A Shot Rolling Ship

by David Donachie

  The party on the rudder, and those pumping, were safe from that but that was not the case for others, so he called down those aloft. ‘Anyone not manning a cannon, get below. Everybody else, get behind the trunnion and keep your head down.’

  ‘Us an’ all?’ Latimer asked.

  Pearce moved to the rearmost larboard gun and sat on the deck, followed by the older man. Lying there, they heard the whistle and swish as grape swept over the deck, the clang as some of it hit metal, the thud of straight shot and ricochets embedding themselves in wood, but he heard no screams, and that was what mattered.

  ‘Everyone up,’ he shouted, getting to his own feet. ‘Let’s show the bastards we’re alive.’

  That brought forth not only sailors, but a load of shouted insults and filthy gestures aimed at the French gunners. Pearce went to the bows, then walked quickly back down the line of guns, ordering them elevated so that they would fire as high as they could.

  ‘How are we doing, John boy?’ asked Michael.

  His tone was slightly jocular, the same as it always was when he asked that question. If the Irishman had any fear of what they were sailing into, he was not the man to show it, nor was he one to give a hint of any doubt about what his friend was doing. It had been the same every time they had gone into a fight before.

  The answer was a whisper. ‘I feel like a fake, Michael.’

  ‘Don’t you believe it. Sure, have I not said before, you were born to be a blue coat.’

  ‘Is we goin’ to get out of this Pearce?’ asked Rufus, who was not too proud to tremble.

  Pearce patted the carronade they were manning, the last on the deck, and spoke with a certainty he did not feel. ‘Ask me when this has been fired.’

  It was a tense Charlie Taverner who added, looking over Pearce’s shoulder to the badly damaged Centurion, ‘Hope we have breath in us to do it.’

  What could he say to them; lay out the choices, tell them they might accept being prisoners but he would not, add that he had only a vague idea of what he was about and it was a hope rather than a certainty that they would survive. They had always burdened him with the making of decisions, now he was making them without considering that they might think differently, and for once, he felt no misgivings about doing so. Perhaps Michael O’Hagan was right.

  Behind him Latimer was silently counting off the time with his fingers, and after he had gone across his hands several times, mouthing the pattern of loading and running out a cannon, he shouted, ‘Time to get our heads down again.’

  Pearce complied, as did everyone on the deck, just seconds before another load of grape swept over. Apart from balls thudding into the masts there was little sound this time apart from the high-pitched whistle of its passing, until they heard the patter of a mass of small shot hitting the wake of the ship.

  The armed cutter, with the wind coming over her starboard quarter, was making less speed as the water filling her holds slowed her down. Closing on the two near-stationary ships the gap was closing rapidly, now barely big enough for Griffin to enter, with the faces of musket-bearing Frenchmen leaning over the rail in plain view. Looking across the thirty yards of water he could see the remnants of Centurion’s gunners running out what was left of their maindeck battery, and within seconds the air was again full of sound, fury and shot, of breaking wood, of screams, which partly masked the sound as a lead ball hit the planking by his feet. Looking down, he saw how close was the gouged wood, and he knew he had been lucky not to get it in the foot.

  ‘Those of you that have muskets ready and loaded, clear those sods off that rail above our head.’

  Pearce went forward again as the guns were lifted, aimed and fired quickly by the marines, less efficiently by the tars, not looking at those returning fire from the enemy poop for to do so would be useless – providence would decide if he was going to take a shot – going to the first nine pounder and standing behind it. Each cannon would fire in turn, and since it was his scheme they were going to try and execute he was determined to be the sole arbiter of when the flintlocks should be sparked. They were under the Valmy’s counter now, close enough to touch the gilding on the stern decoration and ahead Pearce could see the first of the lower deck cannon that could do them damage, its black spout, with a wisp of hot smoke lazily exiting its muzzle, waiting for them to come alongside.

  ‘Sam, Matt,’ he called to the pair, ‘get some wads off the gunner and soak them in turpentine. We need something to set them alight as well.’

