A Shot Rolling Ship

by David Donachie

  ‘Mr Digby, I hope we have a weather eye out for French warships. I would hate to make the same mistake as our friend yonder.’

  ‘We have that, sir, and since we are due west of Brest, I have given orders that one of our lookouts, on the mizzen top, should pay particular attention to that quarter.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Do you anticipate French warships?’ asked the fish-eyed surgeon, Lutyens, in his high-pitched voice.

  Everyone else stiffened. You did not question a captain on his own quarterdeck, and certainly not one as tetchy as Ralph Barclay. It was common knowledge that Lutyens knew nothing of the sea or naval life, just as it was common knowledge abaft the mainmast that his powerful connections ashore were such that it was a wonder he had chosen to serve in the Navy at all, never mind a lowly frigate. It was that which saved him from a bad-tempered blast. For a man with little interest to aid his career, Ralph Barclay needed to be careful with one who had so much that he could decline to employ it. The telescope never wavered, though the voice was far from friendly.

  ‘The French Navy may be in revolutionary ruin Mr Lutyens, with most of its competent officers fled or dead, but there are still men who can sail and fight their vessels. It is also the case that these are their home waters, and Brest is their main naval port, so it behoves me to be aware of the threat.’

  Lutyens whipped out a little notebook, one that he carried everywhere, much to the annoyance of all aboard and did what he always did, scribbled some note in it. Many aboard had speculated as to what that book contained and thoughts amongst the crew of pinching it and getting someone to read its contents were commonplace, for all were convinced it could not be laudatory.

  Brilliant was close enough now to see the tiny figures on the barque’s deck, all crowded in the bows on the weather rail. Ralph Barclay had no doubt that they were French, another privateer out on the hunt for an English merchant vessel. He had a sudden vision of the way the one he had previously pursued had humbugged him, not once, but three times; that and other considerations made him act.

  ‘I would wish to alter course slightly, Mr Collins. Take us inshore a trifle. I want this fellow left with only the option of the open sea and an unfavourable wind when he wakes up to our presence. Mr Digby, a word to the lookouts, if you please, to cast their eyes well beyond our friend yonder. From our higher masts we should be able to pick out the convoy before we overhaul him.’

  ‘Sir.’

  One nimble young mid was sent aloft with the message, while Farmiloe was despatched to inform the captain’s wife that there was something of interest for her to see. Her coming on deck, well wrapped in a hooded cloak, coincided with the slight alteration of course, which meant adjustment to the yards to take full advantage of the wind. It also coincided with someone aboard that barque casting a look over the taffrail, for their deck was suddenly a hive of activity, as the reefs came out of her sails and her speed increased markedly.

  ‘Deck there, sail due south. Two sail. More.’

  ‘Our convoy, my dear,’ said Ralph Barclay, as he took Emily’s arm. ‘And between us and them a French dog waiting for nightfall to sneak in and snap up one of our charges.’

  ‘Chase has altered course to starboard. And he has hoisted a French flag.’

  ‘That means he is heading out to sea, my dear, into the wind and away from his home shore, hoping to outrun us, perhaps even that some French warship is in the offing to aid him.’

  ‘I can barely make out what he is doing husband.’

  ‘Mr Digby, I wish you to fire off one of the forward cannon.’ That got him several discreet sideways glances, for they were well out of range of the barque. ‘No ball, just powder, and keep firing. Let us alert those ahead of us to the presence of an enemy. If Captain Gould has his wits about him he will put up his helm to investigate, which will give our friend yonder something else to think about.’

  ‘Now, Emily, my dear, let us see if I can help you to master this telescope.’

  ‘Is this the time husband?’

  ‘None better, my dear, given that we have something for you to look at.’

  Everyone wanted to observe this event, for this was a gentler Ralph Barclay than they knew, but only Lutyens, with no notion of the discipline required on board a ship of war, had the ignorance to openly stare as Barclay put his arms over his wife’s shoulders, and admonished her to steady herself against him and his well-spread legs to master the roll of the ship.

