Larcum Mudge (Alexander Clay Series Book 8)

by Philip K Allan

  ‘What do you suppose they will try next, sir?’ asked Armstrong.

  ‘Why should we wait for them to act, Jacob?’ said Clay. ‘Mr Preston is doing fine service, but it will take a day and a night to disable such a huge ship with only a brace of nine-pounders to call upon. We must close and press our advantage.’ Clay returned his speaking trumpet to his lips. ‘Mr Blake, have your larboard side guns made ready, if you please. Trained as far forward as possible.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ came the reply from the well of the main deck, accompanied by a rumble of approval from the gun crews who had yet to fire.

  ‘Mr Taylor!’ continued Clay. ‘When we are a cable closer, we shall luff up, and give her another broadside.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir. I shall be ready.’

  The ships raced on across the dazzling blue sea, the gap between them closing all the time. From the forecastle the two nine-pounders continued their steady bombardment, hitting the enemy’s sails regularly as the range came down. The reply from the pair of French guns was much slower, in contrast, and they frequently missed altogether. Clay looked aloft to see what damage his ship had received. Apart from the hole in the foretopsail, and a line that Hutchinson had a party of hands re-roving, all seemed well. He returned his attention to the dwindling distance between him and the enemy. Almost, he muttered. Just a little closer. He waited for what he judged was the right moment, and then waited a little more. Now, he decided.

  ‘Bring her up into the wind, Mr Armstrong,’ he ordered. ‘Mr Blake, open fire the moment the guns bear! Mr Taylor, be ready to reverse course once the guns have fired!’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  The frigate turned up into the stiff breeze, slowing rapidly as she slewed around, bringing her broadside to bear on to the enemy’s stern. Now the distance was increasing rapidly, as the French ship continued to speed on her way, but she was still comfortably within range when the Griffin opened fire. Clay could see Blake beneath him, sighting along the barrel of the middle gun in the portside battery. When the Centaure’s stern had appeared completely he shouted a warning, jerked back on the firing lanyard, and gestured for the rest of the guns to fire. This time it was a rolling broadside, spreading out from the middle cannon, racing forward towards the bow, and rumbling back down the deck towards him. The moment he heard the last eighteen-pounder bang out beneath him, Clay was issuing instructions.

  ‘Wheel back over, Mr Armstrong!’ he yelled. ‘Headsails, Mr Taylor!’

  The frigate checked its turn, hung for a moment, and then slowly turned back onto its original course. As the last of the cloak of gun smoke parted, the Centaure reappeared. Her gilded stern continued to glitter in the sunshine, but she was now much farther away. There was plenty of fresh damage aloft for Clay to see. The mizzen topsail had a big tear in it, and a long streamer of canvas was flapping free. The frigate gathered speed, and the pair of bow chasers barked out again.

  ‘Definitely slower now, sir,’ said Armstrong, with his pocket watch in his hand. Clay looked back towards the two following British warships. They still seemed as distant as before, but then the frigate lifted to a wave, and for the first time he glimpsed the Stirling’s hull for a fleeting instant.

  ‘A little slower,’ he agreed. ‘But nothing vital has carried away yet.’

  The chase settled back into the same pattern as before. The frigate gained steadily on the French ship, creeping up behind her like a footpad on his victim. On the forecastle the two nine-pounders fired again and again, punching more holes in her sails, and cutting fresh lines in her rigging. Behind the two guns stood the bare-headed Preston, watching their opponent’s rudder, his hat by his side, ready to signal.

  The frigate was almost close enough to luff up and let fly with another broadside when a ball from the Centaure’s stern chasers struck a screeching blow as it hit flush on the iron fluke of one of the frigate’s anchors. A shower of sparks flew up, and shards of broken metal scythed across the forecastle. Clay watched as three wounded seamen were carried down to the main deck and away to the surgeon. One man hung limp between the sailors carrying him, his shirt dark with gore. Another howled in pain, one bloody arm cradled across his chest by the other. Clay waited until they had been taken below, forcing himself to harden his heart and returned his attention to the battle.

