‘But we also used sweeps,’ said Clay.
‘So we did!’ exclaimed the lieutenant. ‘And the Rush is a much lighter ship than that lump of an Agrius. Sail and oars together, that might just do it, sir. Shall I put it into effect?’
‘If you please, Mr Sutton,’ replied Clay. Behind him the red and gold flag of Spain broke out from the masthead of the San Filipe, and rippled against the blue sky. The Spanish were preparing for their easy victory.
*****
‘Look lively, you lot,’ said Petty Officer Green, his voice gravel, ‘Three men to each sweep. Go and collect them from Mr Carver.’ The sweeps had been brought up from the hold where they had long lain unused and were now stacked on the deck. They were odd looking oars, relics from the bygone age of galleys, thin, with tapered spoons at their extremities. There were twelve in all, six to a side. Sedgwick, O’Malley and Evans lifted one from the top of the pile, and then Evans and Sedgwick looked around, uncertain what to do next.
‘Over there, lads,’ said O’Malley, trying to point with his head as both his arms held the handle of the sweep. ‘Between the fecking guns in the waist. Can’t you see the sweep port, at all?’
‘What, the little square hole, down by the deck?’ asked Sedgwick, peering between the guns.
‘The very same!’ said O’Malley. ‘Were you never after noticing them little holes? Well, I suppose you being new an’ all, you can’t have stood by them above a hundred times.’
‘I have seen them, Sean,’ replied Sedgwick. ‘I have just never known what they were for.’
‘Well, Able old fruit,’ said Evans, ‘I think you are about to discover a whole new type of slavery. You’ve done yer time as a field slave, now you’re about to try being a bleeding galley slave.’
‘Only marriage still to come,’ said O’Malley, with a significant look towards Trevan, the sole member of the group with a wife.
‘Pipe down there, O’Malley,’ shouted Green. When all was quiet, Clay walked down the middle of the deck and stood in front of the main mast.
‘Men, the enemy behind us is a Spanish ship of the line,’ he said, indicating the tall pyramids of sail looming up behind the Rush. ‘Provokingly, she is a little too powerful for even you lions to be sure of beating in a fight, so we need to show her a clean pair of heels.’ The hands grinned at this, a few chuckled. ‘The sails won’t answer on their own, which is why we need to use the sweeps. Most of you have never used them before, but they are not unlike an oar in a boat, just bigger. Listen to your officers, who will tell you what to do. We will change crews every hour, and no one will be spared. You will shortly see some of the more reluctant idlers in the crew taking their turn at some honest toil. Carry on, Mr Sutton.’
‘Aye aye, sir,’ said the lieutenant. ‘When I give the order, you will push the oar out through the sweep port, that will act as your rowlock. You row standing up and facing forward. You walk backwards towards the stern, catch the oar in the water, and then walk it forward to take a stroke. Take your timing from Mr Green, and row long and strong. Ready? Out oars!’
The oars extended out from the side of the ship, bending into gentle arcs under their own weight. When everyone was in position, Sutton gave the next orders.
‘Walk aft! Catch the water, and stroke! Walk aft and stroke! Stroke! Stroke!’ Up on the quarterdeck Clay watched the oars swing through the air, and then foam through the water. Like some huge bug the Rush started to move a little faster. Clay turned and took a careful bearing on the San Filipe, lining the bow up with a ring bolt on the deck. He looked away for forty strokes of the sweeps, and then looked back. The Spanish ship was in exactly the same position. Sutton came up to join him.
‘All sweeps deployed, sir. How do we fare?’ he asked.
‘Well, Mr Sutton, the welcome news is that thanks to your efforts the Spaniard no longer gains on us,’ said Clay. ‘But I fear that our speed is sure to slacken a little as the men at the oars tire, and we will lose more time when we come to change the crew over, so we are very much still in the woods.’ The lieutenant looked at the sun as it hung over them.
‘At least seven hours till nightfall, sir,’ he mused. ‘Although with a clear sky and the moon close to full, that will provide us no relief.’ Both men were quiet for a moment, deep in thought. After a while Clay spoke.
