He contemplated the earlier years of his career. There had always been plenty of excitement and action to keep a young naval officer’s life interesting, indeed the last action of note he had been involved in was the capture of a French brig off the Malabar coast by the frigate Calcutta.. The captain of Calcutta had sent him with a prize crew to Cape Town where he had been confirmed in command of the brig, renamed Conflict.
So lost in thought was he that at first he did not notice his First Lieutenant Alan Jones hovering nearby, obviously not wanting to break into his captain’s reverie. Lieutenant Jones was a stocky, red haired young man, the possessor of bright green eyes, the legacy of some Irish ancestor no doubt. The two young men had formed a friendship which although never crossing the line separating the ship’s captain from his officers, was nevertheless a close one.
Merriman dragged his mind back to the present, “Yes Alan, what is it?”
“Morning report Sir, as in your standing orders.”
“Of course. My apologies, my mind was far away. Anything new?”
“Nothing Sir. The storm damage is all repaired except for the torn tops’l, and that is going back aloft even now. Seaman Smith’s broken leg is healing well and he’ll be fit to return to duty in a day or two. Oh! and that fool Biggins has been up to his tricks again, making a nuisance of himself round the ship. But apart from that the ship is in all respects ready for action.”
The man Biggins that the Lieutenant referred to was simple minded and fond of playing harmless but annoying tricks on his messmates. The crew tolerated the poor fellow and kept him from causing too much bother, indeed he was something of a mascot to them and they helped him with his simple duties to ensure that he did not fall foul of authority. The livid scar on the side of his head received in some long ago fight with the French probably explained his mental disorder.
Lieutenant Jones coughed apologetically. “Sir, there is one more thing.”
“Yes?”
“The men have asked if they can fish for shark Sir. The Bos’n has made some very serviceable hooks and there’s that tub of rotten meat we found yesterday which would make bait Sir,” he continued eagerly.
“An excellent idea. All work and no play…….eh! But we’ll make a competition of it; that should make a welcome break in routine and cheer the men up. Have our two midshipmen select teams, of what, six or ten men each, to fish from each side. And of course there must be a prize. Shall we say an extra tot of rum for the men in the team which is first to hook a shark, two tots if they bring it aboard.”
“Aye-aye Sir,” said Jones with a huge grin on his face.
When the details of the competition were announced, an excited chattering broke out on deck as the men clustered round midshipmen Andrews and Dalkeith, hoping to be picked. Soon all was ready and waiting for Merriman to give the word to start. He was pleased to see that the strongest men had been selected, as it would take brute strength to haul a struggling, fighting shark aboard. Knowing it would please the men he made a show of inspecting them. Looking at the hooks and lines a thought struck him.
“Mr Jones, they’ll not catch sharks with this gear. A shark would bite through the lines too easily. There should be a length of chain lashed between the hook and line. I’m surprised nobody thought of that.”
With the chain added and the hooks baited with the stinking, rotten meat Merriman gave the word to start. The hooks splashed down almost together and the teams were running the lines out as fast as they could to the encouraging shouts of their shipmates.
Looking astern it was obvious that the weight of the chain was insufficient to take the bait below the water and it could be seen splashing along on the surface.
“Haul them in lads and add some more chain, that should do it.”
It did indeed do it and the towed bait disappeared below the surface, trailing the scent of putrid meat behind. It was not long before the sinister fin of a shark appeared, soon joined by others. The seamen on the lines spat on their hands and took a firmer grip. Men were clustered in the rigging and leaning over the bulwarks, eager to watch the sport and see which team would win. Bets were laid and the air rang with raucous and rude comments about each team’s ability.
“Don’t know why you was picked, Jimmy you skinny bugger. There’s more muscle on a belaying pin” yelled a seaman on the mainyard to his mate in one of the teams. For answer Jimmy raised two fingers aloft, concentrating his attention on settling his bare feet into the sand which had been sprinkled on the deck to provide a firmer foothold.
