by Jan Needle
Chapter Seven
They had hardly got the cable growing up and down before Lieutenant Swift realized what the grunting at his elbow meant. He was on the focsle beside the bowsprit, looking down at the water gushing off the rope as the capstan squeezed it through the hawse.
‘Hhm,’ went the voice. ‘What think you of our chances, Mr Swift? I hope we do not run on shore, is all.’
It was Collins, the master. His hands were clasped behind him and he did not look happy. But Swift did not understand the problem.
‘Sir?’ he said. ‘We are not like to do that, I think.’
‘Ah, that is fine then,’ the master said, satirically. ‘I can rest easy in my breeches.’ He left a pause. Then added: ‘You do not think the current running rather hard? That cable, sir, is like a ship’s prow in a gale. Or am I wrong?’
In terms of seamanship that was unlikely, so the lieutenant tried to grasp his point. Before he spoke, the master bellowed ‘Aft there! Cable growing up and down! One last good heave if you want her breaking out!’ To Swift he added, ‘and then we’ll need all oars to take the strain. Tide’s coming round the headland like a herd of bulls.’
Lieutenant Swift got the picture. The water was sluicing past the vertical cable at a rate of knots. When the anchor broke out of the seabed, the ship would be moving fast. Very fast indeed.
‘Oh,’ said Swift. ‘I—’
‘Aye, indeed,’ said Collins. ‘I made to tell him. Mayhap you’d better have a try.’
Too late. The cry went up to ‘Break her out!’ and the men strained mightily at the bars. The boatswain shouted, ‘She rises, sir! Aft there! The anchor is broke out!’
And First Lieutenant Stewart sung out: ‘Below there on the sweeps. Give way and hold her! Lieutenant Bullen, direct your boats to pull! Helmsman, we need a point or two to larboard. Handsome now, lads, handsome does it!’
There was a flurry of white water at both sides of the Pointer as the sweeps made to stop her aftward drift and hold against the current. The head turned slowly towards the southern headland of the bay, and the boats and gigs swept from starboard to larboard across her bowsprit as they took the strain.
‘Good,’ said Daniel Swift. ‘She feels it.’
‘Aye, very likely,’ said the master, sourly. ‘She’ll feel the bottom, too, if Jack Tar ain’t man enough.’
Within a half a minute, it had become apparent that Jack Tar was not. The hull moved forward in the lovely calm – forward through the water – but across the land it was another matter. By any gage she was moving astern as the tide stream took her across the bay.
‘God damn it!’ the captain shouted to the master. ‘God damn it, sir, you’ll have me on those rocks!’
‘Shall I make canvas, sir?’ asked Stewart. ‘Aloft there, prepare to drop your topsails! Bowmen, stand by headsail halyards!’
‘The devil take you, sir!’ the captain responded. ‘There’s not a breath! What use is dropping canvas? As much good as a bastard shroud!’
Lieutenant Bullen, on the foredeck now, was shouting at the towing boats: ‘Put your backs into it! For God’s sake take the strain!’
In fact the frigate, through the water, had reached a very decent speed. The oar blades at the sides were biting well, with each gig and boat throwing up white water. But inexorably, the Pointer moved backwards to the eastern reefs.
‘This tide will have us on the shore!’ said Maxwell. ‘Why did you not tell me that, Mr Collins! A dereliction, sir! And you think that we can row across the Channel?’
Collins had moved aft and was standing at the con. He looked at the captain with his face a mask.
‘I told you no such thing,’ he stated. ‘Might I suggest, sir, that we drop the hook once more before it is too late?’
His face suffused with rage, Hector Maxwell roared orders at the boatswain and the first and second lieutenants.
‘Stand clear the capstan!’ came the roar from forward. ‘Clear all stoppers! Let the cable run!’
The anchor had not far to fall before it hit the bottom, although many of the oarsmen were still straining fit to burst. There were orders yelled or spoken, and the flurries died away. Suddenly the ship was surrounded by men bemused. No comments, though. When embarrassments arose, smart men kept their mouths tight shut.
A cry came from the topmast lookout.
‘Below there! Below! Boats around the headland, sir! Below there! Astern and to the starboard side!’
