Pearce never got a reply, for the curtain was thrown back and Colbourne’s steward appeared. ‘Mr Short’s compliments, sir, but the lookout has espied a ship to the southeast, and he begs to give the opinion it ain’t no merchant vessel.’
Given the lack of space, Pearce had to go out of the ‘cabin’ before him, but stood aside to let Colbourne pass on the way up to the deck. The lieutenant immediately took a telescope from the rack and following Short’s finger trained it on what had been seen, not difficult as ploughing into the wind on the southerly side of their box the yards were braced right round. Pearce stood, with the southwest wind on his face, just observing.
‘All hands,’ he said, as soon as he had focused, his voice strained. ‘Stand by to come about.’
‘Might I ask…’
Short never got a chance to finish his question, as Colbourne barked at him, ‘It is an enemy seventy-four, Mr Short, and he has the weather gage, so if you do not desire to spend the rest of your days in a French prison, I should get on with obeying my orders.’
‘Sail has altered course, sir,’ the lookout called down.
‘Mr Short, I want that man in chains,’ Colbourne hissed. ‘Those sails should have been spotted an age ago. Get a better pair of eyes aloft this minute.’
The little midshipman’s old lined face looked aggrieved, as if Colbourne was chastising him and not the man at the masthead. ‘I did my best, sir.’
That was when Colbourne blew, his voice was heard all over the ship. ‘Then your best, sir, is not good enough and I doubt you know this, but we stand little chance in this vessel of outrunning a ship of the line.’ Then the voice softened, as though he was talking to himself. ‘Let us hope she is a dog, or a bottom covered in weed.’
The orders were issued and the ship came up into the wind with little grace, HMS Griffin behaving as she always did, and Colbourne put her right before the wind, jagging to starboard and larboard slightly to get the best out of her and setting as much aloft as she would bear. Pearce was fascinated by the air of the man, an aura of total competence as he stood rooted to the spot doing nothing but issue one order after another. Now he was training his telescope over the stern, fixed on those high sails, which he knew had altered course on spying the sails of the smaller vessel, first to close, now to pursue.
‘Mr Pearce, get the hatches off on the lower deck and men standing by with axes to start the water. Then we will need a party on the pumps, with a relief standing by.’
That party should have included the Pelicans, but Charlie Taverner looked at John Pearce in a jaundiced way that implied he was likely to be unfair, even if that was not the case. They were lubbers, and it made no sense to put a trained seaman to a job that required no brains or ability and some brawn. Thinking himself too soft, he gave his mates the axes, and he detailed Littlejohn to lead them, that as Colbourne issued another order.
‘Set up the fire engine as well, and get the hose down to the bilges. It will speed things up. And Mr Pearce, remind anyone slacking of what fate awaits them.’
He wanted to ask questions, not one but several, but it was clear to Pearce that Colbourne would be in no mood to answer. How had he identified the other ship so swiftly, for he could only have seen her sails? If they could overhaul Griffin how long did they have? From his reading he had a good idea that they were being swept along by a helpful current, but a picture of the map in his head told him that and the course they were on was taking them in the direction of Guernsey, the outermost of the Channel Islands, which Bailey’s book on sailing in these waters had said was a place of powerful tides requiring extreme caution and good seamanship.
After a long flurry of activity, everything went quiet. The ship was set on its course, all that Colbourne required to be done was in place, the crew now free to look themselves over the stern at the enemy seventy-four, though all they could see was the odd tip of a brownish sail topping the horizon and the slight flash of a pennant. Looking at Colbourne, still with his eye to the telescope most of the time, Pearce wondered at his thoughts, even more so when he dropped the glass from his eye, to reveal a face full of perplexed calculation.
‘Mr Pearce, start the water, and get the pumps and fire engine going. Mr Short, I want a crane rigged over the hatches to get out our stores. I’m going below to study the charts.’
‘Bugger’s gaining on us,’ said Latimer. ‘That’s fer certain.’
