by Jan Needle
The sloop that had slipped out was still ghostly, but well away and almost lost to sight. It occurred to Raven that the crippled ship, the one that had been in the bay for repair, must be fighting fit again. Otherwise why would the help-mate have abandoned her?
‘Lieutenant,’ he ventured. ‘Mr Swift, perhaps—’
‘Prevarication!’ snapped Daniel Swift. ‘Just hold your mouth and sort your small arms out. Half your men can row, the other half can get into fighting trim. I will not hear another word, sir! The job is done!’
And the light is rising, thought the midshipman. And if one ship was all awake, why should not the second be?
‘Aye,’ he said, to Sampson, quietly. ‘The job is done. The die is cast. Now God for Harry, England and Saint George.’
If Sampson got the reference, or the irony, he did not indicate.
‘Best check your primings, sir,’ he said. ‘The die is cast, for good or ill. We’ll be round yon noddle in a minute. Then we shall see.’
It was a weird feeling, rowing gently round the rocky outcrop not knowing what they were about to see. The daylight was not high yet, but any hope they had of blending was a thin one. All knew that stillness in a boat in such a situation was the only hope to be not spotted, and they were not still. Their oars were lifted with great care, and slipped in like a lover’s probing tongue. But they were not still.
The bay was smaller than expected, smaller by far. Swift was in the lead, and as he slipped beyond a craggy rock, he almost came upon the anchored ship. She was still, and dark, with not a glim on board, but she was so close that the gig damn nearly ran into her.
‘Back! Back!’ hissed Robinson. ‘Backwater all, for God’s sake. For shit sake, what is going on?’
Raven’s craft, ten feet astern, slid sideways as he jerked the starboard yoke line, and the men backed in unison.
‘No word,’ he breathed. ‘No word, no word, no word.’
The boats pulled back. Still there was silence on the Frenchman, still nothing stirred. Startlingly, a cat yowled, and Raven heard a scurry of sharp claws. All held their breath.
She was a small ship, not the length of Pointer but more tall. She had three masts, but the main topmast was struck and all the low yards on that mast were a’cockbill. The other masts had sails on every yard, but loosely stowed, either for an intended sailing, or in case they had to make a sudden getaway. On this coast the weather was akin to England’s – not to be trusted beyond a cough and spit. A swift blast from the north and she would be lost.
For the same reason, perhaps, she was lying to a single anchor. No doubt it could be slipped if need arose. By the same token, Charlie Raven thought., she could be cast adrift and let to go ashore. The shore, he guessed, was alive with reefs and hazards. His mouth went dry. Surely Lieutenant Swift must have had the thought?
However, as he watched, the ship began to swing on her anchor. He could discern no tidal movement, so it must be eddies from the wind outside the bay. There were few waves inside, it was a remarkable little refuge. How glad I would have been to find it, he thought inconsequentially, had I had a ship in need of some attention.
The gigs had drifted close, and all hands were gazing at the quiet ship. It was remarkable, she was alone, as if abandoned. No living creature except the cat. All hands asleep below. She was ripe for taking. She must be. She was begging to become their prize.
‘Sir,’ he whispered across the water. ‘Sir, my men are ready with dirks and pistols. If I moored up to the forward chains we could be on board in five shakes. Sir, with your permission? Or I will take the other side if you prefer the starboard? Or we could swarm over the—’
A silent snarl is a strange thing to articulate. Swift achieved it, though. His voice was full of frustrated rage. But very, very quiet.
‘By God, Raven, have you forgot our orders! By God, sir, do you want to have us flogged? We must back off! The Pointer will be very soon. Likely she is outside this rumpot of a harbour now!’
Rumpot indeed. A low sound of disbelief was heard throughout the pair of gigs, a sound full loaded with contempt.
‘I hold him for a coward,’ Simpson whispered. A small, dry laugh. ‘Except I know that that is hogshit. By Christ he’s feared of Maxwell, though.’
Raven bit his lip. He could not believe this chance would go to waste. He could not believe they would not board, attack, and take the ship.
‘He is not a coward, sir, I promise you,’ Simpson went on, as if he’d been disputed. ‘But then, sir, nor is none of us, and some will take this very, very hard.’
