A Close Run Thing

by David Donachie

  Gherson was staring straight ahead, thinking hard.

  ‘You hid from me at sea, so I would never have found you even if I had desired to do so. I would say that could be the only place you might be safe.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The two days were up and with Oliphant badgering him, Pearce decided he would have to get away. The day before, for the first time, he had managed two consecutive sailing and anchoring drills, which had gone reasonably smoothly. The most notable thing was the lower level of shouting; the men were beginning to function as a collective instead of individuals, and when asked over dinner in the great cabin, Hallowell and Worricker pronounced themselves pleased. On the excuse of a conference to examine the same subject he called Michael, Charlie and Rufus to join him over toasted cheese for an opinion.

  ‘I spoke to Mr Williams and asked what weather we might expect in the coming days.’

  ‘Sure, we’ve had it forgiving, John-boy.’

  Charlie countered O’Hagan. ‘For my money, Michael, that begs a wager: the elements will turn.’

  ‘What did Crock of Shit say?’ Rufus asked.

  ‘Has everybody been given a new name?’ Pearce chuckled, though; the bosun deserved his moniker for his general misery. ‘He declined to be drawn.’

  ‘Hanged, drawn and quartered would suit.’

  ‘Let’s agree no certainty is possible,’ Pearce insisted. ‘But it can only be guessed at. Mr Williams is of the opinion the recent weather should continue and I don’t feel qualified to argue with him. More important is your opinions on how the crew are shaping?’

  The question was aimed squarely at his temporary watch captains, not O’Hagan. They were closest to the men, working with and supervising the duties they undertook.

  ‘Some are shaping up a bit,’ was the opinion of Rufus. ‘I would recommend Foster to be yeoman of the tops, he being a real worker and keen. There’s good among the dross. Others, well they’ll never make a sailor as long as their arse is pointing south.’

  ‘Usual mix, John, good to useless.’

  ‘Charlie, I’m asking if I can take us out to sea.’

  ‘Only doing it will tell. Reckon Bastard Barclay thought the same when Brilliant weighed with us aboard.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Michael cried, ‘do you recall it!’

  ‘It was learn quick, all right,’ Rufus said. ‘Had my back struck a dozen times with a rattan those first days.’

  ‘Got off light, then,’ Charlie joked, only it was not really funny.

  Recalling his own imposed service, Pearce realised in recollection just how much he had absorbed in their first few days at sea. A man-o’-war in service had a rhythm to the day and it imposed itself on all aboard, top to bottom, from the men being roused out of their hammocks to the master-at-arms dousing what lights were not required at day’s end.

  Barclay had crept down the channel, with older hands willing to talk to the newcomers, pointing out there was always a harbour or an anchorage in the offing for which to run, all the way down to Falmouth. It was then helm down for Ushant and by the time they had weathered that Breton Island, some of what was being drummed into, and occasionally beaten into them, had been absorbed. Would his crew be likewise?

  The tempo of shipboard existence imposed itself. A bell, which tolled throughout the day and night, each clang pointing to some duty or other – high wind, foul weather or an enemy in the offing – being the only thing to break the pattern. Rise and shine, swab and flog were daily; other duties were worked out over the days, sometimes in weeks and months, but would it be the best way to instil experience into the crew of Hazard?

  ‘We have to weigh and get to sea, which we will do in the morning just after the tide peaks. So anyone who has letters to send, best get them penned and ready to go ashore.’

  ‘I don’t think he’s talking to us, lads,’ said Charlie.

  The news they were leaving could not be kept from the crew – few things could – and it was telling that, while some were excited, as many were worried to varying degrees. Pearce took to the poop after the deck was swabbed, to talk to the crew before they went to breakfast – not the best time, given rumbling bellies. He had them gather aft as they did on a Sunday, a sea of expectant faces, who reckoned they knew what was coming: a rousing speech ‘to raise their spirits’.

  ‘A tot of grog would do that.’