  ‘Now put this to your eye, so, and your hand to the front part, then twist and extend it till the image becomes clear.’

  ‘Sea and sky, husband, is all I can manage.’

  Ralph Barclay put his head very close to that of Emily, so as to point the telescope in the direction of the chase, delighted with the squeal of pleasure that told him, however briefly, that it had appeared in view. He could smell his wife’s musk, the odour of her body as a sliver of warm air escaped from under her cloak to fill his nostrils, and leaning against him as she was, with her body resting on his, induced a natural tumescence. He was aware of the attention their joint posture engendered and took pleasure in the jealousy of those surreptitiously watching them.

  ‘We shall have him before nightfall my dear, especially if Captain Gould brings Firefly into play.’

  The anxieties which had assailed Ralph Barclay in his cabin faded: the problem had not disappeared, but luck had presented him with an opportunity to palliate his second in command, the man who, barring the wounded Roscoe, could most threaten his position. Situations where lieutenants like Roscoe fell out with their captains were endemic, and a bane that the Navy suffered with reluctance, given that it was usually one man’s word against a superior officer, with courts of fellow captains inclined to support the senior man. That was not the case with a man who ran his own ship, even if he too was only a lieutenant. The word of a Master and Commander would count as near-equal; in short he would be listened to with great attention.

  Gould would hear the cannon fire – nothing carried at sea so much as that booming sound. He would come about to investigate and together they would snap up this fellow trying to run from them. A share in a prize, a bit of hard coin in the purse, was just the thing to persuade another officer that whatever actions had previously been undertaken by Ralph Barclay, however questionable they had seemed at the time, could be justified. For a man who held that fate had, throughout his life, been less than kind to him, Ralph Barclay, with a wife seventeen years his junior in his arms, on the deck of his own vessel, envied by all aboard and in pursuit of an enemy he was certain to catch, felt just for once like the luckiest fellow in creation.

  There was little drama in the capture; it took time for the fellow kept running, tack upon tack, as far as he could. Collins brought HMS Brilliant around and into the wind with something approaching efficiency, which pleased a captain who harboured ambitions to be in command of a crack vessel. Quiet suggestions from Ralph Barclay adjusted the sail plan in minor ways that made the frigate sail easier, if not perceptibly faster. The wind now coming in over the bows blew back his wife’s hood, ruffling her long, loose-worn hair, and all the while her husband clutched her close and helped her fiddle with the telescope.

  The Frenchman, judging by the streaming jets, had started his water barrels and was pumping like mad to get it over the side and lighten his ship. Well aware that he was at the apex of a losing triangle, other ship’s stores followed and finally the small cannon, trunnions and all – popguns really, designed to threaten rather than destroy, but telling in their weight nevertheless. But there was one thing he could not chuck over the side; the numerous crewmen any close-to-shore privateer must carry on board to take and sail into harbour a number of enemy merchant vessels. The idea that he might shift them into his boats and abandon them, which is what Ralph Barclay would have done, disappeared as his cutter and jolly boat were cast adrift to float away on the current.

  Davidge Gould, in Firefly, had reacted as Ralph Bar
clay knew he must, coming about to investigate gunfire that might be in some way a threat to the convoy. In doing so he would have espied both the chase and Brilliant’s topsails and deduced what was obvious; the frigate cut the French privateer off from the shore; he must deny him a southing, his best point of sailing on the present wind, and force him to the open sea. He would also quickly smoke that it would be his ship, a better sailor on a bowline, not Brilliant, which would effect the capture. Content that all was in hand, and that nothing of import would happen for some time, Ralph Barclay and his wife could safely retire to their cabin and some privacy.

  ‘Lucky bastard,’ said one of the sailors close to the surgeon. He was not addressing Lutyens, but a fellow tar. ‘Every man jack aboard horned up and Barclay’s the only one that can ease it.’

  ‘It is a matter of some curiosity to me,’ opined Lutyens, to no one in particular, ‘that sailors, who from their conversation and behaviour when ashore are a salacious bunch, do not travel aboard in quantity the means to assuage their lust. It would be better if half the crew were females.’

