A Shot Rolling Ship (4 page)

‘Line them up, Mr Short.’ Colbourne called, ‘then send them aft for their weapons.’

The second midshipman, a stripling called Bailey, stood with a burly marine, wooden swords, dummy hatchets and padded clubs at his feet, two others holding muskets to their rear, as his messmate walked along the lined up sailors saying, ‘Attacker, defender, attacker, defender.’ Before he got to him, Gherson, unseen, nipped round an indifferent sailor to ensure he got the deck. Standing next to Michael, Pearce got the boats, while the Irishman got the defence.

‘Luck of the Irish, for them boats is set to be damned uncomfortable.’

‘I’ll try to make this deck uncomfortable for you, Michael.’

‘Don’t trouble, John boy, it is enough that already.’

Still in the same line they trailed the few feet to where Bailey and his marines stood, those early enough given the choice of weapon. Pearce took a sword and in weighing it, he realised that were it real, not wooden, he was close enough to the ship’s captain, provided his weapon was sharp enough, to sever his neck with one swift blow. What would happen then? Probably the musket-bearing marines would lower their weapons and shoot him, but what he could observe did bring home the notion that a disgruntled crew inclined to rebellion would have little difficulty in
taking the ship if they so wanted, a quartet of marines being insufficient to stop them.

He called to mind his reading of William Bligh’s published narrative of the
Bounty
mutiny, how easy it had been for Christian and his fellow conspirators to take the vessel. Really, like Bligh, all that Colbourne had to protect him was the authority vested in him by his officer’s commission and the threat of punishment that hung over any sailor who mutinied. He had a vision of casting this lieutenant adrift in one of the boats. At least he was close to home, unlike Bligh who had had to sail four and a half thousand miles to find a civilised landfall.

‘Move along there,’ the lieutenant said, and for the moment it took for Pearce to obey their eyes locked, Pearce holding the look for longer than discipline allowed so as to annoy Colbourne. The expression to which he was treated showed him how well he had succeeded.

‘Defenders to the lee rail,’ called Colbourne, ‘attackers to the weather. Mr Short, take on board your grappling irons.’

Charlie Taverner had to push Rufus so that he went to right bulwark. As soon as he spotted Pearce moving in the same direction the boy joined him. ‘I ain’t looking forward to this Pearce, having seen the way those boats were heaving about as they was hauled in.’

‘They will be a little more stable full of bodies, Rufus.’

The voice was tremulous as he replied. ‘What if I tumble o’er board.’

‘Then you have a choice, Rufus, swim for the ship or
stay afloat till you are dragged back in.’

It was telling comment of the youngster’s naivety that he seemed to give the twin notions due consideration. Then he brightened. ‘You can always dive in to my rescue, you being a right good swimmer.’

‘You got gills, Pearce?’ asked the sailor stood the other side of Rufus. The face was friendly, bright blue eyes and a broad winning smile under blond, near white hair. Pearce responded in kind, eager to address the first crew member, barring Latimer, to call him by name.

‘I’m a shark, mate, so if you tell me what you’d like for supper I’ll slip into the water and fetch it for you.’

‘Name’s Sam, mate, and I is partial to a bit of cod.’

‘You be too far south for that, Sam,’ said the man on the other side of him. ‘Water’s too warm.’

‘I’d like to hear you say that, Matt, if you was dipped in it.’

‘Mr Short,’ Colbourne shouted, ‘to command the cutter, Mr Bailey the jolly boat. Tally off the men you need.’

The sailors preceding Pearce and Rufus dropped into the boat with commendable ease. Getting over the side was not so easy for either of them, though the former did not make as much of a pig’s ear as the boy. Lowering yourself, even if only some ten feet, on a single rope wet from seawater, into a boat bobbing four or five feet up and down, with a wooden sword dangling between your legs, was not easy. While Pearce dropped into the boat with a thud, Rufus practically fell in from his second hand-hold, dropping the padded club he had chosen as a weapon in the process.

‘Anybody still see that Indiaman, lads,’ asked the sailor called Matt, ‘for we will be wanting to send these arsewipes back.’

‘No need,’ came the reply. ‘Next man o’ war comes along we’ll ship them out in that.’

