by Sam Barone
The larger of the two approaching ships was the captured English merchantman. It looked sluggish as it pushed itself through the water, and seemed to have trouble keeping to a straight line. The French privateer sailed smoothly. Somewhat longer than the Pinnace, the Frenchie also possessed two masts and a row of gun ports along its side. Antonio counted the black squares.
“The Frenchman has ten guns, Mr. Durkin.”
Durkin laughed, shaking his head at Antonio’s ignorance. “It’s not the guns you should be worried about. It’s the crew. The Frenchie will probably be carrying more than twice the number of men we have. If it comes to a fight, they’ll try to board us. Can’t let them onboard, lad.”
Antonio swallowed and stared at the French vessel and its prize. All three ships were converging now, and even he could see that the Pinnace had steered a course that would intercept the merchantman in a few minutes, and it would be on his side of the ship. Captain Stukeley obviously wanted to recover the captured English galleon, even if the French privateer escaped.
Movement on the English vessel caught Antonio’s attention, and he noticed that it, too, had opened its gun ports. The Pinnace, outmanned and outgunned by the privateer, might have to fight both ships.
Stukeley appeared at the quarterdeck rail above them. “Durkin, make sure your crews have chain shot ready. Pass the word.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.” Durkin moved beside his guns, to make sure that each of his gunners understood the order. Powder boys returned, struggling to carry the chain shot, two six-pound balls of iron linked by 18 inches of chain.
Antonio took the chain shot, and wondered where to stow it. There was scarcely enough room for the gun’s recoil.
“Store that against the bulkhead, Antonio,” Durkin said. “And if you get the order to load it, make sure you elevate the gun and aim for their masts and rigging. We’ll be using that to dismast the galleon. Wouldn’t want to sink our fellow Englishman, would we?”
Shouts overhead made Antonio look up. The captain of the French privateer had decided to fight. The Frenchie had initiated a hard turn to bring him back to the merchantman. The pirate ship soon completed its rotation. Its course now reversed, she sailed against the wind, heading toward the Pinnace. The Frenchman, determined to protect his prize, showed no fear of the smaller English ship.
The Pinnace continued closing on the merchantman. From what Antonio could see, the Pinnace would reach the galleon a few moments ahead of the privateer.
Captain Stukeley ignored the Frenchman, guiding his vessel straight for the captured ship.
“Smith, shouldn’t we be loading the chain shot?” Antonio’s gun, like all the others on the starboard side, had been loaded with regular cannon balls. He knew it would take at least four or five minutes to unload the weapon, always a dangerous procedure, and switch to chain shot.
“Captain probably wants to put a broadside into her first, to slow her down,” Smith said.
Antonio heard the uncertainty in Smith’s voice. The Pinnace could rake the galleon, but then the Frenchman would be upon them, attacking the Pinnace’s port side.
A puff of gray smoke blossomed from the bow of the oncoming privateer, vanishing in a few seconds. Antonio heard the dull boom, and jumped in surprise. For the first time in his life, someone had fired a cannon at him. He saw nothing of the shot itself.
“Keep your men quiet, Mr. Turner.” Stukeley’s voice cut through the excited chatter from the crew.
Antonio glanced up and saw the captain standing easily against the rail, calculating the angles and gauging the distances as the three ships rapidly converged. First Mate Turner stood behind his captain, but alongside the sailor manning the rudder. Antonio fingered the unlit slow match, now in his right hand. The galleon was about to fire its guns, and the order should have been given to light the matches.
Instead, Stukeley issued a far different order. “Hard to port, Mr. Turner.”
Just as the English merchant ship had drawn within firing range, the Pinnace swung aside, onto a new course that would cross the bow of the privateer. The Pinnace struggled for a moment against the wind, then gathered way and steered in a sharp left turn, cutting across the bow of the approaching privateer.
“Light your matches!” Durkin’s bellow overcame the noise from the wind and waves.
Suddenly Antonio understood Captain Stukeley’s strategy. He’d never intended to attack the English galleon first. Instead, he’d lured the Frenchman in, too close for the French captain to respond to the Pinnace’s quick maneuver.
