‘Two eighths, split evenly... right,’ said Evans, frowning. There followed a lengthy pause.
‘So how much would I get?’ he asked.
‘Sweet Mother of God!’ exploded O’Malley, ‘How the fecking hell should we know!’
‘O’Malley, pipe down there!’ ordered Preston from where he stood in the centre of the deck, surveying the guns of his division. Silence descended over the crew of Number Three Gun. But not for long.
‘So when do we get to shoot with Spit Fire?’ whispered the irrepressible Evans, now anxious to land his notional prize money, however much or little that turned out to be. O’Malley covered his face with his hands and groaned. It fell on the ever patient Trevan to explain matters to the Londoner.
‘We be not well placed at present, Sam,’ he began. ‘Do you not see how nearly all the guns on the ship point out to the sides? Well that is well and good if the enemy is next to us, we can give ’em a right storm of shot in a broadside, but not much use if she be ahead or behind us.’
Evans looked about him as he took this in. He had of course been aware of the position of the Agrius’s main batteries – the long lines of canon down each side of the main deck were hard to miss, but the tactical implications had passed him by.
‘So once she is alongside us, then we can fire?’ asked Evans.
‘Well that would be right grand, only she will do her best to avoid that,’ the Cornishman explained. He pointed through the open gun port at the French ship. ‘Do you see what a fragile, thin-sided thing she be, maybe seven of eight guns a side, nothing above a six-pounder. A fight with her would be as if one of the ship’s boys squared up to you for a mill. No, she will not fight us if she can, and she certainly will not stray into one of our broadsides, if she knows what is good for her.’
‘Oh,’ said Evans, a little crestfallen. ‘So if she is faster than us, and she don’t want to fight, how the hell are we going to capture her?’
‘Ah! He has it at fecking last!’ said O’Malley.
‘Sam, all is dependent on what is going on up there,’ said Trevan pointing upwards. Evans followed his look towards the deck above and wondered what might be happening up on the forecastle.
*****
Up on the forecastle, Clay watched the privateer, still calculating their relative courses in his mind. The coastline of Normandy, and the need to avoid the rocky islands ahead would squeeze the French ship towards them, while at the same time she would first draw level and then pass the Agrius. Half and hour, he decided. That would be how long she would be in range of the bow chasers. Not as long as he would have liked but perhaps long enough, if the guns were well served.
He looked at the tools he had to work with. At the very front of the deck, one on either side of the bowsprit, were the Agrius’s pair of long nine pounder cannon. They were smaller than the more hefty twelve pounders on the main deck; more delicate, if that was not an inappropriate term for a piece of artillery. They were also the best guns for this task, long ranged and relatively accurate. Around both guns their crews fussed, laying out their powder charges, and selecting the truest round shot from the locker by rolling the iron balls along the deck, as if about to start a bowls match. Clay turned his attention to the port side chaser. With the privateer off to that side, this was the gun that would come into action first, and would have to do most of the damage.
‘All right, White,’ he said. ‘Let’s get her run out. Maximum elevation, and trained around as far as possible.’ The gun captain ran through the sequence of orders to the crew.
‘Charge in. Ram her home! Ball and wad! Ram her home! Hand spikes!’ Two crew men levered the gun round till she pointed as far aft as possible, while White stepped forward, pushed a long barbed spike down the touch hole to pierce the cloth of the cartridge, and inserted the quill of fine gunpowder. He stepped back, the smouldering linstock held high in his other hand. ‘Run up!’ The whole gun crew heaved on the tackles, and the cannon trundled forward till it came to rest in the chase port with a thump. Clay stooped down to sight along the barrel. He could see the privateer in profile, framed by the chase port. He could also see that any shot would fall well short of the target. He stepped back from the gun.
Croft bounded up the forecastle ladder, shouting as he came. ‘When will we be able to fire!’ he gasped. Clay looked down at the teenage midshipman, his face a mask of impassiveness. After an awkward pause, Croft realised his error. ‘The captain’s compliments, and when do you consider we may be in a position to engage the enemy, sir?’ he said, standing to attention.
