Sleep did come, but not quickly and only through sheer exhaustion, and even that was disturbed by a drunken Short trying to rig his hammock and the noise of the captain coming back on board. So it was a very groggy John Pearce who stood to, as ordered, at dawn. That being the point at which the tide favoured a departure from Lymington he had another task to perform, to get the women off the ship, and to ensure that no illicit drink was left behind, which was not an action to raise the standing of even a popular officer. It was also an occasion when he found out that dealing with harpies made the most truculent sailor look easy; they screamed, they cursed, they tried to bite, scratch and hit him, that was when they were not trying to grab him in the crotch and inviting him to slip into a hammock and enjoy himself.
With the last of the spitting harridans over the side, it was time to unmoor the ship. The attitude of the crew was the same as the loading, this not aided by the state of their heads, for every one of them had been very drunk the night before from banned spirits brought aboard by the women. The fact that he was merely relaying instructions from the captain made no odds, and Colbourne, who could not fail to observe the way he was ignored, declined to intervene, except to embarrass him further.
‘Mr Pearce, you really must get the men about their duties. Establish your authority, for heaven’s sake. You have my permission to start any man who is tardy.’
There was nothing he could say; he was damned if he was going to become a tyrant, and he lacked the means to persuade, so he had to fall back on the only course left open to him, to do things himself, which would have been fine if he had known what he was about. Apart from a bit of gun practice and shroud climbing all he had ever done aboard ship was haul on a rope or hump a barrel. Certainly, aboard the merchantman, the Lady Harrington, observation had shown him much, but the Navy was different; everything must be done quickly, and paying attention to such duties as hauling in the mooring cable left him unsighted when anyone sought to goad him.
Stepping back he tripped on a small cask left there precisely for that purpose. He landed heavily, but one hand was put out to help him up, that of the old salt, Latimer. There was no kindness in the look or the words that accompanied it. ‘You’d best find yourself another occupation, mister, for we are going to be in deep water soon, and that is no place to be unpopular on a dark and noisy night.’
‘Even if I earn your respect?’
Michael O’Hagan, like the other Pelicans, was close enough to hear and reply to that. ‘Sure, hell will freeze over first.’
‘Why did you ever come back aboard?’ demanded Rufus, his young, freckled face looking truly hurt.
‘Don’t ask him that,’ snarled Charlie Taverner. ‘He’ll only lie to you like he did before.’
‘Mr Pearce, is that mooring cable going to sully my deck much longer? Let’s get it stowed away.’
‘You heard the man, lads. Now you can decline the duty, and happen he will punish you just so you like me a little less.’
‘Ain’t possible,’ said Latimer, but he went on, ‘let’s get it stowed. Be hard to have our grog stopped just so Coal Barge can bait this bugger. I needs a hair of the dog.’
As they set to, like proper seamen, Colbourne could not resist another jab, little knowing that it was to be inimical to his intention. ‘I see you have the measure of them, Mr Pearce. Well done. I think you can come aft and join me on the quarterdeck now, where I am sure we can begin your nautical education.’
It was the sailor called Matt who spoke then, bent over hauling the slimy cable as Pearce walked away, a perplexed expression on his round face. ‘Someat’ ain’t right here, lads. If we’es baiting Pearce, why is Coal Barge at it as well?’
‘Who says he baiting him?’ asked Rufus.
‘Can any one lend this boy a brain, ’cause sure as hell he ain’t got one.’
‘Could say the ship’s at one, mate,’ said Charlie.
‘Then it’ll be the first I ever sailed on.’
‘You’se got a point there, Matt,’ said Latimer, a look of deep curiosity on his lined, weather-beaten face.
Pearce approached Colbourne and asked, ‘Sir, do you think it aids the efficiency of the ship if you undermine me?’ ‘Mr Pearce, I have no idea what you are talking about, quite apart from the fact that you are at this moment so useless that the greatest threat to the efficiency of the ship resides in your person. Now be so good as to prepare the signal gun. Even you must be aware that it is the custom, on departure, to salute the Commodore’s flag.’