  That got him several looks, not all benign, for he was an anomaly on board every bit as unusual as the captain’s wife; over-qualified for his post, always prying into matters that were held to be outside his province, a stranger to the ways of the service, and scribbling in that little book that was ever with him. Those looks were sharply curtailed when a grinning sailor responded.

  ‘We do, your honour. Ain’t you never heard the term all hands to the pump.’

  ‘Belay that,’ barked Digby, ‘and get on about your duties.’

  Lutyens heard the parting shot as the fellow replied softly. ‘There you go mate, only sinners aboard reside before the mast. It’s all saintly purity in the gunroom with hands clasped in prayer.’

  ‘Mr Lutyens,’ said Digby, coming close enough so that only the surgeon would hear him. ‘It does not do to excite the crew.’

  Lutyens, surprised, looked even more like a fish than usual, his eyes larger and that thin curled hair blown back by the breeze. ‘I was not aware that it was I who excited them, rather that it was the captain’s clear intentions towards his wife. As to the means of release, which that fellow alluded to, it is to my mind an activity to be heartily recommended. I myself employ it frequently, as I am sure you do.’

  Digby’s cheeks were red from the wind; the deeper reddening that suddenly suffused his face had nothing to do with that.

  A half hour later Barclay came back on deck alone, keenly examined by every one who could look at him without being observed, though only the good Lord could say why, for there was no discernable change in his appearance. He picked up his telescope, trained on the quarry, then said:

  ‘Bow chasers, Mr Digby.’

  ‘Sir.’ The order being passed on, Digby asked, ‘Do you wish to clear for action?’

  ‘No. The fellow has ditched what little armament he has. A couple of shots over his bows should bring him too.’

  ‘Might I recommend we issue some muskets, sir?’

  ‘The marines have sufficient, Mr Digby. Let’s get them up into the bows so our friend yonder can see what is coming.’

  Firefly must have been waiting for the senior vessel to fire. As soon as a ball from Brilliant left the frigate’s larboard chaser, a great plume of smoke was seen to blow away from the other escort’s bow.

  ‘Well, this fellow is no hero,’ snorted Barclay, as the tricolour flag at the masthead of the ship they were pursuing was immediately run down. ‘Not even a musket shot for his honour.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  The routine aboard Griffin swiftly assumed a familiar pattern learned in only a week aboard HMS Brilliant, reminding John Pearce just how much such custom was one of the tools by which authority dulled thoughts of liberty in men who were not sailors by trade. The naval day was fixed by the tasks they had to perform, the naval week by the irritation of repetitive food and the odd ceremony like Divine Service. The other method of control was exhaustion, for moving any sailing vessel from one place to another was hard physical work, made worse aboard this ship because no amount of habit could inure a man to sleeping in the cramped circumstances which pertained aboard an armed cutter, a state of crowding that made life aboard a frigate, with twenty-eight inches of space and the odd bump into a nearby body, seem like slumber paradise.

  Proximity to his sleeping neighbours had forced up the sides of his hammock, so that Pearce had felt himself to be in something like a tomb. He could feel the effect that ran down both sides of his body, which had been crushed between two others as the ship pitched, rolled and snubbed on every wave, the groaning of the timbers almost human in their tone of complaint. His neighbours, judging by the muffled cursing which occasionally emanated from their hammocks, had suffered as much as he. Pipes blew at the opening of the naval day, in darkness, to rouse the watch off duty to quit their hammocks and stow them. A ship of war in a time of conflict stood to every morning before dawn, boats over the side, ports open and guns run out as the light increased sufficiently to allow the captain to ‘see a grey goose at a quarter mile’; really to ensure that no enemy had snuck up close to them during the hours of darkness to gain an advantage that could see the ship taken.

