The Admirals' Game (3 page)

‘He's not achieving much, Parker. All he is doing is shifting the shoreline.'

‘If he edged in closer…?'

‘The French have equal range and heated shot, he'll risk the ship if he does.'

‘And that damned culverin.'

‘They won't waste that on a ship. Barrel must be fairly old so they will keep it for the forts.' A long silence followed before Hood asked, quietly, ‘So, what are you suggesting I do about this perjury thing, Parker?'

‘I am suggesting, sir,' Parker replied in a like manner, there being a clutch of eavesdroppers nearby, ‘that keeping John Pearce alive would be to your advantage.'

‘The duty he is about is not guaranteed to kill him.'

‘No, but Admiral Hotham, should he get wind of what Pearce intends, has it in his power, thanks to you placing
him under his direct command, to put him in danger at any time he chooses. The most exposed battery on shore, perhaps, or taking the lead in an attack that carries great risk. If I was to put odds on Pearce's survival under those circumstances, I would not rate them as very high.'

‘You think I need to protect him?'

‘In doing so you may well protect yourself, sir.'

The ramifications of that did not need to be enumerated; it was as plain as the prominent nose on Hood's face. Protect Pearce, and he would have a counter to Hotham's baleful influence in London. The implied threat of a case brought against Ralph Barclay by John Pearce, which must of necessity drag in Hotham, would curtail his writing home to his political supporters in a way that undermined this command.

‘You cannot, of course, aid Pearce in bringing his case for perjury. Once he has done that he ceases to be a viable threat.'

‘God, Parker, you're worse than a Whig, or a Jacobin for that matter. Give me an enemy to fight that I can see plain.'

‘I think we need a decision, milord.'

‘Get Pearce off that damned pontoon.'

‘I would say it was too late for that, sir. But, for the sake of your security, we should fetch off from under Hotham's command not only Pearce, but also the men for whom he is fighting, whom he romantically refers to as his Pelicans.'

‘So it is not just the French who indulge in silly names?'

‘No, sir.'

‘And I think it would be unfortunate if Admiral Hotham failed to hear of the threat he faces,' Parker added.

‘A hint to keep him honest?'

Parker responded with a wolfish grin, and a voice larded with insincerity. ‘We admirals must stick together, sir. And I reckon the sooner Admiral Hotham is apprised of it the better. I would be inclined to send him a note at once.'

‘Make it so, Parker,' Hood replied. His telescope was concentrated on the smoke-wreathed pontoon on which those named were serving. ‘Mind, your shenanigans could be a waste of time. That fellow Pearce is such a contrary bugger, he will likely find a way to get his head blown off this very day.'

Digby's first salvo had landed well short in the shallows, sending up great cascades of water mixed with sand, but doing no damage whatsoever to the enemy, given there was not even an onshore breeze to soak them with spray. It was some relief that the great guns of both capital ships had also misjudged the range. In fact, given the smaller calibre of their upper-deck cannon and the low elevation of their heavy armament, they had landed in deeper water. That lack of a wind also meant both pontoons and line-of-battle ships were wreathed in black acrid smoke, which took time to clear, this while Digby entered into careful discussion with the gunner. A worried individual called Jenkins, he agreed the charges needed to be increased, though he was loath to go too far in that direction, for fear of blasting apart the barrels.

‘If'n this don't do the trick, your honour, we must
move a tadge inshore,' Jenkins insisted, in his lilting Welsh accent. He was sat in a gimcrack temporary booth made of slatted timber covered in soaked canvas as protection against a spark that might ignite his store of powder, with Digby having to lean over to talk to him in the gap through which he passed his loaded cartridges. ‘These be French guns, an' I don't know what they will bear in terms of powder. I would not be one to be trusting any works carried out by John Crapaud.'

‘They will likely be as well made as any of our own cannon, Jenkins.'

Officer or no, Digby got a look that told him in no uncertain terms he was wrong. He turned to find John Pearce by his side, looking worried.

‘Did you see the effect of that salvo on our anchor cables, sir?'

‘No I did not.'

‘I fear for the strain on them. I was wondering if we could fire one cannon at a time to ease it.'

‘Let me observe the effect, Mr Pearce, and make a judgement. The two firing together do have a greater impact.' He pointed to the second pontoon. ‘In fact if we could time our action to the other fellow, landing four shots simultaneously, it might be much more valuable.'

Pearce nodded and, without being asked, hailed one of their boats, instructing the coxswain to pass on the thought to the other officer in command, this while the cannon on his own pontoon were reloaded with the heavier charge. Clearly the capital ships had undertaken
the same measure, for they fired off another salvo that at least cleared the shoreline, though it still fell short of the redoubt.

‘Gun captains,' Digby called, ‘we must try to fire on what little uproll we have from the swell.'