The gunner was already there, with his light charges ready and the gun boomed out, to be replied to from the shore, in what to Pearce’s mind was just a waste of powder. Then they were beyond the harbour mouth, albeit not yet fully at sea, but the ship began to lift and drop in that familiar way, with Pearce suddenly wondering if the seasickness which afflicted him when he had crossed the Channel in that fishing smack would come back to haunt him. Right now that was the last thing he needed. At least the sun was shining, and it was a clear spring day, as Colbourne put his helm down once they had cleared the narrow estuary and headed south-west down the Solent. Within the hour they were passing the Needles, the pinnacles of weather-hammered chalk standing clear and imposing at the southern tip of the Isle of Wight.
Colbourne stayed on deck throughout, for this was a busy shipping lane, especially for warships standing in for Portsmouth and the Spithead anchorage. Because he was there, and the petty officers were seeing to the various tasks that needed to be carried out, mainly clearing the deck from the mess it had been after the previous day and night to what it needed to be at sea, Pearce could relax. Easy as he was, he listened to every command that the captain gave, watched how he set the sail, took cognisance of the fact that he often went to the ship’s side and looked at the colour of the water, making minor adjustments to account for the currents. They passed a patrolling frigate, a vessel that had the unenviable duty of guarding the Solent approaches, a task even less exciting than that on which HMS Griffin was engaged.
He had time to think too, the first notion being a question; was he really cut out for this life? The second was more alarming, as he began to understand just how little he knew. There was the setting of sails, the stowing of the ship’s stores, blocks and tackles, ropes, knots, navigation, gunnery, all a mystery. He recalled the mids aboard HMS Brilliant, how they seemed as ignorant as he was now and presumably both Colbourne and Barclay had started in the same way. They had learned and so must he, and now he had the advantage that at any time, once they touched shore, he could walk off the ship and bid the whole business goodbye.
‘Mr Pearce, you must not stand and daydream so. You may not be aware that I can, at any time I wish, withdraw your status as a volunteer and reduce you to a common seaman. So I suggest when you do not have an immediate task in hand you put yourself to study, for tonight you will be alone on this deck in sole charge of the ship.’
It was eerie on deck; not entirely alone, but with only a quartermaster and his mate manning the wheel, on a pitch black moonless night, with the wind steady over the stern to starboard, it felt strange. Colbourne had set the course and it was chalked on a slate under the binnacle lantern, registered on the compass above that and he had no power to change it. Not that he wanted to; he had no clear idea where they were going now, so would have even less of one if it was altered. He assumed that they were heading for the same waters where Griffin had taken that privateer, there to cruise in the hope of intercepting another, but no one had bothered to enlighten him. His sole task was to turn the half hour glass, and order the bell to be rung so that anyone awake would know the time. After eight bells he would retire and hand over the deck to Midshipman Short.
Alone with his thoughts, he sniffed at the night air, wondering if he would ever be in a position, as he had heard others claim, to smell the approach of bad weather. What he did know was, steady as the wind seemed to be, it was not constant, that there were flukes of change, slight but noticeab
le, and there were cross currents in the waters beneath the hull that rendered slightly uneven the pitch and roll of the ship. But the only sound, apart from the whistle of the wind through the rigging, was the creak of ropes as the quartermaster carried out minor adjustments to keep steady the compass needle. Those ropes ran through Colbourne’s sleeping quarters, which made Pearce wonder how the man ever got any rest.
Isolated in darkness, with nothing really to do, it was easy to sink into a near comatose state, so the first rumble made him jump. But the dull thud as the cannon ball hit the side was unmistakable, that soon followed by another rumble as the ball was shifted by the pitch of the ship. Peering forward he could see nothing, but he knew it was a problem with which he would have to deal, for if he did not, it would go on and on. It was the kind of noise designed to wake everyone on board – he knew that from his own shot rolling – and it would keep them awake as well. Stepping forward beyond the binnacle it was even darker; he could see nothing at all, not the side of the ship, the shrouds, or the gun carriages, but he could hear the cannon ball, though fixing it by sound alone was impossible.