A ragged burst of cannon fire came from the captured prize as the Pinnace flew by, and Antonio heard a ripping sound as a cannon ball passed through the big sail hanging from the mainmast. A moment later he felt the passage of another rush by overhead. The French gun crews on the galleon had not had time to react to Stukeley’s change of course. Nor had the men working the captured guns much time to prepare for a sea battle. The Pinnace took no other damage that Antonio could see, and soon left the lumbering merchant ship behind, as Captain Stukeley prepared to meet the privateer.
“Now, Mr. Turner.” Stukeley’s voice rang out. “Quarter turn to starboard.”
The Pinnace’s new course would bring it within less than a hundred yards of the Frenchman. The privateer had expected to fire its portside guns at the Pinnace, and now its crews scrambled to ready their starboard side weapons. Nor could the French Captain turn aside. That might risk a collision with the galleon. It would also, Antonio realized, change the angle of fire on its guns, making them ineffective.
The privateer would face not the Pinnace’s portside guns, but those on the starboard side. Antonio’s side.
“Ready starboard guns.” Biggsley’s hoarse bellow carried down the length of the ship from his station on the foredeck. “Aim low, aim for her waterline.”
With a start, Antonio realized that command included him. But he understood the order. On land, a shot falling short could still skip into its target, and water reacted in much the same way. Better to shoot low, he decided, and hope for a rebound into the hull.
“Aim your shots!” Durkin shouted the words almost in Antonio’s ear.
The ships would pass each other in a rush. Suddenly everything was happening at once.
Antonio swung the thick strand of match in a circle to keep it burning hot. Without waiting for Antonio’s order, Smith shoved the quoin forward, depressing the barrel another notch. The Pinnace, steady on its course, swept through the water toward the privateer.
“Ready your guns,” Captain Stukeley called out, his voice as steady as if he were back on the dock in London Harbor.
The command had scarcely been relayed before the next one came.
“Fire as she bears!”
Antonio heard the first cannon go off, and felt the ship shudder from the recoil. Then the rest of the guns were fired. The moment he saw the bow of the French ship under his gun, Antonio jammed the burning match into the touch hole.
The powder charge in the new bronze gun exploded, and blasted its cannonball down the barrel, across the water, and into the privateer. Though the smoke, Antonio couldn’t see the impact of the shot, but guessed it had either struck the enemy vessel at the water line or just short. Either way, it would be a well-placed hit.
The privateer managed to fire only three guns as the Pinnace rushed past, and he didn’t see any effect.
“Hard to starboard,” Captain Stukeley called out.
“Reload those guns,” Durkin bellowed.
Antonio, like many of the other starboard gun crews, had been standing about, lollygagging, watching the privateer, while trying to see what damage the eight English cannon balls had inflicted. Now he rushed back to the powder box, while Bert shoved the wet swab down the barrel. The moment Bert finished, Antonio pushed a powder cartridge down the warm barrel as far as he could reach. He’d scarcely jerked his arm clear before Bert rammed the powder as far into the breech as it would go. Grunting, Smith then r
olled a cannon ball down the tube. Antonio snatched up the wadding and pushed that into the barrel. Bert then shoved that hard against the ball and deep into the gun.
Antonio’s hands were shaking as he poured fresh gunpowder down the touch hole. Even before he finished, Smith yelled out, “Gun number eight ready!”
The Pinnace leveled out just as her bow came even with the stern of the merchantman. Antonio picked out the vessel’s name, the Mary Conception out of Bristol. A large cargo ship with high decks fore and aft, she looked clumsy compared to the Pinnace’s slim lines.
Men scrambled about on the Mary Conception’s deck, trying to ready their starboard guns for firing. A few moments before, they’d been working the port guns.
“Fire! Fire all guns!” The command came from Stukeley as the two ships began to pass each other, less than 60 yards of water between them.
His heart pounding with excitement, Antonio waited one extra moment, until he saw the Mary Conception’s bow through the gun port. The other guns went off in a ragged broadside before he reached out and jammed the match into the touchhole. For a moment he thought the powder hadn’t caught. Then the gun roared, and the carriage’s front wheels lifted off the deck as it slammed back against the ropes.
