“A gift, I think,” Harry replied absentmindedly, his concentration focused on the sketch. He glanced at the older midshipman and smiled. “I have always enjoyed drawing, and it is simple, really; perspective and light can be used to add a depth of field to the picture if you need it.”
“Simple to you, perhaps.” Tom laughed. “But for those of us with no talent for it—well, our efforts do not even approach yours.”
“To each his own gift I suppose,” said Harry. “Would that I could make the music as Ferghal does. Though I can dance, I have no talent for the making of music nor the singing of it.”
“True, but you have this gift and the ability to follow the parson and his mathematics. That surely is more than enough for any man.”
Harry laughed. “If you say so, Tom.” He studied the seven ships of the Spanish squadron again. “There, I think I have them all now. Do you think the Captain will want this coloured?”
“Of a certainty, and in a gilt frame too, no doubt, if it is to your usual standard.” Tom raised his spyglass again then called down, “Deck there, Spaniards are bearing away—setting course for the Cadiz Roads by the look of it.”
Chapter 18
Corsair
The ship rolled sluggishly, loose blocks clattering overhead as the sails slatted heavily against the rigging and spars, the fitful breaths of wind barely lifting them before dying away again. Since leaving Cape Trafalgar astern, the winds had been fickle and light. Harry tugged at the sweat-soaked collar of his shirt and wished he could shed the heavy jacket and his necktie. He moved his feet and felt the tar in the deck seams tug at the soles of his shoes. Away to larboard, some sixty miles distant according to the ship’s master, lay the African coast, the land of Moorish corsairs and pirates, to starboard the open Atlantic. He raised the signal glass to his eye and trained it on the fat Indiaman some two miles distant over their bow. He wondered what it would be like on a John Company ship; perhaps less crowded than on the Spartan.
“Deck there!” The lookout’s cry brought a stirring among the watch keepers. “Five sail on the port quarter. Look to be galleys, sir!”
Lieutenant Beasley called Harry over. “Mister Heron, take a glass aloft and tell me what you see with it.” He turned to the second midshipman. “Mister Tanner, get below to the Captain and give him my compliments; we appear to have xebecs in sight.”
Harry hurried to the main chains and swung himself up onto the ratlines, scrambling quickly up the long run to the maintop and climbing round the futtocks up to the crosstrees. He settled himself beside the lookout, a small weather-beaten fellow whom Harry knew as Tom Worth, and asked, “Where are these galleys?”
“On our quarter, sor,” responded the lookout, pointing to them in the distance. “And moving fast, sor—they wuz well astern when I fust saw ’em.”
Harry focused the telescope and the leader leapt into view as he caught her in the lens. She had a slim hull with raked bows and a raised stern castle, her long overhang apparent even at this angle. The three masts and long lateen booms showed clearly with their sails furled. The light flashed on her oars as they rose and fell in unison. He noted that Worth’s assessment was accurate; these craft were moving fast indeed.
“They move swiftly on those oars—there must be several men to each.”
“Aye, sir, two usually. Slaves they be as rows ’em. Nasty buggers, them ships—can stay out of the way of our guns and still strike at us if they’ve a mind to.”
“I see,” said Harry thoughtfully. He called down to the deck, “Five galleys, sir, under oar only, and running parallel to our course, sir. On their present heading they will be ahead of us inside two hours.”
“Very good, Mister Heron,” the voice of Captain Blackwood floated back. “Remain there and watch them. If they make any alteration of course, I wish to know immediately.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Harry called back, his voice shrill with the strain. He raised the glass again, this time trying to memorise the details of these sleek and threatening ships. At first sight, they did not appear to be armed, but then Harry noticed they carried a pair of large guns on the forecastle. Coupled with this, each ship carried a body of heavily armed men in evidence with several lighter guns along the hull. He understood the threat they might pose.
Ferghal listened with a quickening pulse to the exchange of calls between the quarterdeck and his friend at the masthead. He had promised his father he would take care of his young friend Harry and was determined to protect him from any danger—no easy task in a seventy-four.