‘Thank you, Mr Croft – that is much better,’ Clay replied. ‘Please give my compliments to the captain, and I believe we will be in a position to open fire in ten minutes from now, if the chase remains on her present course.’
‘Aye aye, sir,’ replied a chastened Croft, and he returned to the quarterdeck. Clay looked back along the barrel of the gun. It was now pointed a little behind the target, testament to the Frenchman’s superior speed. He stood up again, and signalled to the men to train the gun round to follow her.
*****
‘Stand clear!’ shouted White, as he brought his linstock down on the touchhole. A spluttering pause followed and then the cannon roared out, shooting backwards across the deck, and sending up a dirty brown ball of smoke. From his position to one side, Clay watched the series of splashes, like those of a skimmed stone rise up off the sea, and then fall back, while the crew ran through the process of swabbing out and reloading the nine pounder.
‘That was short and to the left, White. Try again please.’
The next shot was short and to the left again, almost a carbon copy of the one before. Clay placed himself directly behind the gun while White fired for the third time, jumping clear of the smoke to watch where the ball fell. It hit the sea to the left of the target once more. He had seen that White was laying the gun accurately, so the gun must have a bias. This was not uncommon, but at least it was a consistent bias, which was often not the case.
‘You are getting closer, Mr White. The gun is throwing a little to the left, so you will need to aim a touch right of the target,’ he encouraged. White adjusted his aim a little and shouted his warning to the gun crew as he fired again. Clay stared across the grey water, and saw a splash hard up against the target.
‘A hit! Well done lads.’ The men cheered. A nine pounder ball at that range was unlikely to have done much damage to the hull of the Frenchman, but as the distance narrowed they would start to hit her more vulnerable rigging. The gun roared out again, and again.
Now the privateer was definitely pulling ahead of the Agrius. Each time the gun ran up, their view of the target subtly changed from a ship in profile to a growing sight of her gilded stern, and a shrinking, foreshortened view of one side. Her officers lined along her stern rail, focusing anxious telescopes back towards them. Through his own glass he could observe men in her rigging, presumably splicing and repairing superficial damage they had caused. Clay knew that they had hit her repeatedly — there were shot holes in her sails — but they had missed everything vital, and her speed remained undiminished. Captain Follett, now dressed properly, joined him on the forecastle to see that all was being done that could be. Clay could see his captain’s right foot tapping on the deck for the duration of the long pause between each shot.
‘We will be able to engage her with both our bow chasers soon, sir,’ Clay said, although the fact that the enemy would soon be dead ahead of them was testament to the fact that they were losing the race.
‘Stand clear!’ shouted White again. Clay and his captain both trained their telescopes on the enemy. No splash almost certainly meant another hit, but still she sailed on. He turned back towards the gun crew. ‘Good shooting, lads. You’re hitting her again and again,’ he said encouragingly. The cheer from the men was starting to sound half-hearted now, but they still serviced the gun quickly enough, running through the sequence of steps like automaton.
‘Sta
nd clear!’ shouted White, bringing his linstock down on the touchhole for the umpteenth time. Yet again, the gun roared out and shot backwards, sending another ball of brown smoke rolling across the bows of the ship. Once more Clay focused on the privateer. No splash – so yet another hit, and something different this time. The studdingsails on one side of the ship blew free, billowing and surging like washing on a line. He focussed intently and saw her crew swarming up the rigging to try and repair her. He could also tell they were starting to gain a little on her.
‘She’s damaged!’ yelled Clay. ‘Starboard side studding sail boom shot through, sir.’
‘Better shooting, Mr Clay,’ enthused the captain. ‘That’s more like it.’ Clay turned back to the guns, and strode across to behind the as yet unused starboard side chaser. The ship was now pointing straight at the Frenchman. ‘Let’s give her both chasers now,’ he ordered. A growl of enthusiasm greeted this news from the gun crews, and both guns went off almost together. Clay once more focussed on the chase. One of the shots had missed, throwing up a column of water to one side of the target. The other seemed to have hit, but he could detect no further damage. What he could see was a fresh spar being swung up into her rigging to replace the damaged boom. They had a large and efficient crew on board the privateer. At this rate they would soon be able to replace the spar and resume pulling away from the Agrius.
