He pulled his mind back to the present. The flotilla had their gunports open, and as the Principessa came within range they commenced firing. Harry handed over the wheel, and raised his glass to get a good look at their cannon. It was as he thought. They were as lightly armed as the Principessa had been before he’d exchanged the guns. They would have to be very lucky to do him any serious damage with those weapons at this range. What he must avoid at all costs was a close-range fight with more than one of them. Four-pounders, if there were enough of them, could still cripple him, especially if he was caught between two arcs of fire.
‘Stand by to go about,’ he shouted. The wind was coming in over the larboard quarter, and he’d increased speed to aid his manoeuvre. When he gave the order and spun the wheel, the Principessa began her turn. The ropes holding the yards were released, those on the other side taken up, and they hauled like heroes, bracing the yards round to catch the wind now coming at the ship just behind her larboard bow. The Principessa staggered slightly, but with her hold restowed, and steering right, she didn’t miss stays. And once round she took the wind like a champion yacht, and Harry aimed her straight at the small gap between Frome and Chittenden.
Frome held his course. He had to, for they were too far inshore to do otherwise. It would be fatal for him to bear away. Chittenden maintained his too. Harry looked over the stern. Bartholomew had let fly his sheets and was getting ready to tack to come back to aid the Mercury. There wouldn’t be much time. In fact, if Chittenden didn’t do anything, there would be no time at all. It was a game now, to see who would give way. Harry reckoned he had no more than a minute before he would be so committed that he could not get out of the way. That was not a situation he could really risk. The crew, halfway between the guns and the yards they’d just braced, stood with bated breath as the gap closed at an alarming rate.
Harry was about to haul off when he saw movement on the deck of the other ship, as Chittenden’s crew rushed to release the yards and let fly the sheets. He also saw Frome’s men heaving their guns round to take him as he passed. He’d have to ignore that, for he couldn’t fight both sides.
Frome’s guns spoke just as the Mercury bore up with the wind dead astern, his bows swinging towards the rocky coastline. Being hurried, the mizzen sails took the wind out of the mainsails and they flapped uselessly. The ship lost way. Harry yelled for his men to man the guns, ducking down as shots whipped over his head. Frome had fired on the uproll and though he’d holed the main and mizzen courses, he’d done little real damage. The Principessa’s speed was barely checked. His men had the gunports open, and they stood poised. Harry shouted to one crew who were set to try and bring their gun round to bear early, telling them to let him do the aiming, and to fire as they saw the Mercury through their gunports.
Chittenden was in difficulties. He’d worn round in the most lubberly way, with some evidence of panic on his deck. His gunports were closed with everyone busy trying to put right the trouble they’d made for themselves. He was therefore defenceless. Worse than that, he was still swinging round, presenting his stern to the Principessa. Harry shouted to the few remaining men on the sails to let fly his mainsail sheets. They released the braces and the Principessa, down to topsails only, slowed immediately. Those upper sails kept some way on her, but with the extra time gained by slowing the ship, the Mercury had swung right round. Frome was now right astern, his guns useless. Bartholomew was halfway round, and Frome couldn’t turn until they’d passed each other, for fear of running right across Bartholomew’s bows.
And Harry was drifting by his quarry, giving each gun captain plenty of time to pick their moment. The first gun spoke, and a great chunk of the decorated stern rail disappeared. Harry called to Pender to hold the wheel steady, and ran forward to aim the carronades himself, for he’d never get a chance as good as this again. Sporadic musket shots were being returned from the Mercury. The second twelve-pounder was high, but it served to keep heads down as the ball whistled across the deck, smashing into the boats bowsed tight above the waist.
Harry was bent down, the slow match in his hand. He touched the hole. And the carronade fired. The great ball went right through the sternlights, smashing its way through the whole length of the Mercury. Harry was at the next gun just in time to fire that. The Principessa had rolled into a trough caused by the inshore swell, and the ball from the second carronade went into the hull below the windows at a downward angle. The Mercury shuddered, and Harry knew that he’d done real damage. He stood up, calling to the hands on the forward guns to haul on the mainsail braces. The rear guns fired, now on the uproll, with two balls going through the cabin, and the last knocking the crossjack yard right out of its chains.