  ‘Slowmatch’ll do it for turps,’ Sam replied, as Matt ran below shouting for help.

  Griffin was hardly making any way at all now, and she was definitely wallowing as the bowsprit crept past the Frenchman’s stern. It went completely quiet; Centurion would not fire for fear of hitting Griffin and the Frenchman was just waiting, knowing that the armed cutter was placing itself in between the two fighting vessels in an attempt to save her larger consort, waiting to blow her out of the water and out of the way before completing the day’s work. As the first cannon came abreast of the Frenchman’s rudder, Pearce pulled the lanyard on the nine pounder and jumped clear of the recoil.

  At a range of less than thirty feet it should have been impossible to miss the rudder, but miss he did, the ball flying past to land harmlessly in the water beyond. By that time, having told the first crew to scarper aft, Pearce was behind the second nine pounder, this time more careful and more successful. The ball hit home, but even at such close range it did no more than create surface splintering on what was a substantial piece of timber. On down the line he went, seeing in the corner of his eye Sam with a pair of armourer’s tongs holding at arm’s length a flaming wad.

  ‘Through the gunport, Sam. Lets give the buggers on those cannon something to think about other than shooting at us.’

  The French gunners could have fired at the foredeck, but they must have realised, looking along the muzzle, with the larboard side deserted, there was no one to aim at. So they waited until that first nine pounder came alongside, and assuming there must be a gun crew hiding behind the bulwarks, they blew both that and the gun asunder. The clang was deafening and the nine pounder and its trunnion, all a ton and a half of it, flew across the deck and smashed through the larboard side and jammed there. The balls that had been in the garlands were likewise dislodged and began to roll about the deck making that noise so like thunder.

  ‘This is no time to be thinking of mutiny,’ Michael called out, as he stooped to catch one of the cannon balls, a joke that brought forth a laugh from the men, a sound that increased in volume as he threw it hard at the side of the enemy ship.

  As the thirty-two pounder was withdrawn to reload, Sam threw his flaming wad through the gap, while Matt followed that with half a bucketful of turpentine, whooping with delight as he heard the cries of panic that his action engendered, for he knew, if Pearce did not, just how much sailors feared fire. Flames shot out of the gunport, and they heard a dull explosion as some powder, possibly a waiting cartridge, blew up. By that time Sam had a second one going and that went through just as Pearce fired the next gun, taking more splinters off the rudder, again ordering the gun crew aft as the second French thirty-two pounder fired a ball that went right through both bulwarks of the ship.

  Griffin began to grind along the side of Centurion, and proof of how tight the gap had been came when the bow of the armed cutter collided with and bounced off the side of the Frenchman. Already the grappling irons were flashing out, not yet to secure Griffin but in readiness for when the order came. Hands were coming out of Centurion’s lower ports offering to take the walking wounded, an offer of which Gherson, who seemed not to have a scratch, took immediate advantage. The curse that Pearce wanted to shout after him died on his lips, being pointless. With only a foot to spare the ship ground on, crashing into one vessel then the other, by which time five nine pounder balls had been aimed at the enemy rudder. If they weakened it, the two carronades did the real damage, the first of their heavier bal
ls smashing it near in half, the second removing the lower section so completely that the enemy would be denied steerage way. That was when Griffin ground to a halt, finally crushed between the two ships, her bulwarks shattered, and guns dismounted by the relentless fire of the enemy, half the cannon balls on deck rolling into the scuppers. But Sam and Matt had done good service too, since many of the gunports were belching smoke from a fire those behind the scantlings were struggling to contain.

  ‘Lash us off tight,’ Latimer called, to those on the grappling lines.

