There would be no race for it was a tiresome duty with its own habits. First an argument about the right to board a neutral vessel; that was never conceded without dispute, made doubly difficult by rarely having a shared language. Matters did not improve on the deck, with both crew and master usually being obstructive, as papers were examined to establish the cargo and then the holds checked to ensure a match.
Pearce began to clamber down into the cutter, already full of rowers as well as marines with their muskets to threaten, if that was required. There came the boom of a cannon, which he assumed came from Troubadour, to be disabused when a plume of water landed beyond Flirt and at a short distance, having sailed through her rigging without doing damage.
He was back on deck in a flash, shouting that the cutter should be cleared and cast off astern once more, back on deck in time to see the flags – red crescents – break out at the merchant mastheads, immediately followed by a blast from four cannon on each one. Combined, that more than matched a broadside from a single brig.
‘Turkomen, Mr Pearce,’ Digby yelled, his face alight, his eyes gleaming. ‘And carrying contraband for certain. Attend to your station.’
Having cleared, both the brigs were down to topsails, having clewed up the courses, given they were vulnerable to enemy shot and posed a danger, especially if the canvas caught fire. That meant progress was slow, added to which the Turks, who had the wind and were still under full sail, swung beam on. Flirt had her prow aimed amidships on the one Pearce had been set to board, which put her at a real disadvantage.
The only cannon that could be immediately brought to bear were the two bow chasers and to them Pearce went to take command, sending the first balls away quickly, then using a glass to try and see what was happening on the higher decks, for if they were to board now it would be opposed. Trading vessels did not normally carry large crews, economy being the watchword of their owners, but in this case he could see the deck was full of men, which indicated they had been determined to fight from the outset. It also underlined that whatever they were carrying, they did not want it inspected.
Two of the vessels, one in the van and the fellow bringing up the rear, held their course while the third dropped away slightly, which allowed his consorts to close up and provide something of a protective screen. On a normal ship this would have been the subject of speculation – it probably was on Troubadour – but not on this deck. There was no point in Pearce conferring with Digby to search for a reason: the man would not respond.
Babbage, being closest to land, had made his own decision and reset his course. That was to crack on as much as he could to get across the bow of the lead vessel where both that and the one being shielded would be exposed to his guns. He was clearly seeking to make them either fight or heave to, this as both brigs were subjected to heavy and fairly accurate fire, which came with a weight of shot and frequency Pearce found troubling. Whoever was manning those cannon were not behaving like cack-handed merchant seamen, but more like the crew of a ship of war, and soon the rigging began to shred as the Turks peppered it with chain shot.
Digby yawed in response and that allowed Pearce to employ his starboard battery in a rolling broadside that took chunks out of the target’s bulwarks. But that was never going to stop ships of a heavier draught than Flirt, so he had the guns elevated to take out that full top hamper, a suit of sails which indicated this trio was in a hurry.
The next Turkish salvo ignored Flirt to concentrate all their round shot on Troubadour, obviously seen as posing the greatest threat. One lucky ball hit her halfway up her mainmast, doing massive damage. The broken timber, as well as a mass of rigging, began to topple, thankfully looking to be going over the larboard quarter. This was bad enough in itself, but the effect was to swing her off her course while the need to clear away wreckage took her temporarily out of the battle. It also meant Babbage’s aim was thwarted and the lead two ships had a far better possibility of getting away, given his chances of resuming the pursuit speed were utterly diminished.
Having let Pearce have a crack at disabling one enemy, Digby came back onto a closing course, which meant only the bow chasers could bear again, this as the Turks did something unusual once more, the way coming off the rear vessel, it immediately losing speed. This sent a clear indication that whatever was in the holds of the other merchantmen was of such importance this one was prepared to be a sacrificial lamb to ensure his consort got clear.
He wanted to shout at Digby, stood like a rock on the quarterdeck, to tell him they would be best to ignore the offer of a possible capture and pursue what was the prime target, even if it meant putting on more sail to overhaul her and suffering what damage would be inflicted.
