A Shot Rolling Ship

by David Donachie

  ‘Meaning she has little hope now?’

  ‘Are you shy of this?’ spat Short.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Pearce replied, just as vexed, ‘but no doubt with your vast experience of fighting at sea you will be able to tell if I should be.’

  ‘Enough. We will do our duty and support our consort, and with luck, we will triumph. Now you may wish to pen a last letter, or write a last testament. Once you have done that go back to your stations and make sure, doubly check, that all is as it should be, for I do not anticipate that we will get more than one chance to affect the outcome of the forthcoming fight.’

  With no one to write to Pearce just went back to his station, to be greeted by a whisper from Latimer. ‘So, what’s happenin’?’

  ‘We’re going to take our Frenchie on. Colbourne is going to try and get across her stern and use the carronades.’

  The ‘bugger’ was not suppressed, that followed by Latimer saying to those nearby, ‘Time to pray, lads. Whoever’s got Centurion is a glory hunting sod.’

  Time went slowly, as slowly as the closing warships, the Frenchman coming down to topsails for the forthcoming fight, both the British ships forced to keep a full suit aloft, to tack and wear as they closed into the wind. All this Pearce learned from the men on his part of the deck, who, with the exception of Latimer, seemed indifferent to the possible fate that awaited them. Pearce doubted they were as sanguine as they appeared. No doubt it was that male attitude of not showing fear in front of your fellows, combined with no real idea of what was coming. He, himself, was quietly grateful for his own ignorance; since he had little idea of what was about to happen he could not be in terror of it, and if it presaged death, then he was in no position to avoid it. You cannot run from a ship at sea and, being little different from those he led, nothing would allow him to show that he cared.

  He thought back to his earlier attempt to extract an explanation from Colbourne. He knew nothing about commanding men, but he did know he would have handled matters differently, not least by keeping the crew of Griffin informed of what he was thinking, and of what was happening, instead of leaving them to guess. Perhaps Colbourne feared that they would fail to do their duty; did he wonder that he might, for there was none of the fire that had been present on the previous cruise when they had taken that privateer. It was that thought which brought home to Pearce just what they might be sailing into; for a man so wedded to the need for promotion a successful sea fight would be just the ticket he needed.

  So for him to be so subdued meant he thought what they were about was folly, thought that he would be lucky to survive, reckoned that whoever commanded Centurion was crazy to take on a larger and more powerful ship with only an armed cutter to assist. That made Pearce angry, for if Colbourne thought that, then he should decline to take part. If there was about to be carnage on this deck it would not be confined to him. Too afraid to be seen to be cowardly, he was doing the one thing that damned him in John Pearce’s eyes; he was failing to stand up to authority. He turned to tell him, to say what true bravery consisted of, when the booming sound of a cannon reverberated across the water, that followed by two huge spouts of water just off the bows.

  ‘No fool, our Frenchie,’ said Latimer, ‘he has a mind to take care of us afore we can even get close.’

  ‘Harken to that, lads,’ called Michael O’Hagan. ‘Admiral Latimer has spoken.’

  ‘Is it going to be bad, Pearce?’ asked Rufus.

  Pearce moved to put his hand on the youngsters shoulder, wondering why he was bothering with words of encouragement, wondering if the words he used were addressed to himself rather than Rufus and Charlie. ‘All we can do here is our best. There’s nowhere to go, so not doing that will likely make it more dangerous.’

  ‘And pray,’ added Michael, crossing himself as another two spouts of water shot up from the sea, this time close enough for the spray to drift across the deck.

  ‘Happen it’s goin’ to get warm,’ Blubber responded, ‘so getting a good clench on your arsecheeks will help.’

  Blond Sam hooted from down the deck, ‘Need a rope an’ a windlass to close yours up, Blubber.’

  ‘Mr Short,’ called Colbourne, ‘below and break out a cask of rum. A large tot to each man at their station. No time to mix it, serve it neat.’