Pearce heard these words as he followed Colbourne down the companionway ladder, a group of men behind him with axes in their hands, two others with the fire engine hose, the rest left behind to man the pumps which had been rigged on each side of the deck. The next drop was down into the forward hold, damp, smelly and dark. He was not sure he heard scurrying, it might have been his imagination, but he knew there were rats down here.
‘Lanterns,’ he ordered, ‘and get that deck hatch lifted to give us some air.’
‘What’s Coal Barge looking at the charts for?’ asked Rufus.
‘If I knew the answer to that I’d be in charge, not Colbourne.’
‘He’ll be looking for a landfall, mate,’ said Littlejohn, ‘someplace to run the ship ashore and burn her.’
‘Christ!’ exclaimed Charlie.
‘Anything to avoid being taken.’
‘What do we do then?’
‘Those that’s allowed into the boats can make for home once the coast is clear.’
‘And who might they be?
‘Prime hands like me, mate.’
‘And the rest?’
Littlejohn clearly enjoyed his next answer, he was almost laughing. ‘Lubbers like you, Charlie, walk to the nearest town and hand themselves in.’
‘Still want to get to France, John boy?’ asked Michael.
Pearce suspected he was grinning too, but could not see him in the dark, though he reasoned that if what Littlejohn was saying was true, then he would at least be in a position to help those who would be left behind. It was not a prospect that excited him, just a duty that he knew he would have to perform.
Light first came with the removal of the deck hatch cover, faint, grey and insufficient. The lanterns followed and Pearce surveyed the stacked barrels resting one on top of the other, and thanked the lord they were on an even swell for such things were dangerous in anything else when there was flesh and bone about.
‘What’s the best way to do this?’ he asked.
Again it was Littlejohn who responded. ‘Stove in the tops of them you can get at, then once they’s emptied they’re easy to shift.’
‘We’ll run out of room in no time. Charlie, get aloft and ask the carpenter’s mates to come below and knock off the hoops. We can throw the staves up through the hatchway.’
As Taverner obliged, Pearce took an axe out of Rufus’s hand and went for a barrel. Sharp as it was, he was not well balanced and there was no room for a full swing so the damn thing, hitting what was a thin piece of wood, bounced back at him, the blade narrowly missing his shins. The laugh came from Michael, as well as the words.
‘Happen you need a real worker for that task, John boy. Step aside.’
Even in the gloomy light Pearce could see that the axe, in Michael’s hand, looked like a toy and when the Irishman swung it there was no bounce. It went straight through and as Michael extracted it a stream of water gushed out. Another smack, this time followed by a twist, removed the lid whole, so that the barrel emptied in seconds, and was pushed to one side so they could get at the next. Above their head they could hear muffled shouting, then the sound of running feet but they had no idea what it portended until Colbourne’s voice called down the hatch.
‘Mr Pearce, belay that, and get the men on deck.’
‘Sir,’ he replied, before ordering the men out and the lanterns doused. He was last out of the hold, last to get on deck, last to find out why everyone was grinning, to receive the news that there was relief in the offing, that a British warship had been sighted north of their position, one which had
yet to be seen from the deck.
‘Let that be a lesson to you Mr Short,’ Colbourne said, in a voice that was almost happy. ‘Only put aloft as a lookout men who have good eyes and the brains to look in all directions. Now hold our course and prepare the signal, “enemy in sight” and have the gunner load a signal gun.’
Colbourne made his way to the shrouds and tucking in his telescope began to climb, which impressed Pearce. Yet it made sense; if you were in command and you wanted to see for yourself there was no other way. Besides, being at the masthead would add a good deal of time to that which you had to form any plan of action. He was almost tempted to follow, out of sheer curiosity.
Colbourne was up there for a good twenty minutes, sweeping his glass first forward, then over the stern to the still chasing Frenchman, who would be too far off to see the other sail to the north. It was like an itch Pearce could not scratch, wondering what was going through the man’s mind. He longed to be up there, making decisions not following those of someone else, however much that person knew more than he.
