A Shot Rolling Ship

by David Donachie

  The starboard bow chaser, the one most likely to stay clear of the scudding water, was firing regularly now, though Pearce thought it more in hope than expectation, for he had no notion of how anyone, however skilled they professed to be, could take aim from such a moving platform, while the ‘Gravelines bugger’, wisely, was not even trying to retaliate. Just as he was sure Colbourne, who was doing that aiming, was wasting his time, a shot struck home, slicing through the crown of the nearest bulwark and the rigging lashed to it. The topsail yard of the chase swung abruptly, the falls holding it cut through, and Pearce could see it swing abruptly and uselessly. The crew would be running to get it under control as those on the rudder paid off to keep the ship before the run of the sea; not safe, but safer.

  The damage done by Colbourne’s lucky shot, and the time taken to make it good, brought the enemy to within hailing distance, but that was the point at which they restored way on the ship and tried to haul off again. Once more Griffin was in her wake, this time close enough to make the chance of another lucky shot really tell. One removed a bit of the stern, though at a deflecting angle that saw most of the power, along with a goodly bit of the taffrail, go into the sea. Elevating his cannon, Colbourne tried for the rigging, and though one shot went clean through the topsail, it seemed to have little effect on the chase.

  Another hour passed, on deck, off deck and on again, tacking every time to gain the precious inches to overhaul the chase, this while darkness began to encroach, for though the clouds had lifted somewhat it was still an overcast day. Now the talk below was less excited, it being more about the possibility of a missed chance, that made telling by way the effect of that tot of rum wore off. Again they were called on deck, and the crew ascended the companion ladder with much less enthusiasm. They were tallied off to release the maindeck cannon, including the carronades, which were eased round so that their muzzles pointed out through the now open gunports, an act which increased the amount of sea water that swilled across the deck. Midshipman Short took station behind the battery to control the fire, as the gun captains started to fit their flintlocks, each covering them to keep them dry, this before powder monkeys appeared with their leather cartridges, and the process of loading began, slow, because the ship was still heaving back and forth, with a good yaw in between as she began to crest a crossing wave.

  Touch holes were cleaned so that the quills which would set off the charge could be easily inserted, the cartridge of powder rammed home followed by ball and wad, and as it was completed each gun captain, with a raised arm, pronounced themselves ready. Was Colbourne, who stood looking straight ahead, staying silent to heighten the tension? Pearce was sure there was a moment of theatricality in the way he waited while everyone on the deck, still obliged to keep hold of something to maintain their feet, looked aft.

  Then the trumpet, slowly, went to his lips; even with this he had to bellow to make himself heard. ‘We are going to bring this fellow to, lads, who seeks to avoid us and is even declining to fight, and we are going to do it in the next half a glass, for if we don’t it will be dark and he might elude us. So, when I give the order, it is to fire as your guns bear. I am going to fall off to larboard and swing us round. The oncoming wave will raise us and I want you to fire on the crest. The sea state and the wind obliges me to come right round, so once your guns are housed I want you back on the falls to bring the ship into the wake of the chase again. Once we have closed again, I will repeat the manoeuvre until we get him somewhere vital. Carronades, I want you firing at maximum elevation, for if one of you can hit him once he will be done for regardless of where it strikes.’

  If it was meant to be rousing it failed to do the trick; if anything the men looked disgruntled, while once again it was garrulous Latimer who, mouth pressed to Pearce’s ear, supplied the reason. ‘A carronade ball hits that barky foursquare and there’ll be nowt left to take.’

  ‘Stand by,’ Colbourne yelled. ‘Let fly.’

  It was as if he had given an order to the enemy as well, who could no doubt see what was taking place on the British deck, for the chase bore up as suddenly as Colbourne did, in a copycat manoeuvre, the side of his ship erupting with cannon fire a spilt second before Griffin’s foremost gunner got off the first shot. Most of the enemy shot whistled through the rigging doing little damage, cutting the odd line before sending up spouts of water off the stern. The other effect was twofold, to close the gap between the ships, and to present to the rest of the Griffin gunners a much juicier target.