‘Mr Pearce, that fellow before us requires to be boarded. Mr Conway, takeover the main-deck cannon.’
Responding to the shout, Pearce lost his temper; it was precisely the wrong thing to do. ‘We must ignore that, sir, and take up the task Captain Babbage has been obliged to abandon.’
‘Do as I say, get your boarders ready.’
Pearce strode up to the quarterdeck to remonstrate, outlining his conclusion to a man now puce of face. ‘Damn me, sir, I reckon you shy.’
‘What kind of fool says that? Perhaps the type whose life was near forfeit through his own folly. We should pursue the two running away.’
‘Obey me or I will have you drummed out of the service, which will be a blessing.’
The gleam in Digby’s eye alerted Pearce to an obvious fact. To disobey such an order in the middle of a fight, and one in which it was very likely that Captain Babbage had lost hands to that falling rigging, was all he would ever need to ensure John Pearce never got to air his own grievances. The navy hated a coward and that was how he would appear.
‘I wish the log to show that I disagree with you on your analysis of what must be done.’
‘Enough have heard you, Pearce, now move or I will have a marine shoot you.’
He would get away with that; indeed, be applauded by his peers for acting toughly. Michael O’Hagan was by his side proffering weapons and providing whispered advice. ‘You can’t fight the sod, John-boy.’
Spinning round, Pearce saw that Conway was doing a reasonable job, getting off a salvo as the brig yawed once more and he found himself yelling orders for boarders even if in his heart he knew it to be foolish. A captain was a monarch in his own deck and Digby was that man. What followed were routines practised often: the distribution of weapons was swift, the boats hauled in to be manned by marines and as many of the crew as they could accommodate. All the while, the exchange of cannon fire continued and it was a miracle, given the chain shot being aimed at them, that nothing serious had carried away.
The boarders naturally went over the protected side into craft bobbing up and down through ten feet and then Digby altered course to give his boats a clear run, using his cannon to occupy the Turks, who surely did not have enough men to both ply them and protect their deck from being overrun. In this Digby was doing exactly what was required, if you excluded the utter folly of not seeing the battle as a whole.
Captain Babbage, no doubt aware that his chances of interdicting the remaining pair of Turks was close to zero, had launched his boats too, though Pearce noticed his jolly boat was being employed to fish members of his crew out of the water. That broken mast and tumbling rigging, which included the boarding nets, must have swept a good number overboard, and given their determination not to learn to swim, some must drown.
The Turks, having tried one salvo with depressed cannon – it had gone over the approaching boarders’ heads – had ceased to ply them, which allowed Digby, before Pearce and his men got close, to sweep the merchantman’s deck with grape in order to keep them away from the side. That had to cease as they got too close. Pearce ordered the boats to split up, one under Edward Grey going towards the stern, the other two heading for the bows, over which one would aim to board.
Pearce’s boat carried on to get roun
d the other side and use the hull as protection. Then Digby could not only sweep the deck with grape once more but with the need for defence taking the men away from the Turkish cannon, he could come alongside with near impunity. Soon the boarders were joined by two Troubadours who knew the drill equally well.
‘No boarding nets, John-boy,’ Michael yelled, waving his favoured weapon, an axe. ‘The heathens have opened us their door.’
‘They trust their God as much as you trust yours.’
The Irishman’s face was close to glowing; he loved a fight and in this instance no drink was required, the anticipation mirrored in the faces of the others. Before them was a prize ship and that meant money. When folk back home talked of their Wooden Walls and the men who sailed them – praised in wartime, a pest in peace – did they know it was not love of country that animated them in such a situation? From captain to waister the King’s Navy was, in the main, driven by a lust for profit.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Ahead of the boarders from both brigs and lining the bulwarks lay a sea of dark faces, many turbaned, some with muskets, one with a strange metal helmet. Thankfully, these weapons, compared to those plied by the marines, were doubly inaccurate in the hands of those unused to them. The Lobsters would employ theirs to keep anyone with a knife, axe or sword away from the grappling irons that were about to be thrown to hook onto the hammock nettings.