Harry took the wheel again. Lubeck was yelling through his trumpet as they reversed the angle of the yards to bring the Principessa round so that the wind would favour her. She was handling beautifully, and as soon as she had the breeze on her starboard beam she took off like a hare.
Bartholomew was coming up as best he could, sailing into the wind. Harry couldn’t spare all his men, but he called to the carronade gun crews and invited them to send their regards to the Daedalus. They rushed to their stations, and as the Principessa passed Bartholomew’s ship they took two great chunks out of her bulwarks, which ruined the aim of all but one of Daedalus’s cannon. Harry saw his enemy as they went by, standing on the deck, his long curly hair whipping in the breeze, just like the feathers in his hat. Bartholomew raised a musket, aimed it at him, and fired. But his deck was pitching too; it was more of an insult than a threat.
The Mercury was dead in the water. Everything had worked out much better than Harry could have hoped. Bartholomew had obviously told Frome to keep his heading to provide protection to the two slower ships in the van, Cromer and Bella. Harry went full speed after him. With his sails now set and drawing well, he had the guns reloaded and run out. He was in high spirits, laughing and exhorting his men.
He was headreaching on Frome. But the two other ships had started to tack in unison, so by the time he came up it would be three to one. He brought her head round slightly. Frome would have to wait, but the lead ship, the Cromer, with Pilton at the helm, would have to take station on the outside flank of his consort. For even an inept sailor such as he had come round quicker than the fire-damaged Bella. Harry could see Frome waving his arms, trying frantically to signal Cromer to stay in line. But Pilton either didn’t see or didn’t care to be told what to do. As he caught up with the Bella, he put down his helm to pass by on her larboard side. Harry adjusted his yards, and trimmed his wheel to take Pilton on his starboard side, one to one.
Pilton must have suddenly realised the danger he was in, and tried to bear up. He shoved his helm down and his bowsprit ran straight aboard the Bella, fouling the mainmast shrouds. Frome had to pack his topsails to avoid running into the pair of them, and the little fleet was now in complete disarray. The slower speed of the other ship swung Pilton’s stern further out, and Harry had to perform a quick manoeuvre to get clear of him. Only the carronade crews were at their guns but they went by at such a pace their shooting was wild. One ball struck Pilton just on the waterline, and he had a hole that would ship a lot of water. But it was nowhere near mortal, while the other ball disappeared without trace.
Bartholomew had made another mistake. He came round again to pursue Harry, leaving the Mercury exposed once more. Bartholomew, who could not hope to come up with his lead ships before Harry wore round himself, now presented himself as a lone target while the Principessa returned to re-engage the Mercury.
Harry came round neatly, despite his damaged sails. Bartholomew was in an impossible situation. If he came on he would face Harry’s guns and probably sacrifice the Mercury to boot. Chittenden’s ship was too light to withstand the weight of shot, and alone presented an easy target, given the confusion on her decks. If the Daedalus wore round again to protect her, his lead ships, two of them fouling each other’s rigging, would face the
same fate. He chose to come on, for that meant saving four ships instead of endangering one.
Harry had his starboard guns loaded and run out, with the twelve-pounders loaded with grape. He gave Bartholomew a thorough drubbing as he went by. The carronades, heaved round to aim forward, fired first, opening up the side of the ship. The twelve-pounders’ crews did their best to pour their grape through the gaps provided. Harry was gratified to see that Bartholomew had flung himself to the deck. There was no insulting gesture with a musket this time.
Chittenden knew what was coming. He could see the effect of the grapeshot on Bartholomew’s ship, and he’d already had a taste of the carronades. But he had to hang on, for Bartholomew had changed his course and tacked again in pursuit of the Principessa. Harry cursed the man, who’d done the right thing for once. Had he kept his heading Harry could have boarded and taken the Mercury. He stood, desperately trying to calculate the time he would have alongside Chittenden before Bartholomew came up to engage him on the other side.
