by John Drake
Slowly the Yankee grew larger, till we could see every detail of her, right down to the men crowded on her fo’c’sle and the busy topmen working aloft. They too were squeezing the last drop of speed out of their ship. She had a huge spread of sail, and every last one appeared to be drawing. Finally, late in the afternoon, with the enemy half a mile astern, I looked down the barrel of my gun, took up the slack of the firing lanyard, and pulled.
Now, in understanding what I was trying to do, you must set aside all your modern notions of gunnery. Forget your Armstrong rifled cannon, machined from steel to an accuracy of a thousandth of an inch. Forget your colossal iron steamers to give a steady platform for the gun. Think instead of a brass, smooth-bore gun fired from a little wooden ship, pitching and rolling along across the face of the mighty Atlantic. Why, the gun didn’t even have proper sights but needed two aimings.* * Presumably, via the old “quarter sights” needing a first sight through slots cut in the top centre of breech and muzzle (to aim the gun in a side-to-side sense) then a second sight through slots a quarter way round to the right of breech and muzzle (to aim the gun in an up-and-down sense). These were superseded by “tangent” sights which gave a true aim with one sighting in the modern way. S.P. Under those conditions, a good gunner would hit another ship with every shot he fired, at any range inside fifty yards. At 100 yards he might hit it once in five shots. At 200 yards he’d be lucky to hit it at all. So why was I firing at half a mile?
Well, firstly I was firing for the benefit of my men, because your own ship’s gunfire is a splendid thing to hear when the foe is bearing down upon you (Matti certainly thought so). More important, the Yankee was closing on us at about two knots, so I didn’t have endless time in which to hit him. Even by opening fire at half a mile, and with the best speed possible from my half-trained gunners, I’d get no more than a dozen rounds out of the gun before the enemy was alongside. And anyway, I was fed up waiting. You just try it yourself, some day, and see how long you can resist having a crack at the bastards.
All hands cheered my first shot (which went God-knows-where) and they were positively elbowing each other aside for the privilege of reloading and hauling her out again, but soon settled into a routine, as the gun boomed out with not the slightest effect on the Yankee’s progress. Now I’m not a great gunner, but I studied under one: Sammy Bone of Phiandra, a man with magic in his hands. So I suppose I’m as good as most, and that afternoon I gave the task all that I had.
On the other hand, the gun was no bloody good. It was drooped at the muzzle, I’m sure: a fault with all brass guns when they’re old and over-used. So it was only when the Yankees got really close that the white splashes of my shot started to fall about her. Eventually, though, I saw splinters fly off his bow as I scored my first hit. She was only a musket-shot astern of us by then, and had so far disdained to return our fire. But that hit stung her into manning one of her bow-chasers. I was sweating and tired by then and I remember the busy Yankee gunners setting to with their gun, and me yelling at my men to redouble their efforts to load.
Their first shot passed through our rigging without doing any harm, and then the most extraordinary thing happened. Our brass-9 was scorching hot by now — it skinned your flesh if you touched it — and the shot was going anywhere but where I aimed, so what happened next was by pure chance.
A second after the Yankee fired, I gave them my next shot and my men cheered their heads off as a terrific clang came from the Yankee as our 9-pound ball crashed directly into their gun, knocking it out of its carriage and showering terrible iron splinters in all directions.
I found myself surrounded by grinning faces and that ape from the Brazils threw himself on his knees before me and locked his arms tight about my knees. I had to lever him off with a handspike.
But that was the end of the game. The brass gun grew worse and worse, and there were no more hits that I could see. And the Yankee got his sharpshooters up into the foretop and opened a brisk fire. From the crack and flash of musketry I’d say there were three of them up there, all good marksmen. And in fact it wasn’t just muskets that were turned on us, but rifles (Americans being partial to the weapon), so the bullets smacked and splintered into the taffrail and whistled through our gunport too hot to be ignored. We had to leave the gun and take cover.