  ‘Daft bugger,’ Latimer shouted.

  ‘He ain’t daft,’ added Littlejohn, his voice high in pitch. ‘He just don’t know what’s coming. He thinks our guns be the same as his own.’

  The two carronades bore on the target and fired together. There was no time or distance to watch the flight this time, they carried it in seconds. Only one of the rounds hit home, but that was enough, for the side of the enemy ship below the quarterdeck just disintegrated as the heavy ball smashed through the scantlings, and when the smoke and debris cleared there was no one left to hold a wheel and no wheel to hold. The rest of the shot from the five forward cannon did little damage, bar one which glanced off the mainmast, gouging out a deep piece of wood.

  ‘Reload,’ Colbourne shouted, giving an order that was unnecessary, for the gunners had anticipated the command. HMS Griffin swung round onto the wind, taken half way and near broached by a wave. Somehow Colbourne, or the men on the rudder, got the head round to fall off on the wind, and by the time they had way on the ship once more, the gunner captains had raised their arm to tell the commander they were ready to fire. More orders followed to bring the ship round into the wind again, to face an enemy that was wallowing and in some distress.

  ‘Stand by to give her another drubbing lads.’

  ‘What is he about?’ demanded Latimer. ‘She’ll strike without another shot being fired.’

  If Latimer was trying to advise his captain, he was not listening. Again he ordered the sheets eased, and again they came round broadside on to its quarry.

  ‘Fire.’

  The side disappeared in a second cloud of smoke, blown away as swiftly as the first. This time more shots struck home, three of the forward cannon and both of the carronades. The destruction was appalling; it seemed as though half the side of the enemy ship had been blown away. The deck was clear of people; there was no one steering and the way she was heaving to and fro it looked as though she might just roll over and go under.

  ‘Sheet home. Helmsmen bring me alongside. Master at arms get the cutlasses and clubs issued and stand by to board. I want her lashed tight to us to keep her afloat. Mr Short, as soon as that is achieved, bring us round before the wind for safety.’

  ‘Board,’ spat Latimer, close enough to Pearce’s ear to be heard, as he saw Colbourne’s steward hand him his cutlass and his hat. ‘There’s bugger all left to board and precious little left to float.’

  By the time Griffin came alongside the carnage was obvious, for the deck had been just as heavily manned as her opponent; probably the whole crew had been employed, and as a consequence they had all suffered. Ropes snaked out to lash both ships together and they jumped across to a deck where there was no one left to fight them. Those not wounded or killed by cannon fire had been downed by splinters or crushed under guns that had broken loose, while the rest who had survived unscathed had fled below. Where the wheel had been there was just a mass of bodies and splintered wood. Given that was the point from which the ship would be commanded it seemed certain that there was no one to surrender her, so Colbourne stepped towards the mainmast, weak and creaking because of the shot that had gouged it, and swung his hanger to cut the halyard and bring down the Gravelines flag.

  ‘Mr Bailey, a party below to secure any prisoners. Give me a report on the state of the hull. See if she is making any water.’

  A stream of orders followed: to house the loose cannon and gather the shot that was rolling all over the deck; to see to those w
ounded and get them below. Others were set to rigging repairs and Colbourne ordered that the Griffin’s carpenter be sent for to assess the damage, the whole carried out by a naval lieutenant who was obviously high on excitement. Bailey came back on deck to report that there was a break in the scantlings through which she was making water but not so serious that pumping would not hold it.

  ‘Good,’ Colbourne replied. ‘I want her made sound enough to be taken under tow, and then we can work to render her seaworthy again.’

  ‘Are we taking her into port, sir?’

  Colbourne’s eyes flashed. ‘Yes, Mr Bailey, we are. And I daresay I shall be invited by the Commodore to partake of a glass of his best brandy when he sees we have a prize.’