  ‘Bugger’s human after all,’ said Charlie Taverner, who looked as pale as a ghost.

  ‘We’ve been here before, my friends,’ Pearce said, reminding them of what had happened as members of Ralph Barclay’s crew, ‘and I know we acquitted ourselves well.’

  ‘You’re right,’ hooted Michael. ‘That there French sod might think he has the measure of us, but he has yet to face the Pelicans.’

  Blubber replied, with a huge grin. ‘Only thing you got in common with a Pelican, Paddy, is the size of your mouth.’

  ‘Sure, it’s scarce big enough to swallow you, you over-larded sod.’

  ‘Take a whale for that,’ cawed Matt.

  One of the next balls from the Frenchman’s bow chasers landed so close to the hull that the ship actually shuddered. Colbourne called for the men set to work the sails to stand by and told the helmsman to bring Griffin onto a more westerly course. For once, having a large crew was an advantage; he had enough men for both sail and gunnery duty. The wisdom of his choice was proved as both the next cannon balls landed over to larboard, but worryingly they seemed to be level with the ship, which meant they had the range.

  ‘Let fly the sheets,’ called Colbourne, and that obeyed the way came off the ship.

  Waiting a minute he ordered them sheeted home again, then braced round to sail on a different tack. He was being shrewd, changing course and speed to confound the enemy, waiting for the larger ship to come up and split the onslaught from those bow chasers. HMS Centurion was close now, they could see the men on her deck, though only those close to the bulwarks, given her greater height, but most on the Griffin’s deck were more interested in the rum cask and the ladle Short was using to distribute the contents. Neat, with no lime juice to thin it, the rum made even the hardiest tar gag a bit, but there was no doubt it was welcome, a bit of fire in the belly for the coming fight.

  The next boom did not come from the Frenchman but from Centurion, its bow chasers speaking out to tell the enemy that they were coming into range and that their fire was now to be returned. If the captain had hoped that would spare the Griffin he was immediately disabused, as another pair of balls arced through the clear air, one of which removed the top of the mainmast, and the lookout who was still up there.

  ‘Topmen aloft,’ Colbourne shouted, adding as they raced up the shrouds, ‘secure anything loose, and report the damage.’ Then he rushed to the side, searching for the man who had been blown overboard, in the vain hope that he might have survived. ‘Mr Pearce, an axe at the double, and cut the line holding the ship’s boats. If the lookout can get to them he will have a chance.’

  Pearce was moving before the sentence was finished, and did as he was bid, though he could see no sign of the lookout in the water. ‘Resume your place, Mr Pearce. God will decide whether he survives or not. We cannot heave to and search for one man.’

  ‘Griffin!’ The voice boomed over the intervening water between the two British vessels. ‘Your name, sir.’

  ‘Lieutenant Colbourne.’

  ‘Captain Marchand, at your service. Let fly your sheets and take station in our wake once we are by you or I fear you will be sunk.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  The order was obeyed with as much alacrity as Colbourne could muster, with that damage aloft. Once in the larger vessel’s wake, following it as it tacked and wore, they became blind to what was happening over the bows, except for the sight of what shot missed, landing in the water to either side. That was until one ball from the Frenchman overshot and, having left a neat hole in the mainsail, landed in the white water of Centurion’s wake just a few feet from the bowsprit, which brought all work aloft to a halt, as the t
opmen worked to secure flapping lines and the blocks necessary to get what was left of the topmast out and a jury one set up.

  Then the Centurion’s captain was over his taffrail, as below him men worked to block off the casement windows of the various rear cabins, issuing orders through his speaking trumpet.

  ‘Mr Colbourne, I intend to try to get across the stern of the enemy and give him a drubbing, my aim to disable as many of his cannon and gun crews as possible. If I can get past him I will have the weather gage. He, I suspect, will continue to fire into my rigging hoping to disable me and board. I want you, once we are close, to come out of my wake and make as much of a nuisance of yourself as you can, but do not linger in the arc of his larger guns, for I doubt you would survive it. My advice then is to take station on his bow and play upon his rigging.’