It all hinged on whether he abandoned his original plan, and went for complete success now. At all costs he mustn’t endanger his own ship, and he knew that, even if his opponents were lightly armed, he’d been lucky. The Principessa had suffered no real damage, and he hadn’t lost a single man. With what he’d achieved, these men would now follow him to the ends of the earth. They were so fired up he knew they could take the Mercury. Yet if he risked it all on one throw, he might find himself outnumbered, with Bartholomew boarding on one side of him, and his men fighting the Mercury on the other. The combined crews would at least keep him occupied till Frome came up. He alone had shown himself to have the ability to stick to a prepared plan, and Harry didn’t doubt that, as part of that plan, he’d have to fight the Ariel as well.
Discretion being the better part of valour was an expression Harry hated, since it flew in the face of his nature. But this was the time to exercise it. He left his sails set, called for the twelve-pounders to be fired off and reloaded with bar shot, and as he went by the Mercury he gave her the same kind of rolling broadside that they’d given the Dido, and with much the same result. The rigging was torn to shreds, and the carronades smashed into the hull, going clean through above the waterline.
Harry sailed on until he was out of range, then hove to, giving rapid orders for the men to be given drinks and food. Bartholomew had come alongside the Mercury, and was yelling at Chittenden to get some way on his ship. Harry watched through his glass as Chittenden waved his fist at Bartholomew, obviously angry. No doubt his commodore had told him he was a fool. Yet it had been Bartholomew himself who’d made all the errors. If he’d even made a feint at attacking Harry this morning as he came out of port, he would have sown some doubt about his intentions.
Bartholomew was now hove-to himself. Harry, handing his cup back to the ever attentive Pender, called to his men to get a move on, and was pleased to see them abandon the remains of their food to continue the fight. Fairbairn, with the physical appearance of a corpse, had come on deck, and was looking listlessly in the direction of the small dispersed fleet.
‘Was he asleep?’ he asked Pender, for he’d quite forgotten about the man.
‘No, Captain. As soon as I said we was going into battle, he asked me to show him where the ship’s surgeon should be.’
Harry called to him. ‘Come, Mr Fairbairn, and observe that we have done well today. All of us.’
Harry bore down again. He didn’t want to leave them any time to regroup, though he had little hope of achieving anything, with all five ships now bunched together. Lightly armed they might be, but they presented a formidable arc of fire if he was fool enough to sail into it. He elevated his twelve-pounders and with their greater range indulged in a little target practice. It was enough to interrupt the frantic work being carried out above deck to repair the rigging, but the men below carried on, repairing the shot holes in the hulls of the damaged ships.
It wouldn’t stop them. Nor did Harry really want to. But if he sat and did nothing he would die of frustration, and having handed the wheel to Lubeck, he took to aiming the guns himself, concentrating on the Daedalus. Not that he wanted to hit Bartholomew. Killing him was something he needed to do at close quarters. Eventually they got the mizzen yard back up and new sails, blocks, pulleys, and ropes in place. Harry could see that they were about to make sail, and with the sun dipping on the horizon, he watched them drop their courses and head out to sea, away from the land which had provided them with such poor security.
There was no line ahead now, more a sort of star formation which afforded some mutual protection, with Bartholomew in the middle so that he could personally coordinate the actions of all the ships. If anything they were slower than they had been this morning, making no attempt to leave Harry behind. Were they trying to lure him on, hoping to ensnare him in a trap? He brought the Principessa in closer as night fell, though the moon, now full, made it seem like blue-coloured day.
Harry sent the hands for a hot meal, and then with half a watch on deck he had the men sling their hammocks and get some sleep. He realised that, successful as the day had been, he’d failed in his primary task. He still didn’t know where they were headed, and by tomorrow night there might be no moon by which to observe them. If it was at all cloudy Bartholomew would have a chance to slip away. While Harry had a shrewd idea he was making for the Straits of Messina and points east of the toe of Italy, he couldn’t be positive. Tonight, or to be more precise, in the small hours of the morning, before daybreak, he must go in and cut out one of those ships.