Both sides were yelling insults, seeking by noise to break the resolve of their opponents, more important to the navy men who had the harder task, as they struggled to get their boats pressed to the merchantman’s tumblehome.
Help would come from Digby and his cannon, for that could not be defended against if a resistance also had to be mounted against boarders, unless the Turks had manned their vessel with a crew to outmatch a man-o’-war. Pearce and his opposite number from Troubadour waited for the blast of grape that would kill some of their opponents. It should certainly lower the heads of the rest as they sought cover, which would create the opening needed to clamber up the scantlings, already being slammed with axes to create footholds.
They could hear the sound of cannon fire and almost feel the thud as round shot hit the hull. If Pearce wondered what Digby was about, damaging a ship about to be taken as prize instead of using grape, there was no time to ponder, for to do so was to invite heavy losses. He yelled, ordering his men to throw the grappling irons prior to an attempt to get up the side, hoping at both prow and stern others would be doing likewise. They should find it easier to get to the deck, he and his party having pinned the defence. If the Turks departed to secure those points of access, it would in turn facilitate his task.
The navy men in total, if you included those still on Flirt, should outnumber the Turks by a decent margin. The defenders could not be everywhere, and in part, the task of those attacking amidships was to threaten and create a circumstance that gave just as much of a chance for others to succeed. With Digby also coming alongside on the other beam, their enemies would be in a real quandary. They could not ignore Pearce and his men, but the brig hooking on could deliver the most telling assault. Boarding from deck to deck, varying heights notwithstanding, was simple and it would have to be countered immediately.
Seeing a sudden diminution of the numbers lining the side, and being aware that men were in very real danger of suffering wounds, Pearce prepared to move. He did so as the cutter rose on the swell, one that for a brief moment diminished the distance needed to be covered. It was far from easy but this again was something the crew trained for, aware that it took a strong stomach for any man, not by nature a fighter, to stand fast in the face of a slashing cutlass blade.
He discharged the two pistols Michael had given him, more for disruption, then grabbed a part of the rigging, a rope shot away and hanging conveniently, to haul himself upwards, feet on the planking. As he came abreast of the nettings he had to clap on with one hand and haul out his cutlass with the other, to then swing at an exposed head, the fellow aimed at ducking away and allowing him to make a few more feet.
Behind him and despite the swell, the marines he had with him reloaded with calm certainty. Two of them sent their balls either side of Pearce to drive back those determined to stop him, allowing him to get his feet on the hammock nettings, from where, once upright, he could fight on equal terms.
That he achieved and he was not alone, yelling and waving his blade when he felt the rush of air and the crack of passing shot, this as his captain, wholly inappropriately, fired the round of grape he should have discharged sooner. If the Turks suffered, so did the Flirts. Pearce saw Rufus Dommet fall backwards, in the act of doing so taking down with him two others clambering up the side. Another of his party fell and, missing the boat, plunged screaming into the sea, the man in command having no idea if he had fallen from fright or a wound.
Whatever the stupidity of Digby, it was deadly to the Turks as well, which created gaps in the defence that could be exploited. Several of his men got onto the deck and began to contest it, the clanging of swords and the thud of clubs and axes now the dominant sound, and that included his own. His blue coat marked him out as a leader and thus attracted an assault by a pair with hooked swords.
Luckily for Pearce they were swingers and hackers, driven by passion rather than skill, while wasting the breath they needed to fight in useless shouting. He was silent and concentrating, first defending the arced blows before getting under the guard of one to slice open his gut, which had him stop still in amazement. There was no attempt to finish the man off; that would take his blade out of play.
But it was necessary for him to retreat a few paces in a classic fencing style, to avoid a hack from the wounded man’s confrère. This put his back up against the nettings, the feel of the obstacle causing a temporary distraction. Sensing opportunity, the Turk facing him, a gleam of triumph in his eye, lunged with his blade at full stretch, his forward leg bent, aiming a blow with the point that Pearce parried with an underhand sweep.