‘At the very least we need to arrange the crew change, formulated as well as can be, so we lose no momentum,’ he suggested. Sutton considered this for a moment.
‘I could have the men told off in advance, with a mix of idlers and marines with seamen at each oar,’ he said. ‘Then we could change the crews over oar by oar, so as to lose no time through the confusion of all changing at once.’
‘Excellent suggestion, Mr Sutton,’ said Clay with a smile. ‘Kindly make it so.’
*****
Hour after hour the two ships travelled across the calm blue water as the sun swung ever higher in the sky. It beat down cruelly on the men at the oars. They were not just seamen now, but a ragbag assortment of crew members. Stiff backed marines attempted to row in step, to the jeers of the sailors. Coopers mates and sail makers, cooks and clerks, any pair of arms would do in the Rush’s increasingly desperate struggle to escape from her remorseless pursuer. The sweat ran down the faces of the men, soaking their shirts, while those who had completed their stint lay in whatever patch of shade they could find, knowing it would be their turn again all too soon.
There was many a weary glance towards the quarterdeck where the lone figure of the captain stood. He had been staring hour after hour at his approaching enemy. The sun was now sinking towards the west, almost touching the tops of the San Filipe’s huge masts. Clay kept his face calm and impassive for the benefit of the crew, but inside he felt the first tug of despair. Was it only a few months ago he had congratulated himself on being the commander of this little ship and delighted in his pathetic little prize? He had written to Lydia to boast of his growing fortune, encouraging her to believe in him. But now look at me, he thought. I could be dead in the next few hours, or more likely a prisoner of war, rotting in a Spanish gaol for years to come. Lydia would never wait for me then, her uncle would persuade her to move on before age and grief marred her suitability for marriage until no suitor would consider her.
The Spanish ship seemed to fill his vision now, she was so close. He could see individual seamen as they clambered about her rigging, tiny figures against the white sheets of her sails. He could make out her figurehead, the mass of gilding had resolved itself into the royal arms of Spain, clasped by two enormous gold cherubs. To one side of the figurehead, high on the forecastle, his eye was drawn to activity. He focused his telescope on the spot, but he was already sure of what he had seen. A moment later there was a puff of smoke, followed by a series of splashes as the cannon ball skimmed like a stone towards him. The final splash fell two cables short, just at the moment that the sound of the gun’s roar reached him.
He turned around from the rail with a look of renewed determination.
‘Mr Croft,’ he called. ‘Kindly ask the boatswain and the gunner to join me, along with Mr Sutton.’
‘Aye aye, sir,’ said Croft, before rushing off. Clay returned to his contemplation of the Spanish colossus bearing down on him, just in time to see the next shot fired from her bow chaser.
*****
‘It will not be long now,’ moaned O’Malley. ‘Not now they are firing at us and all. Christ, I am fecking knackered.’ The mess mates had just finished their third stint at the sweeps, and were flopped around under the forecastle, watching the fresh crew that had replaced them work away at the oars.
‘We may be up to our shanks in shit, but it is right good to see old Lardy Coppell do some honest work for a change,’ said Evans, indicating the very fat gunner’s mate who was grunting noisily as he sweated over his oar.
‘Why are we not firing?’ asked Sedgwick. ‘Surely we need to fight back?’
‘Well, aren’t you the
fearsome gallowglass?’ said O’Malley with a smile. ‘Now you’ve killed your first Frenchman, you all for spilling some Spanish blood, is it?’
‘Unfortunately it ain’t so simple, Able,’ said Evans. ‘Adam explained it all to me when I was in my first sea fight. See how all the guns on the ship point out to the sides? That’s fine if we are alongside the enemy, but it don’t answer when the enemy is behind us. Some ships have stern ports where they can fire a couple of cannon backwards, but the Rush ain’t one of those. Even if we could, firing our little six pounders at that monster of a ship would be like chucking pebbles at a charging bull.’
‘A moment if you please, Admiral Samuel Evans,’ said O’Malley, pointing towards the quarterdeck. ‘The Grunters are up to something.’ The others followed the Irishman’s gaze. Close to the quarterdeck rail they could see the cluster of officers around Clay, who was busy issuing his instructions and pointing about him.