Attacking at night was tricky at any time. With this star formation Bartholomew had placed all his ships within easy reach of each other, and there being no attempt at speed, the minimum amount of manoeuvre could bring Harry into battle with three ships in minutes. He pondered what to do. Ideas of dropping off the cutter, full of men, as he sailed by, so as to take one of his enemies by boarding while he engaged, wouldn’t be possible. He simply didn’t have the resources. Whatever way he sought to tackle them would mean he would be facing three ships. Then he had an idea. It wasn’t much of one; but he had a good notion of what they expected him to do, so doing the opposite seemed an appropriate choice.
They’d kept a sharp lookout, for as soon as Harry increased sail he heard the cries that brought the crews tumbling up onto the decks of all five ships. He kept his bowsprit pointed towards them, and saw in the moonlight that the two rear ships, Cromer and Bella, had swung round to present themselves broadside on. Bartholomew backed his topsails and the Daedalus dropped back into the gap between them, while Ariel took up station on the larboard flank, and Mercury did the same on the starboard. Again a defensive manoeuvre, underlining once again the point that they needed their ships more than they needed the defeat of this single attacker.
What Harry should have done was either shear off out of danger, or if he was desperate to indulge in a fight swing round to make his way down the line, taking on each enemy in turn. But that would expose him to grave danger, for the flanking ships could then come round and trap him. What Harry actually did was to keep his bows pointed firmly in the direction of Daedalus. He’d loaded his guns on both sides before he’d increased sail, opened his gunports, and heaved his guns round to aim forward. Harry intended to go through the line, having fired his guns only to spoil his enemies’ aim. Once through, he would again eschew the obvious, for they would expect him to come round to assault them on their unguarded side. He intended to confound them by going after the Mercury again. After that, it would be down to the sailing qualities of the other ships. If he was left alone long enough he would board her. If not, tomorrow was another day.
Bartholomew must have thought that Harry was after him again, for the Principessa’s bowsprit was aimed directly at his quarterdeck. He increased sail, which opened up a slight gap between him and Cromer astern. Harry put his helm down, fired off a broadside at Daedalus, and headed straight for Pilton in the Cromer. Pilton did the
opposite of Bartholomew, reducing speed and increasing the gap considerably. Harry spun the wheel again and headed straight for it. His starboard guns now raked Pilton’s ship. True to his salt, the Cromer’s captain put his helm down to turn away.
It was a pity to sail by Bartholomew without giving him a hammering. Especially since Harry was right athwart his hawse. Once through the line they would have the weather gauge, something he’d enjoyed most of the previous day. But he could outrun them all so he was not really concerned. Pilton, having sheered away, kept coming round, his larboard guns firing erratically and ineffectually at the Principessa. Harry held his fire, even though his guns were reloaded, and sped past him, put his helm hard down, and headed straight for the Mercury.
Chittenden, who’d suffered a great deal earlier in the day, was not in the mood to try a contest. He’d taken a real pounding in the afternoon, and watched while his fellows did nothing to help him. He turned the Mercury to get the wind on her quarter and make a getaway. Harry literally whooped with joy. He could not have hoped for more. And behind him Pilton was causing chaos, for he’d cut across Harry’s stern, making it impossible for the others to come round in pursuit.
Still aimed forward, Harry’s guns opened fire much sooner than Chittenden expected. He sheared away from the fire, for the carronades had hit his hull again. The gap between Mercury and his consorts was increasing by the minute. Harry was coming alongside, his guns firing in a regular rolling broadside that seemed almost leisurely. And he was inflicting damage, which was more than could be said for Chittenden’s reply. His guns were going off individually, aimed wildly, doing no harm at all.
Harry touched the helm to shorten the range. Chittenden tried to edge away, but in so doing cut his speed. He was forced back onto his original course. Bartholomew was still trying to get round Cromer, and the only ships that had even a hope of coming to Chittenden’s aid were the fire-damaged Bella and Frome in the Ariel. But Frome was the most distant, and though he was round, he showed no sign of coming on, no doubt obeying Bartholomew’s rigid orders to keep his station.
Dying Trade Page 31