‘Not if I get first in line you won’t,’ replied Matt. ‘I’ll have my ditty bag shouldered and a foot over the side before they gets hull up.’

‘You,’ commanded a voice behind Pearce, ‘sit here. Somebody get hold of Ginger an’ get him holding somethin’ afore he tips into the briny. And make space for the first boarders.’

Order was swiftly applied and Pearce found himself holding the thick end of an oar, the wood wrapped with twine to aid his grip. The space between him and the opposite oar was quickly filled by those who would board first. Looking towards the stern he was facing the prematurely lined face of Midshipman Short, who had taken station on the tiller.

‘Haul away,’ he shouted, much louder than was truly necessary.

Pearce could not claim to be efficient on an oar, though that commodity was all around him in the ease with which the true seamen hauled away, but he had competence enough to outstrip Rufus, who could not get his blade into rhythm with the others, it being in the water when theirs were out and vice versa.

‘We’s all out of kilter,’ cried one wag, ‘Ginger is showing us how.’

‘Happen we should gift him a short blue coat an’ call him mister.’

Midshipman Short deliberately looked away at what was an obvious reference to the general uselessness of his kind.

‘Miss more like, the useless bugger.’

One of the men set to board took pity, and using only one hand got Rufus dipping and raising in unison. ‘You just watch the back of the man in front lad. Go forrard with him and drop the blade, then haul back hard and lift when he does. Never mind the oar, that’ll do what your body says it should if’n you hold it right.’

Rufus did not get it right, but that mattered little given that they were not going far from the side. They turned to face the ship, oars now used to steady the cutter. To their left the smaller jolly boat lay likewise, bobbing on the green water as wave after wave ran under the counter. Short passed the tiller to one of the spare sailors, and with some difficulty made his way to the prow where, transferring his own dummy sword to a wrist lanyard, he gave the command to, ‘Haul away.’

The boats moved forward, gaining speed quickly, oars in and out before Rufus or Pearce had got their sticks into the water. When they did manage they aided progress very little as the boat headed for the side of HMS
Griffin
, the deck of which was now lined with their shipmates yelling and swearing a blood-curdling invitation.

‘Mr Bailey,’ Short shouted, ‘you take the mainchains, and I will assault them amidships, thus splitting the defence.’

Quick to obey, the oars on one side hit the water while the others were lifted and the jolly boat was sent towards the bow. Pearce, craning over his shoulder, could see little until they came off the crest of a wave, and not much then – the ship wallowing, the side lined by those still aboard yelling and screaming – but he did reckon that what they were about against a real enemy would be hazardous in the extreme. All advantage lay with the defenders, who had height and bulwarks to protect them, while those in the boats had nothing but a few muskets to keep the crew away from the side of the ship. Done for real it seemed like a good way to get a boat load of sailors killed.

Both Pearce and Rufus failed to react properly when the command came to boat oars. Luckily Pearce was on the seaward side, so did himself no harm, merely trailing a useless oar in the water. Rufus’ stick clattered into the ship’s side, and jumping out of its rowlock sent him flying into the bottom. There, as everyone else aboard reached for the ropes that hung from the now-thrown grappling irons, he was repeatedly stood on until Pearce could get to him and haul him to his knees.

‘Come on, Rufus, time to show them our mettle.’

Not all the sailors were using ropes; a couple had their backs to the ship’s side and, hands cupped, were propelling their mates up towards the deck. The way the boat was dipping because of this sent both Pearce and Rufus off balance and they were last to the side, the only people in the thing except those tasked to keep it pinned in place, faced with a series of lines and the command, delivered
with a scream, that they climb them. The grappling irons had been thrown into the ship’s shrouds, high enough so that anyone using them could get above the level of the deck. Pearce took hold, looped one end round his hand, and jumped so that his feet were on the scantlings. Lying almost horizontal he hauled himself up hand over hand until he reached the ladder of ropes that ran to the mainmast cap. There was a brief moment in which he could observe what was happening on deck, as men who were shipmates fought each other with real gusto. The false weapons were swinging hard, and the odd punch was being added to what was a joyous melee.