For several minutes nothing happened, then suddenly the larboard side team staggered and nearly fell as a shark took their bait and impaled itself on the hook. Their supporters burst into cheers and shouts of advice, and then the other bait was taken and both teams were struggling to haul in the frantically struggling creatures as they appeared on the surface.
The first team had their fish almost alongside when another huge shark appeared and bit clean through the body leaving only the head on the hook. All eyes turned to the second team who now had their shark hanging alongside with it’s tail just out of the water.
“Deck there! Sail dead ahead.” The strident hail from the masthead cut through the clamour on deck. In spite of the excitement, naval discipline had kept the lookouts aloft and the ship’s wheel manned.
“Up you go Mr. Andrews. Take a glass and tell me what you see.”
“Aye-aye Sir.” The midshipman scampered aloft, settled himself on the fore tops’l yard and focussed the heavy telescope. “It looks like an Indiaman Sir, she’s lost her fore and main topmasts. There are two smaller ships close by. There’s gun- smoke Sir, they are fighting.”
“Very good Mr. Andrews, stay there and keep your eyes peeled.” Merriman looked round for his first lieutenant, “Ah - Mr. Jones, have those fish cut loose. Beat to quarters if you please and clear for action, lively now. And I’ll have the last reefs taken off the tops’ls. Mr. Dalkeith, we’ll have the colours hoisted.”
Merriman, gloom and boredom and fishing forgotten, watched as the small midshipman called his assistants to the flag locker and began to bend on the ensigns to the halliards. With no marine drummer on board, a ship’s boy was beating to quarters somewhat erratically and the ship came alive with the noise of running feet, shouted orders and the bangs and crashes from below as partitions and non-essentials were hastily taken down to the hold.
“Sir, Sir,” shrilled young Andrews from his perch, “They must be Algerians, they’re full of men and one of them is trying to go alongside the Indiaman.”
“Thank you Mr. Andrews, come down now and stay by me.”
Merriman’s thoughts raced. The Indiaman must have lost her spars in the recent gale which had blown her nearer to the African coast than was usual. No action for four years and now his small ship Conflict would have to face not one but two of the typical low, open ships with lateen sails, which would be full of bloodthirsty Algerian fighting men, known as corsairs, probably based in some small harbour on the West African coast which could just be seen as a vague shadow on the far horizon to starboard. From there they could dash out and with their greater speed and handiness, catch any slow and lumbering merchantman they could find, although it was unusual for a fast, well handled Indiaman to fall into their hands. Any male passengers and crew who survived the attack had only a life of slavery to look forward to and as for the women their fate could only be imagined.
Merriman thanked his stars that he had insisted on daily gun drill, exercises with half the crew pretending to be sick or injured, seamen given unexpected orders in the middle of sail practice or other manoeuvre so that in spite of grumbles from some, the crew were as well trained as he could make them, although shorthanded due to the usual losses caused by sickness and accidents inseparable from a life at sea.
The lack of crew was only one part of his problem. He was under orders to proceed with all despatch to Gibraltar with urgent documents. If he attacked the two corsairs an
d he won, he would most likely be court–martialed for risking his ship and the papers and disobeying orders and be dismissed from the navy. On the other hand, if his ship was overwhelmed, the papers would not reach their destination and he would be -- -- well, he would be dead. But, there could be women on that merchantman, how could he avoid the action? He was damned if he did and damned if he didn’t.
“Ship cleared for action Sir” reported the first lieutenant, “and we cut five seconds off our previous best time.”
“Very good Mr. Jones, that was well done. Stand by.”
Merriman was surprised to see how close they were to the other ships. Already they were hull up and could just be seen from the deck. Gun smoke was billowing out around the Indiaman but the sound of gunfire was carried away from them by the wind.
“Mr. Jones, I want all guns loaded with grapeshot and run out. Make sure that every man has his weapons to hand.”
Merriman waited until they were much nearer to the other ships before turning to the first Lieutenant, I’ll have courses and royals off her if you please and brail up the spanker. We’ll fight under topsails and headsails this day.”
“Aye-aye Sir” he responded, turning to bawl the necessary orders.