Pearce suddenly crouched down, hands out in front of him, in a forlorn hope that the damned thing would oblige him by trundling in the right direction. The swift movement of air, just above his head, removed his hat but missed his head, and he heard a muttered curse as he instinctively rolled sideways, ramming into a gun carriage and jarring his shoulder. The pain of that he would feel later; right now he had someone in the Stygian blackness who could seemingly see better than he and was trying to brain him; whatever had removed his hat had been solid enough for the purpose. Safety lay on the quarterdeck, by that binnacle lantern, but whoever had tried to clout him would know that, so he moved slightly towards the prow, which placed his assailant in silhouette. Pearce could not see much, an indistinct shape, an arm raised with the outline of a marlin spike, but it gave him some idea of where to aim.
The temptation to shout out was huge, but he resisted it; would the quartermaster or his mate leave the wheel to come to his aid anyway? He was damn sure no one would come from below for that purpose. There was no clear process of thought, he just knew he had to deal with this himself and using the gun carriage he hauled himself to his feet and kicked out, feeling the toe of his shoe make contact. Now his attacker was right between him and the light, and Pearce belted him with a swift jab to the head that hit bone and hurt his knuckles, that followed up by another kick that landed on something and the silhouette disappeared. That damned cannon ball rumbled again, coming aft and getting louder; if it came quickly enough to hit in the right spot it was enough to break a bone or two and the confusion about what to do gave his assailant the time he needed to get away. There was no more than a sliver of faint light as the hatch lid lifted and dropped, but it was enough to let Pearce know that, barring that rolling shot, he was in no more danger.
‘On the wheel there, get a lantern lit and fetch it forrard.’ Seeing no movement Pearce lost his temper, and shouted in a way to ensure that any soul who could sleep through shot rolling would wake now. ‘Damn you man, do as I say and do it at the double.’
The effect was gratifying, even if, with his anger subsiding, he felt slightly foolish. The quartermaster’s mate used the binnacle flame to light an oil lantern and came forward gingerly, it held high above his head, during which time Pearce had got himself, by feel alone, behind one of the gun carriages. It took no time at all once the tiny deck was lit, to find and secure the cannon ball, at which point Pearce resumed his position, with both men back on the wheel, and now that it was quiet again he could think over what had just happened, on the level of that threat and how he was going to have to deal with it.
‘The glass, Mr Pearce. It needs turning,’ said the quartermaster.
It was sheepish Pearce who replied. ‘How many bells? I’ve forgotten.’
‘Seven.’
The way the man audibly sighed as he replied was strangely reassuring, for it indicated to Pearce that he had no idea of what had happened in the darkness beyond the binnacle, and that seemed to imply whoever had attacked him was not doing so on behalf of the whole crew. He might be wrong, of course, clutching at straws, but it made him feel good to believe it, for the alternative, with three weeks at sea, was deadly. The sand ran through the glass one more time before a grumpy and uncommunicative Short came up to relieve him, but he waited for a bit before he made his way to his hammock, for just as the watch changed on deck, so it would below, with half the men being turned out of their hammocks so as to be ready to work the ship should that be necessary. When he did descend the companionway he was forced by the lack of room to crawl under sleeping bodies, every nerve tingling, for all would know where he was going at this time and anyone who wished him ill, either awake or just pretending to be asleep, would have another opportunity to attack him.
He was up with everyone else before first light, in command of the larboard guns as Colbourne swept the increasingly defined surroundings. Not that it was clear, heavy cloud and a grey sea made the point at which the sky ceased and water began indistinct, but it was empty, so the guns could be housed and the naval day could commence with the cleaning of the decks. Pearce was examining every man as they carried out their duties of wetting, sanding, sweeping and flogging, looking for signs of a limp or a bruise to the head. He was also looking for the furtive glance in his direction that would indicate a conspirator. He naturally paid particular attention to his Pelicans, and was relieved that they did not look at him at all. Then he saw Gherson rub his lower leg, and noticed that the bandana he was wearing was tied a lot lower than normal. So perhaps there was a bruise under there.
