Then Harry realised that each one of them could steer and would have, in these waters, a feel that easily surpassed his own. They had to know them well, since they fished them for a living. That would be especially true if he got close to any of the smaller islands, a thing he normally tried to avoid because of the treacherous, unpredictable currents. This stretch of water was a graveyard for ships that surpassed even the Goodwins, with a tidal rise and fall that sometimes exceeded fifty feet. Precise navigation could mitigate the hazards, but if he was involved in a running fight that was a luxury he’d be denied.
“Pender, I’m going to put our fishermen on the wheel. They can con the ship under my instructions. We’re going to have a stern chase so you might as well knock the windows out of my cabin and set up some breechings for a pair of nine-pounders. Get the four-pounders up on the poop, with plenty of powder and shot.”
He turned to Patcham. “I want extra stays set up on the mainmast. You’ll have heard that grinding from down below. She’s suffering in the kelson and with the top hamper we’ll need she could rip the mast right out. Make sure everybody eats before we fire a shot and get the cook to make up plenty of food we can take cold.”
Then Harry called the crew aft and explained to them what he was going to do. “From what we can see we are faced with three well-armed ships, all marginally better sailers than us. I can’t run away before the wind because the two schooners would eat off the distance in no time. Nor can I just head into the Atlantic. It’s got nothing to do with out-running the pursuit. It’s more to do with the Miranda groaning like the morning after a night in Fiddler’s Green.
“If I can reduce the odds to a single-ship action we’ll try and board. But until then, I don’t want any of them to touch the paint on our side, regardless of how close they come. It’s one shot at a time, she won’t brook any more. Every one of those has to count. Stand by to go about, and make it so neat, like a crack navy frigate, that they’ll think they’ll never beat us.”
The turn into the wind was all he could have hoped for, though it had taken half an hour to prepare. They wore round like a pinnace, with the new sails flashing out the minute she was on her new course. The three pursuing ships gave up all pretence of uninterest and altered course to chase. They too had new sails going up, and it was with some despair that Harry saw the effect this had on the two schooners. They shot ahead of the barque and started to close the gap at an alarming rate.
“Pender, I want slowmatch amidships and ten barrels of biscuit.”
No one stopped to ask why. They were all too busy, tightening every brace and fall to ensure the most speed. Harry trimmed a sail here and took a turn on a yard there, with his ear constantly attuned to the groaning of the ship. If he overpressed her, she would definitely spring her mainmast, and then he might as well cut down his flag.
The barrels of biscuit were brought on deck, becoming the subject of much amused conjecture. Harry had sorted out the two strongest men in the crew. He put them at either end of a hammock just in front of the wheel. For all that his men were concerned with the progress of the chase, they turned to see what Harry Ludlow was up to now, for he was patiently explaining to his two brutes what he wanted. With many a wry sideways glance at their mates, they laid a barrel of biscuit in the hammock and took a turn on the cords at the hammock’s end. Harry stood by the mainmast shrouds, with his watch in his hand. At his shouted command, the two men ran towards the side and heaved the small biscuit barrel into the air. It flew over the bulwarks and landed thirty feet from the side of the ship.
Harry set them up again. This time they were less successful, going for distance rather than height. The barrel clipped the rail and tumbled into the water by the Miranda’s side. Harry favoured his two volunteers with a glare, and sharply informed them that they’d just blown a hole in the side of their own ship. That ensured the third attempt was more like the first. Harry had them work at the rest of the barrels till they had it right every time. Pender, afire with curiosity, could stand it no longer.
“I know you hate to be questioned on your own deck, Captain Ludlow. But what in the name of hell is going on?”
Harry grinned at him, not least offended by the question. He held up his hands, palms out, then squeezed them together.
“Those two schooners will probably take us between them, Pender. If they get far enough ahead of that barque we can fight one side, using one gun at a time. That’s not going to hold them both up. It won’t even do for one. But if we can pepper one with grape, just to keep her away, and let the other one come close …”
Harry lit a short piece of slowmatch and watched it burn down. Some of his crew had wandered closer, to see what he was up to.
“This is too slow, but I’m going to make up some gunpowder fuses ten seconds long, with some saltpetre in the middle. I light the fuse, it burns for five seconds, ignites the saltpetre so that it flares, which is the signal for my heroes to chuck it over the side.”
“That’s not going to kill anyone.”
If Pender had seen James’s painting of Harry he would have recognised the look in the eyes right away. It was there now.
“Didn’t I say? These fuses will be attached to a barrel of gunpowder. If they go off too early they will totally ruin the rigging. If they go off on time, they’ll blow a hole in the deck big enough to sail through.”
“And if they’re late?” asked Pender.
Harry spun round to include the crew assembled round him. “Then they’ll kill all the men who’ve gathered round to see what’s going on.” He grinned again as the men backed off. “Stand by to lighten the ship.”
They pumped the bilge out at a furious pace, then started the barrels of fresh water so that it ran into the holds, where it was picked up by the hoses and dumped over the side. His men worked fiendishly, fetching stores from below and chucking them into the grey sea, leaving a trail of jetsam in the Miranda’s wake. It was not the only thing in her wake. The two schooners, as Harry had predicted, had left the barque for dead and fetched his wake very quickly. Closer now, he could make out the differences. One had an all-black hull, while the second ship was blue, with a white checker along her gunports.