  He swung his speaking trumpet up to his mouth. ‘Mr Blake, kindly have the larboard side guns ready once more, if you please.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ replied the lieutenant.

  ‘Mr Taylor!’ shouted Clay. ‘We shall luff up again directly.’

  As Clay gave his orders, he felt a strange sense of déjà vu. The same sun shone down on the brilliant sea. The Griffin was back in the same position, just to windward of the white line of wake thrown out by her opponent, ready to perform the same manoeuvre. He could even see the pair of French officers watching his ship’s approach once more, from the stern rail beside the broken lantern. The frigate swept up into the wind as the wheel went across, her way came off, and the portside guns roared out in sequence, masking their opponent in dense smoke. The men clustered around the guns were busy reloading them once more, and then something different happened. A movement, rapid and urgent like the flapping of a bird, caught his attention from the forecastle. It was Preston, waving his hat frantically at him, his arm held out to the right once more.

  For a moment Clay hesitated, and then he started barking orders.

  ‘Wheel hard over!’ he roared. ‘Mr Taylor, haul around the topsail yards!’

  The Griffin was barely moving through the water at all, and she stalled for a long moment, the sea slapping against her stationary side. All the time the gun smoke was thinning, revealing the Centaure, not racing away from them as before. This time she was turning up into the wind too, bringing her starboard battery to bear on the troublesome frigate. She was stern on to them at the moment, but her long side was appearing as she came around, every cannon trained to fire as far aft as possible.

  ‘Bless my soul,’ exclaimed Armstrong. ‘They must have been waiting for us to luff up and turned the moment we fired, the dogs! Thank goodness Mr Preston was positioned clear of all this darn reek.’

  ‘Get those topsails drawing, Mr Taylor!’ yelled Clay, while inside he seethed with frustration. How could he have been such a fool! Of course the French would try something different, rather than let him steadily pound their sails to ribbons.

  The two ships were both almost stationary, locked in a race for survival being carried out at the pace of a snail. The French leviathan was inching up into the wind, twisting her side towards her tormentor. Aloft, her tattered rigging and torn sails flapped in the wind like so much bunting. Meanwhile the frigate was turning in the opposite direction, slowly beginning to pay off, desperate to return to the invisible triangle of shelter astern of the Centaure.

  Macpherson appeared beside him, drawn forward by the unfolding drama. ‘Come on, wee lassie,’ he urged, stroking his hand along the oak rail before him. ‘You can make it.’

  ‘Look at all the damage she has aloft, sir!’ exclaimed Armstrong, from his other side. ‘By rights she should be finding it near impossible to manoeuvre.’

  The side of the French ship was slowly lengthening. A puff of smoke erupted from her stern most cannon as a gun captain fancied his weapon bore, and a fountain of water rose up from the sea beside them. The boom of the shot was deep and menacing, the water spout far taller than any the Griffin had raised. Time seemed to stand still, with the ships perfectly synchronised, as the frigate drifted forward at the same rate as the Centaure was turning. Another two puffs of smoke, more huge splashes and Clay held his breath. Then he heard it, a sound as welcome as the tinkle of a stream to a man lost in a desert. It was the gurgle of water as it whispered past the hull. The frigate’s big foretopsail flapped loudly as it was hauled around, and then it stiffened into an arc of white as it caught the breeze, and the Griffin gathered pace.

  ‘Another broadside, if
you please, Mr Blake,’ ordered Clay, breathing at last.

  ‘Aye aye, sir. Ready gun captains?’

  The curved line of arms rose into the air, and the gun crews crouched down around their pieces, holding their hands over their ears.

  ‘Point to windward, Mr Armstrong,’ said Clay. ‘Let us come a little closer.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  The enemy’s stern rose high out of the water as the frigate bore down on it. Clay could see more of the damage they had inflicted on their opponent. Three of the stern windows had been smashed, and one of the mermen had lost his arm. From her mizzen mast lines of cut rigging hung down like jungle creepers amid the torn sails.

  Clay began to hear shouted orders from on board, as the big ship tried to pay off and get back underway. ‘Close enough, Mr Armstrong,’ he said. ‘Hold her thus, Mr Taylor.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  The Centaure’s two stern chasers fired together, and there was a double crash from forward as the shots struck home, followed by a cry of pain, pitched at a level that only one of the ship’s boys could reach.

