As he began to pull out of the zone of deadly danger his opponents were forced to react, for their prows were facing counter to that of Larcher and they were now making a desperate attempt to swing round to close and trap him by fouling what rigging he had assembled; if that was a worry it meant the firing of cannon had dropped away.
The armed cutter was moving like a tub, but it was progressing and Pearce aimed the prow then lashed off the wheel, before running to the side and plucking out a musket, shouting that anyone idle should do likewise. Taking an aim he suspected to be useless – the short Sea Service Brown Bess was notoriously inaccurate – he tried to shoot the man on the wheel on the nearest enemy deck, this to disrupt what he was being ordered to do.
It failed completely: the bowsprits were round and aiming for Larcher amidships, though the brigantines had practically nothing in the line of cannon they could bring to bear, and what guns Pearce had that were still firing began to take chunks out of the enemy bows.
‘Arm yourselves with axes,’ he shouted to one group. ‘If they foul our rigging, get us clear.’
He grabbed one of the swords his Pelicans had been sharpening and set himself to use it, only then realising that his activities had opened the wound inflicted by Lipton. That, apart from an odd twinge, was an injury he had forgotten. He was bleeding again but that did not signify in such a contest; had he stopped to look he would have seen that half his crew had some kind of wound and it had to be the case that some of them, taken below, had succumbed to much worse.
Larcher was so very nearly pinned, only just escaping the trap, but now Pearce had two vessels on his stern, which exposed him to their broadsides. It was hunger for the trophy that saved him, for both men in command wanted to see their cannonballs run the length of his ship, the best way to kill and the sure way to disable an enemy.
They got in each other’s way, which led to a panicked effort to back off and avoid them snagging their own rigging. This meant that very few cannon actually fired and nothing hit anything vital, except a ball that, with a loud clang, caught a muzzle and ricocheted off into the sea. Pearce was back on the wheel, shouting through a rasping throat to people seeking to still effect repairs, willing his vessel to go faster by pushing at the wheel, so desperate was he.
And there before him was Sandown Castle, inching towards Larcher at no greater speed. He could see the man on the forepeak, the captain by his braided coat, urging him on and he needed no encouragement. Pearce did not see the block that broke his arm, how could he since it fell from above, sliced from its place by round shot, gunfire which had recommenced. Perhaps if he had not had such a firm grip on the spoke of the wheel it would have done less harm.
The weight of the triple block took him to the deck and he only knew the bone was gone when he sought to put his weight upon that arm, his scream of pain loud enough to carry over the mayhem all around. The blackened face that appeared above him was welcome indeed, as was the Irish accent, Michael aiding him to his feet.
‘Get Mr Dorling on the wheel, we must come alongside Sandown Castle.’
‘Take it easy, John-boy, you’re hurt.’
‘Tell them to lash us off to their side and if they wish to do so fire through our rigging, but to avoid the mast.’
Michael was heading him for the companionway, which would take them below, but Pearce steadied his feet, dug them in and refused to budge. Looking down at his useless arm Pearce actually shouted at his friend.
‘Get me a line and lash this bastard to my body, then stay by my side, for I will need you.’
‘What in the name of Jesus do you intend?’
‘To win, Michael, what else?’
Dorling was by his side now. ‘Orders, Captain?’
‘Get us tied to that dammed merchantman, then get everyone aboard with all the weapons they can bear. We are going to invite these swine to board and, by Harry, if they do it will be a bloody deck that we drive them off.’
Without orders, the likes of Charlie and Rufus had got grappling irons ready and as soon as they were close enough these were cast to hook the side of Sandown Castle and men hauled heartily to bring the two vessels together, which they did with a horrible crunch. Lines came down from the higher deck and like something from a fairground show the men of the armed cutter swarmed up onto the deck of the merchantman, having thrown up every weapon they could before they left.