Suddenly, and as shocking as a gigantic thunderclap, a shout went up from somewhere in the middle of Swift’s gig.
‘Ahoy!’ it bellowed. ‘Ahoy there, Johnny Crapeau! Here’s an English end to beauty sleep! Ahoy, rise up, and shake a mamselle’s leg!’
‘You villain!’ shouted Daniel Swift. ‘I’ll see you hang for that, you bastard! Who was it? Speak up men, or I will flog you all!’
The boats were crowded. The night was still well dark. And in Raven’s gig, now, the cry was taken up. First one voice, then two, then too many men to count.
‘Wake up, Monsieurs! We want to dance with you! We’ve come to see you murdered in your frog’s-leg beds! Look lively, there. While you still have got a chance!’
Raven gave no order, made no sound. He watched in helpless anguish as his men leapt from the boat, onto the chains, onto the bulwarks, and swarmed on to the Frenchman’s deck.
In anguish for what might happen to them for their madman disobedience.
And in a kind of joy.
Chapter Fifteen
As Raven’s men spread across the frigate’s deck, the rumpus in Lieutenant Swift’s gig got louder. He was standing in the sternsheets, his cutlass drawn. He whisked it round his head like some kind of wildman, and received vile words back from the darkness for his pain. More swords were out, more hands reached for the Frenchman’s side. It was a rout, an anonymous riot, an act of cheerful disobedience.
‘I’ll see you flogged!’ he roared. ‘I’ll see you bastards hanged! Mr Robinson, take their names, sir, take their names!’
The boatswain’s mate did no such thing. He threw a loose hitch with the painter round a chainplate stay, and pulled his body sideways as men clambered past and over him. He did not exactly aid them, but he was not much hindrance. In the confusion he deemed it safe, apparently.
Raven was in a dreadful quandary. His urge to follow on his boat’s crew was very strong, but he knew his duty was to do the opposite. He caught Simpson’s arm, maybe for guidance, but the big man shook him off.
‘Here come the French,’ he said. ‘Make sure that you be ready, sir!’
With that he skipped forward along the gig’s thwarts, seizing the hatchet that hung in the bow in case of snarl-ups in the normal way of boatwork. He already had a cutlass in one massive hand, a long horse pistol in his belt, and a dirk. A pirate, Raven thought. A Kernow pirate to his very bones.
The noise on board the anchored ship had taken a new direction. From aft and from the hatchways came a different shouting, of fear and fury mixed, and with a clear French tenor. There came whistle blasts as well, and in less than thirty seconds a fusillade of shots.
The French were in the normal seaman’s night attire – their clothes – but on this night were disadvantaged. So hot was it below that few had breeches on, few more than a shirt indeed, and all bare-legged and footed. Their weapons, too, had not been at the ready – for why should they be? Many of them burst on to the deck unarmed.
Some had guns; the constables presumably, and night-watchmen. As the Englishmen rushed aft, they were met first with a wall of shouting, then some shots.
And Raven, to his consternation, saw one of his crew hit. He knew he should not fire, he knew this was a blind helpless brawl, but he saw another musket aimed, its muzzle not ten feet from a British head, and his own pistol exploded in his hand. The bullet struck the matelot in the neck, blood
spurted as he fell.
‘Huzzah!’ was bellowed in his ear, and other sailors pushed and shoved him onwards.
And then Lieutenant Swift was at his side. He shouted at the British men, ‘Desist! Drop back! They’ll kill you all you bloody stupid fools!’
One man turned his head to sneer at him, and Swift struck him right across the face with the flat edge of his sword.
‘I said Drop back! I said Desist! Men – bring up your guns! Contain them! You there, let me have your musket!’
A few men were fighting hand to hand. But Swift took up a musket, stood back, took rapid aim. A tall man behind the brawlers, whose fine white shirt bespoke an officer, dropped like a stone. Another ball, from behind Lieutenant Swift, brought down another man.
In an instant the defence was routed – or in any way were beating the retreat. There were a few more shots from abaft of them aimed at the English, one of which caught a Frenchman in the side, first victim to his own comrades. The British, hallooing like a hunting party, made to run them down.
