Chapter 19
Engagement
“How are you getting along there, Mister Heron?” called Lieutenant Rogers. “The corsairs have altered course and are coming this way.”
Harry glanced at the gunner’s mate and caught his nod. “We are ready, sir. The guns are reloaded and ready to run out.”
“Excellent. Do not run out yet; we’ll wait and see what they intend first.” He paused. “They will very likely attempt to board from the bow. Be ready to discharge those guns as the moment serves. No doubt they will try to get below in the hope of seizing prisoners. You have a pistol? Good, make it count, Mister Heron; it and your dirk could stand between you and a life you would not wish to contemplate.”
He hurried away leaving Harry nervously wondering what would happen next.
As Harry stepped from beneath the gangway, he peered up at the fo’c’s’le where several of their men and some of the ship’s own crew were busy around the bowchasers. He wished he could see more and was about to return beneath the gangway when he heard his name called from beneath his feet. Startled, not least because the accent was unmistakably Irish, he looked down and realised that he was stood next to the grating covering the prison hold. “Who calls me?” he asked.
“’Tis oi, Master Her’n—Cormac Murphy, sur, of Newtownards. M’ father worked occasions at Scrabo an’ oi wit’ him.”
“Cormac?” Harry was surprised. “What brought you here?”
“Poaching, Master Her’n. I killed a rabbit fer to help me mam feed the little ’uns, an’ the gamekeeper at Mount Stewart caught me. Oi be sentenced to transportation. Seven years in Botany Bay, sur.”
Harry was appalled. He knew Cormac to be only slightly older than he was, and he felt torn. Poaching was serious business, a hanging offense. Surely this youth, one of those he had played with and worked alongside on his father’s farm, could not have stooped to that. Yet here he was.
“What can I do to help?” Harry asked, more out of politeness than any real expectation that he could.
“Bless you, Master Her’n.” Harry detected a sob. “They says we be about to be seized by pirate slavers; be it true?”
“Not if we can prevent it!” A thought seized Harry. “Cormac, would you volunteer for the navy if opportunity served?”
“Anythin’, Master Her’n. Anythin’ to see me mam agin! Can ye do it fer me?”
“I’ll speak to my Lieutenant when I have a chance. We may have need of a few more boys on Spartan. Ferghal is with me too, so we shall see.”
Harry straightened himself and returned to his charges. He found he was having trouble keeping his hands from trembling, and his heart felt as if it might explode. He gripped his dirk’s hilt tightly and checked the pistol in his belt yet again.
The double report as the small six-pounders on the forecastle fired almost deafened Ferghal even though he had a neckerchief wrapped over his ears and knotted on his forehead. He half ran half jumped to the gangway with his cartridge buckets empty and hurled himself down to the tiny powder store where the gunner’s mate was surrounded by filled cartridge bags. Refilling his cases, he ran for the upper deck even as the guns barked above him. When he returned below with another pair of empty cartridge buckets, the gun crews were already sponging and ramming their next loads. Instinct and training took over as he dodged obstacles and his companions while fetching charges for the other guns. He noted as he ran that the Maid’s own crew were attempting to arm themselves, though some seemed more dangerous to each other than to an enemy.
“Mister Heron,” called the Lieutenant. “Run out and be ready to fire as soon as you bear.”
Harry turned to give the order and found the men already busy. He threw his own weight against the nearest gun as it ran up before he moved to peer through the open port. At first he could see nothing. Then, leaning out a little, he saw the approaching xebec. She was much closer than he had thought. He darted back inboard, forcing himself to control his fear, his voice cracking in excitement as he shouted, “We shall have to train the guns as far forward as we can, else he will be too close before we can bear or fire.”
“Tail on there,” the gunner’s mate took charge. “Get them spikes to work—lever her round as far as she will go.”
Harry jumped out of the way as the men rushed to obey orders. This promised to be very close fighting, he reckoned, his heart hammering in anticipation. All his encounters with the French had thus far been exchanges of gunfire at a distance or accompanying an officer with a boarding party to take possession of a prize that had surrendered under the threat of his previous ship’s guns. HMS Bellerophon had been a veteran of several battles and a part of the Channel Fleet. He checked his dirk, then checked again that the heavy pistol he had been given was primed and ready for use.