Looking aft he saw Colbourne, smiling at what was happening before him, taking no part in the actions of his men but enjoying their mutual pounding. Disinclined to join in the fighting beneath him he saw no reason why the ship’s commander should be spared active participation, should be left to enjoy his sport. Dropping down onto the deck he found himself standing over Cornelius Gherson, who was cowering, hands over his head, in the scuppers. That earned him a sharp jab from Pearce’s wooden sword which brought forth a pleasing squeal, which Pearce followed up with a telling kick that sent Gherson’s head into the ship’s side. But dealing with Gherson nearly did for him. Spinning round, Pearce just got his sword up on time to stop himself being hit with a soft sand cosh, the wood of his blade taking his assailant on the forearm, which must have hurt for his face screwed up in pain and the eyes took on a look of alarm at what was sure to follow, a clout round the ear.

‘Sorry mate,’ he called as he slipped by, looking for Michael O’Hagan, who would be bound to be in the thick of things.

The Irishman was not hard to spot, standing near the ship’s wheel, head and shoulders above those trying to contest the deck with him. He had eschewed a weapon, and was merely fending off his attackers, one of them the blond fellow called Sam, with his huge open hands, causing no pain and laughing out loud, calling to them to come at him again. Pearce’s sword was required again, this time to fend off a fellow with a similar weapon. The sailor clearly thought himself a swordsman, for he took on a fencing posture. That lasted only a second as Pearce, who had been properly taught, whipped his weapon up, slid his underneath, and jabbed him in the solar plexus, a blow that, winding him, had him doubled over on his knees.

Pearce tapped the lowered head he as made his way towards Michael, who spotting him called out, ‘Come on John boy, and see if you can better these spalpeen fools, not one of whom is of any use in a scrap.’

The truth of that was in the way that Michael managed both to say those words and continue to fend off four men.

‘Michael,’ Pearce said, coming close, weaving and ducking as his friend tried to slap him. ‘I want you to fall away slowly, as though we are driving you backwards.’

One of the things Pearce liked about the Irishman was the way he reacted to a request without demanding to know why. He had done so before on more than one
occasion and he did so now, making it look as though Pearce and the others were besting him. They, not aware that Michael was only pretending, got bold, which earned the blond Sam a head-ringing clip.

‘I am going to push you, Michael, and when I do I want you to fall back until you hit something.’

Pearce got a huge open-handed slap on the forehead that stopped him dead, giving him some idea of how much O’Hagan could have hurt him if he so desired. ‘As long as it’s not solid, John boy.’

‘No brother, it is as soft as you sometimes are in the head.’

Michael grabbed Sam and his other attacker, one in each hand, and lifted them bodily off their feet. They still tried to club him, blows which when they landed made the Irishman laugh. ‘How can you say that and me not even had a drink?’

‘Now!’ shouted Pearce.

Getting both hands in between the struggling pair he gave Michael the heaviest shove he could manage. O’Hagan, laughing even louder, staggered backwards at increasing speed, taking his assailants with him. Colbourne, who had not really been watching those right before him, instead looking beyond to see how Bailey and his party were faring in the bows, was too slow to react. Michael’s back hit him foursquare, and the combined weight of the trio knocked him right over to land on his back on the deck. His body tripped Michael and he and the others fell in a heap behind him. Pearce, yelling blue murder, had
the pleasure of standing on and pinning to the deck his commanding officer as he repeatedly jabbed his wooden sword. Having despatched Michael in dumb show he stepped off Colbourne, put his wooden sword to the other man’s neck, and looking directly at him, said breathlessly, ‘I think we might have taken the ship.’ Then with just the right length of pause to rob his accolade of any truth, Pearce added, ‘Sir.’

‘Welcome aboard, Captain Gould, on what I think you will agree is a most providential day.’

Davidge Gould, dripping water off the hem of his boatcloak, raised his hat as the whistle blew to pipe him on board, surprised that someone as tetchy about prerogatives as Ralph Barclay should have come on deck in full uniform to greet him; he was, after all, only a titular naval captain as opposed to a real one. A rather small file of marines, with no sign of a marine officer, stamped to attention as his foot hit the deck, making him feel as if he were the superior, and vastly so, while Barclay was the junior. It was all a bit much, especially since he had not come voluntarily. Gould had been ordered aboard, cursing his commanding officer on receipt of a summons that obliged him to cross from his own ship to this deck on a stretch of sea disturbed enough to ensure he arrived damp.

