly pushing the ship off course so much so that he had set the prow well to starboard of the intended landfall, seeking to achieve the best balance between speed and direction. Even that was too risky so he ordered the gaff shortened, just as the next round of shot from the enemy was loosed off, which came a lot nearer to the hull than its predecessor, showing how fast the gap was closing, sending up a plume of water that on the wind swept a fine spray across the deck.
‘Why we take that right kindly!’ came the loud cry from Charlie Taverner, still up in the prow. ‘Cooled me down a treat, mate.’
That got a laugh from a few, Pearce reckoning it to be the first he had heard in an age, which made easier his need to match the requirements of the ship, the necessity of allowing men in rotation to gather their belongings, while ensuring that any other tasks needing attention were carried out, the whole a welcome distraction from thinking on possible catastrophe.
Michael O’Hagan emerged from his cabin to tell him that he had got together with the aid of Mrs Barclay two canvas ditty bags with which to carry their possessions and that his lady had obeyed his request that she cut off the lower section of a sturdy dress, put the most sensible shoes she possessed on her feet and to make sure she took along her parasol.
‘The ship’s funds,’ Pearce asked, ‘what’s left of them?’
‘Packed away as are the logs and accounts.’ Michael replied, handing him a heavy bag. ‘Private signal book, as you requested.’
There was a sense of finality to what Pearce did next, disposing over the side in a weighted sack the book that allowed any vessel of the Royal Navy to identify an approaching warship as friend of foe, a list of flags to be flown on specific days that would only make sense to another holding the same book. That could not be allowed to ever fall into the hands of an enemy so he took it to the side and threw it into the sea.
‘Time to issue the muskets, I think,’ Pearce said, rejoining O’Hagan, this as another ball from the enemy dropped into the sea, short, but not by much.
‘They’ll land one or two on our deck afore we get ashore.’
‘They will,’ Pearce replied, wondering if that had been purposely said within earshot of the helmsman, allowing him to add a message that could be passed on. ‘But not a full broadside unless they haul their wind and if they do that we will make it to safety well ahead of them.’
It was not that simple; close to shore there was an undertow slowing
Larcher
as it acted on the keel, making them lose a bit of way for every yard gained. Yet that would apply to the enemy too, perhaps more so given their deeper hull and it was obvious they too were finding it increasingly hard to hold a straight course, added to which they were sailing into an area full of breaking waters, which was a mite reckless. Pearce was anticipating abandoning his ship, but that did not apply to Barbary.
It was almost as if the thought communicated itself across the intervening stretch of sea, for the brigantine
began to shorten sail dramatically, which told Pearce that his opposite number had probably misread his intentions, thinking perhaps he had come so close to the shore as a last gambit to avoid capture. Whatever, it now became clear that the armed cutter would run aground well before the enemy could prevent it and that, passed to Dorling, concentrating on what lay dead ahead, gave him some latitude in his final approach.
Pearce watched each face as a stream of men came aft to be handed a musket, glad that some at least were prepared to meet his eye rather than avoid it, which made more comfortable the order he then gave to each get a horn of powder and a cartouche of balls from the gunner. Michael was handing out cutlasses to others, while several had axes, so that now the crew was armed and potentially, to him, dangerous. The situation they were in being more so, that thought had to be put to one side.
They were close now, able to smell the mixture of disturbed seawater and the scents of the land, hot air and arid plants overlain by the smell of pine. HMS
Larcher
was beginning to buck like a horse, which made it necessary to have extra muscle to steer and hold the ship steady. If Pearce was holding his breath, he reckoned not to be alone as the ship’s gimcrack jib boom swung wildly to crack and disintegrate as it struck the rocks.
That being to larboard actually aided Dorling as, with the stern lifting slightly on an incoming wave, the prow was forced into the gap, one that now seemed to the man who had observed it from a distance, as akin to the mouth of ravenous beast. The crashing sound came from below as the keel struck a rock, which had the Pearce heart in
his mouth, that being the one thing that could prevent them making land. If
Larcher
got itself pinned on some underwater obstacle they could be too far from the actual shore to get anyone off.
There was a pause of seconds until another wave lifted the whole ship a fraction and drove it forward, though not by much, this accompanied by a grinding sound as the jagged stone ripped into the hull, in a way that must mean that water would begin to flood the bilges, not a positive as it would lower the ship and make it more difficult to get her to where Pearce wanted her to be. Then came the undertow and more grinding as it sought to drive the ship backwards.
‘Enemy’s across our stern, your honour, and making ready to fire, four cannon I reckon.’
‘Is that poor soul still aloft?’ Pearce cried as he looked to see from where the holler had come, his shout followed by a stab of guilt; if he was there and to little purpose only one person could be to blame. ‘Get him down and the same for all of you. Lay flat on the deck. Michael, get Mrs Barclay out of that cabin.’
‘Already done, Capt’n, below with Rufus at her side.’
That got a nod of gratitude and another stab of remorse; he should have ordered it before, the cabin being the most risky spot with an enemy across the stern. It was doubly remiss not to have noticed Emily as she exited their cabin and traversed the deck to the companionway.
‘Join Rufus, Michael, and get Charlie out of the prow as well, you know why.’
They were at the mercy of both the sea and those cannon, one seeking to drive them to possible safety, the other intent
on destruction. Along the deck most had obeyed his order and were lying down, others close to the companionway following the Irishman below, which seemed to promise more safety, yet that could be an illusion.
If the Barbary captain aimed his cannon right, the shot would blast through the flimsy stern of
Larcher
to wreak havoc as the balls swept along the lower deck. There was nowhere really safe on a small, armed cutter in battle, no deep cockpit where round shot could not reach. Worse for John Pearce, for the men steering the ship the option to do more than duck was not available; in his case he could not even do that.
As captain it was necessary to not only show an example of bravery and or indifference – a fatal panic could ensue if he did not – but in the situation in which they now found themselves he had to be fully aware of what was happening. He could not leave Dorling as the only upright figure on deck. All he could do was briefly close his eyes as he heard the crack of passing shot, feeling blessed as he realised that it had gone overhead, this evidenced by the splinters flying off the stump of the mainmast, which was hit with such force that what had be rigged above came loose and fell to one side, a skein of wood and rope that was arrested by its own tangle.
It mattered not, the sails had no effect on the ship now; it was the force of the sea that was driving her further in and what came next cheered him. The gun crews behind him had leapt up as soon as it was safe to do so and without any orders had trimmed their aim and loosed off a telling reply. Black smoke from the powder, like the seawater borne on the wind, swept over and past him.
Larcher
was close to being jammed now, only moving forward in inches not yards, with high grey and jagged rocks to either side. Looking at the enemy, still on his own with his consort too far away to affect matters, Pearce could see and revel in his problems. Stationary on broken inshore waters, any accurate timing of gunfire was near to impossible.