Eight cannons firing almost simultaneously produced a blast of sound unlike anything Antonio had ever heard. They also yielded a thick cloud of black smoke that stung his eyes before it dissipated into the wind, while the thunder of the guns still rumbled across the water.
“A good broadside, men,” Biggsley shouted, pacing back and forth while keeping his voice calm. The men were excited enough without seeing their gun captain dancing about. “Reload with chain shot.”
Antonio had no idea what effect the firing had on the Mary Conception, already pulling ahead once again. Smith and Bert were back in motion, shifting the gun sideways and swabbing out the barrel. Antonio heard the faint hiss as the water-soaked swab contacted the hot barrel, but he shoved another powder cartridge into the gun, trying not to think about what would happen if it ignited with his arm down the barrel. The awkward chain shot followed, rattling and clanking down the bronze cylinder, to be pounded down.
Overhead, Antonio heard Turner bellow orders and the Pinnace tacked against the wind, readying itself to meet the privateer’s attack. Antonio had only a moment to catch a glimpse of the French ship hurtling through the water straight at him.
But Captain Stukeley had no intention of closing with the privateer. The Pinnace caught the wind and turned away just before the Frenchman arrived. The enemy fired an uneven broadside of its own, but the sharp angle between the two ships made for difficult shooting. Still, a crash forward told Antonio that at least one cannon ball had struck the hull.
By then Antonio and his crew had completed reloading the gun and heaved the bronze barrel back through the gun port. Smith inspected the restraining ropes while Antonio caught his breath, surprised that he felt no fear, only excitement. His chest rose and fell, and he resisted the urge to jump up and down.
Long minutes passed as the ships repositioned themselves. The Mary Conception continued on her original course, but even Antonio’s untrained eyes detected that she moved slower through the waves. At least three or four shots must have struck her, and she might be taking on water.
The three ships were now in a rough line, with the Pinnace once again in the center and closing with the Mary Conception, like a hound charging a wounded stag. The privateer, having come about, now clawed her way after the Pinnace.
“Stand by starboard guns,” Biggsley, his hands cupped over his mouth, bellowed from the foredeck. “Aim for her rigging!”
To his surprise, Antonio realized that only starboard guns had loaded chain shot. The port guns must be loaded with regular cannon balls.
The merchantman tried to evade the approaching ship, but even if she hadn’t been damaged, she was no match for the Pinnace in grace or speed. Turner kept shouting commands, and sailors hauled on the rigging, manned the sails, and worked the pumps. The ship had to be navigated and sailed even as she fought.
Despite the Mary Conception’s efforts to turn away, the Pinnace drew alongside once again, again passing within 60 or 70 yards. Two guns boomed from the merchantman’s deck, and one shot struck the Pinnace, smashing into the forward bulkhead near the number two gun. Chunks of wood and splinters shot through the air, and someone screamed in pain.
Stukeley, hands resting on the rail, ignored the noise and kept his eyes on his quarry. “Gun crews, fire as your guns bear! Aim for the masts.”
Biggsley echoed the command. One by one, the Pinnace’s starboard guns went off. Then Antonio, with a last glance over the gun port, thrust the sputtering match into the touch hole. The gun jumped like a living animal as it hurled its shot at the merchantman’s rigging.
“Reload with chain shot,” Biggsley shouted, not even waiting to see the result.
“A hit! A hit!” someone yelled. “We got ‘er!”
By the time Antonio glanced over the rail, the Mary Conception had fallen a hundred yards behind. He saw one of her yardarms splintered off, the sail dangling from one end and flapping uselessly in the wind.
But the privateer had closed the gap, aiming for the space between the Pinnace and the Mary Conception. This time the Frenchman had the full strength of the wind behind her, and she cut through the water like a spear, headed straight for the Pinnace’s starboard side where the guns still needed to be reloaded. With a start, Antonio saw the privateer intended to fire a broadside into her opponent, grapple on, and try to board.
“All hands to starboard,” Stukeley voice bellowed overhead. “Stand by to repel boarders.”
“Stand by to fire!” Biggsley called out.