  ‘It seems not even the Frogs can miss at this range,’ muttered Macpherson.

  ‘Let us hope we can repay them with interest, Tom,’ said Clay. ‘Give them another, Mr Blake, if you please.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  *****

  The gun crews were getting ready as the enemy ship grew near.

  ‘Pipe be taking us in proper tight this time,’ marvelled Trevan, peering through the open port at the approaching ship. ‘I hope he knows what he be about.’

  ‘Move yer fecking arse, Adam,’ ordered O’Malley, who was trying to sight along the barrel. ‘Hand spike men! Shift her a touch towards the stern.’ Two of the crew levered the heavy red carriage around. ‘Easy there,’ called the Irishman, couching low with one eye closed. ‘That’s the mark, right on the fecker’s mizzen top. Places, lads.’

  He waited until the others had all dropped into position, and then took up the slack in the lanyard with one hand, while raising the other. From next to the Centaure’s rudder came an eruption of smoke, the tongue of flame at its heart seeming to come straight towards him, and a moment later there was a crashing blow on the hull. Splinters rattled against the gun barrel, and one of the crew yelped, pulling his hand from the tackle and sucking at it. There was a scream of pain, as high-pitched as a girl’s, and Charlie fell to the deck with a dagger of wood protruding from his thigh.

  ‘Nipper’s copped it!’ exclaimed Mudge, turning from his place on the gun tackle.

  ‘Leave him be!’ roared Fletcher. ‘He ain’t in the way. Just you attend to your duty!’

  ‘Open fire!’ ordered Blake, from his place by the main mast.

  ‘Stand clear!’ warned O’Malley. He gave a final glance across at the target and jerked the lanyard. The lock snapped forwards, there was a gush of sparks from the touch hole, and the gun leapt back across the deck. A wall of smoke billowed up beside the frigate, while the men raced to reload the cannon. Mudge knelt down beside the boy, supporting him while he eased the leather charge case over his head and passed the heavy bag of powder to Trevan. Charlie grew quieter, whimpering gently into the sailor’s shoulder.

  ‘We’re after needing a fresh powder monkey here, Mr Fletcher,’ reported the Irishman. ‘Charlie’s hurt fecking bad.’

  ‘Alright, O’Malley,’ said Fletcher, summoning over a replacement. The smoke was rolling clear, revealing the damage the latest broadside had caused. The Centaure was further off once more, still sailing away from the Griffin, but her profile had changed dramatically. Her mizzen mast had taken the brunt of the frigate’s fire, and the upper half hung down in ruin. The mizzen topmast had snapped clean through, leaving a cone of torn canvas and broken spars beneath it. Debris dotted the water behind the stern, and sailors could be seen working with axes clearing away the wreckage. A roar of approval rose up from the watching gun crews.

  In the confusion, Mudge picked Charlie up, making light of his thin body, and headed towards the aft ladderway. ‘Come along, nipper,’ he murmured into the boy’s ear. ‘Let’s be a getting you down to the sawbones.’ The youngster nuzzled his face closer, wetting his shoulder with tears.

  Blocking the ladderway stood a marine sentry. His musket had its bayonet fitted and he held it across the entrance, barring the way. ‘Halt there!’ he ordered. ‘Only wounded or them as is fetching powder are allowed below!’

  ‘You got both here,’ snapped Mudge ‘So get your arse out of my bleeding way!’

  ‘What’s wrong with him then?’ demanded the soldier.

  Mudge gently rolled Charlie’s wounded thigh towards him. Red splashes dripped onto the deck, and the boy moaned in pain. ‘Satisfied?’

  ‘Alright, you can pass,’ conceded the sentry, standing to one side. ‘But there ain’t no call to get bleeding hot with me. You’d be surprised how many folk find cause to go a visiting the hold, once them cannon balls is flying.’

  ‘Aye, and I dare say there be no shortage of Lobsters as want to guard that prisoner, nice an’ safe down in the lock-up, like,’ added Mudge, from halfway down the ladder.