  It was Teach who voiced the complaint. Back on light duties, he had not lost his ability to make everything sound like an imposition. But that same flogging had blown away some of his bluster, while those he messed with were less unhappy with their lot and, it had to be said, less inclined to defer to him.

  ‘Belay that blathering,’ called Michael softly, well aware of who to target. Teach’s head shrunk into his shoulders.

  This time there were no marines at Pearce’s back. They, with Moberly, had been lined up at the rear, out of the line of sight, that being a less threatening location. His lieutenants and mids he had lined up at the front, backs to the hands. Pearce wanted no sense of intimidation to blunt his message. Once on the poop, looking into that sea of faces, he was assailed with the notion, a recurring one in his life, that what he was doing was fraudulent.

  ‘A good morning to you,’ he began, taking off his hat to underline this was to be informal. ‘As yet I do not know all of you, but you know me, or at least what I look like. How many of you take pleasure in what you see, I will leave unspoken.’

  Some chortled, most did not; it was not, in truth, a very good quip. ‘We are about to pluck our anchor, as we have done many times days past, but with a difference. We will not be coming back to Faversham Creek.’

  Some looked surprised, which Pearce took to be play-acting. The ship had been abuzz since dawn. ‘I will not tell you our destination, but it is a long way off and, by the time we get there, I expect you to be as capable a crew as any in the service.’

  Dropping eyes gave a lie in many minds to that possibility. ‘I sense many of you doubt it, but I speak from having been where you are now.’

  How many knew his story? He suspected most, if not all, for it was no kept secret and some would have plucked up the courage to quiz the Pelicans about him. It was a case then of tell one, tell all.

  ‘Being at sea, where this ship belongs, will bring on your skills at a speed you would barely credit, again something I know from having been through it. The plain fact is I will depend on you and you will depend on me. That is how a ship works and there is no other method that will keep us safe and certainly none that will make us effective in battle, which I am determined we should be. I wish you good luck. Mr Hallowell.’

  ‘Mr Crocker,’ Hallowell called, ‘pipe the hands to breakfast.’

  ‘I am so tempted to applaud, Pearce,’ Oliphant said, coming from where he had been resting, with his back to the taffrail. ‘Not a fighting speech but …’

  ‘We weigh in two hours. I suggest you put in your gut what will shortly be spewing out again.’

  He looked about to deny he had, like many of the crew, suffered that day when they had sailed past Margate, but then thought better of it.

  The wind was in the prevailing direction, still in the south-west and stiff enough to promise a swift exit to the Channel, their route out of home waters. From there it would be necessary to tack and wear but that would suit Pearce. It meant constant work on the yards and should mean some adjustment to the sails, the very thing he wanted. There was no coastal creeping this time; he wanted to be far out in deep water, which would take him closer to Flushing than the Kent coast.

  He could then head down the Channel towards the Lizard, knowing – the narrows apart – he would not be short of sea room. Men were sick and they hit a running sea, but fewer than on the previous occasion, another cause for optimism. This was easy to maintain under a sky of slow-moving clouds, interspersed with patches of blue sky, the sea switching from green to blue as it reflected what lay overhead. Everything was going to be fine.


  ‘All hands to come about.’

  Mr Williams was by the binnacle, Michael was on the wheel. The men let fly the sheets and hauled round the yards, to reset them near fore and aft. A couple of reefs were taken out of the courses to gain more way, needed given the wind, which had been off their stern and was now on the beam. Once round, the deck canted over some ten degrees, which caused much staggering gait, this as the prow rose and fell in harmony with the run of the sea as they made for the South Foreland.

  The day wore on and slowly but steadily they progressed into the narrows, both shores now fully visible from the tops, and it was up there Pearce chose to take himself, clambering up the weather shrouds. All of his midshipmen were at his back, young Livingston climbing for the first time, it being a good idea to let the men see that those who exercised authority, which was total in his case, nervously applied by the youngsters, were as capable and as fearless as any man aboard.

