A Close Run Thing

by David Donachie

  For John Pearce, the second thing to mildly affect his heart rate was the sense of excitement rippling along the deck as well as aloft once they became enthused. The sky was clear, the swell far from heavy, which on its own had done much to dissipate the misery of the last thirty-six hours. It was only later he realised even that had done something for the collective feeling of the ship. It was as if the crew, new and fearful of what this unfamiliar life held for them, had confronted their personal demons and faced them down enough to modify their attitude.

  ‘I have been told to vacate the wardroom, Pearce, so what are we about this time?’

  Oliphant had got on to the quarterdeck without being seen and it was not a place he should be. As a civilian, his only contribution would be the ability to get in the way. About to tell him so, Pearce checked himself, to explain patiently and quietly the situation, thinking he was probably the only other person aboard who could make the same connections, those that had occurred to him when he was aloft.

  ‘A possible smuggler?’

  ‘Possible, yes – far from certain. The course it was on would be appropriate.’

  ‘And if not?’

  ‘Any number of things too numerous to mention, including a perfectly innocent neutral or British merchantman, which has, like us, been blown off course and is seeking to get to where it should have been two days past.’

  ‘You said it flew no pennant.’

  ‘We’re much closer to the French shore than our own. The lack of a flag might be a precaution and there’s no certainty they have seen ours with the wind as it is.’ Oliphant looked aloft then, to see both the ensign and the Admiralty pennant blowing almost straight from stern to bow. ‘We will find out when we close.’

  John Pearce took pleasure from watching new canvas being bent onto the hitherto unused topgallants as well as the busy application of the topmen as they worked on the yards. The wind, the rising and dipping of the prow, which was evident if not excessive, was having no effect on their activities. It was as if they had ceased to notice such things.

  When the ship had settled down, on its course and with nothing left but a sense of anticipation, the lack of activity soon came to bore Oliphant. ‘I don’t suppose I can hide away in your cabin?’

  Pearce had great pleasure in shouting to Hallowell, who went into action immediately. Before answering Oliphant, he took out his fob watch, to open it and verbally mark the minute.

  ‘I think you’ll find my cabin will have ceased to exist almost before you get there. We are about to clear for action.’

  ‘Is that not excessive, and I say that as what you term a “lubber”?’

  Again Pearce spoke quietly; what he said was for this man’s ears only. ‘This sort of activity will serve as a drill and one that looks and feels real.’ Seeing scepticism, he felt the need to add, ‘Besides, I’m not one to take chances. If that is a smuggler, he has cannon and perhaps he will not give himself up lightly.’

  Pearce knew he was talking nonsense, Oliphant did not. It was possible several people aboard wondered what he was about in running out his guns, not least Hallowell and Worricker, but also the bosun and the master, for no contraband ship would dream of taking on the navy.

  He fully expected to see the Red Duster break out well before they got in range of long cannon shot. If the King’s ship came on, and they were running contraband, they would have aboard all the false papers needed to convince the Revenue they were engaged in legitimate business. They would also expect no deep examination to ensue from him, relying on naval vessels having no interest in getting involved.

  Their Lordships at the Admiralty were adamant that it was not the job of their ships and their men to act in that capacity. They defended the coast and attacked the enemy wherever they found them at sea. Let the Revenue Service, set up for the interdiction of smuggling and the failure to pay taxes, do its job and the navy would do theirs.

  Bringing in a smuggler was in no way comparable to taking any kind of enemy vessel, merchant or warship. They would be accounted as prizes, with value in both what they contained and the hull: cargo, men, cannon and stores. Contraband attracted no such reward. The Revenue would say thank you very much, we will take both ship and cargo, to sell for our own purposes. Any shot expended or canvas damaged in the process, not being seen by the navy as properly employed, could well find the man in command out of pocket.

  That they would close was not in doubt; few vessels could outrun a properly handled ship-rigged sloop. But to do so took time and the sense of resolution mixed with anticipation began to drain away from most of the crew, as time seemed to stand still. Pearce would have gone forward with a telescope anyway, but there was no need for the purposeful glare and the determined step with which he progressed, the Mite at his heels. Naturally Hallowell, as premier, took his place.

  Stood in the bows, he trained the glass on the deck of the other vessel. The figures around the wheel were tiny dots and there was still no identifying flag, as there should have been by now. Could it be they were French or Dutch, which would change the whole nature of what he was about?

  He stood for an age, resting himself against the bowsprit gammoning to aid his balance, alternately lifting and dropping the telescope and feeling slightly perplexed; nothing anticipated had occurred. He thought about firing off one of the swivels just for the sound as well as the cloud of smoke it would portray. He was slightly annoyed: it seemed as if this merchant sod was mocking him.

  Under his feet, Jock the Sock had command of the forward cannon, so he leant over the bulwarks and he called out to him, ‘Mr Maclehose. I have a hope your number one 6-pounder is ready to be trained well forrard.’

  ‘Sir?’ A head poked out of the gunport, the cannon was still inboard. ‘It is, sir.’