  Sure of an empty sea the guns were housed, flintlocks removed, the shot replaced in their garlands, cartridges and priming quills returned by scampering powder monkeys to the gunner sat behind his thick, canvas fearnought screen, the standby slowmatch doused and the crew set to commence the cleaning of the decks, a task carried out eagerly because only on completion could they be piped to breakfast. Food was another tool of authority, for if it was, to many, unpalatable stuff it was regular, plentiful and in the case of HMS Griffin, reasonably fresh, got up by a cook that had to work on a jury-rigged stove that could not be set up until the captain was sure the ship was safe, the planking underneath his pitch the first to be cleaned. Such regular food was not gainsaid to a toiling labourer ashore, a fact of which sailors were wont to remind each other, as though somehow just having a square meal was a blessing.

  For the Pelicans the comfort of their own table, which they had enjoyed aboard the frigate, was not vouchsafed to them on Griffin. Littlejohn, allotted to them as the leader of their mess, tallied off a pair to take the mess-kids and fetch the grub, but it was eaten where a space could be found, some choosing even on a calm but chill morning to take their victuals on deck rather than squeeze into the stifling hutch that passed for the crew’s quarters. At the rear of that, guarded outside mealtimes and sleep by a marine, a canvas screen cut off a space roughly one third of the whole lower deck for the two mids and the captain. Pearce, looking along the deck beams above his head, calculated that while there was more space per body, there was no luxury aboard for officers either.

  ‘Gunner’s coop is in there’n all,’ said Latimer, when Pearce asked about it. ‘Berths opposite where the mids and the captain’s steward squeeze in, afore Colbourne’s screened off bothy, and he don’t half come it high an mighty ’cause he has his private space, jeering at the others warrants. Puts a plank o’er his powder barrels and calls it a bed, ’cause there ain’t the room to sling a hammock. He’s a squat arse, is the gunner, have to be to get a wink.’

  ‘I don’t know where you’re sitting, brother,’ said Michael O’Hagan, ‘but I have scarce the space to swing my elbow.’

  Another voice spoke, one whose face was well hidden by the crowded sailors. ‘Happen God was having a special jest when he put you aboard this barky, Paddy. Might be he wants to cut you down to size.’

  ‘Christ, Blubber!’ exclaimed another unseen voice, to a ripple of laughter, ‘he’s near the size of you. Man could cut the bog-trotting bugger in two an’ he still wouldn’t fit.’

  Pearce, sitting very close to Michael, sensed his body stiffen and saw the way his face closed up. The Irishman was not averse to being called Paddy as long as he granted the person naming him so the privilege, but he was dead set against anyon
e assuming the right.

  ‘The good Lord might have put me here to shut some gobs that need it, and to gather a few teeth to sell whenever I get ashore.’

  ‘Easy friend,’ Pearce whispered. It would hardly aid things if the Irishman started belting folk, for he had hams for hands and they would do serious damage.

  O’Hagan ignored the attempt at restraint, his voice holding no humour now. ‘And if I can’t find room enough to swing my elbows I will be chastising and laying out four at a go, which will not bother me at all, given the time it will save.’

  Charlie and Rufus had stopped eating, like Pearce waiting to see if anyone would take up the challenge. There would be hard cases aboard, just as there were in every group of gathered males, at sea or ashore, men who commanded others with their fists. Michael had been obliged to deal with the bully called Devenow aboard Brilliant, and he was obviously quite prepared to do the same here, all it needed was for someone to declare themselves willing to accept the challenge. No one spoke, though Pearce observed some members of the crew throw glances at one or two of the larger specimens, men who might have laid claim to respect prior to the arrival of these latest crewmen. Those in question seemed very intent on eating their food, so it was Michael who broke the silence.

  ‘Now you will find me Paddy enough to break a smile and laugh at a joke, and maybe even one to give a helping hand to a struggling fellow. But I will have the proper regard I am due from all here.’

  The canvas screen was pulled back and Lieutenant Colbourne, hatless and with his coat undone, appeared, ranging his eyes over the crowd. That canvas screen and the one behind it would have done little to muffle Michael’s loudly proclaimed statement, and the hard look in his eye was designed to tell all present that he would not tolerate violence.