  ‘Mr Livingston, you must keep up,’ came the call from the mainmast cap.

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  The Mite, as Pearce saw him, would have struggled to do so regardless, with his lack of height and reach, but there was reluctance as well.

  ‘The wind is on your back. As long as you are clapped on with one hand, nothing bad can befall you.’

  Was it the word ‘befall’ that took his feet away? Pearce had no idea, only that Livingston, halfway up from the bulwarks, was reliant on that one hand while his shoes were waving in thin air. He was heading down in a flash, glad to see that Worricker, who had the deck, was racing to get to him from below and he got there first, to take the boy’s weight and get him safely fixed hands and feet.

  By that time his captain was right above him, looking down at a face full of terror, telling him not to look down but up and proffering a hand. That was taken to be firmly gripped, the pull bringing him closer and, the shrouds still being wide enough, alongside. From there it was ratline by ratline until Livingston could be pushed through the lubber’s hole, his captain joining him to find the boy trembling.

  ‘I beg forgiveness, sir.’

  ‘For what, a slip of a shoe?’

  ‘Which did not happen to the others.’

  ‘Stand up and look,’ was obeyed, Pearce pointing out the coast of England and France. ‘There. How many people in Bathgate can say they have seen such a sight?’

  ‘None, sir,’ was the tremulous response.

  ‘It is your first. Would you believe me when I say that in a few weeks’ time you will have me yelling at you and promising a feel of the birch for skylarking in the rigging?’

  The direct look, in a pair of blue eyes full of purity, as he gazed up at a smiling Pearce, denied such a thing was possible.

  ‘Do you feel able to make the crosstrees with me at your back?’

  This was a test and, if he failed it, John Pearce would have a problem. The Mite had to be given time to grow and find his way, but he could not keep a midshipman that failed to match his topmen. An aspiring officer had to be able to do everything on a ship in the same way and to a matching standard as the crew. It was his job to make that happen and he had an idea that might help.

  The boy was on his own too much and, if the gunner’s wife was not his mother – he hoped for a kinder and more comely soul in Bathgate – she was too close to the reality for him to know he was in the navy. Separating him kept him away from bonding with those with whom he would serve.

  ‘It occurs, Mr Livingston, that you should shift from under the care of Mrs Low and join your fellows on the orlop.’

  It was not taken with glee, more confusion, so there was no telling if he was sad or glad. All Pearce could do was take him to the next set of shrouds, give him an encouraging look and oblige him to climb, thinking one day he might have this happen with Adam, who could be just as fearful. It was not a thought to cherish.

  As they climbed, he called to the other three to shift out onto a yard and vacate the crosstrees so the Mite could occupy the space. They sat, looking down at a prow dipping into the sea, throwing up white water, some of which wetted the foredeck. Men, looking like ants, were working, for there was rarely a moment of inactivity at sea. On deck the master was looking up, which was in itself a message.

  ‘We must go down soon, as we’ll be coming round onto another tack. I will not permit you a backstay, Mr Livingston, you must go the way you came. And since I am an old crock, I reckon to do likewise. Probably best I go first, for if I tumble onto you, I cannot expect you to catch me.’ The chuckle was manufactured. ‘I’ll take you all the way to the deck, for sure.’

  ‘Sir.’

  A call to the others saw Jock the Sock and Campbell use a backstay, to speedily make the deck, while Tennant used the lee shrouds, not good practice, but which would pass without comment. There was no shame in that yet, but the time would come. He went down slowly, repeating the mantra of one hand clapped on, his own free hand hovering below the Mite’s feet.

  ‘Any sign of Mr Oliphant, Michael?’

  ‘None, the Holy Trinity be thanked.’

  He was in his cabin, encased in the endless paperwork, when the marine sentry knocked, opened the door, then called to announce the master.

  ‘Mr Williams?’

  ‘Bit of a drop in the glass, Mr Pearce, if you’d care to look. We might be in for a blow.’