‘Looks to me as Pipe has a plan of some kind to swipe the Dons in the eye,’ said Evans with satisfaction. ‘About bleeding time, too.’ The group around Clay dispersed in the evening light. Sutton and Carver came down the ladder way on to the main deck, and called over several of the petty officers, including Green.
*****
‘Haul away, Mr Green,’ called the boatswain, as he stepped back from the fastening that he had tied himself.
‘Aye aye, Mr Carver,’ replied the petty officer, turning to the line of men tailing at the rope. ‘Haul away now,’ he ordered. ‘Handsomely does it!’ The line of seamen all lent back in unison and threw their combined weight against the rope. There was a groan from the heavy block and tackle as the strain came on, and the six pounder cannon rose jerkily up off the deck till it hung suspended over the ship. Another party of hands swung the gun out over the ship’s side. It turned in a slow circle for a moment, while the boatswain checked that the massive weight was clear of the still working oars. When he was satisfied he jerked hard on the line running from his fist to the hitch that secured the canon. The rope released, and the huge mass plunged into the sea, throwing up an enormous burst of water. Carver looked around from the ship’s side.
‘Next cannon, if you please, Mr Miller,’ he called, and with a squeal of gun trucks another six pounder cannon was heaved along the deck on its dull red carriage until it was under the heavy duty block , and the process of attaching it began again.
The seamen lined up alongside the rope took a welcome break. O’Malley winked at Sedgwick before he turned towards Evans.
‘So, my Lord Admiral,’ he asked, attempting to put on an affected English accent. ‘Pray tell, was the throwing of all our guns away part of yours and Pipe’s plan to defeat the Spanish, at all? I must say, it is a master stroke Drake himself would have been proud of. How shall we defeat the Armada, your Majesty? Why, I shall toss me cannon over the side, just as soon as I’ve finished this game of fecking bowls!’ O’Malley gave a sweeping courtly bow, and Evans had to join in the general laughter of the men around him.
‘I were thinking of something a touch more aggressive,’ he conceded. ‘But if it speeds up the barky enough for us to slip away, I am all for it. Watch your back, Able.’ Evans pulled Sedgwick out of the path of a line of the ship’s boys, each bearing a single six pounder cannon ball. When they reached the side, they pitched them into the sea, before they disappeared to collect a fresh load.
‘Well if throwing away our guns faster than a congregation of fecking Quakers doesn’t answer, we should move to ditching some of the crew,’ said O’Malley. He looked the huge Evans up and down. ‘Course we would have to start with the heaviest first.’
‘Clap on there, look you!’ called Green, and the men spat on their hands, and picked up the heavy line, ready to haul the next cannon skywards.
*****
Clay stood at the stern rail and looked at the San Filipe as he had done for hours now. The sun slid towards the horizon, turning the clouds in the west to blooms of rose and yellow. The Spanish ship had become a thing of beauty, her backlit sails great scoops of coral, her rigging a fretted web of black, silhouetted against the sunset. The gentle evening light flattered the scene and robbed it of much of its menace. Then the San Filipe’s bow chaser roared out again, the stab of orange flame bright in the fading light, reminding Clay of the terrible danger his ship was still in.
‘The last of the great guns is going over the side now, sir,’ reported Sutton from behind him. ‘Mr Carver will then get the hatchways opened so we can sway up the rest of the shot. Do we gain on them any?’ Clay judged the distance between the two ships for the umpteenth time that day.
‘Perhaps a little,’ he conceded. ‘She makes indifferent practice with that bow chaser, thank God. Do you know she has only hit us twice?’
‘That is poor, even for the Dons, sir,’ said Sutton. ‘Mind you, we have managed to hold her at extreme canon range so far. Doubtless if the distance were to shorten, she would start to knock us about more cruelly.’
‘Doubtless, so let us avoid that at all costs,’ said Clay. ‘She also shows no sign of giving up the chase. I believe we must prepare ourselves to row through the night to avoid her.’ Sutton considered matters for a moment.
‘We had best change to two hour stints at the oars,’ he suggested. ‘That way at least those not rowing can get some sleep.’