“Sir,” the gunner’s mate broke into his thoughts. “Our number one gun will bear on the bastards in a minute. Do you want me to fire when it does?”
Harry hesitated, thinking desperately and trying to show that he was calm. Then he said, “No. Wait until the second one also bears. That way we can be sure of hitting him.”
The gunner’s mate smiled. “You’re a cool one, sir. Right, lads, let’s make this count. You heard Mister Heron.”
Harry took station at a gunport and forced himself to breathe deeply and slowly as he gauged the approaching ship’s angle, surmising when his four guns might be able to bear. The bowchasers were now firing at regular intervals, and he found time to wonder how Ferghal was faring. The xebec’s bow guns were also busy, and more debris falling from above told of effective shooting—or lucky strikes on the rigging and sails aloft.
The gunner’s mate broke into his thoughts. “Sir, I’m thinking we can hit him at this angle, ’specially if we fire on the roll, sir.”
Harry considered, taking time to compose himself, and agreed. “Very well, Mister Bates, fire when we bear.”
“Aye, aye, sir!” The gunner’s mate crouched behind the second gun and sighted carefully along the barrel. The ship rolled heavily. Aloft, a splintering of timbers from the gangways and cries of alarm from the quarterdeck accompanied another loud crack. The Lieutenant’s orders were lost as the first of the broadside guns roared its defiance, followed almost instantly by the second.
“Sponge out, you buggers! Load wi’ round shot only. Save the grape for when they close to board.” The seemed to be everywhere as the men worked frantically to reload the guns and run them up, ready to fire a second time.
The guns belched their flame and smoke in sharp reports, but now the gunner’s mate was ordering the guns trained to a more normal bearing, and Harry leapt forward. The enemy was drawing abeam, giving a chance for the after pair of guns to fire as well. The hull lurched even as the forward guns roared again, and now there was a new sound, an unearthly howling and ululating noise, which Harry realised was the boarders trying to frighten their crew.
“Gunner’s Mate!” he yelled above the din. “Load with grape and keep firing.” He snatched a quick look out of the nearest port and saw with alarm that the xebec had managed to grapple them, its prow almost level with his position. A horde seemed to be swarming from its deck and clambering up the wallowing hull of the Maid of Selsey. Screams, curses, and the unearthly howling of the attackers grew in crescendo as they found a foothold on the gangways and forecastle, driving the defenders back by sheer weight of numbers. To add to the confusion, the prisoners had begun to cry out in alarm and terror, trapped below decks in the stinking prison that could so easily become their tomb. Harry looked about him for direction and swallowed hard. To the idle pair of crews, he said, “Come with me—we must help the Lieutenant fight them off.”
On the forecastle, Ferghal found himself in the midst of a swaying mass of attackers and defenders. He dropped his cartridge cases and snatched up a fallen cutlass. He did not have much skill yet, but at least knew how to hold it, and slashed at a large corsair whose attention was on att
acking the man in charge of the guns. By lucky stroke, he managed to distract the man, which gave Sykes the opening to strike the big pirate a fatal blow. But the corsairs kept adding to their number, and slowly the crew of the Spartan were driven back.
Drawing his pistol, Harry cocked it and led the twelve men from the aftermost guns toward a ladder that would take them to the gangway. The world seemed to have become a fearsome place of noise, and the stench of blood and the frightening ululations of the attackers filled the air. He had almost reached the ladder when a huge figure landed in front of them and slashed at him with a great curved blade. Harry ducked, and the blade whistled over his head. He brought up the pistol and jerked the trigger, feeling the gun kick as it fired. Where the shot went was not immediately apparent, but the big Moor seemed to topple backward slowly. One of the men slashed at the fallen corsair even as they scrambled up and onto the gangway above.
Harry’s wide eyes took in the mayhem. He was shaking, and wished he had Ferghal at his side. Ferghal always seemed to steady him, but now his friend was in the melee on the fo’c’s’le, perhaps already dead. The fo’c’s’le itself was a seething mass of boarders and defenders, with the latter holding their own at this point. Harry looked overside and found himself staring down at several more boarders attempting to clamber up the ship’s side.