  ‘I will do my best, sir.’

  ‘Of course you will, Mr Colbourne, and your crew I’m sure. And should we be successful I think we might look forward to the gratitude of the nation. Why, I would be damned surprised if you were not made post.’

  ‘Coffin more like,’ spat Latimer.

  Pearce could see that the man speaking had said just the right thing to Colbourne. It was almost as if his whole shape changed, shoulders going back and head lifting as if to sniff a bright future. But his new midshipman’s concerns were different; if it was going to be bloody, was there anything he could do to survive himself and help those under his charge to do the same.

  ‘Well it won’t do you no good standing there like a statue,’ said Latimer. ‘Keep moving up and down, ’cause if they has muskets it’ll be you they’ll take aim on. If you think they are loading grape, lie down. Being brave will fill you full of holes.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Pray!’ This was no time to say what he thought of that idea, but he did ask for what? ‘That our Frenchie is short-handed, that his crew ain’t worked up right and are not handy on the guns, that their captain is as thick as the bitts holding his anchor cable, and that Marchand, or whatever his name is on Centurion, gets in a full broadside afore he is shot to pieces.’

  Looking past Latimer he saw his Irish friend, eyes closed and mouth moving silently.

  ‘I think Michael is doing enough for all of us.’

  ‘I doubt it, ’cause there is unlikely to be enough prayers in the world.’

  The air was suddenly full of booms, so much that Pearce was sure he could feel the pressure of them in the air. Then the waters around Centurion boiled, but not all the shot had missed and, as well as several holes appearing, they heard the sound of cracking timber, that followed by screams. The captain had been replaced at the taffrail by a midshipman there to relay his orders, so that it was the voice of a near child that informed Colbourne that it was time for him to alter course, this as the huge rudder on the ship ahead began to swing.

  The French 74 soon came into view, having luffed up and fired her broadside at Centurion, and was now busy getting under way again to headreach her and give her a second broadside at close quarters, square on to her bows. Whatever damage the fifty-gun ship had suffered did nothing to hamper her sailing qualities, for as soon as the Frenchman was under way, Marchand spun his ship to first run alongside the Frenchman and then with luck to get across his stern. The boy on the taffrail relayed the order for Griffin to hold her course and carry out the previous instructions that had been given by the captain.

  Now they were in full view of the enemy, just as he fired a second broadside, this answered by Centurion. There was no doubt about the pressure now, Pearce could feel the air movement in his ears, as Colbourne ordered Short to fire his cannon, that followed by an order to the quartermaster to note the time on the slate. So the guns of HMS Griffin spoke out, and battle was joined.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Close to, from their lower deck, the enemy was a frightening sight, two long rows of open gunports, empty, but shrouded with the leftover smoke from their broadside, the great masts and topsails high above their heads, with men in the tops aiming muskets, even a swivel gun on the mainmast cap. The shot from Griffin did little damage, the balls from nine pounders skidding off the Frenchman’s upper scantlings because they had not been aimed high enough to reach the bulwarks. The eighteen pounder carronade balls did strike home but, at the range they were fired, though they did some damage, they did not penetrate the thick planking, and all the while they got closer and closer. Busy reloading, the gun crews failed to see those empty ports fill one by one, dark muzzles poking out, until each contained a cannon. With a clarity that surprised him, Pearce could see they were aimed high, the side of the ship suddenly shrouded in thick black smoke belching out behind the fired shot. Through that smoke came Centurion’s reply, her cannon balls smashing into the enemy at maindeck level, the clang as metal struck metal reverberating across the water in between. As the wind blew the smoke clear, he could see that two of those French gunports had been blown asunder.