  Colbourne and Midshipman Short were already aloft by the time that order was given, hauled by the crew and hooked in to land on the larger ship’s deck. Just as they disappeared a rope hit the planking beside Pearce, as the first of the French boarders dropped to their deck, with others trying to get at them from those gunports free of flames. He might have died on the spot but for Michael O’Hagan, who stepped past him to clout, with another cannonball, an enemy sailor raising his short heavy sword. The man dropped like a stone as the Irishman’s hand caught his coat collar and pulled him backwards into a line that had been formed without his bidding, made up of all the crew that could hold a weapon. Now it was the turn of the enemy to face musket fire as the men on the Centurion fired over their heads. It created a temporary respite, and dropped several of them, before they closed to fight hand to hand.

  The men of the Griffin began to scrap hard, to contest their deck, their numbers as those below came up, which must have come as a shock to their enemies, initially pushing the French back to their own ship’s side. This was not what Pearce had in mind, for in the end there was no way they could hold off what the enemy could eventually throw at them, and there was precious little space on the armed cutter’s deck for the assistance that could come from their consort. His idea was to get on to Centurion and then hopefully Marchand could get that vessel, badly damaged as she was, away from the Valmy. If Pearce had read it right – and he had plenty of doubt that he had – without a rudder the Frenchman would be unable to chase, and once the British Man o’ War was out of range, she could get both her crew and that of Griffin to safety. As for the armed cutter, she would no doubt sink.

  These thoughts came to him as he was heavily engaged on a deck that, even with the holds full of seawater, rose and fell with the swell. Colbourne’s sword might be a bit ceremonial, but it was a weapon with which Pearce was familiar; he knew how to use it to good effect, though it took several blows with the hilt, a jab with the knife in his other hand and a couple of well aimed kicks to deter those right in front of him and create the right amount of space to render the sharp blade dangerous and the thrusting point deadly. To his left he had Michael, formidable with just a marlin spike in his one hand, backed up by a left fist, while on his right he could use his longer weapon to keep those before Charlie and Rufus at bay. They were fighting too, they were just not doing so as effectively as the Irishman.

  Not for the first time in his life, Pearce was aware of how much action effectively cleared his brain. He saw things with clarity and was able to parry thrusts aimed at him and return a blow that would wound and discourage his assailants. At the same time he had a clear notion of the problem faced by the men of Griffin, as well as those who had come to their aid from Centurion. Once the wounded had been taken to safety, matters would come to a dangerous head, that there would be no time when they would be more vulnerable as the point at which they tried to retreat.

  Above their heads the small arms gunfire was constant, muskets, swivel guns and few of the remaining cannon as those on both line of battle ships’ decks tried to back up their own side and harm the other, creating between them enough smoke to make Pearce feel he was fighting in a fog, that punctuated by shouts, curses and screams, the occasional discharge of a pistol, with men falling and being dragged back out of the action. None of the lower deck guns on either side could fire for fear of hitting their own, and so had been withdrawn, and that was the means of escape for the defenders – through the gunports. Someone on the lower deck of Centurion had a brain, for from the side of each port came a couple of pikes, to jab at the enemy through the mass of defenders, while from above came a shower of everything from spikes to fallen blocks, as well as small casks thrown at the attackers to hold them at bay, the whole obviously an attempt to create a space, not a very great one, for a safe withdrawal.

  ‘Griffins, back!’ yelled Pearce, hoping that they would obey, for several seemed to have their blood so high up that they were oblivious to the need to get clear. Charlie and Rufus at least obeyed with alacrity, Rufus slipping through a gunport and Taverner diving after him. Michael got to the port and, back to the hull, turned to renew the fight. All along the deck men were doing as they were bid, either scaling the side of the grappling ropes or using gunports and gaps in the scantlings to get to safety. Yet some of the others seemed oblivious to the danger. Latimer might be old, but it did not seem to interfere with his ability to wield an axe. Blubber stood feet apart, two large hands swinging a short naval hanger like a scythe, and doing so with enough effect to keep clear a space in front of his substantial belly. Sam and Matt had abandoned their turps throwing to take up clubs with which they were belabouring those in front of them. It was the sight of that pair that had Pearce searching for the cask they had been using, and he yelled at them to do his bidding.

  ‘Sam, Matt, kick over that turpentine, then throw the slowmatch on it.’