That is except for Matti. He wouldn’t be told to keep his head down and jigged about screeching and howling at the enemy, until one of them put a ball neatly through the centre of his chest. He sat down then, looking tired, and just had time to say his prayers before he was taken wherever it is that such people go.
Worse still, the Yankee had two bow-chasers and opened fire with number two. It was a nine at least and shot began to roar through our rigging. The range was so close now that lines began to part and chunks flew off our spars as they started to make hits. They were aiming high, to avoid hull-damage which might spoil the prize, and soon they’d bring down a mast and have us at their mercy. And there was nothing to do since we’d not a single gun bearing on them.
I tried to think of something to do. The crew were skulking in corners out of the way of shot. Those of them, that is, that hadn’t already run below. I could forget about appeals to repel boarders. This crew would never see off a boarding party as it came across slavering at the chops for its prize money. Then I saw Horace, the only man still standing. He was at the wheel, since the helmsman had disappeared. That gave me an idea; I got up and ran over to him.
“Put her about, Cap’n,” says I. “Bring her larboard guns to bear. Perhaps we can still knock a spar off ‘em!” He stared straight at me with watery eyes.
“If the wind holds, we should make London in thirty days, Mr Fletcher,” says he. “What price the bale do you think best Virginia tobacco will fetch?” God and all his little angels! The silly old fool was unhinged! He was raving!
Boom! went the Yankees again. Crash! went the foretopmast and hung in ruins with its sail flapping and rent.
“Jesus!” says I, and seizing the wheel, I spun it round and shoved it back into Horace’s hands. “Hold her steady!” says I, and he nodded absently. I ran to our aftermost gun. The Yankee was very close now, maybe as little as thirty yards. As Bednal Green answered the helm, the privateer swum across our line of fire and I ran from gun to gun setting them off. It made a brave show and a loud noise, but none of it was aimed. It was just the best I could do under the circumstances. Or, perhaps, it was the worst thing I could have done. For as the smoke of my broadside cleared, I saw the Yankee coming about to give us the benefit of her broadside, this time aimed into the hull. I had the sense to throw myself flat as his 9-pounder long guns and his four 18-pounder carronades gave us grape and roundshot.
5
In a Grand Dinner at his new house in Market Square, Mr Pendennis, Lord Mayor, entertained yesterday, a most elevated company of the nobility and gentry of the county, reflecting the universal estimation in which His Worship is held by all classes of society today.
(From the Polmouth Monitor, 13th September 1793.)
*
Mrs Pendennis judged her moment and cleared her throat to attract attention. Heads turned towards her down the long table. On every side, the room glittered with the finest fixtures and fittings that London could supply. And the company glittered to match it. A most gratifying sight to Mrs Pendennis who had stretched her uttermost endeavours to bring together the following persons to dine at her board:
Her dear, dear husband, Mr Pendennis
Her dear, brave, son-in-law Richard Lucey
Richard’s wife, her own eldest daughter, Sophia
Mr Alfred Manning, Lord Mayor of Exeter
Mrs Manning
Sir David Manners of Manners Hall
Lady Manners
Colonel Sir Arthur Howard of the 9th Dragoons
Lady Howard
The Most Reverend Doctor Lincon, Dean of Polmouth Cathedral
Mrs Lincon
But best of all, and sur
passing all past expectations:
Lord Cedric Godwin and his wife Lady Carolyn!
It should be explained that a direct and mail-clad ancestor of Lord Cedric had stood loyal to his master King Harold upon the field of Hastings, and had with his own great axe despatched a large number of Norman gentlemen in that lost but noble cause. Consequently, those who traced their titles back to the gift of younger dynasties like Plantagenet, Tudor or Hanover were parvenu incomers compared with Lord Cedric, and consequently any hostess who received Lord Cedric into her house automatically gained entry into any other house in the land — be her connections never so vulgar before.