  They were closer now, and with better aim Griffin’s guns did some damage on the second broadside, though mostly just to the top timber near the bowsprit, decorative stuff rather than anything vital. The next broadside came from Centurion, quicker to reload than her opponent, but that was only seconds and since the two capital ships had closed the gap between them it seemed that the intervening space was nothing but a maelstrom of death and destruction. So much smoke billowed across the face of the French cannon that those aboard Griffin did not see that on reappearing, the forward guns were aimed not at Centurion but at themselves. They found out, to their cost, within seconds, as the deck and the lower tops were swept with grapeshot.

  Pearce felt the small metal balls whistle past his head, so close he wondered how he survived and he heard the screams from behind of those that took them. With his gun crews reloading, most in crouched positions because of that, it was the men waiting by the starboard guns that bore the brunt, and turning he saw half a dozen writhing in agony, while two or three more appeared to be already dead. Midshipman Short, who had stood rigid as he thought it his duty to do, was lying in the middle of the deck, a pool of blood spreading from his body, one hand clutching at the air as if a grip would give him a hold on life, but it was by the wheel that the worst damage had been done. Colbourne was on his knees, holding a shattered and badly bleeding arm, head bowed, while the quartermaster and one of his mates were sprawled against the side, clearly in deep agony. It was instinct that took over then, and he called to those on the starboard battery who had survived.

  ‘Three of you, get on the wheel and hold our course. The rest get the wounded below, and any not occupied to this side and get your heads down.’

  ‘Cannon reloaded,’ shouted Latimer, that repeated by the forward quarter gunner.

  Pearce shouted his reply without looking round, ‘Fire as soon as you can.’

  ‘Ain’t never heard that one afore,’ the old seaman replied, as he ordered the gun captains to pull their lanyards. Not paying attention, trying to order the decks cleared of wounded, Pearce had got too close to the recoiling guns, and it was one of the gun captains jumping clear that knocked him clean over on to the deck just as the next set of shot from the Frenchman swept across the deck. This time it was roundshot and aimed into the rigging, and, lying on his back looking up he saw ropes cut through, with blocks blown asunder and a mast knocked out of its chains, so that he had to cover his head as the debris rained down on the deck. Yet he was aware and deeply impressed by the fact that much was going on regardless; powder monkeys still moving towards the guns with their cartridges while they were being swabbed and reloaded; men looking to their fallen comrades without instructions, others going aloft unbidden to see to the damaged rigging.

  Rolling to his feet he got to Midshipman Short, taking that still groping hand and using it to turn him slightly so he could see the wound. Eyes closed and in deep pain the little man looked ninety. The shoulder was shattered and blood was pumping out of open veins. He called to two s
eamen and grabbing a nine pounder wad pressed it against the wound.

  ‘Don’t take him below, get him against a bulwark and keep that wad in place. Press hard on it to try and stop the flow of blood.’

  Latimer was beside him suddenly. ‘You’d best get on that quarterdeck, ’cause there ain’t no other to take charge. Coal Barge is still down.’

  ‘Guns?’

  ‘Are being taken care of.’

  Pearce got to the wounded lieutenant in three big strides and, kneeling, lifted his head. ‘Mr Colbourne?’

  ‘Get me to my feet, Pearce.’

  ‘We must look at the wound.’

  The reply was bitter and came through clenched teeth. ‘Dammit man do you ever obey an order?’

  Being on the side of the wounded arm Pearce had to cross to Colbourne’s good arm, with just enough time to glance and see that the way on the ship had taken the Griffin clear of the Frenchman’s bows. Not that they were safe, for the two bow chasers they had faced earlier were waiting for them, muzzles pointing down right at the stern. Pearce could never understand then, or afterwards, as they both fired, why he threw himself to cover the lieutenant’s back, he just did it out of instinct. It was not metal in the air now, it was wood blasted from the stern rail and the deck below it. Pearce’s hat went, speared by a sliver of timber and he felt a searing pain across his scalp. Another splinter from the taffrail, pointed like a dagger, embedded itself in the planking right by his hand, shuddering like a thrown knife. Again there were the screams of pain from those who had been less fortunate, not least those men he had put on the wheel, which like them, was smashed, so that the ship was now drifting.