The men working the port guns scrambled across the deck, most with cutlasses in their hands, but others carrying boat hooks, 10 foot poles with iron hooks on the end, which they would use to try and fend off the Frenchman. Antonio and his crew continued reloading the gun, frantic to get the weapon ready.
The privateer loomed alongside, close enough for Antonio to glimpse what looked like a 100 men massing on her deck, ready to leap across the gap. Already the Frenchman’s bow had passed the stern of the Pinnace, and the ships were only yards apart. The gun loaded at last, Antonio and his crew threw their weight against the carriage and shoved the barrel through the gun port.
Antonio never heard Captain Stukeley or perhaps Turner give the command, but suddenly the Pinnace’s sails shivered, let loose in the stays. Without the wind filling its sails, the ship luffed up, almost as if she’d run aground, and the privateer rushed past. Antonio saw the faces on the men on her deck, some carrying ropes and boat hooks instead of cutlasses. But surprised by Stukeley’s sudden slowing, the Frenchie overshot its quarry and she slid past the Pinnace too fast to attempt a boarding. Nevertheless, the privateer’s guns went off, in ones and twos.
The Pinnace turned a few degrees to port, to keep the Frenchman under her guns.
“Fire all guns!” Durkin’s voice cut through all the commotion, and the Pinnace’s guns returned the fire.
Before Antonio could obey, a shot from the privateer crashed through the Pinnace’s bulwark, smashing the carriage of the number six gun. A seaman, bloodied by the loose gun, stumbled into Antonio and knocked him to his knees. Antonio lurched to his feet, still gripping the burning match.
He stumbled forward and applied the match. The recoil nearly took off his foot, and he bumped into Bert as he staggered back, the two of them clutching each other for support. A glance over the side showed the two ships drawing apart, the privateer pulling ahead. At such close range, most of the Pinnace’s broadside had struck the Frenchman, and the chain shot had worked again, knocking a spar loose and splintering the foremast. It trailed over the side, part of the torn sail dragging in the water.
The Pinnace turned into the wind, to keep herself behind the privateer, while Antonio and his men, exhausted now, reloaded the gun. All the
chain shot had been expended, but both the Frenchman and the captured prize had sustained serious damage to their rigging.
“That’s got ‘em,” Smith cried, comprehending the situation faster than Antonio. With their sails damaged, neither opponent could maneuver as quickly as the Pinnace, its sails and rigging intact. Captain Stukeley and Turner worked the ship, moving her into position on the privateer’s quarter.
“Ready port guns,” Biggsley’s voice bellowed out over the cheering. “Aim for the waterline.”
This time the Pinnace fired a careful broadside from her port guns without taking a shot in return, and the eight cannonballs tore into the Frenchman’s hull. Watching in fascination, Antonio realized she must be taking on water. With her crew struggling to repair the rigging, now she would have to work her pumps just to stay afloat.
The Pinnace came about, a hard turn that sharply tilted the deck, and kept the ship behind the privateer’s stern.
“Ready starboard guns! Fire as your guns bear, and not before.”
Antonio’s gun waited, and the Pinnace moved slowly closer to the privateer. This time the English ship passed directly behind the Frenchman’s stern, no more than 40 yards apart. One by one, the guns were fired, each shot smashing into the ship’s stern. Antonio fired last, and knew that his shot as well as all the others had ploughed the length of the ship, wreaking God only knew what damage below decks.
The battle continued over the next hour, with the Pinnace darting in to fire into the still-struggling Mary Conception, then returning to fire into the privateer. Again and again the Frenchman tried to close the gap and board, while her crew worked feverishly to free the ship from the fallen mast. But despite the Frenchie’s desperation, the English vessel remained always just out of reach, but close enough to punish her opponent.
By this time, Antonio understood the strategy behind the Pinnace’s maneuvers. Stukeley decided the battle plan, Turner handled the ship and crew, and Biggsley made sure the guns kept firing. Antonio had expected that Stukeley would give all the orders, but the captain knew when to delegate authority. The ship operated smoothly, with nearly every broadside taking effect, every cannon aimed at the enemy’s waterline.