  So much for no change in the weather. Pearce stood to look and tap his own barometer which, by the level of the mercury, confirmed what Williams was saying. ‘It’s not precipitous, but we’ll keep an eye on it.’

  ‘English Channel,’ was intoned as Pearce went back to his desk to sit down.

  These were words that had him look up, obviously in deep thought, and there was no need to add more. For sudden storms, there were few places more disposed than the sea between Normandy and England. There was an option to run for a safe harbour if danger threatened, not that he was so inclined. His crew would have to face bad weather sometime and, if soonest was not ideal, it might just serve to blood them early.

  Dover, the closest, was tricky to enter and he worried about how his men would fare at what would be a complex manoeuvre. He could make for Deal Roads and the protection of the Goodwins. Yet approaching those sandbars, if the sea cut up rough, was fraught with peril, even if the tide was likely to be low and much would be visible. As a graveyard for ships, it was without parallel on the coast of Britannia. Dover was the lesser of twin evils, but that would mean coming right up into the wind, which would make progress near to impossible.

  ‘As I said, we will keep an eye on it.’

  Which he was later to acknowledge was one of the worst judgements he had ever made as a commanding officer. Busy with ledgers he failed to keep an occasional eye on his own barometer. When he finally got round to looking, the mercury had dropped at an alarming rate. In consultation with Williams they agreed seeking harbour was getting less possible by the bell and they were running out of daylight, which made Dover too risky and Deal positively deadly.

  Hallowell and Worricker were called in to give a view and it was agreed to come about while it was still a relatively straightforward exercise, not that it was as simple as it had been only a few hours earlier. They could use the huge amount of sea room that afforded and, if required, they could run for the expanse of the North Sea.

  It was a blessing, and the only one, that as the weather deteriorated they had time to make things secure. This put pressure on those who could do what was required without instruction. Even getting the chicken coop below turned into a major crisis when the birds got loose. Down below extra straw was being laid in the manger to protect the pigs and the goat.

  Foster, newly appointed as yeoman, along with the bosun and the master, had storm canvas hauled out for the topsails and foresails, the normal suits brought down and stored; everything else would be clewed up. Getting that aloft and bent on in the increasing pitch and roll, plus a strengthening wind, taxed what little ability existed.

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bsp; Pearce had no choice but to leave them to it. The swivels had to be struck below, as well as any round shot from the deck rings, the cannon trunnions secured with double lashings tight against the gunport cover. In addition, Hallowell and Worricker were rigging extra stays on the masts, while down below everything moveable was either being tied down or struck into the hold, where it should be jammed to keep it secure, this accomplished with anything which would serve.

  Luckily the boats were inboard, so extra lines were all they needed. Oliphant was roused out of his cot when the panels arrived to cover the casements, so if the glass was stove in no water would penetrate. Relieving tackles had to be rigged on the rudder, to help those on the wheel, which would become a burden to spin. But what slowed matters was the utter lack of basic seamanship.

  The crew were willing, many more than that, but everything requiring to be done had to be preceded by a shouted instruction and it was inevitable confusion gained the upper hand. Some canvas meant to cover one of the hatchways went over the side due to poor handling. Barrels that should have been secured got loose and, being full, were a cause of injuries as men tried to stop them without using a pair of oars or some kind of a lever.

  By the time darkness came and the wind in the rigging had turned to a scream, they were running north-east ahead of a sea that only these waters could produce. The waves were not as high as ocean waters, it was the lack of room between the caps that made it dangerous. And then the rain came, blown near to horizontal, to run in rivulets off the men in oilskins, hanging on to the huge steering wheel to keep their feet as much as seeking to control the ship.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  In full darkness, for those on the quarterdeck, the world shrank to what could be seen by the light of the binnacle and that was barely enough to show another body never mind anything outside its arc. Being clad in oilskins provided some protection but nothing could stop flying spume from finding the gaps in any garment, so everyone had cold water running in, to soak their inner clothing.