His present job of assisting in the making of a long deep-sea lead line saw him skilfully tying off the knots and tails to mark the fathoms as the boatswain’s mate measured them. The boatswain interrupted his work.
“Gather all up, O’Connor, and secure it. I’m thinking we are about to clear for action, and this kit’d best not be left in a muddle, lad. Make tidy and strike it below to my store. Let young Gunn there help you.”
“Aye, aye, Mister Billing,” replied Ferghal. He liked the boatswain and thrived on the tasks he was given by him. He especially enjoyed the boatswain’s patience in explaining the manner by which a thing could be done. Now, though, he moved quickly to tidy the line into a series of long shanks, each tied with thin cord to keep it from tangling, with the boy, Gunn, helping. Then, gathering the shanks of line in his arms, he hurried down to the boatswain’s store while the boy brought the tools.
On the quarterdeck, Captain Blackwood ordered, “Mister Bell, have the ship cleared for action. They will attempt to work their way into a position ahead or astern of their target and try to disable them before boarding. I do not think they will attempt us, but they will certainly try for the Indiamen and the convict ships. Mister Rae, take the launch to the Miranda and the others, and make sure they prepare properly to repel any attempt on them. Impress upon all the masters the importance of keeping close to Virago and us. Our best hope is in the wind returning or in staying together where our guns can hold them off! To scatter now is to ensure capture.”
As the officers hurried to carry out his orders, he said to the others, “Mister Beasley, Mister Foster, have the cutters cleared away and swung out. Put a boat gun in each, if you please, and have them take us under tow. We must get close to the convict ships—these fellows are slavers and will see the smaller ships as easy targets.”
He turned to the fifth Lieutenant and added, “Take the quarter boat, Mister Rogers, and a detachment of the Bullocks to the Lady Jane. She was shorthanded and may find herself unable to resist if attacked.”
He paused, studying the distant ships. “Return when you have done it, and convey Mister Bowles, Mister Barclay, and some of our other Midshipmen with detachments of our Marines to the other prison ships as well. See to it, please.”
Ferghal secured the boatswain’s store and returned the key to its keeper as the urgent tattoo of the Marine drummers sounded throughout the ship.
“Clear the ship for action!” roared the s, their pipe calls shrill above the rattle of the drums.
Ferghal and the other boys ran to their tasks amidst the chaos of clearing away the bulkheads and furnishings and preparing the guns, finally collecting their cartridge cases and standing ready to run to their guns. Ferghal found time to reassure the little Danny Gunn, “Just stay close, Danny; we don’t have much to do now but run with our cartridges. Just be quick and careful is all, and make sure your cartridge cases are closed properly.”
The words were barely out of his mouth when a was shouting down the hatchway, “O’Connor, Smith, Bellew, get yourselves on deck and into Mister Rogers’s launch. You’re to go with him and help serve the guns on one of the prison ships.”
Aloft in the crosstrees, Harry watched the xebecs as they crept abeam and drew ahead, the rhythm of the oars almost hypnotic. The Spartan inched a little closer to the still scattered convict ships while Virago drew the two HEIC ships closer to herself. He was aware of
the boats below him trying to drag the bulk of their own ship to a position from which she could defend the others and of the first Lieutenant’s efforts to move some of the ship’s long nines to where they could be brought to bear ahead or astern.
His thoughts on this were broken by the lookout’s sudden observation. “Them poor devils’ll be dying if those bastards keep ’em at that pace much longer. Them’ll be needin’ a few replacements at the oars soon! Look, sir, they’s chucking some poor sod overside.”
Harry swung the telescope and watched in horror as what appeared to be an emaciated corpse dressed in rags was hurled from the forepeak of one of the xebecs to be overrun by the surging hull. He was about to express his disgust when there was a cry from the deck.
“Mister Heron! Come down, sir; report to Mister Rogers,” boomed the voice of the Captain through his speaking trumpet.
Quickly housing the telescope, Harry nodded to Tom Worth. “It seems I am required for some new task below,” he said with a grin.