‘You know my acting Premier, Mr Digby.’

‘Good day to you, sir.’

Acknowledging Henry Digby begged several questions, not least his acting rank and the absence of two of HMS
Brilliant
’s more senior lieutenants, that added to the observation Gould had already made that there was no marine officer. Looking for damage he could observe none, the frigate was in all respects sound. Full of curiosity as to why such men were missing, he was obliged to observe the courtesies and reply to Barclay’s opening remark.

‘It is a most auspicious day, sir. The sun not only shines on the sea around us but on our endeavours.’

It sounded crass in his ears, pure hyperbole, but it clearly pleased Barclay, who positively beamed at him. ‘Nobly said, Mr Gould, nobly said. Mrs Barclay has prepared us a decent dinner. You are already acquainted with my wife, are you not?’

‘I am that, sir, since you were gracious enough to introduce me when she arrived in Sheerness. We last met at the Assembly Room dance the night before we weighed.’

‘Quite. Captain Nelson informed me that you were most attentive.’ Barclay’s tone had changed as he uttered that, being close to a growl, and Gould got the feeling it was inadvertent, because his superior suddenly, in a forced manner, smiled again. ‘You boarded the prize Captain Gould. Is she as fine close up as she looks from here?’

Both men turned to look over the ship’s side at the barque they had just taken, wallowing on the waters of the Bay of Biscay alongside
Firefly
, beyond that the sails of
the Gibraltar-bound convoy spread over the horizon.

‘She is a splendid capture, near new. Her name is
Chantonnay
. I have taken the liberty of ordering my Premier to stay aboard, pending your approval of course.’

‘Make it so, Mr Gould. How was she in the article of hands?’

‘Stuffed to the gunnels, sir, so much so that I was at a loss to know where they all slung their hammocks.’

‘Then I will have some of those bodies aboard
Brilliant
if I may. I am deuced short-handed, as you well know, and I am afraid to say in the recent recovery of the
Lady Harrington…’

‘Recovery?’

‘The ship was taken, Gould, and by that very French dog you saw me chase. He…’

‘But you took her back.’

If Barclay was disturbed to be so rudely interrupted by a junior officer he did not show it. Truly, Gould thought, this is a different creature to the one I first met at Sheerness.

‘I did, as it was my duty.’ Barclay looked hard at Gould then, as if challenging him to disagree. ‘As I was saying, the action was not without loss, so let us get some of those French dogs on board so they can haul on a rope and earn their keep. You may take some aboard yourself, which will create room for your prize crew and relieve the anxieties of your Premier that so numerous a body of men might try to take back the ship.’

‘I am to provide both my Premier and the crew, sir?’

‘Why of course, Gould. Do you not deserve it? It would
have been a damned difficult capture without you coming to my aid. I would have struggled to take her before nightfall in a stern chase.’ Barclay, having delivered what Gould thought a palpable exaggeration, turned towards the doorway to his cabin, with his guest tripping in his wake. ‘Mr Digby, you have the deck. Signal Firefly and the prize to resume their course, Captain Gould’s vessel to take station at the front of the convoy.’

The smell of food wafted into Gould’s nostrils as they passed the steward’s pantry, and he had a brief sideways glimpse of chafing-dishes sitting in hot water to keep warm the food inside.

‘Shenton, Captain Gould’s cloak.’ As his steward obliged, Barclay added, ‘See that it is brushed and dried, will you, and send someone to relieve Mr Gould’s coxswain of his ship’s papers. I will look at them after we dine. Now Gould, a glass of champagne.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Emily Barclay entered from the side cabin as her husband was pouring the wine, giving Gould a radiant smile that made his heart beat a little faster. She was a beautiful creature, clear skin, set off by naturally rouged cheeks and bright eyes under a mass of shiny auburn hair. He could remember the touch of her hand as she had danced with him at the Assembly Rooms the night before they weighed from the Nore, as well as the gaiety with which she had undertaken the various routs and reels. With her husband away in London it had been possible to indulge in a little raillery, perfectly innocent of course – one did not try to
seduce the wife of a fellow officer – but more fun than if dour Ralph Barclay had been present. Davidge Gould knew he was not alone in wondering what a young beauty like Emily Barclay was doing married to a curmudgeon so many years her senior.

