Ahead lay glistening black boulders, their looming shapes rendered fantastical by the silver light that glistened on their wet surfaces. The cutter was being tossed about like a cork, and it was bound to capsize, if it did not break up on the submerged rocks that were crashing into the keel. Strakes of planking were already stove in and the bottom was filling with water, which was at least acting to give those still in the boat a modicum of stability. Whatever order should have existed was absent, and to Pearce it was clear that while Burns might have been pre-emptive in his panic-stricken leap, it was the only safe option now. He must jump now or wait until the rocks ahead smashed the boat to matchwood; hard unyielding stone that would sunder human flesh to a bloody pulp.
Pearce got hold of Michael O’Hagan’s shirt collar and hauled his ear close. ‘We’re going over, Michael. Do not, whatever you do cling to me. I will hold you.’
‘Jesus.’
‘I swear on your Jesus, if you clutch on to me you will take us both to perdition.’
Pearce had to pull him over, because Michael could not bring himself to jump, in his mind hanging on to that last hope of life that existed with something solid beneath his feet. They did not get as clear of the side of the boat as Pearce wished, and it swung on a surge of seawater, crashing into them both so that they went under. Pearce felt what he dreaded, Michael’s hands scrabbling for a grip on his clothing. The combined weight of himself and the Irishman took them deeper. Punching in water was useless, so Pearce did the only thing that he thought might make Michael let go – he bit him as hard as he could, with no idea of where he had sunk his teeth. He thought it was into his friend’s head.
He managed to get one hand clear, and with some effort Pearce tore at the other to get Michael to release him just as they surfaced. Turning on to his back and dragging the floating Irishman on to his belly, he stopped him from regaining his fatal grip. There was no way of knowing what was behind him, but despite the rocks he knew that floating was the only option, the waves would carry them in. There were rocks for certain, but he hoped for a gap or a boulder of a shape that would not maim them, break some bone or smash a skull, for that meant certain death. Each time he tried to turn and look, he faced two problems – Michael started to panic, and the furious surf and spume blocked any clear view of what lay ahead.
Something solid touched Pearce’s foot, a rock he thought, and he pushed his boot down on it, wondering as he did so why he had lacked the sense to kick them off before jumping into the water. A wave rolled over his head, filling his mouth, thumping his back into a higher part of that which was under his foot. The pain brought back fierce concentration as he tried to get some purchase. With one foot pressed down, the next surging wave spun his body sideways, Michael still on his chest, then threw him into something so hard and unforgiving that he felt himself winded. The grip he had on the Irishman was lost, and it took a fumbling, groping hand to get hold of his clothing. Pearce was face down in the water now, one hand thrusting and hauling like mad as he tried to drag his friend, with what little purchase he could get with his feet, to a point where he hoped they could both get their heads above water long enough to breathe.
With lungs near to bursting, Pearce’s head came clear enough for him to gulp in a huge mouthful of air mixed with seawater. His whole body was now lying on what seemed like a flat but angled piece of rock. An outstretched hand found a small crevice, which allowed him to grip and haul. He got his head clear for another gulp of air, burying the knowledge that filled his mind: he could almost certainly get himself to safety if he let go of Michael O’Hagan. But just as the Irishman had aided him without question, Pearce could not put his own salvation first.
Pearce struggled an inch at a time up the slippery rock, until he could get O’Hagan’s head up out of the water. He tried shouting when he managed that, half the time spitting out seawater, trying to tell the Irishman that if he turned over and stretched out his hand he could save himself, but Michael had surrendered to Pearce and stayed like a dead weight on the end of his arm.
Was it seconds, or minutes before he felt them safe? Pearce had no idea, but he did know that the boat must have struck by now, which would mean men in the water who could not swim, men he had shared the main-deck with, men who had guyed him, but this very day had shown him sympathy too, men who could not be left to their fate while he had breath to save them. Michael O’Hagan was clear of the water now, too high up the rock to be dragged in by the undertow of a wave. As Pearce got on to his hands and knees, a high-pitched scream made him look back into the water, just in time to see the bobbing head of young Martin Dent. Kicking off his boots he made his way unsteadily down the slippery rock, then knelt and held out his hand.