  Not everyone aboard the prize had been killed, though few seemed entirely whole and given the mass of repairs to be carried out, shocked as they were, they had to be pressed into service, and Pearce found himself working alongside them. The quality of the French he spoke surprised them more than the questions he asked, not that they were able to tell him about anything that was going on in Paris. He continued to speak to them long after he realised the futility of asking them anything about the present state of their country, until he realised that, occupied as he was, he had not seen Colbourne get close enough to hear him talk. Loudly, he reverted to English, unsure whether his previous conversations had been overheard.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ‘It’s not a dead loss, mates. There’ll be gun money and head money to share, but that ain’t no comparison to a ship whole.’

  Blubber was talking to the Pelicans, but there were enough close nearby to hear and murmur assent, with the general opinion being that while Coal Barge might expect to lord it in the port commodore’s chamber and sup claret by the pint, they, and he, had been dunned out a goodly sum because the prize was so damaged that it would fetch little when sold. Latimer was especially scathing.

  ‘Smashed quarterdeck, with the cabin below like matchwood, bulwarks caved in, a bloody great dent below water and a mainmast that the carpenter says will need to be taken out and a new one put in. The Prize Master might buy her in to sell on as a coastal trader, but you can bet if he does, it’ll be for a song.’

  ‘Happen the commodore won’t be happy to see his eighth so blasted.’

  ‘He won’t know no different, mate. All he’ll have to go by is the report he reads and that will flatter Coal Barge no end, lest someone tells him otherwise. His despatch will tell of a desperate battle where only luck an’ better guns saved him from like damage.’

  ‘It’s not fair he gets more than we do,’ whined Gherson. ‘An eighth share and he wasn’t even there.’

  For once Pearce backed Gherson up, which got him an odd look. ‘There will be plenty of lords and the like dipping into your money if they get the chance.’

  ‘That’s the way it is,’ said Latimer, though with a look that told John Pearce he was as unhappy about it as Gherson. The collective growl that followed showed that old mariner was not alone. ‘Flag officer’s get their eighth, captains get two, lieutenants, warrants petty officers and mids get two and we gets the rest.’

  ‘Hope the price of a whore ain’t risen while we’ve been out then,’ Blubber moaned.

  ‘You never spent more’n twopence in your life mate,’ said Latimer.

  ‘That’s is ‘cause I ain’t never met a woman in my life worth more’n the price of a good meat pie.’

  Matt had his say. ‘God help you, Blubber, if we ever do take a decent prize. You’ll explode yerself in a week.’

  ‘Can you imagine the coach and four he’d need,’ added Sam. ‘There’s not a spring made to hold him.’

  Blubber’s face took on a look of virtue. ‘Once I’s rich,

  it’ll be bread, water and the odd bit of leaf green for me.’

  ‘You starve yerself,’ Latimer scoffed. ‘That I’d like to see!’

  Pearce cut in, on an opportunity too good to miss. ‘Did I ever tell you the tale of the time there was no bread in Paris, it was in a state of near riot, and the Queen, when someone told her said, “can they not eat cake?”

  ‘I bet she had as much cake as she could scoff.’

  ‘She had bread, mate,’ Pearce insisted, ‘and meat, fowl and fish, with pies by the cartload, as much as she wanted and so did the King and those who served him. It was the ones with nothing who had nothing.’

  ‘Tell us that Spartacus tale again Pearce,’ asked Matt. ‘I likes that one, an’ we’ve got time afore we sight land.’

  ‘Capt’n wants to see you Pearce.’

  The demand was so unusual that it killed off the normal banter that would have attended a fellow sailor thought to be in trouble, and at this very moment it was the last place Pearce wanted to be; he wanted to be on deck, to examine the approaching shore and harbour, looking out for opportunity. He had denied himself that to avoid engendering suspicion, for there was not a man jack aboard would not be rendered curious by a sailor choosing, on a cold and windy night in late March, to be on deck when off duty, rather than snug below.