“At them, men,” he shouted and stabbed wildly at the nearest boarder with his dirk. Several men joined him, and soon they had dislodged all but one corsair, a wiry individual who succeeded in reaching the deck and now gave a good account of himself as he confronted two of Harry’s men. Another group began to clamber up the ship’s side, making use of trailing rigging and shot damage to the hull to do so. Harry took stock. His men were slowly being drawn into the general melee, and he could not hold off another group without help. Then he spied something that would make a difference.
“Palmer, Ellis, get that swivel and ship it here. We can use it to clear these boarders!”
The two men glanced at what Harry was indicating and jumped to obey. It took the combined efforts of both to move the gun from its mounting on the rail, where it could fire through the grating on the main deck, and carry it to another mounting point on the gangway that Harry had found.
“Quickly, get it set in. Have we some match?”
“I got it, sor,” gasped the quickest of the pair. He dashed below to the nearest gun and grabbed some slow match from the tub, running back with this to where Harry waited.
Taking the match, Harry swung the swivel until it was aimed along the hull toward the clambering enemy. He touched the glowing tip to the priming hole and, for a heart-stopping moment, nothing happened. Then with a bang, the gun belched fire and a hail of musket balls. Without waiting to see what effect this had, Harry squeaked, “Reload!” his voice, to his annoyance, breaking in the excitement.
FERGHAL WAS IN A DESPERATE FIGHT WITH A SKILLED and agile corsair who seemed to be taking care to press him but not injure him. The man drove him steadily backward until he was trapped against a rail. Knocking Ferghal’s weapon aside with almost casual ease, he struck out suddenly with a belaying pin in his other hand.
Ferghal saw the blow coming and ducked sufficiently to avoid the full force of it. The blow still opened a cut in his scalp and caused him to stumble to his knees. He looked up at the grinning corsair in time to see the rising figure behind the pirate and the descending axe.
The two men with Harry obeyed his order, and a minute later he fired the weapon again, this time seeing several corsairs shattered by the scything shot. The gun was reloaded, and just in time, for the corsairs were suddenly on the gangway, their leaders racing toward him, their fearsome swords raised to strike. He swung the muzzle to point at the onrushing attackers and fired again. Grasping his dirk, he prepared to defend himself. It was not much of a weapon against the sword held by the nearest survivor of his last shot, a fact proved when the man cut down Palmer and lunged at Ellis.
Harry swung himself into the shrouds and struck through them in desperation as the man tried to cut at him where he clung to the ratlines. Harry’s blade found flesh, and frantically he pushed as hard as he could, driving it into the man’s chest, fear lending strength to the thrust. He wrenched the dirk free and prepared to strike again, even as the man sagged and toppled from the gangway. Feeling sick and trembling with fright and adrenalin, he regained the gangway and ordered Ellis, “Reload the swivel. We must clear the forecastle.”
Ellis responded, his own voice sobbing with fright and effort as he shouted, “Ready, sir! Give them bastards some more for Josh, sir.”
Harry found the match still in its stock and, taking time to train the muzzle on the now retreating corsairs, applied it to the touchhole. The bang of the gun was echoed by a rolling thunder followed by screams and crashes from astern.
“It’s the Spartan, sir,” yelled Ellis. “She’s found the wind and given them bastards a full broadside!”
Harry glanced aft and saw one of the xebecs capsizing. He felt a shiver pass through him as he realised that, but for Spartan’s intervention, the xebec would have soon been in a position to attack over their stern. With a start, he noticed that the remaining corsairs were leaping and scrambling back to their own ship.
Harry and his crewmates had won! But more than that, he had beaten his own fear.
He called, “Quick Ellis, back to the guns—we may have a chance to speed them away with our own in a moment.”
He jumped from the gangway to land heavily but without injury on a corpse below him. He picked himself up and scrambled to where the gunner’s mate, one sleeve torn and bloodied from a slash wound, was trying to muster some of his remaining men. “Quick, Mister Bates, we must fire on them as they pull away. They surely cannot avoid our guns now.”