‘I agree, Mr Sutton,’ said Clay. ‘Kindly make it so. Also we should drop all the anchors bar one over the side. That will be another few tons of weight saved.’
‘Aye aye, sir,’ said Sutton. ‘I will have them jettisoned directly.’
*****
It was now dark night over the calm tropical sea. As the distance had lengthened a little, out to beyond the range of her bow chasers, the San Filipe had stopped firing, but she still chased them onwards through the night, a grey mountain in the gloom always just behind them. On the main deck of the Rush the space looked strange, empty and uncluttered without the rows of cannon down each side of the ship. Battle lanterns had been lit, and hung under the forecastle and the quarterdeck, their light projecting the figures of the rowers into huge ghoulish shadows on the sails that still bulged in the steady but light wind. The moon had slipped below the horizon now, leaving the sky as a bowl of infinite beauty, studded with countless stars.
At the sweeps no heads lifted from the unremitting watch to look at the heavens. Nothing existed for the rowers but the reality of the hard wooden shaft in their painfully sore hands. Back three steps, catch, heave forward three steps, wrestle the oar free of the water. Back three steps, catch, heave forward three steps, free the oar. And again,... and again,... and again.
Even as a slave, Sedgwick had not known a day of work like it. He had taken his first stroke of the oar some eighteen hours ago. In this last stint he had been working for almost two hours now. Next to him on the sweep was O’Malley, beyond the Irishman the figure of Evans. Sedgwick’s arms and shoulders were on fire, his chest was raw and tender where the shaft of the sweep pressed against it as he pushed forward on each stroke. Somewhere on the deck he was aware of a voice. He dashed the sweat from his eyes and looked to one side towards the vague figure.
‘Well done, lads,’ urged Clay. ‘You’re nearly at the end of your toil. Come on, O’Malley, show the others how unwearied you are. Well done, Sedgwick, keep those strokes long.’ The figure moved on to the next oar with fresh encouragement and Sedgwick returned to his private world of pain.
‘Easy for his honour the Pipe to fecking say,’ muttered O’Malley.
‘God’s teeth, this is like the final round of a mill,’ added Evans, his words slurred. ‘Last bleeder standing wins.’
‘All right, lads,’ said Green, a few minutes later. ‘Pass your sweep over and go and get some food up in the bows.’ Sedgwick looked up in disbelief. Was it over at last? Could he really stop? A dishevelled marine took his place at the oar, and he stumbled after Evans and O’Malley. Under the bows, the men were given a cup of water and some s
hip’s biscuit and cheese. They wolfed these down where they stood, and then looked around for somewhere to rest. The deck resembled the aftermath of a savage battle. Bodies lay strewn across the planking. Most were asleep. Linfield and his assistant moved among the men, treating the worst of the blistered hands. Sedgwick spotted Rosso waving them across to a patch of free deck near the head of the ladder way, and he led the others across. They all flopped down to rest. Sedgwick lay on his front, the way he had learnt to sleep as a slave, after years of punishments inflicted on his back. He pillowed his head on his arms, and fell quickly asleep.
An instant later, he was shaken awake.
‘Come on, Able,’ said Evans, his voice for once sounding shrewish and nagging to Sedgwick’s ear. ‘We’re back on the sweeps.’ Sedgwick forced his eyes open, to find that the night was over and grey light washed across the deck. He pulled his aching body upright and looked around him. Away to the east a tiny sliver of fire showed where the sun was rising. Behind the ship he could still see the wide span of sails of the San Filipe, perhaps a little more distant, but still following closely, poised to overwhelm the sloop if she should slow.
He shuffled across to take his place back at the sweep. He reached for the oar, forcing his hands not to recoil from the harsh touch of the wood as he gripped it and immediately he started to row again. All around him were the haggard, grey faces of people pushed to very edge of exhaustion. After a few strokes with the oar, a call came from somewhere high above him.
‘Deck there! Land ahoy!’ yelled the lookout from the masthead.
‘Don’t break rhythm there!’ shouted Sutton, as the oarsman looked about them with sudden interest.
A Sloop of War Page 11