‘Captain Gould,’ Emily said. ‘It is so good to see you again.’

He took her hand to kiss it, feeling the cool skin, smelling the Attar of Roses she used as a gentle fragrance. ‘And you Mrs Barclay. Might I be permitted to say the sea air obviously suits you. I swear, if it is possible, you are blooming.’

‘Champagne, Gould.’ Turning to face his superior, Davidge Gould was made very aware, by a rather pointed look, that flattering the man’s wife was not a good idea. Barclay handed a second glass to his wife. ‘And you my dear.’ Picking up a third glass he raised it. ‘Let us toast the success of our voyage which, though troubled, has, till now, been equally blessed.’

The toast was made in loud unison, accompanied by a wine that had been chilled in a bucket lowered into the sea, one which Gould observed held more than one bottle.

‘I say, sir, this is a very fine. Might I ask the name.’

Barclay acknowledged the compliment to the wine, but threw his wife a somewhat curious glance. ‘Supplied by the House of Ruinart, which I daresay will be deuced hard to come by now that we are at war with the makers. We have to thank Mrs Barclay for it being available to serve.’

The words ‘as wise in choice as you are beautiful in the
flesh’ formed in Gould’s mind. He was prudent enough to leave them there.

‘The same will apply to the food we eat, all chosen by my wife from the very best chandlers in Sheerness, though I think she would acknowledge that she had some assistance from quite a few wives of the other officers.’

Those cheeks rouged by the sea air deepened a tad, with Emily Barclay declining to meet her husband’s eye, leaving Gould with the impression that he was witness to some private dispute between them. Whatever it was, enlightenment did not follow.

‘I think we should eat, don’t you,’ Barclay said, ‘for I am sharp set. Nothing like a bit of powder and shot to give a sailor an appetite, eh?’

Gould sat down, wondering at Ralph Barclay; his moods had in the space of seconds swung from being hearty to being grizzled, then back again. The thought occurred that dining at this board he had better be on his mettle.

‘Fish soup to start, sir,’ said Shenton, as he led in a group of sailors, neatly dressed in checked shirts, with red bandanas tied round their necks, one placing the tureen on the table, the others taking station against the bulkheads. The steward, a lugubrious-looking fellow with bent shoulders, took station behind his captain.

‘The fish are fresh of course, Gould, but the stock is a concentrate from that newly-opened shop in Piccadilly. What is it called, my dear?’

‘Messrs Fortnum and Mason, Captain Barclay.’

‘That’s the fellows. Used to be valets to the King, you know.’

‘Indeed.’

‘Bit of a come down, what, from flunkeying at Windsor Castle to being mere shopkeepers.’

‘I’m not sure, sir, that service in the royal household is such a good billet. I had the good fortune to attend a levee at Windsor Castle in the company of my uncle, and the way the royals treat their servants would make it a good place to seek volunteers for the Navy.’

Barclay had frowned again, but whatever was troubling him was not reflected in his words. ‘Maybe you’re right, Gould, what with Farmer George dipping in and out of being batty.’

That topic carried the conversation on; the King’s disturbed mental state, in abeyance now but always threatening a recurrence, the difficulties that presented to a government trying to prosecute this new war with France with an opposition and an elder son, the Prince of Wales, desperate to force a Regency. That subject was treated delicately, for it touched on politics and it was a tenet of naval life that there were two subjects best avoided in a ship at sea, the other being religion.

The tureen was removed, to be replaced by a whole turbot, with dishes of anchovy and lobster butter, lemons and a tub of horseradish.

‘I am agog to hear of the retaking of the
Lady Harrington
, sir.’

‘A bloody affair Gould, very bloody.’

The story Barclay told was succinct, very noticeably and unusually so, for naval officers were not noted for brevity when recounting tales of actions in which they had participated, this explained as he concluded, ‘You will forgive me, Gould, for not covering all the details, but my dear wife has heard it all before, and the casualties were heavy.’

‘I noticed the absence of several persons on coming aboard, sir, but one does not like to remark on such matters.’

‘Quite.’

‘Lieutenant Roscoe lies in the surgeon’s berth,’ added Emily. ‘We pray to heaven that he will come back to full health.’