‘I’ll shoot!’ yelled Swift. ‘Stop or I will shoot! Raven! Robinson! Shoot any man that runs another step!’
Tall order, but it did the trick. With reluctance and naked resentment, the English sailors gave up the chase. The French moved from the waist on to the quarterdeck, then disappeared below. A jumbled noise, some shouted orders, then a silence grew. So still was it on deck, that the panting of the Pointer men, to the midshipman, sounded distinctly odd, like farmyard animals.
My first battle, he thought. How strange. How strange and very easy. Then he thought – what now?
Swift was standing at his side.
‘We are in deadly danger, sir,’ he said. ‘Why did you not prevent the scum from breaking out? You will pay a price for this, you fool. Now. It is your task to secure the forward part. I will take aft.’
Raven was bemused. All around him, his boat’s crew had expectation on their faces. He was to lead them; it was the way. He was their officer, and they his men. Oh God, he thought, God tell me what to do.
‘Skip now!’ snapped Swift. ‘What are you waiting on? In half a jiff they’re going to kill us all!’
But how, thought Charlie Raven. ’Fore God, what shall I do?
He felt Simpson move beside him. He felt overshadowed. He was like a helpless babe.
‘Come you here, sir. We take the forward hatchway, there. We must go careful in case the froggies lurk. All armed and ready. You!’ he shouted. ‘Aye, Turner, Jones and Pearson! If you have pistols, ready ’em. And dirks! All hands with dirks muster on Mr Raven!’
Raven struggled hard to pull himself to sensibility. Thank God the light was rising so that he could see. Not much, though. Further aft the men of Swift’s boat’s crew were spreading towards the break between the maindeck and the poop, a low step, hardly worthy of the name. He saw shadows ducking, going down below, their swords and daggers gleaming intermittently.
Christ, no one will see in front of them, he thought. We will be rats stuffed in a sack. It will be carnage.
And a fusillade of shots burst out, some clear, most muffled. And some screams, some yells, some groaning.
‘Down, sir!’ hissed Simpson, in his ear. ‘Get down below, sir, and be yelling! You must lead them. You are the main man now!’
The midshipman was thrust into the darkness of the lower deck, thrust by a ham-hand from the rear. Instantly all blackness, instantly all blind. He felt Simpson forcing him inexorably forward.
‘On, men!’ cried Raven. ‘On men, and at ’em! They’re only Frenchies, my brave lads. One push and we will surely win the day!’
All about him his men began to cheer. Jesus, he thought. We are all stark raving mad.
Chapter Sixteen
An officer unescorted, forward of a certain point below, is a man on his own. On English navy ships marines are quartered there, to separate the people from their lords, and as Lieutenant Swift moved into the pitchy darkness, he might have expected a bullet or a blade. Robinson was close behind him, and after him a press of bulky men – bulky but not clumsy.
The first thing all noticed was the smell. Un-English, certainly – all men knew the French ate mainly filth – but also the telltale reek of candle smoke. The glims had been snuffed out hastily, which meant the darkness had been brought about deliberate. Which meant that they were probably surrounded.
‘Is this the lot of us? Robinson, are we all here? Keep close beside this bulkhead, I am going to shoot.’
Swift was known to be a brave man, and a headstrong one. Everyone who heard him – all those who spoke English anyway – pressed themselves backwards into the smallest, furthest space away from him.
And then he opened fire. Three pistols he must have had, and a musket. One after the next, almost simultaneously, they flashed and cracked. The tiny ’tween decks space choked in a gush of smoke, and in the flickering of the muzzle-flames they all saw men ranged on the other side, and cowering like rats.
‘At ’em!’ yelled Swift. ‘Give them no time, give them no quarter! At them, I say!’
Then from the other side there was another fusillade, but far more ragged than Swift’s own. They heard the balls strike into wood, they heard them ricochet off metal, striking sparks along the carriage guns. But in the way of things it seemed no man was hit, there were no cries, no screams, no English words or French.
‘Forward,’ roared Swift. ‘No more shots, lads, engage them with your paws!’