‘Will you be after stopping all that hopping about, Mr Pearce,’ said Michael – he was mister on deck and John boy when they were out of officer earshot. ‘Sure you’ll be wearing a hole in the deck and sinking us.’
That got a laugh from all who heard it, as the man it was aimed at realised that was what he had just been doing.
‘Mr Short, send aloft the signal.’
The flags flew up the halyard and fluttered in the breeze, and the gunner, who had been alerted to do so, fired the signal gun, which, if it could not be heard, would attract the eye because of the smoke.
‘Helmsman, ease off a few points so the signal can be read.’ The ship slowed perceptibly as it came off its best point of sailing. ‘Stand by to come about, Mr Short, and close with the enemy. Once we are on our new course you can clear for action.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
There was a palpable air of excitement about the crew as they obeyed that last order and the armed cutter came about with something approaching stateliness. It was that same driver Pearce had seen before – sailors it seemed were happy as long as something, anything, was happening; it was boredom that rendered them cross-grained. Given the traded jocularity it seemed that the men were quite happy to take on a French 74 without assistance if that be the case. It was, of course, nothing but bravado.
Colbourne, back on deck, somewhat spoiled that mood by the way he set a modest sail plan, so that Griffin, once more heading into the wind, made little progress. Clearing a ship like his to fight did not take much – canvas screens and hammocks came down easy and the amount of impediments to be struck below were few. It was more the casting off and the preparation of the guns, that accompanied by the swivel gun firing at intervals to ensure that the approaching British warship was aware that there was an enemy in the offing. Once completed, and after an interval of ten minutes when nothing happened, Pearce left his station by the larboard cannon and walked back the half dozen paces to the quarterdeck, to be greeted by a less than welcoming look from Colbourne. The lieutenant turned away, as if confused, raising his telescope to stare over the stern.
‘Your station is on the guns, Mr Pearce.’
It took a look back along the deck for Pearce to realise that he had broken some taboo. Midshipman Short was standing rigidly behind his cannon, staring out to sea, and the crews, with the exception of the gun captains kneeling by each piece, and the other sailors were gathered in groups by the falls, ready to work on the sails. No doubt he, likewise, should have stayed at his station, but having failed to do so he had no choice but to ask that which had brought him here.
‘Forgive me, sir, but I am curious as to what you have in mind.’
‘Are you, by damn!’
‘I don’t think I am alone in that, sir.’
The telescope came down abruptly, and the hissed reply was soft enough to keep the next exchange just between them. ‘You are not suggesting I discuss what I anticipate, or what I hope, with the whole crew?’
‘What harm could it do, sir?’
‘You have so much to learn about command, Pearce.
Officers make decisions, their inferiors do as they are bid. You, no doubt, would be the type for a rousing speech.’ The signal gun banged out again, and a rather testy Colbourne ordered that to cease. ‘Our consort has acknowledged. Get that signal down and raise our number so he knows who we are.’
Pearce half turned and looked over the bows, to the now clearly visible Frenchman, hull up on the swell and with a full suit of sails aloft. ‘It seems the enemy is still closing, sir?’
‘He is?’
‘So he cannot see that he faces two British ships, not one?’
‘No, Pearce, and I suspect he thinks we are bluffing, using that signal aloft to humbug him, saying that there is another warship in sight because we cannot outrun him.’
‘What will he do when he is disabused of that?’
‘Am I being interrogated?’
Pearce wondered why he was being so tense and uncommunicative. ‘No, sir, you are being asked what is likely to happen by someone who has no idea.’
‘It is not necessary for you to have ideas. Just do your duty, Pearce, that will be sufficient. Now go back to your station, and take cognisance of Mr Short, who has enough of the officer in him not to have left his.’
There was no choice but to obey, and as he complied the lookout called down, ‘Frenchman shortening sail, sir.’
Colbourne was tense, and really talking to himself when he said. ‘Now we shall see how the day will progress.’
The French 74 may have shortened sail to slow his approach, but he had not altered course, and it took some time to find out why. As usual members of the crew could recognise their rescuer as soon as enough of her features became visible from the deck.