“Aye, Mister Heron, and so we will if we can get these grinning idiots of our’n to jump to it. Get moving, you idlers,” he bawled. “Get them guns loaded, and no skimping on the charge. I want full charge and double shot. Move!”
Ferghal recovered his fallen cutlass and gave his support to the older man who had saved him. His head hurt, and the blood from the cut he had received ran down his face, but his fighting temper was now up, and he locked blades with a corsair and drove at him with a skill born of cold, calculating fury. If they wanted to take him for a slave, they had best be prepared to have a hard fight. The thunder of the broadside distracted him briefly, just long enough to see Harry leap to the main deck, and then he was once more slashing and cutting at any who crossed his path.
Harry found himself dancing a little jig as he waited on the loading and watched the xebec slowly opening the gap between herself and the Maid of Selsey. He realised what had made it possible for these ships to escape so rapidly, and he shouted this to the gunner’s mate. “Aim for the oars. If we can cripple those, she will be easy meat for the Spartan!”
The gunner’s mate gave him a strange look, but he only said, “Very good, sir. You heard him lads! Make sure of them; take the outriggers as your mark and wait for my signal.” He paused until all the Captains indicated readiness, and then he yelled, “Fire!”
The four guns leapt backward in a ragged broadside. The men sprang to reload, and Harry dived for a port to see what had happened. The smoke eddied clear, and he saw to his initial delight that more than half the oars on the xebec’s port side were a tangled, shattered mass. Then he felt the cold clutch of horror as he saw that the oarsmen attached to them were now broken shattered rags. He watched as some of the survivors struggled to free themselves, hindered by the chains that held them to their benches.
His horror turned to rage when he saw the corsairs attack these wretched scarecrows with whips to compel them to the effort of rowing. He leapt back from the port and said, “Gunner’s Mate, I want each gun aimed and fired at the gangways and the quarterdeck of that ship.” He did not notice that his voice was suddenly deeper and firmer. “I want as many of those fiends destroy
ed as possible. See to it, Mister Bates.”
“Aye, aye, sir!” said the gunner’s mate with enthusiasm. “Dudley, stand ready with the training spikes—this bastard isn’t going to escape.”
Harry watched dispassionately as the gunner’s mate pointed each gun as carefully as he could and fired. The first struck on the decorated transom, raising a great shower of splinters; the second struck nearby but caused more damage, for the ship slewed round, exposing her side to the next shot, which struck a mast and sent a shower of splinters scything through the corsairs clustered near it. The fourth shot, by lucky chance, struck near the xebec’s bowchasers, overturning one gun and careening off it to cut through another cluster of men gathered at the fore end of the ship. Further firing was rendered unnecessary as the sky darkened under the shadow cast by the towering canvas of HMS Spartan as she tacked across the Maid of Selsey’s stern, her ports open and her great batteries run up and ready to fire.
On the corsair, panic ensued as the pirates scrambled to throw themselves into the sea even as Spartan’s broadside thundered across the intervening space. Harry turned away as the lightly framed xebec disintegrated, torn apart by the smashing power of the great thirty-two pounders of the lower battery and the lighter twenty-fours of her upper tier.
“Don’t fret for the slaves, sir,” the gunner’s mate said softly. “At least now they’ll be free, not like the poor sods on this tub.”
“I shall hope they at least die quickly then,” said Harry bitterly, still not aware of the change in his voice. He went to find the Lieutenant wondering where Ferghal was and praying that he would not be among the dead on the forecastle.
“Master Harry,” Ferghal called to him, “you’re safe then.” His relief was evident in his voice.
“Aye, Ferghal.” Harry managed a smile. “And so I see are you. It seems we have both denied the devil his prize for now. Where is the Lieutenant?”
“Aft. The ship’s master is wounded I think. Certainly he ran below as soon as the corsairs boarded us, and the rest of this crew would have followed him if our people hadn’t made them stand.” Ferghal grinned. “It was hot work there for a moment, but then you got that swivel working, and it gave some of them a distaste for their position, I’m thinking.”
Harry Heron: Midshipman's Journey Page 17