  Time stood still for Pearce then, because the two could not easily disengage. He had retreated into the space between two pikes so was now only concerned with the men in front of him, Michael occupied the space that separated him from the next gunport and was going to find it harder to get to safety. Eventually Matt got a boot to the cask, which turned on its side then rolled across the deck, spilling its contents. Sam had ducked down, and only just survived a blow that took off his hat, exposing his bright blond hair, without seeming to do much to the head underneath. The slowmatch tub he just picked up and threw, his attempt to upend it successful so that the burning linstock landed in the spilled turpentine. That took immediately and created a blast of flame on the deck that made the enemy fighters take note, and in doing so they paused for that vital couple of seconds that allowed those opposing them to dive for safety.

  Pearce could not go until the last man was clear, and that proved his undoing. Suddenly there was a blue coat in front of him and a fellow with a like sword who wanted a contest, either a lieutenant or a sous-officier. It was unwelcome for a man whose sole notion was to escape, especially when he realised that the lines to the grappling irons were being cut, which would allow Centurion to drift apart from the Griffin and Valmy. If he took this fellow on and the delay was great enough he would be stranded on this deck, but he also knew that close as the man was and with the weapon he had, to turn his back on him was to invite a sword thrust that would certainly seriously wound him, and might in fact kill him.

  There was no choice but to engage and it was only when the two blades met that Pearce realised how much the level of extraneous noise had fallen. The clash of steel rang out like a pealing bell, that followed by the clear rasping sound of metal sliding on metal. Pearce had one hand to his back now, in a classic fighting pose to aid his balance, but he knew he had a problem in that he could not drive his opponent back, as to do so would take him forward into danger from a swarm of his fellow countrymen. He had no notion that they would hold back from maiming him out a some sense of chivalry – they would kill him as quick as they could. In the corner of his vision he could see that the two jabbing pikes which had protected his flanks were slowly moving back, evidence that the route to safety was going away from him, that indeed he was trapped. For all he was engaged, for all the thoughts of what was happening behind him, he could still see the irony in the fact that even if he killed the man he was fighting, he would be on his own with dozens more and that could only end in one way; that the most obvious solution was to surrender and become a p
risoner.

  It was that thought, and his own determination not to accept it, that fired his swordplay. Damning the consequences he began to use his blade with more aggression, his lead foot jabbing forward to take his blade with it, the look on his opponent’s face leaving him in no doubt that this sudden assault came as a surprise. There was another thing in the fellow’s eyes, something John Pearce had seen before, when fencing; the move from the certainty of victory to the possibility of defeat. It was the moment for a swordsman to strike, that spilt second when doubt first surfaced, for that weakened both the arm and the resolve. The swift circle he made with his sword brought forth a desperate lunge for the Frenchman that exposed him. Pearce parried his thrust, flicked his blade to one side, and sliced down immediately, the tip of his sword cutting through uniform and flesh. The shock of that was all he needed for the kill, and those behind his blue-coated enemy knew that. Had he followed through then he too would have died. Instead he leapt back, reversed the sword and threw it like a spear, before jumping onto the bulwark and diving into the sea. Only those on Centurion, already twenty feet distant, saw the narrow margin by which he escaped thrusting pikes, thrown knives and discharged pistols. Pearce did not; he was under water swimming to deep security.

  When he surfaced, shook the water from his head and eyes and began to swim properly, it was to a rousing cheer from the decks of the Centurion, and to an Irish hand held out of a gunport, that of a man strong enough to bodily lift him clear of the water. He was hauled onto a dark, red-painted deck that yet showed many a streak of blood, to be faced by a black-faced lieutenant who took him by the hand and hauled it heartily up and down, creating, as the water ran off Pearce, an impression of a man working a pump.

  ‘Give you joy, sir, that was prodigious.’ Then the hat was off his head. ‘I lift my scrapper in your honour, sir, and ask the crew to give you three times three.’

  Dripping wet and being cheered were, or Pearce thought ought to be, two mutually exclusive affairs.