  ‘Then, when it is run out, give it maximum elevation and be ready to fire as soon as it bears on the chase. Mr Livingston, back to the quarterdeck and ask Mr Hallowell to let the head fall off a fraction, so I can send our friend yonder a message.’

  The Mite scampered off as Pearce raised his glass once more, to look at those figures surrounding the wheel, bigger now but still indistinct, feeling the change in motion and aware of the shifting bowsprit. He could picture Maclehose below – or would it be his designated gun captain? – peering along the cannon and through the gunport for sight of a hull not seen since they had cleared. It would come into view slowly and, had it been him, he would have waited till he could aim amidships.

  Jock the Sock let fly a bit early. The ball was visible as it arced through the air to plunge into the blue-green of the sea and send up a great plume of white water. The effect was immediate; the expected Red Duster broke out at the masthead and now Pearce, as Hazard came back onto its original course, had to decide how to proceed.

  Under normal circumstances he would have got close enough to hail the captain and ask his business, cargo and destination. But he was aware, by his previous actions, he had raised expectations of something unusual, while they had carried out that drill several times this very day. Something different would be more interesting, which precluded sending Hallowell off in a boat again.

  Giving the duty to Worricker was similar, though it would be useful to see how he handled the task, so he decided that would have to suffice. Pearce went for a last look at the bugger who had messed him about, thinking it would serve him right if he was forced to heave to and have a naval officer, backed by a party of marines, to deal with.

  ‘Give the sod a fright,’ he said to himself.

  ‘Sir?’ asked the Mite.

  ‘Nothing, Livingston,’ he replied and, to cover a touch of embarrassment, he raised the telescope for a last look only to freeze. Now he could just make out the faces of those around the wheel, Pearce doubted what his eyes were telling him. The telescope stayed fixed as the distance continued to close, until he could be sure that what he had supposed to begin with, and actually dismissed as absurd, was fact.

  ‘Mr Maclehose
. Drop your elevation and on the next yaw, put ball as close to the hull of that sod as you can.’

  The Mite was sent back with his instructions to the premier for a repeat manoeuvre and Jock the Sock executed his orders to perfection. The ball struck a flat trajectory to bounce forward twice, before sinking into the sea fifty yards off the scantlings, which brought about an immediate backing of its topsails. Pearce headed back to the quarterdeck, calling for the cutter, now being towed off the stern, to be brought forward.

  ‘Someone fetch my sword and pistols. Mr Moberly, I want a party of half a dozen marines.’

  ‘Am I permitted to enquire what you have seen, sir?’ asked Hallowell.

  He got an answer because the proposed reaction was exceptional. Whether he made sense of it was another matter. ‘I have seen the Devil, or to be more precise, Satan and his dark angel.’

  ‘What in the name of creation are you on about, Pearce?’ Oliphant demanded.

  ‘Get off the deck,’ was the angry response. ‘You have no business here.’

  ‘He’s right, sir,’ Hallowell added in a more emollient tone. ‘I’ll have someone direct you to the orlop.’

  The bustle that followed included Michael O’Hagan who, as he had done so many times in the past, fetched Pearce’s weapons. The marines were called from their station manning two of the cannon to hurriedly get into their Lobster uniforms, pick up their muskets and make for the gangway. Pearce was halfway down the man ropes before the cutter was in position to receive him, the Mite at his back.

  ‘What is going on, Mr Hallowell?’ Oliphant enquired.

  The Yankee drawl was very evident in the mystified reply: the premier had no idea. He did know his duty was to back the sails and let Hazard glide to a halt, lest they run down their own men. Mr Campbell appeared to lead Oliphant to what was a place of safety in battle even if they were not in anything of the sort.

  The marines manned the boat as soon as the dozen oarsmen were in place and it pushed off, with Pearce in the thwarts, wearing a face like thunder. Visible from the deck, once the cutter cleared the bows, but not from a boat low in the water, was the sudden burst of furious activity on the merchantman. Hallowell had a telescope on the tall and burly figure still at the wheel, and had the impression his telescope was aimed at the cutter.

  The first cannon fired before Pearce was a third of the way. It sent up a burst of spray so close some of it fell on the cutter, in fact too close for comfort. Added to that, musket balls began to pepper the sea, luckily no threat, given the range was too great.

  An alarmed Pearce realised he had made the same mistake as that buffoon banging on the door in Gravelines. He had allowed his temper to dictate his actions, charging like a bull where subterfuge would have served better and, in doing so, he had brought into real risk of death or injury his oarsmen and marines.

  As he called for the cutter to be swung round, he wondered what Hallowell would do. How would he react? At least Moberly’s men knew what was required. They began to load their muskets, difficult to carry out sat down and with no room, but a proper response to a threat. Pearce hardly had to call for effort to get back to the ship; the men were hauling like madmen, halfway off their perch on the pull.

  Having backed the sails, the run of the sea had swung Hazard round several degrees. It mattered not who had the wit to respond, but two of the amidships cannon spoke. The aim was well wide of the target, it being for show and taking care not to endanger him and his men.

  ‘The other ship has reset its sails, sir.’