Men swarmed aloft hastened by the curses of the boatswain’s mates, each trying to ensure that his group of men was faster than the others. The courses and royals disappeared like magic and the ships ahead were clearly seen.
One of the attackers was now alongside the Indiaman and he could see the Indiaman’s crew fighting desperately to hold back the flood of boarders.
He wondered what effect his nine-pounder popguns would have, but they were the best he could do. There was no time for further speculation, one of the corsairs had seen them and was trying to turn to meet them.
“Pass the word to the gun crews Mr. Andrews, we will engage the enemy to larboard first as we pass then we will go about and give him the starboard battery. All to fire as their guns bear, aimed low to sweep her deck.”
The midshipman ran off and then they were engaging. The little nine – pounders erupted one after the other in flame and smoke and as they passed, Merriman could see the carnage wrought by the grapeshot as it ripped along the packed deck of the corsair.
The gun crews were working like madmen to sponge out and reload as Merriman ordered “Bring her round Mr. Jones.” The sails were shaking and flapping as Conflict turned across the wind, the seamen hauling madly on the sheets and braces and then she was round and under way again, close hauled on the other tack..
Merriman felt the old excitement gripping him again.
“Ready lads, pound the devils hard. Fire!” The starboard cannon roared out and Merriman saw the screaming mass of humanity heave as the blast of shot hit. Blood was running out of the scuppers of the corsair and much of the rigging seemed to be gone.
The single mast swayed and fell. A few hardy souls still brandished swords and muskets and screamed oaths but they were finished as a threat to Conflict.
“By God Sir, two broadsides and nothing in return” shrieked Andrews, capering about with excitement.
“There will be” retorted Merriman, “Now we’ll see what we can do against the other ship.” He turned to the First Lieutenant, “Round again Mr. Jones, if you please.” The ship spun about and the guns delivered a third smashing blow to the corsair as she passed.
The gun crews were again working frantically to reload, the hours of gun drill proving their worth. Now they were passing the stern of the Indiaman and the second attacker came into view.
“As your guns bear” roared Merriman. Again the ship trembled as the cannon thundered, the shot tearing into those men still aboard the corsair. Merriman felt his hat plucked off his head by a musket ball and saw a seaman fall by one of the guns, his eyes wide with shock and his shout of agony cut off by the blood pouring from his mouth and splashing over the other men in the gun crew. In the heat of the action they took no notice and simply dragged him out of their way. Their reaction would come later.
The simpleton Biggins was clinging to the ratlines, shaking his cutlass at the enemy and screaming curses at them. “Bastard French buggers, I’ll skewer you all, I’ll cut your bleedin’ ‘eads off, I’ll …….!” He carried on telling them what he was going to do to them until two seamen dragged him down, still cursing, into the dubious shelter of the ship’s bulwarks.
“Keep down you silly sod, you’ll get yerself killed,” shouted one, “they’re not French, they’re bleedin’ pirates.”
Merriman observed this with part of his mind while still alive to what was going on about him. “Mr. Jones, have the larboard battery loaded with grape-shot again, then we’ll lay her alongside and board,” he roared above the noise.
As the ship turned and lost way when the sheets were loosened to spill the wind from the sails, midshipman Andrews was flung backwards onto the deck. He struggled to his feet clutching at his shoulder, blood running down his arm as Merriman steadied him.
“Get below Mr Andrews and have that wound attended to.”
“Can’t I stay Sir, please. I want to see -----.”
“Do as you are told boy” said Merriman, “That’s an order.”
Looking forr-ard Merriman could see the naked sweating backs of his gunners waiting to fire, whilst the rest of the crew gathered in their allotted boarding parties clutching their cutlasses and pistols. Others ready with grapnels to fasten the ships together.
“ ‘ere Sir, you’ll be needing this,” said a burly seaman, handing him a cutlass. Merriman realized that his own sword was still hanging, forgotten, in his cabin. As they crashed alongside the guns flamed again, the grapnels were thrown and then the two ships were locked together.
“Now lads, boarders away” yelled Merriman. As he leapt across and down onto the enemy deck he glimpsed Lieutenant Jones, sword in hand, leading his boarding party from the foredeck.