“Aye, sir.” Tom returned his grin. “Looks as if all ye young gentlemen is being sent to play nurse to them hell ships. Watch them Musselmen if they gets aboard ye, sir. They fight like demons, and there’s no quarter asked or given wi’ ’em either.”
“I’ll keep it in mind!” Harry said, and he descended the mast. He was tempted to slide down the stay, but with the telescope swinging against his back, he decided to take the safer option. He arrived on the gangway just in time to join the fifth Lieutenant as he mustered another party of seamen and marines. Harry was relieved to see Ferghal crouched in the packed boat.
“Come along, Mister Heron, make ready. We are to take this crew to the Maid of Selsey. If our corsairs strike, she will lie in their path. You have your dirk? Good, it will serve. Into the boat with you now.”
Passing the heavy telescope to a , Harry scrambled down the tumblehome and launched himself into the boat as it lifted to the swell and rose to meet him. Landing somewhat awkwardly, he was steadied by one of the seamen who grinned at him. “Easy, sir, there’ll be time enough to go at them when they come alongside us.”
Harry laughed and several others laughed with him. “Thank you, Jenkin, I shall curb my lust for a fight and wait patiently with the rest of you then.” His eyes found Ferghal and nodded an acknowledgement of his friend’s grin and small signal of greeting.
THE MAID OF SELSEY WAS A FAT, SLOW AND RATHER ELDERLY SHIP. The first sound that greeted Harry’s ears as he followed the Lieutenant through the entry port was the clank of her pumps, and it was immediately obvious this ship needed almost constant pumping. He heard Lieutenant Rogers exclaim, “Good God, Captain, do not tell me you are holed already!”
“Lord no! She has some bad seams which need careening to caulk.”
The master was an oily fat man with small, close-set eyes that put Harry in mind of a pig.
“But we have plenty of labour to keep the pumps going until we do that.” He gave a mirthless laugh as he waved a hand over the upturned faces of the prisoners confined in the prison holds.
Looking down, Harry felt a surge of pity as he caught sight of several children’s faces peering up through the grating. This turned to an angry disgust when he heard what the master said next.
“Rats, this lot, all of them—mostly Irish rebels and poachers. They have a choice with us: pump or drown.”
“There may be another option if we are boarded, Captain.” Lieutenant Rogers sounded as disgusted as Harry felt. “These corsairs are slavers, and you and your crew are just as likely to find yourselves attached to their oars as any of those below if they succeed.” He looked about him frowning. “Have you no broadside guns with which we may repel these pirates?”
Harry could see several guns, but all seemed to be trained inboard and pointed at companionways or the gratings. He heard the Captain tell the Lieutenant, “With so few hands for my ship and so many prisoners…” he shrugged “…I keep them ready to quell any mutiny, mister.”
“Well, my men will take charge and prepare them to repel a more serious threat,” said the Lieutenant, his tone indicating his anger at this man’s folly. Turning to Harry he said, “Mister Heron, go with Mister Bates and see what may be done to get those guns ready for our defence. I do not think we will have to concern ourselves with any attempt to escape by the prisoners for the moment.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” said Harry following the gunner’s mate as the Captain started to protest at the Lieutenant’s taking charge.
Harry followed the warrant officer below the gangway and listened as the man, one of Spartan’s most experienced, told the seamen what he wanted.
“Begging your pardon, Mister Heron,” the gunner’s mate acknowledged Harry’s rank, “but we be needin’ some more hands to get these guns turned and ready should them pirates come our way, if you agree, sir.”
“As you say, Mister Bates,” Harry acknowledged. “Press a few of the ship’s own people; they need not stand idle while we work,” he ordered, still angry at the evident callousness of the Maid of Selsey’s master. A further thought struck him. “How will we check their loading? I rather fancy they will be loaded with grape and not shot.”
The gunner’s mate nodded. “You’re right, sir. I’ll see to it. This shower of loafers will have filled the guns with grape and under charged them too, I’m thinking.” He called one of the men to him. “Perks, see if you can draw the charge from that gun. Take care now; I doubt the buggers will have done it proper. Make sure they have a full charge of powder and shot, not grape, and not a half or quarter charge as would be right for this use.” He walked across to where a few of the ship’s own crew were clustered idly watching the Spartan.