As the Pointer became still again, confusion reigned. Two boats indeed were visible, pulling clear of the rocks. They were some way away, and looked like slow and heavy craft. Charlie Raven, who was standing near Lieutenant Swift, was the first to work it out.
‘It’s the islanders,’ he said. ‘The Scilly men come for their stolen boats.’ He checked himself, before Swift could explode. ‘Their borrowed boats,’ he added more quietly. ‘I beg your pardon.’
The captain, still red with anger, only heard the first part, and decided he was right. If anything, it made his fury worse.
‘Then they shall not have them! We need those gigs, those gigs are now the king’s. Mr Stewart, break out muskets! Call up the lieutenant of marines! If we have to, we will shoot the bastards!’
Daniel Swift, the greatest admirer among the officers of Captain Maxwell, joined him in silent agreement over this. Mr Collins clearly did not.
‘What for, sir? What use are they to us? They cannot get us across the Channel. They cannot even get us across the tide, until it turns. And that will be three hours, will it not?’
‘God damn you, sir! God damn you to hell!’
In the embarrassed silence, Raven muttered: ‘There is a way, though.’
This was not intended to be heard generally, least of all by Hector Maxwell, who fortunately did not catch it. It was directed to Swift, who frowned back at him. The captain, meanwhile, was back on the attack.
‘Three hours lost through your incompetence!’ he shouted at Mr Collins. ‘Half a tide because you are a fool! Will no man talk sense to me? No man on this bastard ship?’
The tension on the quarterdeck was crackling like lightning. The sailing master, short of murder, had no redress for treatment such as this. The captain was the captain, the anointed lord, and Collins could not even turn away with impunity. He had to stand and take it.
‘What?’ Swift said to the midshipman. His voice was low as well. He was sweating visibly, as were many of the other men. ‘What other way?’
‘We could go across the Channel in the gigs,’ he said. ‘We have enough good oarsmen on this ship. I could cox the one and you the other. We could be like Scillies smugglers but to a greater purpose. Otherwise the captain’s expedition will be quite lost.’
The words of the song slipped into Swift’s mind. From Ushant to Scilly is thirty five leagues. He had been made to check it once, for his earliest exams, and it was not so far from accurate. But a hundred miles and more? And the bay they wanted still further, on the mainland?
‘Christ,’ he said. ‘And is it possible? Christ.’
‘The Scilly men can do it,’ Raven said. ‘It makes them rich. And the French they trade with, also. The enemy.’
Swift’s mind was racing. Fifteen or twenty men in each. Well armed with cutlasses and guns. Sneak in at dead of night, maybe, and take them unawares. He doubted they would even have a proper lookout; such an attack would be undreamed of. They would think they had been beset by imps from hell.
‘There is a way,’ he said, towards the captain. Then blurted it out loud. ‘Sir, I beg your pardon. I think that I have found an answer!’
A silence fell on the quarterdeck that was almost palpable. Captain, master, first lieutenant stared at him. On the foredeck, Bullen stared back, too. Even the marines, falling into ranks, held their soldier-like chatter.
Across the bay the Scilly boats were still too far for the splashing of their oars to carry. So far they had not shouted, either.
‘If you ar
e jesting, man,’ the captain said, ‘I’ll flog you with my own bare hands. What do you mean, you have an answer? Come on, spit it out. And make it good, man. Make it bloody good.’
Dan Swift was nothing if not bold. He’d stolen Raven’s idea and now would make it his.
‘I think we can achieve our object, sir,’ he said. ‘I think we can take those frigates. And we’ll thank those Scillymen for their cockleshells…’
Chapter Eight
In his inner self, it seemed, Captain Maxwell was little short of desperate. He stood becalmed, his men in disarray, and his mission – so simple yesterday as they had flown down-Channel in the rorting easterly – had become a foul stew. His orders, led by fine intelligence, were to go across to France and find a designated bay, to engage and take out two French men of war, one a cripple. It had been an easy task, and promised much-needed consequence. Kudos, for instance. And prize money in abundance.