That, however, set off a train of thought. Gherson was a pest, but he was malleable, a crawler, an easy man to persuade to undertake the task of braining Pearce and coward enough to wait until dark to do it. As far as he knew he had betrayed him to Colbourne for little more than the captain’s gratitude and he would do the same for another. That begged the question of who put him up to it, because with his previous behaviour of interfering with Pearce’s possessions it could again be Colbourne, a doubtful scenario, for there was no logic in it, but one that had to be considered. So were there others, who had put the sod up to it? Who were they and did they have the intention of making another attempt, this time by somebody more competent?
‘Pipe the hands to breakfast,’ said Colbourne, at which point Pearce moved close to him so that the exchange would not be overheard.
‘Permission to address the crew, sir.’
Colbourne’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Address the crew, Mr Pearce. I do believe that is a captain’s prerogative.’
‘I suspected it would be, sir, but I have something I wish to say to them that may well increase the efficiency of the ship.’
‘No more rolling shot?’
That was Colbourne’s first acknowledgement of the fact that he had heard it.
‘More than that.’
‘Believe me, Mr Pearce, that is enough. You may address the hands below as they take their breakfast. I will not oblige you by assembling them on deck.’
‘That suits me, sir, and with your permission I will close the hatch. I have no mind to let either you or Mr Short hear what I have to say.’
He would listen, of course he would, but he could not say so and the knowledge that he would eavesdrop stopped him from checking Pearce for words that were definitely insubordinate. Waiting till all the men were finishing their breakfast, Pearce slipped down the hatch and closed it behind him, amused because the sound of feet moving forward was clearly audible. He stopped on the bottom rung, as Colbourne had done that first day aboard, and looked at the crew, waiting till they, made curious by his staying where he was, stared at him.
‘Right,’ Pearce said. ‘I am going to say something to you all, and be assured there will be no repetition. I don’t expect you to like me…’
‘Never fear that, mate,’ said a low hidden voice, whic
h he recognised as that of Blubber.
‘…nor do I care if you respect me, but I will from now on, when I am on watch in the dark, have close to me a pistol, primed and loaded. So if anyone is thinking of repeating last night’s little escapade, be warned, it is a weapon I know how to use.’
His eyes ranged over the group, looking for the reaction, trying to see who they were that would happily kill him, and how many. Gherson was looking at the deck but everyone else was giving him a stare to equal his own, not friendly, but not guilty either, more the look of folk wondering what the hell he was on about, which made him question if he had made a misjudgement; could Gherson have acted on his own?
‘Apart from three of your number, I have no loyalty to you, which means I owe you nothing.’
‘Is this another story, Pearce?’ demanded Latimer.
‘If you don’t know now what the story telling was about, ask Michael over there, for he will tell you. Or Gherson, who stole a letter from my ditty bag.’
‘That’s a lie.’
Not a head turned at that, so Pearce had no idea if they believed him or not. ‘I did it for my own reasons and for my own reasons I am a midshipman aboard this ship. I am telling you here and now that if I am given the responsibilities of an officer I will act like one. I have no mind to spend the whole voyage either watching my back or getting myself dirty doing the work you are supposed to carry out. I will, if I have to, report you to the captain for punishment.’
‘Man turns easy,’ said Latimer.
‘Don’t bait me.’
‘Why is Coal Barge at the same game, Pearce?’ asked Matt.
‘He’s enjoying himself. Every time you torment me it gives him pleasure, for that is what I did to him when I was last aboard. Anyway, I have said my piece, and I will say no more.’
Blubber again. ‘Thank Christ for that.’
Pearce ignored him, taking it as just a standard reaction. Instead he looked right at O’Hagan. ‘Michael, I want you, Rufus and Charlie on deck now. I have something to say to you.’ Charlie opened his mouth with the clear intention of saying no, but Pearce cut him off. ‘And that, I’m sorry to say, is an order.’
A Shot Rolling Ship Page 24