Mrs Pendennis knew very well that, less than a year ago, the Godwins’ immeasurably noble knees would have scorned to place themselves beneath her bourgeois table. But that was before Mr Pendennis (her dear, dear husband) and Richard Lucey (her dear, brave son-in-law) had so mightily distinguished themselves in the Coignwood affair and had become trustees of the greatest fortune in the land. This triumph had boosted Mr Pendennis’s business, and his wealth, to the stars and had opened doors like magic.
For all this Mrs Pendennis thanked her husband. She thanked him so much that she had quite forgotten that there had ever been a time when her opinion of him had differed from its current state of worshipful adoration.
“Mr Pendennis?” she said.
“Ma’am?” smiled the great man from the head of his table where he presided in dignity, like the very incarnation of John Bull: solidly worthy, splendidly corpulent, and ruddy of countenance.
“If you will excuse us,” she said, “I will lead the ladies to the withdrawing room and leave you gentlemen to your port.,,
And so, in the splendour of a dress of Moravian worked muslin at three guineas the yard, Mrs Pendennis came down the room like a line-of-battle ship in its glory, with the lesser females keeping station in line astern of her, and Lady Carolyn in company upon her starboard beam. To add to the joy of the moment, Mrs Pendennis noted that Lady Carolyn’s gown was of mere French lawn at 8s. 6d. the yard, top price.
As the ladies passed in review with colours flying, Mr Pen-dennis sighed at the elegance of the sight. Finally, the doors closed behind the last swishing gown and Lord Cedric smote the table with his fist.
“Burn me bollocks!” he cried. “Bloody women! Thought they’d never leave.” He turned to Pendennis. “For the love of God, man, where d’ye keep the damn pisspots?” Pendennis’s eyes widened and his glance flicked from one to another of his guests. A few mouths had dropped open but he was relieved to see that the Dean had not turned a hair.
In fact, unlike Mr Pendennis, Dr Lincon was used to rural noblemen who, as a species, tended to do and say just exactly whatever they liked. And in any case, Dean Lincon’s employment and a living of £2,000 a year lay in the palm of the hand of Bishop Godwin, Lord Cedric’s son.
“God in heaven, Pendennis, come to it, man!” groaned the noble lord. “Me damn bladder’s about to split! There’ll be a bloody tragedy presently if you don’t shift sharp.”
Pendennis nodded to his butler, who nodded to the footmen, and a series of cupboards, hidden in the panelling of the room, were thrown open to reveal a row of pots-de-chambre ready and waiting. They were of silver and shone like fire in the afternoon sun, for Nathan Pendennis had spared no expense to equip his dining room with every convenience known to the civilisation of Europe, including these invaluable vessels which saved his guests the trouble of staggering to the privy, burdened as they were with food and wine. The withdrawing room was similarly equipped, which is why the ladies had withdrawn in the first place.
“God be thanked!” said Lord Godwin from the bottom of his heart, as a footman handed him a gleaming bowl, with a deep bow. Godwin fumbled with his breeches and proceeded to relieve himself with the strength and noise of a dray horse. “Ahhhh.” he sighed with the smile of a Bhudda. With less display, but equal gratitude, the other men did likewise, and the product of their labours was quietly removed by Pendennis’s excellent servants, enabling the gentlemen to make their combined assault on the port.
Later, when Pendennis led the gentlemen to join the ladies, he rejoiced in the splendour of his withdrawing room, on display before the finest in the county. And he rejoiced in the beauty of the ladies and in the contentment radiating from his wife. He smiled fondly at Richard, his son-in-law. It was a very happy moment in Nathan Pendennis’s life.
Unfortunately the moment was short, for even before he could sit down, his butler approached.
“Sir,” he said, “a person is arrived at the door on an errand of urgent importance. He insists that you would wish to be drawn even from this gathering to attend to the matter.”
Pendennis looked at his wife. Her smile was straining. He guessed that like himself, she thought this must be some matter of business. If it were, then the quicker it were dealt with the better. On this day when the Pendennis’s were passing through the gateway to society, the very last thing that was wanted was any reminder of their connection in trade.