He ordered the marines to take up stations, he ordered all his boats to come alongside to larboard, away from the Scilly marauders, he called the crews up out of the gigs and onto the afterdeck. He was decisive, clear, determined.
‘Mr Swift,’ he said, ‘how fast can these gigs go? How long will the operation take? What food and water will we need?’
Swift smiled tightly, indicating Raven with his hand.
‘Sir,’ he said, ‘Young Raven here is a man of Cornwall, as you know. He knows gigs inside out and backwards.’
‘Hah!’ said Maxwell. ‘He knows damn all else, I think! Craven, is this true? How fast can a good crew make one leap?’
Raven coloured at the insult, which he took to be deliberate.
‘My name is Raven, sir,’ he said, tightly. ‘We have a mast and sail on board each gig, and out in the Channel we might pick up a breeze. Depending on the men, sir, under sweeps we could make four knots, and maybe more. The weight of stores, sir, the weight of rowers, the weight of muscle. All crucial to be considered.’
‘And Raven is very light, sir,’ Swift put in. ‘And is an expert in these boats. But I would like to take the other, sir. If you would honour me with the task.’
‘Hah!’ went Maxwell, again. ‘What makes you think I would trust either of you with this caper? If any man shall lead this mission, if I should deem it even half way from insane, it shall be me. What, you go and pick up my prize and glory? You and that cowardly poltroon?’
‘I am not a coward, sir,’ said Midshipman Raven. ‘And I will more than prove it if you let me go.’
‘Unless you need to climb six foot up off the deck! My God, sir, you are your father’s son!’
A new hail came from aloft. From two mastheads, this time.
‘Below, below! More vessels round the headland, sir! Another two boats, sir! Aye, and a third! They have muskets!’
Still some way distant, still some minutes from the Pointer. They were packed with men, though, there could be thirty, maybe more. Lieutenant Stewart now faced the captain. His long face was concerned.
‘Armed to the teeth, sir. They mean to make a fight of it.’
‘A thorough outrage! These are English islands! They dare not attack an English navy ship!’
The giant sailor, Simpson, was close behind the first lieutenant. As always, he was smiling.
‘Scillonians,’ he said. ‘Many of them don’t allow that they be English, any road. Many speak naught but Kernow-tongue. They will attack.’
The master nodded. He did not seem amazed at the prospect. Perhaps he relished it?
‘I think you do not fully grasp it, sir,’ he said. He made it sound insulting. He curled his lip. ‘These men are rich. They make their fortunes dealing with the foe. And you have stole their earning gear. Those gigs are built with care and skill, sir. You are the villain, sir. In their eyes.’
‘Sir,’ said Lieutenant Swift. ‘Whatever the up and down of it, they will be on us very soon. If we man the gigs again we can outrun those unwieldy scows, even if we do not head across the Channel straight away. If you wish it, we can come back here when you’ve dealt with them.’
At that instant, there was the dull crack of a firearm across the water. All stared in a sort of disbelief. A man was at the bow of the leading Scilly boat, and a puff of smoke was trailing aft of him, moved only by the forward motion of the hull.
‘Poltroon! He is out of range by cables’ lengths. Well, that is it, though. Swift – pick crews for those two gigs! Pick them instantly and make sure they can row! Raven, I will give you one, if only to get you from my sight. Mr Purser, throw bread and wine and water down to them, Mr Gunner they need small arms, and powder, cutlasses, and shot. A musket for any man that wants one. Cheese and butter if it is to hand, a sextant and a compass and a chart. By God, these bastards! By God, I’ll blow them from the buggering bay! They’ll wish that they had never sucked their mothers’ tits.’
They did not need another shot to make them shift, but they got another one for luck. At an order, the marines moved to the bulwarks and took up their positions, although it was obvious the shore boats were aiming to run wide, to skirt the Pointer and came up on the other side, to the stolen gigs. In truth, Swift realized, that was all they wanted. But God, a desperate way to try and get them back. To fire on a frigate of the king!
The seamen, now with a direction, moved like greased steel. Load up and away, gear thrown down, blankets remembered by Midshipman Ross, who was not coming but who thought of comfort constantly, and not solely just his own, apparently. He was not the only hand on board who thought the venture mad, but he was the only one who did not wish to join the madmen. They crowded the bulwarks in a rabble.