There was a moment, as a crest brought Martin towards him, when he thought to withdraw it, to let the murdering little bastard who had so tormented him drown, but he could not. Their hands met, Pearce gripped and pulled, then, standing upright with the water breaking round his knees, he lifted Martin up by his shirt front, looking into the boy’s terrified eyes with deep loathing. Then he threw him up the rock, with the fond wish that as he landed he might break something.
He peered out again, sure he could see waving arms, and he slipped back into the water. If the moon had gone again he would not have saved Dysart, who had stayed on the boat when everyone else had jumped, hanging on to a ragged, splintered gunwale as it smashed into the higher boulders. A bigger wave hit the side and tipped it over, throwing Dysart, arms flailing, screaming in terror, into the water. Going to get him nearly did for Pearce as the cutter bounced back out again, a metal rowlock sliding along his cheek as what was left of it was upended. Whether it hit Dysart he didn’t know – the Scotsman came up to the surface on his own lungful of air just long enough for Pearce to grab him. But he didn’t struggle, which made Pearce wonder if he was still alive. It didn’t matter for there was no way to find out in the water, and, sure now of where he was headed, Pearce struck out for the rock where he had left O’Hagan.
It was less of struggle to get the little Scotsman up to safety, and having hauled Dysart out, Pearce went to look for more survivors. He did not plunge back in, for he could see nothing else – no hand, head or body in the water. Instead he stood, ear cocked for a cry of distress, aware that the breeze, which on dry land was the clement wind they had experienced in easier water, was slowly freezing him to the marrow. But the greater distress was internal, as he looked into the small gap through which the boat had careered. There was nothing floating there at all now, not wood, nor any member of the ship’s crew.
The loud boom of an explosion made him look right up the estuary, and he saw the last trace of orange light as the flare of a fired cannon faded. Another boom followed, that and the faint crack of musketry. The darkness was lit again and again in the next few minutes as the attack he was supposed to be part of went in with only half the intended force. Shivering, Pearce conjured up an image of what might be happening, but, try as he might, he could not wish death upon anyone, even Barclay or Roscoe, because loss of life was an uncertain thing, and it was as likely to take those he liked or esteemed as anyone he hated. The only certainty was that he could do nothing to effect matters. Aid was needed here for those who had survived the wreck. How many were there? Did they have wounds that required attention? How could he create some heat, a fire that would keep men from dying of cold without sending out a signal to the locals that there was a distressed party of British sailors on their shore? Many questions filled his brain, but he found no answers.
If he felt any despair that was relieved by the voice of Michael O’Hagan, moaning, ‘The bastard bit me, I swear to Jesus right to the fecking cheekbone, he bit me.’
‘Bend to your oars, softly now,’ hissed Ralph Barclay, ‘and no sound.’
The first gun had just fired from the bastion, a defence he had slipped by in complete silence, to get to the point upriver from where he could mount the real assault. The tension of waiting had
been unbearable, but not as bad as that which he had suffered up to this point. He had had time in which to reappraise yet again all the things that had gone wrong in the last two days. At one point he had concluded that death here in this obscure French inlet might be preferable to facing the wrath of his superiors or the disdain of a wife who could not understand that he was not a cruel man but a King’s officer with a job to do and scant resources to succeed.
The masts of the two ships, sitting in deep water, were silhouetted against the sky, those of the Lady Harrington at the rear standing higher than those of the lantern-lit privateer. He was tempted to go for money instead of glory – one ship instead of both. Ralph Barclay suppressed the thought now, as he had before, and took a tighter grip on the tiller as if to stiffen his resolve. He was surprised that, although there seemed plenty of activity on shore, waving lanterns and the like, there was no sign of any reaction aboard the two vessels. Could it be that the entire crew of the privateer was ashore?