The gunner’s mate returned shortly, driving them ahead of him.
Harry watched in fascination as Perks used the wad hook to explore the charge.
Perks grinned. “We’m in luck, sor,” he said as he hauled the hook out again. “They’s loaded wi’ grape, and it weren’t rammed home proper.” He shot a contemptuous look at the prison ship’s crew as they worked sulkily. “Wouldn’t have been much bloody use if they’d tried to use them against the prisoners,” he said loud enough for them to hear. “Probably wouldn’t have fired.”
As he said this, the corkscrew hook appeared with the wrappings of the grape shot snagged in its point. “Now fur the charge,” Perks muttered, inserting the hook again.
A few minutes later, he extracted the wad and the canvas containing the powder. He looked at it in disgust. “Less’n half a charge in there, and bleedin’ poor powder it is too. Be lucky if’n it fires at all!”
The crew busied themselves with the task of reloading the gun and getting it into a position where it could be fired on any attacker. New cartridges for the guns were brought up eventually, the delay apparently due to a disagreement between the ship’s officers and the Lieutenant.
On the forecastle, Ferghal threw himself into the task of preparing the small bowchasers for use against a possible approach from ahead.
“Bleeding pop guns,” grumbled the leading hand in charge of preparing them. “Them bleeding pirates will have to stand in front of ’em afore they does any damage.” He looked at Ferghal and said, “’Ere youngster, fetch up a couple of cartridges for ’em. Get some o’ them layabouts t’ show yez where they ’ide ’em and bring ’em ’ere.”
“Aye, aye,” Ferghal responded and ran to where one of the ship’s officers stood glowering at Lieutenant Rogers’s back.
“Please, sir, we need some powder cartridges for the guns, sir.”
“What for?” the officer growled. “They have charges in them. A great fuss for nought—those corsairs won’t come near us!”
Lieutenant Rogers caught the gist of this and came over. “I’d be obliged if you would provide my men with the powder and shot they require. Your opinion of these corsairs may be accurate, but it will be too late to change our defences once they lay alongside us, mister
.” To Ferghal he said, “What does Sykes require?”
“Two fresh cartridges to reload with full charges, sir,” replied Ferghal, touching his forelock. “An’ some shot to replace the grape, sir.”
“Very well.” The Lieutenant fixed the mate with a grim expression. “Well, sir, do you give the order to your men or shall I have mine simply take charge of your magazine and issue what we need? We are here to defend you and your charges, and we shall do so whether you assist us or not.”
“Damn you!” The mate was plainly angry. “Very well, I shall do as you ask.” He called a large man to them. “Boatswain, take this whelp below and give him and his companions the powder and shot they want. But don’t let them help themselves; make sure you provide only what they need.” He couldn’t resist adding, “No telling how much they’ll take.”
Ferghal, now joined by the other boys and one of the younger men from Harry’s guns, followed the surly boatswain below decks to the hold and the small powder store. Here, almost in contempt of the material he was handling, he carefully and irritatingly slowly measured out powder into the bags that made up the cartridges.
“Have you no prepared cartridges?” asked the young seaman, Grant, irritated by the slowness of this surly man whose very attitude reeked of insolence toward them.
“Watch yer mouth, pup,” snarled the boatswain. “Or you can go hang and no powder from me.”
“Well, at this rate there’ll be no need fer it,” shot back Grant. “They pirates’ll be ere to ’elp theirselves!”
The situation could have degenerated as the boatswain remonstrated with the young seaman, but one of the more senior hands from Spartan arrived in time—a burly man who Ferghal recognised as a gunner’s mate. He sized up the situation and said firmly, “I’ll take charge here. O’Connor, Smith, you two can fill cartridges—quickly now—charges for the twelve-pounders there and for the six-pounders over here. The rest of you, find me a bucket o’ water, and move that light away from here.”
Harry Heron: Midshipman's Journey Page 16