Michael O’Hagan lifted his friend bodily and so high that he could be taken by the armpits and hauled onto his companion deck. This was not without agony, and Pearce bit his lip so hard it bled; better that than he should bleat. It took a moment for Pearce to contain his pain, this when he stood holding onto a hammock netting, but he still saw himself in command and he was not prepared to relinquish that responsibility.
‘If they board you cannot fight, John-boy.’
‘Put a weapon in my left hand.’
‘Christ in heaven, the number of times I have wanted to do this.’
It was not the complete Pelican punch, but it was enough to floor John Pearce, who never saw the attempt to board, missed the fight on the deck that saw the corsair soundly beaten and forced to withdraw, did not hear the jeers of his crew and that of Sandown Castle. When he woke his arm was in splints and he was being administered to by Emily. He had no idea that half the night had passed and if those same enemies were trailing the ship, which was towing HMS Larcher now, they were not seeking to close.
‘You are a hard man to leave, John Pearce.’
‘Then,’ he replied, ‘would it not be best to cease to try?’
‘A conversation, my love, for the time we are safe in harbour.’
‘I cannot see myself parted from you, Emily, and I have a notion—’
‘Enough!’ she commanded. ‘Put it aside for now.’
The ships that entered Palermo harbour the next day, at noon, looked a sorry sight, none more so than HMS Larcher, much damaged and her rigging in tatters. Worse was the butcher’s bill, with ten of his crew dead, while the lazaretto held two dozen more with wounds of various severity. John Pearce, ambulant if weak, was depressed by his examination of both and said so.
‘Some of my men have perished and many more bear wounds. I will have to explain this somehow, Emily, which I feel I could do with Lord Hood, who would see that if I suffered harm I saved a British merchant vessel.’
‘Surely you will not be censured?’
‘If Hotham has taken command, I will struggle to avoid it.’
‘This is no time to fret on that, John. There is only one thing I fret on, and you know only too well what that is, so damn Sir William Hotham.’
In San Fiorenzo Bay, the heart of that admiral lifted as he saw the topsails of HMS Victory finally disappear. He was now in command of the Mediterranean Fleet and Hood could whistle to confound him. He had many avenues he wished to explore and he was sure that in time he would find a way to bring the French fleet to battle and inflict on them a resounding defeat, one that would assure him a place in the peerage of England. Yet there were other matters equally pressing and so he called in his clerk.
‘Toomey, fetch me the correspondence relating to that Pasha fellow in old Illyria, Mehmet I seem to recall is his name. A capricious fellow and murderous too, I am told. I have a feeling there are one or two coves to whom I feel the need to introduce him.’
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About the Author
DAVID DONACHIE was born in Edinburgh in 1944. He has always had an abiding interest in the naval history of the eight
eenth and nineteenth centuries as well as the Roman Republic, and, under the pen-name of Jack Ludlow, has published a number of historical adventure novels. David lives in Deal with his partner, the novelist Sarah Grazebrook.
By David Donachie
THE JOHN PEARCE SERIES
By the Mast Divided
A Shot Rolling Ship
An Awkward Commission
A Flag of Truce
The Admirals’ Game
An Ill Wind
Blown Off Course
Enemies at Every Turn
A Sea of Troubles
A Divided Command
Written as Jack Ludlow
THE REPUBLIC SERIES
The Pillars of Rome
The Sword of Revenge
The Gods of War
THE CONQUEST SERIES
Mercenaries
Warriors
Conquest
THE ROADS TO WAR SERIES
The Burning Sky
A Broken Land
A Bitter Field
THE CRUSADES SERIES
Son of Blood
Soldier of Crusade
Prince of Legend
Copyright
Allison & Busby Limited
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London W1T 6DW
www.allisonandbusby.com
First published in Great Britain by Allison & Busby in 2013.
This ebook edition published by Allison & Busby in 2013.
Copyright © 2013 by DAVID DONACHIE
The moral right of the author is hereby asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All characters and events in this publication other than those clearly in the public domain are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent buyer.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978–0–7490–1430–8
A Divided Command Page 27