  ‘Now, that’s just where you be wrong,’ said the soldier, leaning forward to call after him. ‘All us marines are required to fight up here.’

  Mudge passed through the deserted lower deck, with its rows of abandoned mess tables stretching away from him, and continued down into the gloom of the orlop deck. A lamp hung at the bottom of the steps, illuminating an open space with dark passages running away from him. The similarity with the interior of the Peregrine was striking. Although the frigate was more spread out, the headroom was just as challenging for a tall man, and he had to bend double over his burden, placing one hand gently on the back of the boy’s head to shield it from bumping against the low beams. He paused to get his bearings, and then headed towards the sound of Corbett’s voice.

  In the cockpit it was relatively calm. Two seamen lay in hammocks strung at the far end, their wounds dressed, emitting loud snores from the combination of rum and laudanum that had eased their treatment. Beneath them lay the shape of a third, motionless and covered.

  ‘Ah, we have a new client,’ said Corbett to his assistants as Mudge appeared at the door. ‘Pray bring him to the table.’

  ‘Go easy on him please, sir,’ said the sailor, as he passed the wounded boy across. ‘He ain’t no more than a lad.’ The assistants carried the patient to the table and laid him on his back. Charlie groaned weakly, his head turning from side to side.

  ‘So I see,’ agreed the surgeon, stooping over him. ‘Apply a tourniquet above the wound, if you please, Henderson, before this child expires for want of blood.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  ‘What is the patient’s name?’ asked Corbett.

  ‘He be Charlie, sir,’ said Mudge. ‘Charlie Dyer.’

  ‘Well now Charlie, Henderson here is going to give you a little grog for your present relief, after which I shall take a look at your leg,’ said the surgeon, smiling down at the boy from behind the steely glint of his little round spectacles.

  ‘D– don’t leave me, Larcum,’ pleaded Charlie.

  ‘None of that, young man,’ said Corbett. ‘I shall require you to be gallant for me. Henderson, a gag for the preservation of his tongue, if you please, and then bring over the straps. I shall use my number two saw, I believe. You may return to your duties, Mudge.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  Mudge stumbled out of the cockpit and into the passageway outside. The sound of battle was muted here on the orlop deck. Shouted orders came faintly down to him through the hatchways and gratings from above. Much louder was the double thump of the bow chasers, firing up on the forecastle, and the thunderous rumble of the main guns being run out again. All around him was the renewed creak and groan of the frames as the frigate resumed the pursuit of her wounded opponent. Loudest of all were Charlie’s screams of pain, pursuing him all the way to the bott
om of the ladderway. He stopped and looked around in the light cast by the lantern that hung close by, but he was quite alone. Ahead of him was the glow of another light, farther forward in the ship.

  He stealthily advanced up the passageway until he arrived beside a solid-looking door. It was closed, but had an opening about a foot square cut into the top. This was fitted with bars, and allowed what air and light was available to reach the occupants of the lock-up. From inside he heard a cough and the shifting of a body, accompanied by the chink of metal against the deck. Mudge unhooked the oil lamp that swung in the passageway, and peered into the cell. There was enough room for three or four prisoners, but only one man was inside. He was a heavily built seaman who sat with his back against the far wall with his legs stretched out ahead of him. Both ankles were fettered, and an earthenware jug with a wooden cover rested on the deck beside him. As the light shone in, he looked towards it, shading his eyes with his hand. The lower half of his face was dark with stubble, save where a long scar lay across it.

  ‘Have you come to tell me what the bleeding hell be going on?’ demanded the prisoner. ‘I can hear broadsides and all manner of tumult, but there be not so much as a guard to pass the time of day with.’

  ‘The Lobsters be all busy,’ said Mudge. ‘Fighting the Frogs, they claim, although stopping honest folk bringing the wounded to the sawbones seems to be the greater part of it.’

  ‘That be Lobsters all over, mate,’ chuckled the sailor. ‘Why don’t you come in and tell me what be a going on?’

  ‘How does I do that? I ain’t no cutpurse as can pick a lock.’

  ‘No need,’ said the prisoner. ‘It be only bolted. On your side, of course.’