They’d also smoked his heading, south-west, and they were edging down to force him to turn. They made no attempt to disguise their aim, for they signalled to the barque, which immediately put her bowsprit further to the north so that when they forced Harry round, as they must do, it could close the gap by cutting the arc of his course. Harry consulted his charts and looked at his chronometers as the schooners edged to the south, ready to come up on his starboard side.
They were trying to force him to head for the open Atlantic, where time would be on their side, weather permitting. Harry wanted the safety of a port, preferably one like St Peter’s in Guernsey, with guns at the harbour mouth to protect him. And if he was going to fight them, which looked increasingly likely, he didn’t want them in line ahead, where they could stand off and fire broadsides at their leisure, while he could only fire two guns per minute in reply.
They’d surely want to compete for the honour of taking him and he had to try and use that to split them up, to bring them close on either side, so that they would fire just enough to clear his decks before boarding. Harry was worried about the effect of sustained fire on the Miranda’s hull. He went back on deck, looked at the pursuing ships, and after a short conversation with Gaston gave orders to his fishermen that would bring him round a course towards the northern tip of Alderney. That was tempting fate, as well as reposing a great deal of trust in his locals. The riptides and currents around that rocky, barren island were the worst in this part of the Channel.
It was no place to be taking the Miranda, unless he counted the greater danger which threatened. There was an anchorage at Braye, on the north-western coast, a bay which provided shelter from the prevailing westerlies, but apart from that he would be left with isolated fishing villages. If the worst happened and he was
damaged but could still float, he’d run her aground in one of the bays. But first he would see what he could achieve by hugging the shore. Perhaps if he got close enough to the island they’d give up the chase, rather than risk their vessels in such deadly tides.
The schooners came round immediately, an action which split them up, putting blue water between their sides. And they started to race each other for the honour of catching him, with “Blue Checker” having the legs of “Black Hull,” which was exactly what Harry wanted. The boom of the signal gun came to him across the water. He turned to look at the distant barque, then back at the schooners, dismayed to see that Blue Checker had eased her braces to stay on station with her consort.
“Everyone fed?” he asked quietly.
“Aye, aye, Captain,” Pender replied.
“We’re going to have to fight,” said Harry.
“Guessed as much, Captain.” Pender paused before continuing. “Do we know who they are?”
Harry just shook his head. Pender’s speculations would be as accurate as his own. Pender indicated the men sitting amidships, knotting ropes to make a bigger catapault for Harry’s powder barrels. The gunner sat beside them making up fuses, all three under canvas so he could stay out of the occasional bursts of rain.
“Are we depending on those?”
“You don’t like the idea?”
“I’d be happier with boarding nettings rigged.”
“Good God, Pender,” cried Harry, with mock horror. “How are we ever going to board the enemy if we’ve got nets rigged?”
“Land ho, dead ahead.”
Harry saw his three fishermen elevate themselves. He relieved them at the wheel and let them go aloft. When they came back on deck, they were jabbering away in a local patois so dense that Harry couldn’t understand a word. There was much pointing to the sea and the grey, overcast sky. Finally, the father, Gaston, approached him. Speaking proper French, he began to inform Harry of some of the peculiarities of the tides around Alderney. There was much about time, the tide, and the season, with hints of possibilities rather than certainties. Harry nodded sagely as they talked, pointing towards the island himself, which could now be observed from the deck. It didn’t look inviting, merely a deeper shade of grey than the surrounding sea.
Harry put them back on the wheel. Such local knowledge as they had, the accumulated wisdom of generations, was priceless, and it might just prove enough of an asset to redress the imbalance in the coming fight. He prayed that his opponents were using charts. These men would not need a chart to sail these waters, indeed they would be at a loss to read one. But it was clear, from his conversation with Gaston, that they had knowledge of every submerged rock, every current and tidal race by day and season.
“Douse the galley fire, Pender, and issue a tot of rum to all hands.”
“Shall I start the casks when I’ve done that?” asked Pender softly.
Harry just nodded. They both knew the temptations for sailors when they thought they were close to death. They’d do nothing to save themselves or the ship, but they’d go to any lengths to get hold of the means to get drunk. Harry made his way to his windowless cabin. The two nine-pounders had been set up across the stern and he bent to look through the gap at the two schooners.
“Run her out,” he said to the starboard gunners, for they were already at full elevation. “Let’s try the range.”
The men hauled on the breechings that held the gun to the deck, pulling them so that the gun ran out, with the muzzle protruding beyond the woodwork. Harry stepped round, taking a handkerchief and tying it about his ears. The noise of a gun going off in this confined area could be deafening. Then he lowered the slow-match into the touch-hole.
A great spurt of flame leapt from the muzzle. The cannon shot backwards until its movement was arrested by the restraining tackles. Bending low, he could see the ball arcing towards the enemy. It landed in the sea between them, sending water over both bows. The two ships immediately drifted further apart, which caused Harry to curse under his breath, though he was far from displeased. With one ball he’d achieved the very thing he’d been trying to do all morning.