The cutter drifted in silently, slipping into the pool of light cast by the lanterns that hung either end of the empty deck, a moment when no one breathed. Surely they would have at least an anchor watch on deck who would spot their approach? Nothing happened, and Ralph Barclay was left to conclude that he had been over-anxious. The Frenchmen was so cock a’ hoop with their capture, and so convinced that Brilliant was a dog of a ship and its captain a nincompoop, that no notion of a raid had entered their minds.
Cornelius Gherson was becoming calmer by the second, thanking Molly for the advice he had given. Getting into this boat had been easy in the dark, and no one aboard questioned the presence of an extra fighter. The booming and crackling sounds from the shore were reassuring too; let the others of his mess face shot and shell, he would sail out on the enemy ship, claim a simple mistake in choosing the wrong boat and be able to look them in the eye with conviction. Had he been upright and walking he would have done so with a swagger.
Richard Farmiloe stood in the prow, pistols tucked in his belt, cutlass raised and feeling very exposed. The attacking party anticipated boarding nets, and being tall, it was his job to slash at them and create a gap while the rest of the men in the boat came forward to board. Behind him stood a sailor with a grappling iron that would provide a means to clamber up to the higher deck, and could be used to lash them to the enemy ship.
He would be the first man into action and that had made Farmiloe swallow hard when, still aboard the frigate, he had imagined what it might be like. Now that he was here and it was about to happen the youngster was easier in his mind, though aware that his mouth was exceedingly dry and his heart was pounding in his chest, either through fear, excitement or a combination of both. He had fully expected, in an approach that was going to take a minute or more, to see some men brought on deck by the noise created by Roscoe’s attack, but it was still empty. Surely the privateersmen could not have left their ship entirely unguarded. And if it was guarded, why was there no curiosity? He was aware of the muffled oars, which did not sound quiet to him, but noisy enough to act like a signal. Gripped with a sudden renewed bout of fear, he wanted to turn and yell at the oarsmen to be bloody quiet, until he realised, as another cannon boomed out from downriver, that he was being foolish.
‘Back your oars,’ murmured Ralph Barclay, and what little way was eased as the rowers steadied them in the water, while those set to board half-raised themselves in preparation. The command to boat oars was unnecessary, the men could see they were close to the privateer’s side. He saw Farmiloe reach out a hand to slow the prow into the privateer’s hull, could almost feel the pressure on the boy’s thighs as he strained to hold a heavy boat and thirty men to a pace that would make it touch the ship’s side in silence.
No boarding nets, thought Richard Farmiloe as the cork fender on the prow touched, and the man behind him swung the grappling iron out and up to crunch noisily on to the French bulwark. Ralph Barclay was thinking that this was going to be easy – that all his concerns would evaporate as they sailed this ship out to join Brilliant. God, the crew might even cheer him, admirals would court him and surely Emily would come to see that the end justified the means, that the discipline he had imposed directly affected the way every member of his ship’s company had behaved in action.
That ease was blown away with the head of the marine officer in front of him, as a heavy musket ball, fired at point blank range, entered one side of the fellow’s skull and removed the other, the impact sending Lieutenant Holbrook’s body over the side. Lost in his reverie Ralph Barclay had neither heard nor seen the nearest gun ports swing open, but he could see now the orange tongues of flame as they were discharged into men who were, quite literally, sitting ducks.
‘Marines,’ he yelled, ‘return fire. Mr Farmiloe, get on that deck at the double.’
Please God, Ralph Barclay thought, let the French not have pre-loaded their muskets. If they had laid-by muskets ready to fire, and therefore did not need to reload the ones they had just discharged, most of the men in this boat, including himself, would die. Gherson had dived for the bottom of the boat, screaming out in fear, left by those too occupied to notice or care. Richard Farmiloe was halfway up the side, suspended on a rope when the first defender appeared on deck, and in no position to react to the man’s presence. His cutlass was hanging on the lanyard that secured it to his wrist and he could not use his pistols without surrendering his grip. Ralph Barclay took very careful aim, ignoring the other shots that were flying around and cracking in his ears, and as the man raised a tomahawk to slice down on Farmiloe’s head, he put a ball in him that sent him flying backwards into a crowd of men behind him.