  Was he in trouble? It did not seem so; the summons to attend upon the captain was not delivered by anything approaching sourness – indeed Colbourne’s steward, a stony-faced bugger called Teal, had looked as curious as the rest, meaning that he himself had no idea what it portended. There was some satisfaction to get beyond that double canvas screen, one that Pearce had glared at so often, to actually see for himself how an officer in command of such a vessel lived.

  The gunner occupied half the small space between them on one side, in a cubicle crammed with everything he needed to see to his tasks. At the rear was the hatch to the powder room, set in the even more cramped hold, a special heavy screen fitted with a pane of glass stitched in so that the gunner could see to load his cartridges by the same lantern that illuminated his work and sleep space, the flame safely kept apart from where powder might ignite. On the other side, behind the steward’s pantry, lay the berths of Midshipmen Short and Bailey, which given its dimensions had Pearce guessing that the poor buggers had to sleep near upright. That there was a marine in between, sentry to the inner sanctum, was risible, as if one such fellow could stop a crew determined to get at the man who lived beyond. The sentry cocked an eyebrow, to impart the fact that the summons, to him as well, was a mystery, before he called out Pearce’s name, and pulled back the flap to admit him.

  Colbourne was seated at a tiny desk covered in papers, as far forward as he could manage, this to avoid the sweep of the rudder arm which would traverse the entire cabin and brain him if he was standing. Another canvas screen ran fore and aft on the starboard side, creating a sort of triangular lean-to, which Pearce surmised hid the cot on which the lieutenant slept. Three lanterns guttered away in what was a place of no natural light or air, so that, concentrated as it was by the cramped surrounding, it seemed even more malodorous than the berth occupied by the crew. At least some of the stink they created escaped up through the hatch. Pearce had to put a hand out as the much-damaged prize, being towed, jibbed, stretching the cable that joined the two vessels and checking Griffin’s progress.

  ‘Sit down, Pearce, on that barrel under the lantern.’

  Colbourne continued to scribble away, the quill scratching across paper, thus allowing Pearce to take a really good look at his quarters. No space was wasted, even the gaps between the deck beams were used to house his sword and a dagger, hats, a pair of telescopes, a sextant and all sorts of odds and sods that could be secured by a couple of well placed hooks. The racks holding the ship’s muskets and boarding pistols were behind Colbourne, chained off, as if his own body was defence against unauthorised distribution. His desk, dented and scratched varnish, was of the kind that would break into three parts and no doubt there was a space allocated to it should action demand removal. If Colbourne was sat on a chair it was one without a back – more likely it was a cushioned barrel like the one on which Pearce was propped, that or the Lieutenant’s sea
chest. Having finished his examination, and having decided that there was precious little advantage, barring privacy, to be had from commanding such a tub like HMS Griffin, he was left to look at the top of Colbourne’s head.

  ‘We will be anchored within the hour,’ the lieutenant said, as he sanded the last of his writing. The ropes controlling the rudder creaked slightly as the man on the wheel made some minor adjustment to the course, probably to accommodate the tow.

  Pearce did not bother to reply. The heavy book Colbourne had been using was lifted, and the sand blown with some care onto the bare desktop beneath. Colbourne, having put the book in his desk, took the top off his sanding pot and with one hand gathered that which he had spilled into a pile, then eased it to the edge and inside. If he had wanted to hint at straitened circumstances he could not have done better – the man was so poor he could not bear to waste a bit of fine sand.

  Colbourne finally looked at him, elbows on his desk, leaning forward, a direct stare, almost challenging. ‘I daresay your mind is full of plans to desert.’

  Pearce replied, with an arch look. His eyes ranged around the cramped space. ‘Would I not be a fool to seek to abscond from such plenty.’

  The smile with which Colbourne responded, wry with a trace of bitterness, made acknowledgement of the irony unnecessary. ‘You are an educated man Pearce, are you not?’