  ‘Get down, Mr Livingston, at once,’ he shouted to the mid, who had stood up in the middle of the boat. The Mite looked at him slightly confused as a hand took away his legs. He tumbled backwards, a scream of pain following, this as a pair of cannonballs hit the water, bracketing the cutter.

  Those two main deck cannon spoke again, this time firing high, soon to be followed by the whole of the larboard battery, which left the sloop wreathed in smoke. The balls went over the Hazard and into the sea, watched by a captain twisted round to see the fall. It had been designed to be short and would have been, even if the chase had not been opening up the gap.

  Hallowell chose to wait until the cutter was hooked on before he gave the order to man the sheets and get the sails drawing again. Pearce came back through the gangway, no pipes this time, to find his subordinate looking at him in a state of total confusion, for this should not be happening.

  ‘Orders to Mr Worricker, Livingston. We are going to close with that bastard and take out his rigging. Chain shot from now on and I want no waste.’

  ‘Sir?’ his premier said, obviously in search of an explanation. He was not alone. Williams and Moberly were staring at him for the same reason.

  ‘Pay no heed to that Red Duster, Mr Hallowell, it is false. Besides, the swine has forfeited any protection it might have afforded him. He has fired on a King’s officer.’

  ‘But why would he do that, sir?’

  Pearce could scarcely tell him it was his presence that had caused the cutter to be fired upon, so he gave the only reply he could. ‘He is a smuggler.’

  ‘Are you sure, sir? I know it has been speculated that might be the case, but how can you be certain?’

  ‘Who else would fire their cannon?’

  ‘By custom he has nothing to fear from us, sir, we are not the Revenue.’

  He was tempted to tell Hallowell to shut up and mind his own business, the trouble being, it was his business. For all the power a captain had, he had to act in a way that made sense to his inferior officers and that was not happening right now.

  Now HMS Hazard was under way, the timbers creaking as the sails filled with wind, Pearce was mentally composing what to say in his logs, an explanation of why he had taken to the cutter. He could hardly admit the reason was personal, that the faces he had described as Satan and his Dark Angel belonged to men who had tried to murder him.

  Besides that, the names of Jahleel and Franklin Tolland would mean nothing.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  If there was doubt about the motivation of John Pearce, there was none about the outcome and the Tolland brothers knew it. They had come round on a south-westerly course, which, given time, would have beached them north of Calais, only that time was not going to be gifted them. Even if his anger had not abated, it had receded enough to allow consideration of what he was about, as well as what would happen once he had the swine under his guns.

  ‘Mr Williams, put me inshore of the chase. I wish to deny them an escape. Mr Hallowell, we will hold our fire until we are close; the orders I will issue personally.’

  Pearce was acutely aware he could not talk or explain his actions to his inferiors: the Pelicans required none, for they knew the story only too well. He sent Livingston to request Oliphant to come on deck. When he arrived, the chase was pointed out to him. Given he had been below during the firing of cannon, he was also treated to a brief outline of what had happened and, having given an order to keep him informed, Pearce took him into the now clear area which had been his cabin.

  ‘I need your opinion.’

  ‘How refreshing.’

  ‘This is no time to exercise your wit.’

  ‘I was unaware I was seeking to be humorous.’ Seeing Pearce suck in air to let fly at him, Oliphant quickly added, ‘Opinion on what?’

  Having decided to use him as a sounding board, Pearce was now wondering how much he should say. For instance, what had been curiosity, in closing with a ship behaving oddly, had now become personal. The Tolland brothers had tried to kill him on more than one occasion, suffering under the erroneous belief that he had, sometime past, stolen their ship and cargo. On the last attempt he had outmanoeuvred them, to the point of handing them over to the Impressment Service, only to subsequently discover they had somehow bought their way out, obviously to go back to their old game.

  It was a complicated tale and one that did not reflect too well on his judgement. Was the telling of it likel
y to affect Oliphant’s point of view? He was now looking inquisitively and waiting for an answer to his question.

  ‘I told you I had been in Gravelines before. There are men aboard that ship whom I know from that time. They are people who think of me less than fondly.’

  Oliphant could not resist it. ‘Such folk are, I have found, numbered in legions, so what is so special about the here and now?’

  Pearce ignored the barb and answered in a soft tone, ‘The vessel they are on.’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  Oliphant was treated to a quick explanation of the naval attitude to smuggling and smugglers, before Pearce admitted the reason they had fired on the cutter was the sight of him in the thwarts.

  ‘You?’ he replied, clearly astonished. ‘But if what you say is true, regardless of the naval attitude to the Revenue, then what they have done is madness.’

  ‘They have good reason to fear I will hang them, for the very simple fact they have tried to kill me twice and would attempt to do so again, if they were afforded the chance. I, in my foolishness, admittedly unintentionally, offered them just that opportunity.’

  ‘They cannot, I assume, get away. We will overhaul them?’

  ‘I would reckon within the next hour.’

  ‘So, will you hang them?’ was posed with a concerned frown.

  ‘That is part of my asking you for an opinion, but it is more than what I do with them. It is to do with the ship and its cargo.’ Seeing the misgivings still on Oliphant’s face, Pearce added with a sardonic smile, ‘I won’t hang them. I can’t.’