A Shot Rolling Ship (3 page)

‘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 Barclay 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.’

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 anyone 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.

‘Mr Short,’ he said, addressing the hidden midshipmen. ‘With the sea state being so gentle, as soon as the crew have finished their breakfast we will carry out practising boarding from boats.’

‘Christ in heaven,’ hissed Michael as Colbourne turned away, steadying himself against the roll of the ship. ‘Gentle, he says! Is that blue-coated fool resting his pins on the same bit of wood as me?’

Colbourne, back now to the crew, the canvas screen still held up in one hand, stopped dead. Given that he
had come out to the sound of Michael’s voice, he could hardly be unaware of the source of the comment, even if it had not been made out loud. Pearce reckoned that to call a ship’s captain a fool when he could hear and identify you was a dangerous thing to do. Michael liked to debunk people yet this time he might have gone too far, but the screen dropped as Colbourne disappeared. That was when Pearce looked around and observed that none of the crew, at least those he could see, had been holding their breath.

‘He takes a tease well,’ he said to Latimer.

‘Ain’t bad old Coal Barge,’ Latimer replied, ‘as captain’s go.’

‘Who’s Coal Barge?’ asked Rufus.

‘You don’t look too bright, lad,’ Latimer replied, peering into the heavily freckled face and the light blue eyes, ‘so it be a bit of reassurance to know that you is thick after all.’

‘Not thick enough to be sailor by trade,’ snapped Charlie Taverner, leaping to the defence of his young friend.

Latimer responded with a slow smile designed to take the sting out of what could turn into an argument. ‘Coal Barge be the captain’s nickname, and as I say he’s not a crabbed one. Christ knows, I served often enough under worse. Dislikes the cat, which is a bonus, for there are those aboard, like there be on any commission, who give occasion to deserve it.’

‘Then how does he maintain discipline?’ asked Rufus. ‘I thought all captains were friends to the lash.’

Pearce was just about to point out that the best way to
control men was with consent, but Latimer’s swift reply left that as no more than a thought in his head. ‘The right way, mate. He gets we’s to do it wereselves. He’s a bugger for stopping the rum of those that gets out of hand, and the whole crew if they don’t mend their ways after the warning. Done it twice for a two day stint already this commission, which don’t do him no harm. Lines his pocket a bit, that saved rum, his being ship’s purser as well as captain.’

‘Is that usual?’ asked Cornelius Gherson, always quick to join a conversation that connected in any way to money.

‘Never in life, but where on a ship this size would you put a robbing bastard of a purser that would see him and his stores safe? No, the powers that be have gifted the captain the job, happen to make up for him having such a shit posting otherwise. He ain’t as bad as the natural breed, but I doubt he’ll come out of the commission showing a loss.’

Pearce almost asked outright if he was aboard a happy ship, or even a contented one, for what Latimer had been saying had elicited nods from those closest to them, but the old sailor, dark-skinned face closing, carried on. ‘Can’t say I blame him, being fair. Ain’t Coal Barges’ fault that we’s crammed like sardines in a barrel, with not the proper room to eat and sleep, that be the fault of those who reckon this a ship fit for the duty, which it is plainly not.’

‘The duty being?’ asked Pearce.

‘To protect ships like the one you was nabbed off, goin’ in an’ out of their home ports.
Griffin
ain’t no flyer, which
she needs to be to catch Johnny Crapaud, for as sure as hell won’t freeze they rarely come out from their home ports in laggards, and the sight of us and a deck full of cannon is enough to have them put up their helms and run for home or safety. An’ putting double the hands aboard ship don’t help neither. Looks a good duty on the face, this here patrolling the sea lanes lark, an’ it would be if’n we could take one or two.’

‘Prize money?’ said Gherson, with a familiar and avaricious gleam in his eye.

‘Fat chance,’ sneered a man between them, ‘the workhouse more like when peace comes. We’s been out here near a month, barring a trip a week past to revictual, and though we might have seen plenty the only thing we’s ever got alongside is some Dane or Hanse merchants, which being neutral ain’t no use at all.’

Pearce was not looking at Latimer or the speaker, but at the rest of the crew, at least those he could see, nodding vigorously in agreement, or shaking their heads in wonder at the foolishness of an Admiralty that had sent the wrong ship on such a vital task.

‘And to think we signed for this without a press gang in sight,’ Latimer added. ‘Buggers got a full complement without so much as a cuff round the ear.’

Charlie was quickly on to that. ‘If you are volunteers, why press us?’

‘Replacements, mate. We fell foul of a frigate going south short on numbers. Captain of that bugger whipped half a dozen men out, prime seamen too, which tells you
all you need to know. We’s at more risk from our own in these waters than them French sods.’

‘They could press me out of this bugger any time.’

Pearce recognised the voice that had spoken up to rile Michael, a heavy set, but fleshy fellow called Blubber, who might have been one to challenge the Irishman. In looking for it he observed very clearly that it was a statement with which a great number of the crew also agreed.

‘The Med will be teeming with well-laden Frenchmen,’ said another sailor. ‘The buggers that went will be lining their pockets in the weeks to come.’

‘As well as warm with it, Matt,’ said a third, ‘with room to sling a hammock for a decent night’s kip.’

‘An’ droppin’ anchor at Majorca,’ Blubber added, ‘so it will be warmer still when the señoritas are boated out.’

The buzz of general conversation broke forth, for there was nothing like carnal anticipation to get a group of tars talking; but beneath the happy anticipation or tale-telling of Mediterranean beauties lay a clear discontent. These men had signed up to this ship for the prospect of quick prize money, no doubt on the promise that it would be easy; it always was on any poster John Pearce had ever seen. They would have accepted any hardship in food and space for enough of that and the dream that went with it; of a prize so valuable, or captures so numerous, that they could live in comfort for the rest of their lives. Latimer had turned away, to continue his talking with one of the men who had joined with him, allowing Michael to speak softly to his fellow Pelicans.

‘Well there’s consolation, we being miserable, that we might not be the only ones.’

‘We’ll fit in right nicely,’ opined Rufus Dommet, getting a slight raised eyebrow from his mates, for the boy was not one to put an opinion above the parapet.

‘Mr Short,’ called a voice from beyond the screen. ‘I think it time to pipe all hands on deck.’

‘Heard us moaning,’ said Latimer softly, turning back to them. ‘Which he should too. Reckon he thought this a duty that would see him in clover just like us. Happen he believed what he had printed on his posters just as we did. Well, it is only right that if we have the hump, he should know it.’

Not a happy ship, thought Pearce, on either side of that canvas divide.

‘That ain’t gentle, is it?’ moaned Rufus, trying to steady himself while looking unhappily at the endlessly moving grey-green waters of the English Channel.

‘He must be joshing us,’ Charlie replied, jabbing a finger at the choppy waters.

‘No sight of land,’ said Michael, ‘nor the smell of it.’

Pearce had already spotted that but he was more attentive to the way a called for duty had tempered the moaning so evident between decks; whatever discontent these men harboured was laid aside as soon as they were given something to do. Those given the task hauled in the ship’s boats, which had been towed behind, covered with tarred canvas to keep them dry, sent over first thing after
they were piped from their hammocks for there was no room on deck to do anything if they were inboard; you could not work the guns or clean the deck lest they were sent astern.