‘Might we try hauling our wind, Mr Clay, and let her have a full broadside?’ said Follett, sharing Clay’s anxiety at the rate that the enemy was dealing with the damage. Clay shook his head. He had already thought about this as an option and rejected it.
‘I submit not, sir,’ he said. ‘It would quite halt our progress, while we could only expect to get off a single broadside before she pulled away from us, leaving no time for the guns to find the range. Now the chasers are hitting with tolerable consistency, I believe we should persist on this course.’
‘Very well, Mr Clay,’ replied the captain. ‘Carry on.’ Clay heard the slight hint of threat in the simple order. He had resisted his captain’s recommended course of action, and could almost feel the added weight as responsibility for success shifted across onto his shoulders.
‘Stand clear!’ shouted the starboard gun captain. His fresher gun crew had managed to reload a little faster than White’s men. Good, thought Clay. That will make spotting the fall of shot easier. When both guns fired together he had no idea which gun to correct in the event of a miss. The gun roared out as Clay strode off to one side of the smoke.
‘In line but a little short,’ he reported. ‘Keep her like that, you will hit as the gun warms up.’ The new studding sail boom was level with the yard now. He could see a swarm of figures clustered in the rigging, ready to fit the new spar into place.
‘Stand clear!’ yelled White. Another shot, perhaps a fresh hole in the privateer’s topsail, thought Clay, but no diminution in her pace. Follett was now pacing backwards and forwards, his hands clenched behind his back.
‘Stand clear!’ another shot, and a further miss from the starboard side chaser. Clay was about to encourage them when the captain shouted across him.
‘Damn your eyes, can’t you shoot straight!’ he yelled, glaring at the gun crew.
‘Stand clear!’ White again, and the port side chaser roared out once more. Surprised by his captain’s oath, Clay had not positioned himself to see the fall of the shot. Gun smoke rolled across him, obscuring his view of the enemy. When it cleared, he saw straight away that something in the familiar geometry had changed. The main yard jutted up at a strange angle, shot through to one side of the mast. As he looked, the profile of the ship swung from stern-on to a full silhouette as she turned up into the wind to take the pressure off the broken spar.
‘Her main yard is shot through,’ he said. ‘We have got her, sir!’
His captain thumped him on the back, and turned to face the excited hands down on the main deck, still waiting by their guns.
‘Stand by larboard side. Give her what for as we pass her!’ he ordered. The cheering gun crews hurried to their places. Clay was still watching the now rapidly approaching Frenchman. It was clear that they would never get their ship repaired in time. As he watched, the side of the ship disappeared in smoke as they fired one defiant broadside at the Agrius. The shots were poorly aimed, tearing up the sea to one side, but he heard a solitary ball strike home with a crash below him. Having loosed off their salvo, most of the crew hastened to launch their ship’s boats. With the sea calm, and the French coast a few miles away they were keen to escape capture, and the prospect of many years in a British prison. As the Agrius came up, and swung round to cover the Frenchman with her broadside, those still on board hastened to run down the tricolour of the new French republic in surrender.
*****
‘She is the Vrai Patriote, an eighteen gun sloop licensed as a privateer and based in Le Havre. Captain Verrieres commanding, although he escaped with all of the officers and most of the crew, sir,’ said Clay to his captain. They were seated in the great cabin, sipping on a celebratory glass of sherry. Out of the stern window, the coast of Normandy stretched away on either side, now clear of fog in the full sunlight of noon.
‘The carpenter reports three shot holes in her hull, which he has almost finished patching,’ continued Clay. ‘The boatswain has completed replacing her main yard and he and his mates are repairing the damage to her rigging. She will be ready to sail by two bells.’