“My Lord, Lady Carolyn, ladies and gentlemen,” said Pen-dennis, thinking fast, “I maintain a number of pensioners from the deserving poor of Polmouth and from time to time I am called upon to settle some crisis among them.” He smiled benignly. “Small enough matters though they be, they seem urgent and important to the poor unfortunates themselves.”
“A most proper thing,” pronounced Lady Carolyn. “Lord Cedric himself maintains pensioners from among the poor of his estates.” Pendennis already knew that perfectly well and so was able to leave the company to a glow of approval, particularly from his wife. Pleased with the stratagem he made a mental note to make the lie true upon the morrow. He could easily afford to run a few beggars.
The butler led him into the hall where a man in riding clothes stood waiting with his hat in his hand. He bowed politely as he saw Pendennis. The fellow was clearly a servant. Pendennis was surprised. He had been expecting one of his own people from the counting house, or one of his warehouses. He sent the butler away and beckoned the messenger to come close.
“Now, my lad,” he said, “what is it?”
“Mr Pendennis, sir, this is for you … The lady … she said I was to put it into your hand and no other. I am to await your reply.” He held out a flat package wrapped in brown paper and heavily sealed.
Pendennis took it and moved to a sconce of candles for the better light, and to avoid the messenger’s seeing what was within, in case it should be private. He raised the package and studied the seal.
“Oh no,” he prayed. “Please, please, please, dear God no.” The package was sealed with the Coignwood crest, and he recognised the elegant, feminine handwriting with which the package was addressed to himself.
6
John Stark’s broadside struck home at a range of less than twenty feet. Every shot must have told and at least two more of our men were killed. Poor old Horace was smashed to offal before my eyes, still dreaming of London baccy prices, and Welles with his red woollen cap lost a leg and bled to death in seconds through the great artery of the thigh. He screamed like a pig in a slaughter-house, a dreadful sound and tried to squeeze the ragged stump to save himself, but all in vain. It was awful to see, and my courage wavered. For a second I thought of striking my colours. But then I remembered the £1,500 that the rogues were robbing me of. And so I fought on.
Unfortunately something had hit me when the broadside came aboard, a splinter probably, and I was staggering about stunned when the first wildly yelling figures started hacking their way through our boarding nets. I was so dizzy that I made a bodge of things. The right way to deal with enemies in the nettings is to take a pike and stick ‘em with it, one at a time, deliberately. If you keep your head you can kill ‘em like flies while they’re hanging there trying to cut through the heavy ropes. They can’t strike at you and they’re practically helpless. But I didn’t keep my head. I grabbed a five-foot oaken handspike with its iron head and swung it like
a club. I knocked a few of them into the sea, but I couldn’t keep them out of the ship. After all, it was me alone against dozens of them.
Soon they were dropping on to our decks and about ten of them rushed me, all at once. There would have been more, since I was the only thing left to fight, and every one of them was thirsting for blood. But there was no room and they came on elbow-to-elbow. They bawled their war-cry, their feet battered the deck, pistols banged and balls whizzed in all directions. But each marksman got in every other’s way and none took proper aim.
Then they were on me and I was laying about with the ponderous handspike. The implement is too heavy for hand-to-hand fighting for an ordinary man, but not for me. I knocked down four or five of them in the first few swings, and those left in the front line tried to fall back — I could see the sudden fear in their eyes — but twenty or thirty others were pressing forward from behind and an officer, resplendent in a uniform coat and hessian boots, shoved forward, ducked under my guard and cut at me with his sword. If I hadn’t had half a dozen other enemies to deal with, I’d have pulverised the bastard, but I did have. His blow was awkwardly aimed what with him being in a crouch, but he caught me across the forehead and blood streamed down into my eyes and blinded me.
And that was the end of that. The mob swarmed forward, brought me down, and I got my share of kicks and blows as they worked out their anger. But the officer yelled some orders to clear a space, and he called on me to surrender the ship. I think he’d recognised me as a ship’s officer, and anyway there was nobody else to ask.