He parried a sword wielded by a turbanned Arab and sliced the man across the neck, a seaman by Merriman screamed as a spear was thrust into his stomach, his assailant immediately falling to a vicious slash from another seaman. Merriman felt splashes of blood and matter across his face as a seaman brained a screaming negro with a boarding axe. There was no time for fancy swordsmanship. All was confusion, it was cut and slash, thrust and parry, stamping forward, slipping on pools of blood, stumbling over bodies and parts of bodies that yet twitched and writhed, with shouts and screams of fear and agony ringing in his ears. Then suddenly they were across the corsair’s deck with the Indiaman’s side rearing above them.
Up they went, wild with fear and rage, men grappling with each other, stabbing and hacking in a fury, up onto the deck where the Indiaman’s passengers and crew, now fewer in number, had retreated to the poop deck and were hemmed in by the enemy.
Merriman hurled himself forward with the rest of his men, something hit his left arm and head a ferocious blow and he found himself lying on the deck, looking up to see two seamen astride him fighting like demons to protect him. One was Biggins, laying about him with a bloody axe in one hand and a bent cutlass in the other, still screaming his hatred of the French, before falling to a pike thrust through his thigh. And then it was over, the corsairs were either dead or leaping overboard to escape the ready swords of the victors. Merriman climbed to his feet with the help of the brawny seaman who had defended him. He stood there swaying, trying to force his dazed mind to comprehend that he was still alive.
“Mr. Jones, how many have we lost,” he asked.
“Mr. Jones is dead Sir” said a voice behind him.
A tall gentleman, elegant despite the sweat and blood on his attire and still holding a bloodied sword, stepped in front of him.
“I am Lord Stevenage Sir. I must thank you for your most timely arrival. We had almost despaired when your ship was sighted but that gave us hope to hold on and keep on fighting. May I congratulate you and your men on a most gallant rescue.” The voice seemed to come from a long
way away.
“Lieutenant Merriman my Lord, I am pleased to be of service to you Sir, I hope that -----”. He swayed, everything whirled round and he heard a voice cry “Catch him” before all went black. ....................
As he recounted the details of the fight with the two vessels attacking the Indiaman, Merriman could see from the gleam in his father’s eye that he was following the narrative with keen attention, and as for Matthew, his wide eyes and open mouth were as Merriman himself must have looked when listening to his grandfather’s stories.
“And that was all I remember” said Merriman to his Father. “I came to my senses three days later. I had lost my First Lieutenant and friend Alan Jones, my Second Lieutenant Mr. Hamer, the bo’sn and fifteen seamen. Many more were injured including Mr. Andrews the midshipman. The Indiaman had lost her captain, twelve crew and several male passengers.”
Young Matthew was staring at him with awe and his Father’s eyes were staring into the distance, no doubt he was remembering sea fights in his own career.
“But how did you lose your ship.” persisted Matthew.
“In another gale,” he replied. “We stayed alongside the Indiaman whilst the survivors of both ships made repairs to the Indiaman’s masts and rigging. It appears that the ship’s captain, in the interest of making a fast voyage, had held his canvas on too long and lost his topmasts as a result. If he hadn’t, the corsairs wouldn’t have caught him.”
“We had no further trouble from them. The first one had sunk, the second one was too badly damaged to be worth much, besides, we were too short handed to spare a prize crew, so that one was set afire. None of the remaining Algerians survived. Those who hadn’t been killed were swiftly taken by sharks when they jumped overboard.”
Merriman paused for a moment or two. “I’m glad I didn’t see that, he said reflectively. “Anyway, as soon as we were able we sailed together for Gibraltar. On that night it began to blow and by the following morning it was a full gale. I was unconscious in my bunk, there were no officers left and Mr. Andrews and a master’s mate were in command of the depleted crew with the help of Mr. Dalkeith, the youngest midshipman, only fourteen years old. They were desperately short handed and exhausted.”
A Certain Threat (The Merriman Chronicles Book 1) Page 3