‘As soon as that?’ said Follett. ‘I was fearful we might have handled her more severely. Better and better.’
‘When I took possession of her there were only twenty-three crew left on board.’ Clay glanced down at his notes to refresh his memory. ‘Eighteen are Frenchmen, one is a Swede and four are from various states in Italy. Also there was a large black tomcat called Robespierre, said to be a highly proficient ratter, who has now been adopted by the gunroom.’
‘Thank you for that report, Mr Clay. We have enjoyed a very successful and profitable morning I believe,’ beamed Captain Follett. As captain he would receive three eighths of the value of the capture, a tidy sum even for an already wealthy man. ‘Lieutenant Sutton can take command of the prize for our run to Plymouth. Can I prevail on you to allocate him an appropriate prize crew, if you please? The Frenchmen are prisoners of war of course, but have the Swede and the other men read in as hands. You can rate them as you see fit.’
‘I was going to raise the issue of the Italians, sir,’ said Clay. ‘They have requested to see you, with some sort of proposal.’
‘A proposal you say? How intriguing,’ mused Follett. ‘Well, you had best get them in and let us hear what they have to say.’
They certainly were an intriguing group, thought Clay, as they entered the cabin in a shuffling line strung out between two burly marine privates. For one thing they seemed to be rather thin and small for privateer’s men, a breed of humanity one shade more legitimate than pirates. They were also not dressed in any fashion that a seaman would have chosen. They sported long frock coats of various colours, breeches with stockings and bright coloured waistcoats, all of which showed signs of having seen better days. None of this clothing was practical for clambering about the rigging of a ship. The apparent leader of the group, in a plum-coloured coat over a bottle-green waistcoat and breeches came forward to address Captain Follett. He placed one foot forward, and gave an elegant sweeping bow, which was echoed by three similar bows from his multi-coloured colleagues.
‘Signore Capitano, I pleased to present myself. I am Senior Giovanni Monti of Verona,’ he began in reasonable English. ‘I thank you very multi for the honour you give us in granting audience with your eminent person.’ Senior Monti bowed once again, the gesture repeated by the others.
‘Yes, yes, pray come to the point, sir,’ said Follett, shifting in his seat. ‘Why did you wish to see me?’
‘Ah, yes, the point, indeed,’ continued the Italian. ‘Me and my fellow countrymen are not sailors, we a
re musicians.’ To reinforce the point, his three colleagues pantomimed playing a selection of invisible instruments behind Giovanni’s back. Clay could make out a cello and at least one violin. Captain Follett frowned, suspicious that he was being made a fool of.
‘How on earth did you come to find yourself on board a privateer then, if you are not sailors?’ he asked.
‘Ah, so. Capitano Verrieres, he very much like music,’ explained Giovanni. ‘He pay us as sailors, but we not sail. We play for him. When he eat, when he has visitor, when he want us to play in evening. We play very good for him.’
‘I think I follow the arrangement, but I am still unclear how this affects me?’ continued Captain Follett. The musician’s leader pressed on with his explanation.
‘Capitano Verrieres, he leave us on the ship when he go in boat. Now we have no capo, no patron.’ Giovanni spread his arms wide to encompass all of his colleagues. ‘We play music for you. You put us in ship books, we have pay and food, and we play for you.’
‘I see,’ said the captain, stroking his chin. ‘What do you think, Mr Clay?’
‘It is plain that they are not sailors, sir. You can tell that from their clothes, and they are going to be little use to us as landsman. They are much too scrawny for any heavy work. I suppose we could put them down as idlers. It would not technically be false mustering, so why not, sir? I do not think the hands would object to having some music, although O’Malley may resent the arrival of some alternative fiddle players on board,’ concluded Clay.
‘We have condition,’ warned Giovanni, holding up one hand. ‘You not make us work as sailor, and you no frusta us.’
‘Frusta?’ queried Captain Follett. Giovanni acted out an eloquent scene.
‘Ah, you mean flogging.’
Captain Follett thought for a moment.
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