That acknowledged, they waited until a slight wave lifted the rear of the pontoon, pulling their lanyards to fire the flints as it ran underneath them, the balls emerging just as it raised slightly the shore-facing edge. Digby was watching the fall of shot, Pearce the strain on the forward anchor cables as the cannon recoiled. Brought up on their relieving tackles, what force the weight of the cannon created was transferred through the ringbolts to the planking below, sending the pontoon back to strain the anchors.

‘Mr Pearce,' Digby called, and he waited until his second-in-command joined him. ‘I fear that old worrier of a gunner is right about the barrels, but even if he is wrong I am obliged to take on board what he says. We must decrease the range.'

The solution was simple and copied by their consort; they paid out the sea anchors and hauled in on the shoreside, and this time it was their consort copying them. Likewise Admiral Gell was backing and filling to get further inshore.

‘Our friends yonder have yet to return fire.'

‘They still have the sun in their eyes, Mr Pearce, and I reckon, once that is high enough, they will oblige us with a response. Besides, they will be under the command
of an artillery officer, and probably he will have a better understanding of range. Once they know we are far enough inshore to be a real threat, we will be well served.'

Given it was fire at will, the other officer opened up first from the new position, which sent up two great piles of earth and sand right at the front of the newly erected French revetments. Digby was in the process of acknowledging the improvement when one of the second pontoon's anchor cables snapped from the strain. The broken rope whistled at head height across the deck, sending men diving to avoid it while, one corner released, the platform swung away from its fixed position. As it did so the French cannon finally spoke, sending two visible black objects arcing towards their target, balls which straddled the swinging pontoon; indeed it seemed that the misfortune of the severed cable might have been of some salvation.

Digby had little time to express his concern, as another pair of cannon fired on him, though they overshot to land in the sea a hundred yards behind–a worry, since even if he moved his pontoon back to the original anchor point, they would still be in danger. Yet it was immediately obvious they were not the main target; the remainder of the battery opened up, a dozen cannon, all firing at HMS
St George
. Some hit water and made spouts, but a couple struck timber, and the sound of rending wood rumbled across the bay. On a sturdy 98-gunner, the damage was not
in any way terminal, but it did indicate that Gell's flagship was vulnerable.

Digby shouted, alluding to the parted rope. ‘On the flint lanyards, one cannon at a time, the cables will not bear the recoil.'

All the advantage lay with the shore batteries, firing as they were from fixed positions on solid ground. At sea, though it was not running strong, they were at the mercy of even the slightest movement, snubbing on the cables as the currents moved them one way or the other, always firing from a slightly different elevation due to the effect of the swell, for it was impossible to correctly time the best point of discharge. So it was a measure of the luck of the pontoons that the first salvos aimed at them looked to be the most dangerous, given that what followed came nowhere near.

‘Powder's no use,' said Jenkins, when a crouching Digby asked his opinion as to the failure of their opponents to strike home. ‘Rotten French muck.'

The lieutenant forbore to point out to the Welshman that the powder he was using to fill his charges came from the arsenal of Toulon, and was thus also French muck. In reality, because the commander of that shore battery was concentrating on the capital ships, they were in receipt of very little counter fire. Michael O'Hagan's prediction of heated shot came to pass in short order, though again not aimed at them. Very visible in clear morning air, the red-hot metal left a trail of smoke, which did not immediately increase on contact. In the sea
it landed with a steam-inducing hiss, but if it hit wood it could embed itself and thus begin a conflagration, which might well, if it got out of hand, completely destroy the ship.

Their consort, now rigged to a spare anchor, was able to come back into the action, and that was the point at which both John Pearce and Digby realised why they were being so lightly treated. They had possessed only half their maximum firepower, but once that was remedied, a quartet of cannon was assigned to deal with them. Safety, if it existed at all, came from being a small target on a large expanse of seawater, so the French gunners would have to be precise, and that required luck. The concomitant of that was less rosy; the longer the action continued, the more chance they had of success – in short, luck for the target tended to be a diminishing asset.

After an hour, John Pearce was black from head to foot, covered in the soot released by the powder, and more than once he had been obliged to smack out something singeing his coat and breeches, scraps of wad from a discharge still burning but unspent. Likewise the gun crews, who were also sweating copiously, straining mightily to swab, worm and load, carrying both powder and the heavy cannonballs, then hauling the huge cannon across the deck to its firing position. They had a butt of clean water from which to assuage their thirst, though Digby, knowing they might have to stay on this station till twilight, had put a steady hand to control the use of the ladle.