“Right, lads. You’ve got one ship each. See what you can do. If they show signs of coming into line abreast, try to prevent it.”
“Can we fire together, Captain?”
Harry mused, then nodded, reasoning that a ship was always stronger in its length than its beam, so even the Miranda could stand the strain. He went up to the poop, to oversee the work of the four-pounders, which he wanted to play on his enemies’ rigging. From there he could supervise all the guns, with a messenger to relay his orders to the cabin.
They were close now and they opened up with bow chasers in answer to his guns. But the swell had increased, and the water was more disturbed, the effect caused by being on the edge of the Alderney currents. Neither side could do much damage, unless luck attended their aim. Harry left the poop to go forward to the quarterdeck. He had another quiet conversation with the old islander, who took him to the bows and pointed out the course he should follow. Harry relaxed as he listened, for what the old man was saying could produce an answer to part of his problem.
They went back to the wheel and Gaston started a very gentle edge to starboard, so infinitesimal as to be barely noticeable. His pursuers must be wondering at his course. He was sailing right into the wind, as close-hauled as she would bear, with the sheer rocks of the coastline dead ahead. They suspected a trick, no doubt, but they obeyed their leader’s instructions to stay abreast. They were at least spread out, planning to take him on either side, swinging wide to ensure that they could descend on the Miranda at a sharp angle. Harry looked at Gaston. The Alderney fisherman was smiling and nodding, as well as pointing a finger to the grey sky, to convey to Harry that whatever they’d cooked up was going according to plan.
Harry ran for the shrouds and started to climb. There was little time, but he wanted to see for himself. He didn’t have to go any further than the cap. Dead ahead, he could see the line of gulls that swooped before the tidal race that swirled round the head of the island. Surging down the rocky shoreline, it produced a counter-eddy a mile off shore.
He returned to the deck as his enemies came abreast, Blue Checker to larboard, with Black Hull to the south. They’d headreached a fraction before putting their helm down, so that they came in to the arc of his fire at minimum risk to themselves. Once close, they’d swing back on course alongside and start their broadsides. Harry smiled grimly. If only they knew how little he had in the way of firepower. Then he looked at Gaston. The gnarled old man was staring past him, at the swooping line of approaching gulls, his tongue stuck between his lips in concentration. He glanced once at Blue Checker, then back at the tidal race which had passed their bows, and finally called to Harry.
The men were ready. They eased the braces holding the yards as Gaston put the helm down. The Miranda picked up speed as she took more of the westerly on her sails and shot towards Blue Checker. Black Hull had over-reached but was coming round to pursue just as her bows hit the overpowering coastal current. The effect must have ripped the wheel out of the helmsman’s hands, for the schooner spun into the race and was headed further south, with the birds swooping through her rigging and the sails flapping uselessly.
For a precious moment, Harry had only one enemy to fight, an enemy he was bearing down on at high speed. The bow chaser spoke out and at this range, aimed to fire on the downroll, they took chunks of wood out of Blue Checker’s bulwarks. The captain, who could see that he was at a disadvantage, was no fool. He put his helm hard down and spun in near his own length to remove himself from danger. It was an impressive piece of seamanship.
As Harry sailed by the unprotected stern, he cursed his want of firepower. A broadside would have done great damage. He took off some of the decoration, but he could achieve no more than that, and the jeering yells that came from his enemy depressed him, first because they were audible, and secondly be
cause they were in English.
Blue Checker came round in pursuit. For the first time in an age Harry looked for the barque. His heart nearly stopped as he saw her. She’d ignored his manoeuvres and held her course, and was now threatening to head him off before he could weather the northern tip of the island. He watched, holding his breath, until he was sure that the wind, favouring him on this heading, was putting him ahead of his opponent. It would be a close-run thing, but he would just make it.
He also had two enemies still in his wake, one close and the other a good two miles to the south, heading out to sea to escape that current, before turning north again. He could clear the headland before the barque, but he might never get another chance for a single-ship engagement, a chance to reduce the odds. He took possession of the wheel from old Gaston and called out his orders.
“Mr Pender. Stand by to go about, then all hands ready to board.”
They were sick of running, fed up with being hunted. They cheered at the thought of initiating an attack. Wearing round, the Miranda hit the coastal current at the right angle and, with the wind on the beam, took off like a greyhound. Harry had his ship under complete control and used that current to close on his enemy before they had time to prepare. He rattled out a stream of orders, then came out of the tidal race, using the counter-eddy of the opposite current to swing his ship right round, so that it drifted into the side of the schooner.
Blue Checker’s captain sheered away, leaving half his paint on the Miranda. His gunports, which had been raised, were now smashed shut. For a moment, he couldn’t clear his guns. But he was away from his attacker, with an increasing amount of sea between them and good reason to feel pleased. The boarders got out of the way. Harry shouted to the gunner to light the fuse poking out of his barrel. It spluttered as the “brutes” took a grip on their catapult, until it reached the saltpetre. The flare of that was the signal to spring the catapult.
Hanging Matter Page 37