Barclay’s voice suddenly became angry. ‘That damned Frenchman humbugged me, Gould, not once, not twice, but three times.’

Seeing Emily frown at the sudden bitter tone, Gould interjected to lighten the mood. ‘But it ended successfully, sir, did it not?’

‘Aye. But the losses bear down heavily upon me.’

‘Your attitude does you credit, sir.’

‘It is hard to see it so,’ snapped a surprised Ralph

Barclay, for he had been meditating on how such losses could affect his career, not on the actual people who had suffered injury and death.

Emily Barclay immediately stepped in to change the subject. ‘Captain Gould, you are I believe from Wiltshire.’

Discussions of family, localities and the foibles of locals 
kept the conversation flowing through the courses that followed, which were of a consistently high standard; a fricassee of sweetbreads followed by a leg of mutton with currant jelly, onion sauce, salad and potatoes. Likewise the wines were splendid, a fine white burgundy from that bucket of cold seawater to go with the fish course and a very decent claret with the meat and cheese, that followed by a Château Y’Quem to accompany the sweet plum pudding which Emily Barclay was keen to inform their guest was entirely the idea and creation of the ship’s cook. It was a meal fit for an admiral.

The cloth was drawn, and Emily, who knew her place, rose from the table to leave the men to their affairs.

‘That was a damn fine dinner, Mrs Barclay,’ said Gould, half out of his chair. ‘Had I known you were such a dab hand at provender I would have engaged you to provide my own stores.’

‘Have a care of your purse, Captain Gould, for my wife is a dab hand at disbursement too.’

‘I thank you for the compliment, Captain Gould,’ said Emily, her face set. ‘I have to admit to a certain amount of nerves, this being the first occasion on which Captain Barclay and I have entertained. Such a pity that I did not get to know so many of the ship’s officers before we lost them.’

‘Then I am flattered,’ Gould replied, aware that there had been a rebuke to her husband in her words.

‘If you will permit, husband, I think I will go and sit with Mr Roscoe.’

‘My dear.’ Both men half stood as she left, Barclay saying as the door shut, ‘She reads to him out loud, but I doubt the poor fellow can hear.’

‘If anyone can stir some life in his breast, sir, I am sure it is Mrs Barclay.’

‘That’s an odd notion, Gould. Personally, I put more faith in the surgeon, though he is such an odd fellow I would be forced to qualify any confidence. Now, let me oblige you with a more fulsome account of the action.’

Which Ralph Barclay did: but it was not the truth, it was a version highly edited to flatter him and his actions, while at the same time diminishing the activities of anyone else, especially a pressed seaman called John Pearce and the useless midshipman, his wife’s nephew, Toby Burns, an account he could never have delivered with Emily present.

The maindeck fell silent as she emerged, book in one hand, nosegay in the other, each sailor stiffening in whatever pose he held, except those immediately encountered, who all touched a forelock as she passed. Emily had, she knew, to move slowly, so that word of her presence could spread ahead to the areas of the ship that were very much the preserve of the crew, this to avoid embarrassment to men who might well be partly or wholly undressed, or indulging in some activity they would not want her to see. It had been explained to her by other naval wives who had sailed with their husbands as the blind eye, a quite conscious attempt to avoid embarrassment, not confined to women but used by officers to avoid inflicting an endless
stream of punishments for minor infractions of the far too comprehensive regulations which governed life aboard ship.

Sailors diced and played cards, both forbidden; sometimes they fought, well out of sight of anyone in authority, or got together in combinations to discuss grievances, and that left out women smuggled aboard and practices never mentioned in polite conversation. Petty officers who lived in close proximity to their fellow crewmen had authority over them, but had to show sense in how it was applied, for it would never do to be over-zealous when a body thrown overboard at night would be lost forever. Strictly speaking, her own presence aboard was forbidden, but admirals had been captains once and knew what to see and what to ignore. A ship was a world apart as soon as the anchor was fished and catted, governed officially by the Articles of War, in truth presided over by her husband, who had much say in how such rules were applied. The only plain fact, explained to her, was that they could not be applied in total at all times, otherwise the captain would have more of the crew in chains than he would have left to sail the ship.