It was plain to the naked eye that the line-of-battle ships were not winning the contest. Columns of smoke, where red-hot shot had struck, rose from several parts of
St George
and
Aurore
. It was also clear their bulwarks were taking severe damage from common round shot, and every time a ball struck home the wrenching sound of torn wood filled their ears. They, being too distant, were spared the screams of those affected by the splinters such a mauling must produce.

The sound of cannonballs hitting the water all around the pontoons had almost assumed a rhythm of endless waterspouts, each greeted with a jeering response from the British tars. That was shattered, as was the deck of their consort, when finally the French gunners scored a hit. Luckily the ball landed between the two cannon, but it gouged out great splinters of wood, which speared in all directions, so although the guns remained unscathed that could not be said of the crews. Worse was the manner in which it bounced on, taking out the gimcrack hutch that housed their gunner. That just disintegrated with slats being thrust into the sea and, judging by the spurts of blood and gore, he went with them, leaving everyone standing rock still waiting to see if the powder exploded, which could be fatal for them all.

The screams of those wounded came across the strip of intervening water, dragging every eye to observe what they could of the carnage; Digby had to shout to his men that they should attend to their duties. Yet it was with one eye on the order and another on the damaged
deck that they complied, witnessing the wounded being dragged to a place away from the cannon, but certainly not safety. There was no below decks to retire to, just an area of planking at as much risk as any other. The Gods smiled then, for, no doubt due to a very slight change in the powder measure, the next salvo hit the sea a few feet to the rear of the pontoon, missing everyone standing as it flew across the damaged deck, just before it struck the water. At its lowest it could not have been much above waist height.

‘Mr Pearce, we must assist our consort with some of our powder.'

‘They have called in a boat to take off the wounded, sir. I will employ that.'

Such casualties as had been sustained might have been bearable if they had been inflicting the same on the enemy, but from what could be seen, and that was extremely limited, the whole attacking force was doing not much more than shifting earth. The mounds thrown up to defend the position, being loose, also served to absorb and nullify the force of any round shot that had the right range. Once in receipt of a supply of filled cartridges, both pontoons were soon back in action.

‘Can't be long till our turn, your honour,' said Latimer, in between loading and ducking every time the enemy replied. ‘And if it hits us a'foreship, we'll be matchwood.'

John Pearce had a duty then to tell Latimer, much as he respected the old fellow, to shut up; they were
here and there was not a lot they could do about it. No retirement was possible without an express order from Admiral Gell, so they just had to lump it. But the words had him looking to the boats that had towed them, now out of range, rocking peacefully on the swell, oars at rest. He also tried to calculate the distance to the nearest part of the shore not occupied by the French, and reckoned, in the warm Mediterranean water, he would have little trouble in swimming to safety should the pontoon seem set to sink.

Yet that certainly did not apply to many others; if there was one mystery John Pearce could never fathom it was the fact that so few sailors could swim. It seemed to him like an absolute necessity of the occupation, yet all he had ever heard was that when in danger of drowning, tars had only one aim; to find enough drink to ensure that when they did succumb to lungs full of water, they would do so in a state of inebriated oblivion.

‘I wonder, sir, if we might ask the boats to move in closer?' he said, joining Digby.

‘They would be endangered by that, Mr Pearce.'

‘If I may say so, sir, the men aboard this pontoon are endangered by the distance they are sitting off from us. If we are struck in any serious fashion this deck will not serve to keep many alive.'

‘A risk we must take, Mr Pearce.'

Both were forced to duck then as a ball whistled over their heads to land in the sea. Pearce knew there was no point in asking Digby if he could swim; nothing would
alter his need to do his duty, that being a subject on which he and his superior had crossed swords before. Digby had only his naval career to give him any hope of advancement. John Pearce had no desire to prosper in the service; his sole aim, indeed his entire presence on this station, was exclusively to do with the need to fulfil a promise made to his Pelicans to get them free from the bonds of false impressment. He also had a deep desire to see in the dock at the Old Bailey the man who had brought them to this.

‘I feel the men would be happier if they thought the risk a shared one, sir.'

Digby did not look at him, but there was a tense note in his voice. ‘You are not telling me, I hope, that they would refuse their duty.'

The reply from Pearce was not tense, it was terse; nothing got his ire more than a blind sense of obligation to orders, however idiotic. ‘No sir, but I am saying it would be a pleasing thought that if the worst happens the men manning the guns might, instead of drowning, survive to fight another day.'

He heard Digby take in a deep breath, and he guessed that in being so tactless he had probably dented any chance of his superior relenting. Happenstance came to his aid as another ball flew in, this time striking his pontoon on the very furthest edge, removing a sizeable chunk of timber, but bouncing off to ricochet harmlessly into the sea. The sound was worse than the effect as both men stared at the gap torn in the timbers. Obviously, if
that same shot had hit further in, the platform on which they stood might have been so damaged as to be unable to remain afloat.