‘Centurion, fifty,’ said Blubber, now stood by one of the nine pounders and had raised himself on the carriage for a better view.
‘Does that mean she has fifty guns?’ asked Rufus, from the nearby carronade, which got him a withering look that gave an affirmative answer. ‘But that Frenchie has got more.’
‘Need twice the number to take us on,’ called a cheerful voice from across the deck.
‘Belay that,’ snapped Short, standing near to five-foot erect. Latimer, who was one of the two larboard quarter gunners, shook his head at that same remark, in a way that told Pearce he did not agree.
‘She’s no spring chicken, HMS Centurion. Laid down this thirty year or more.’
‘Which means?’ asked Pearce, very quietly, hoping that neither Colbourne nor Short would hear, for if asking his commanding officer questions in a situation like this was anathema, then it must be that in spades with a member of the crew.
Latimer gave him an old-fashioned look that made the same point – blue coats did not ask advice from common seamen – which on that lined dark-skinned face looked really crabbed. The look reminded Pearce that he had been a lot less chatty since he had come back aboard, so he added, ‘I asked the captain, but he seems to want to keep everything to himself.’
‘Colbourne don’t know what’s going to happen. He ain’t keeping owt to hisself. It’ll be the captain of Centurion that makes the choices.’
‘What do you think he will do?’
‘Why you asking me?’
‘Because,’ Pearce hissed in frustration, ‘I don’t know.’
Latimer thought for a bit, then relented. ‘Was a time that a fifty could stand in the line, not any more.’
‘So?’
The older man nodded towards the bows. ‘So our friend John Crapaud yonder will know soon enough what he’s facing, if he don’t know already, know that he has the weight of shot to take old Centurion apart, what with her having old and worn timbers. But is he worked up proper? Has he got a crew aboard who knows what they are about? He took a bit of way off so as he could work out what to do. If he comes on, it’ll be because he wants a fight
.’
‘And Centurion?’
‘Would be well advised haul right round to run, with us on her tail.’
‘That’s what you would do?’
‘Damned right. I have no mind to see the scuppers running with blood. That Frenchie has the wind and we don’t, so, providing he has the lads to man the sails proper, he can do what he likes.’
‘You’ve been in battle before?’
Those brown eyes fixed Pearce. ‘I have, an’ it ain’t the lark some of the buggers on this deck think it is.’
‘How long have you been at sea, Lats?’
‘Can’t recall a time I weren’t,’ the old man replied. Then he grinned, and spoke a bit louder, ‘According to Michael there, your old Pa would have had me an admiral, it’s been so long.’
‘Sure, he would that, Latimer, and a right floggin’ old bugger you would be.’
‘Signal from Centurion, sir.’
So, thought Pearce, people like Latimer knew of his past now; did they know what had happened since? He suppressed the familiar and troubling images that surfaced then, making himself concentrate on Colbourne. Had he made HMS Centurion out and knew her size and name before he had come back on deck? Maybe he shared Latimer’s view, maybe that was why he had been so tense and terse. He looked aft, to where the lieutenant had taken out the signal book and was leafing through it himself, raising his telescope from time to time to check on a flag. Every eye on his own deck was on him, though they would wait in vain for him to speak. Once he had read the signal he turned stone-faced to look forward.
‘Mr Short, Mr Pearce, please join me on the quarterdeck.’ When they did so, in the space of a second, he spoke softly, tension very evident in his voice. ‘The signal was to engage the enemy more closely, gentlemen.’
‘Is it the course you would have chosen, sir?’ asked Pearce, which earned him a shocked look from Midshipman Short.
The look on Colbourne’s face was totally at odds with his reply. ‘I can think of no other.’ Then he shook slightly as if to rid himself of his torpor. ‘We will act independently. Centurion will I think engage the enemy yardarm to yardarm, though that has yet to be proved. Whatever, we must try to get across her stern and use our carronades to sweep her lower deck. That may, if we are successful, give Centurion some hope.’
A Shot Rolling Ship Page 27