To one side of them, towards the stern, a streak of light spilled out as a door or curtain opened. Behind it they saw many men, and one of them was in a bloody shirt, a standing, living corpse. Some lifted muskets, but there came cries in French, a scream of anguish.
Forgetting his own order, Lieutenant Swift raised another pistol and discharged it into the lighted throng. And as the curtain fell he led the charge.
‘Attack! Attack! Attack!’
In the forepart of the ’tween decks, towards the vessel’s dumpy waist, Raven’s men had moved from the foremast towards the main. They had caught and killed two sailors, and a third who bid to shout a warning was sliced across the throat as nicely as a butcher would have done.
When they heard the shooting from down aft, Simpson put a hand out to restrain his young gentleman.
‘It mid be us,’ he said, ‘but then again it mid be Frenchy guns, sir. We need candles, glims; we don’t get lights we surely, surely die.’
But Raven was an officer forward and below; an officer in limbo, lost. He heard others scurrying, then heard the sound of flint on steel. First a tiny glow, and then a flame. The sound of gentle blowing, and a light flared out. In it he saw a Frenchman, naked but for a short undershirt, pressed into a crevice by a stanchion. And then he saw the Frenchman knifed, and fold in two, and crumple to the deck, and twitch a few times, then be still.
‘No more killing! No more murder, men! No more killing of the innocent!’
This was greeted with some derision, not least from Simpson, and they moved aft as soon as they had some candles lighted. Raven asserted his authority as best he could, the better when he shouted at the giant: ‘This is bad in you, man, I had expected better! The French are humans too, you know!’
It sounded appalling trite, even to his ears, but maybe it hit home. Simpson seized a passing seaman by the neck and slowed him down by open force.
‘John! Go calmly, man! Mr Raven says not to kill, and Mr Raven is the man.’
‘Not kill? But—’
‘Not kill for pleasure!’ Raven gasped. ‘Not for the sake of it! Of course kill if you have to, John! No hesitation!’
The sailor laughed. It tickled him that Raven called him John. He touched his forehead, and clicked his tongue.
‘Aye, sir! Not kill, sir! For you, sir, that is pleasure in itself!’
Whether he was mocking him or not, Raven could not know. But the other men were calmer now, more stable, less fired with excitement, maybe fear. And when another hiding ma
telot was flushed out, they cuffed him amiably, and tied him in a trice, and stuffed him down between two racks of balls. They stuffed his mouth, too, with his scarlet neckcloth.
Worst moment came by accident, when Raven thought and hoped the bad was done. The men leading his party, creeping from part to part, checking the deck below, the cable store, the orlop, came almost face to face with the shadows of other creeping men.
‘Hold,’ hissed one of his foremost hands. ‘Sir! Mr Raven, sir! I think we have a fight, sir. Hand to hand.’
They regrouped and checked weapons. They were in a confined space jammed with carriage guns and heavy stores, a jumble of spars and rigging displaced by the repairs. Ahead of them light had been detected, and in it slinking men. Raven was side by side with Simpson, in a reek of sweat. All round he could hear breathing, very strange. He had never heard so much of it before. The sound, perhaps, of a sort of silence.
‘Go!’ a voice burst from the darkness – and the shadows revealed themselves as charging sailors. In the dark, as candles flickered, they were more like demons, but their roars were real enough.
‘Pointers! Pointers! Pointers!’
And an enormous shout from Simpson’s mouth:
‘Stop stop, ’tis us, ’tis us!’
The lead men on both factions almost clashed, but luckily no guns let fly, no blades came into deadly play.
‘Stop, men!’ yelled Raven, his stomach full of wild elation. ‘It’s us, we’re Pointers, too! Christ, men, stop pushing there!’
‘Lights!’ It was Daniel Swift’s voice, from behind his ranks. ‘Is that you, Craven? By Christ, you’ll be the death of me, young man!’
And from astern of him more shots cracked in the smoky, dirty haze. Three or four of them, from behind the curtain, and through it, in fact. No one was hit, and within a second some of Swift’s men returned the fire, also through the drapes that had dropped down again. There was a gratifying scream, then silence.
‘Stand!’ Swift ordered, into the shadows. ‘Hide that light again. Raven, how many have you lost? How many have you killed or taken?’