The gleam faded as his opponent realised he was now exposed, this as Pearce’s cutlass continued the movement, swinging upwards to take him under the chin and cut open his jaw. Now it was time to stab, as shocked, the man stood unprotected. He tried to bring his weapon up to prevent what was coming but it was too late. The full thrust was through his coloured waistband in a blink, leaving him to look with surprise at the hilt. He held Pearce’s cold, indifferent eyes for a second, before sinking to his knees, by which time the cutlass was free to deliver the killing blow.
There were three contests going on now, one towards the prow, another on the poop with Grey’s red coat very obvious, as well as the one in which Pearce was engaged. That could not last, yet there was no hint of surrender; the Turks kept fighting, even when it must have been obvious to them their cause was hopeless, so much so that John Pearce could pause from the conflict to take in his surroundings.
The first observation was the clear gap between the deck on which he stood and that of HMS Flirt. He was amazed to see she was still standing off from the prize, not as she should be, hooking on with grappling irons and hauling herself alongside. For whatever reason, Digby had not acted as expected and that could only be to do with the other two Turkoman vessels. Yet looking east, he saw the bait had done its job. Such was their rate of sailing there was a good chance they would make Genoa harbour, even if Digby set off in immediate pursuit.
The Turks still fighting on the bait ship were now bunched in a tight circle, being clubbed and stabbed, or skewered by Grey’s sword, one having a defending arm near removed by Michael O’Hagan’s axe. Given they were selling their lives dearly and to no purpose, Pearce went to the mainmast and swiped at the halyard. The red crescent came tumbling down but still the Turks kept struggling, stopping abruptly only when a booming cannon fired in the distance.
Pearce turned to see a billow of black smoke coming from one of the fleeing pair, and when he looked back the effect was remarkable. Every one of those still fighti
ng immediately dropped their weapons and fell to the deck, arms outstretched. It had obviously been the signal for which they had waited, which meant the man who had ordered them to sacrifice themselves was saying the need no longer existed.
‘Round them up and get them off the deck, if you please, Mr Grey,’ he called, before ordering others – sailors – below to check for damage, for he could not trust the marine with such a task. ‘Let us ensure she can float. Casualties, Michael?’
The Irishman was back beside him in minutes. ‘One dead for certain, he took a ball in the head and Rufus has one in his shoulder, they tell me. A couple of broken bones from falling into the boat, cuts and bruises aplenty and one fellow still shiverin’ for being ducked.’
‘Make arrangements to get those who need attention back to Flirt.’
Those orders being carried out allowed him time to thank the Troubadours for their efforts and to enquire of their previous casualties. Not much daylight was thrown on that by the midshipman in command, whom he now recognised as one of the fellows he had stopped fighting in Leghorn, outside that the losses were heavy and the damage serious. It included their premier, who had been crushed under a falling spar, Captain Babbage escaping a similar fate by a whisker.
‘The capture is yours, Mr Pearce, so with your permission I will take my men back to Troubadour where I daresay we will be needed.’
When the reports came back, there was nothing gone below the waterline but a great deal of damage on the main deck; he went to the side to hail Digby and report.
‘May I suggest, sir, that the prize should immediately set sail for Leghorn? If you send over our carpenter, he can undertake any necessary repairs on the way.’
‘A job for a midshipman, Mr Pearce. I will send Mr Conway to take command presently.’
That was malicious. The man taking a prize was generally granted the task of taking it into port, where he would also receive praise from more than the navy. It was not a statute but it was custom and practice, and Digby was flaunting it to get at him. As it was, Captain Babbage arrived before Conway, having spent on the way a short time with Digby. He came aboard with an odd look on his face; he was smiling but did not look happy. How could he, Pearce thought, he had lost his first lieutenant and they were good friends.
A Treacherous Coast Page 24