‘Enough, enough!’ cried Captain Maxwell. ‘Get back most of you! And you great hairy bastards, give way to the smaller men! Christ, you will overload them like coal barges!’
It was a pretty point. To row so far, so fast, would require more men than a normal gig’s crew, but each extra ounce of muscle meant a diminution of the speed.
‘Not too much food!’ yelled Daniel Swift. ‘Not too many guns and shot! Our hunger will be greater when we get there if we do not hog ourselves!’
But the friendly giant, Simpson, was already down in Raven’s boat, and clearly had no thought of getting out. The other oarsmen were sorted by skill and strength at the direction of the boatswain, Peterson. A strong, lithe stroke, then the rest ranged up by strength and weight to the lightest in the bow. It was decided to take six extra men, not just for relief oars, but because hot work would probably ensue in France.
‘No cowards!’ Swift sang out, and cloaked the cruel intention in a laugh. ‘No cowards, shirkers, and no men with double ruptures! Emerson, that means you!’
The mood was lifted by this jest (no jest, in truth, as Emerson’s groin was marred with hens’ egg lumps since a bad slip on the main-yard weeks before) and very soon the gigs were set to go. A wild hallooing from the other side of the Pointer set the seal.
Swift, emboldened, shouted up to the captain, ‘Trust me, sir! We will take both their ships! I hope they have enough spare chain to shackle all our prisoners!’
Maxwell’s face darkened.
‘You will do no such thing, sir! Your task is to gain intelligence! You go to reconnoitre, until such time as we come up to you and finish off the job. I forbid you, sir, to engage any ship! I forbid you!’
He could scarce believe his ears. None of the men could. What if they found them sitting ducks? What if—?
‘But the wind, sir,’ he said, helplessly. ‘If the wind should not pipe up—’
A fusillade of shots crackled through the still, sweet air. A ball was heard to buzz across the waist like a flying beetle.
‘Cast off!’ Swift shouted. ‘Push her astern to clear! Ship oars and back together!’
On Raven’s gig, the work was done already. He gripped the yoke lines as Simpson, at the stroke, thrust mightily. His cohorts matched their movements without an order, and the gig leapt back from the ship’s side until she co
uld be spun and projected in the other direction, away from Pointer, away from England, and to France.
They heard shots from the frigate, but small arms only, and heard the Scilly gunmen answering.
‘Man all boats!’ Lieutenant Stewart called. ‘If they try to head off our gigs we will engage the swine! Step lively now! Step lively!’
And as Swift and Raven headed off from Pointer, they saw the leading island boats, ranged out far from the frigate, over-oared with massive crews, preparing to turn in and give them chase.
The men of fortune were not prepared to let their fortune be whisked away from them, whoever wished to do it, and for whom. There was going to be a hard and bloody chase.
Chapter Nine
With the gigs overloaded and unwieldy, and the men not yet settled in to them, it was a surprisingly close run thing. The Scillonians lived on the water in the way that navy men did not. Navy men worked hard and ate well, the smuggling men worked harder and ate better. When they were not up the masts or laying guns – at which two tasks Maxwell kept them at it constantly, however mild the weather or far away potential enemies – the Pointer men lived like gentlemen ashore, according to their captain’s view. They had fighting matches, dancing on the foredeck, sometimes races round the decks, but little constant, tearing exercise – and beer and brandy in no small quantity.
The Scilly men may well have done the same on shore, although their brandy would have been a thousand miles much better and their food a hundred miles or so, but on the water, comparisons were off. Even the mainland was thirty miles away, each island was separated by water, and to row and sail to their place of labour – the northern coast of France – they had to make at least a hundred miles, and then come back, usually at their highest speed, in whatever weather God might send. In oarsmanship and supple strength, they were unbeatable.
But their boats were also overloaded, and were not their special gigs of lightweight fir. They chose the fastest for the chase, though, while the others headed for the frigate to stop her sending yet more boats, maybe. And as the Pointer’s gigs drew fast across the bay in the bright morning beauty, Raven heard and saw the deadly skirmish start.