His own voice seemed strangely different as he heard himself shout, ‘Hale, get us out of here, Mr Farmiloe, let go.’
There was no point in even trying to proceed – the men on the deck outnumbered his and they had such an advantage that, had he had ten times the number, prudence would have dictated withdrawal. The boy dropped untidily back into the launch as his Captain’s next order was calmly given, an instruction to the marines to ‘maintain fire, steady now’. Hale’s voice mixed with Barclay’s as the coxswain ordered the boat crew to ‘haul off with all speed.’
It was less tidy than Ralph Barclay would have wished. The marines were having difficulty reloading in the confines of the boat and the oars did not hit the water with the required precision, but Farmiloe had got to his feet and made the initial push that got the boat underway, while all those who had been waiting to board threw whatever they had come with, axes, pikes, cutlasses and clubs, at the open gun ports to stop those inside from firing another volley.
Ralph Barclay fired off his own second pistol as they drifted by an open port, just as the tip of a musket poked out, followed by a grinning head. The grin took the musket ball, the mouth, made visible by the flash, going from glistening teeth to a gaping black hole, and the look in the Frenchman’s eyes, which had been eager, going out like a snuffed candle. The next head that came up he tried to crown with the butt, overbalancing in the process and nearly falling overboard as his intended target ducked and grabbed the pistol. Barclay was only saved by one of his marines poking the sod under the arm with a bayonet, which forced him to release the weapon.
All about him men were shouting, screaming with wounds or passion in both English and French. Musket balls, those that did not find flesh, were spattering the water. Ralph Barclay stood up then and offered himself as a target, never quite sure as he was furiously rowed out of the arc of danger whether the fact that he was untouched meant his luck had held or deserted him, for there would be no cheering crew now, nor a suddenly transformed wife. He would go back aboard trounced for the third time in two days, to a silence punctuated only by the cries of the wounded, the groans of amputees, and probably the sound of divine service as shrouded bodies were committed to the deep. But worse he would have to sit down and write a report on the action, one that would condemn him even more than the one he been forced
to compose when the privateer took the Lady Harrington from right under his nose.
The noises around him had fallen to panting, cursing and moaning, with one exception. ‘Who is that screaming like a girl, Mr Farmiloe? If he is wounded, help him, if he is not, in the name of God shut him up.’
Huddled in the bottom of the boat, Cornelius Gherson stuck his fist into his mouth to stop his squealing. But he could not stop the shaking of his body, nor the occasional sob that escaped his fingers. Lemuel Hale managed to kick him hard with the toe of his shoe.
‘Stow it, in the name of Christ, or we’ll tip you overboard.’
The rock they were on was high enough, and wide enough in its girth, to provide a degree of security and Pearce could see, now that he had the chance to look, that they were close to a larger formation, which loomed in silhouette against the night sky, showing what he thought to be treetops. Peering hard, he could just observe a kind of rock causeway leading to that, which though dashed by breaking waves, seemed to be nearly clear of the water.
The call ‘Brilliant’, one that John Pearce never ever thought he would make, brought to life the other survivors. Burns, who had jumped first and thus stayed out of the most disturbed area of water, crawled sheepishly forward, probably fearing a drubbing from Thrale for what could be perceived as an act of cowardice. He was no more daring faced with Pearce, who, nominally his inferior, had to tell the boy to join Martin Dent and Michael O’Hagan round in the lee of the rocks where they were sheltering out of the wind, trying to make a moaning, obviously hurt, Dysart comfortable.
‘Mr Thrale?’ Burns squeaked.
‘No sign of him, but that does not mean he has perished. He may have found safety elsewhere.’
By the Mast Divided Page 35