Enemies at Every Turn Page 26

  The order to belay and fire regardless took a moment to sink in, but the crew on Davy’s cannon, of which he was the captain, Charlie and Rufus included, leapt to the restraining tackles as he yelled they should do. Once they were set, feet splayed to restrain the recoil, he pulled the lanyard and set off the flint.

  All along the deck the same thing was being acted out and the ports before them splintered and disintegrated as they were smashed by the great, solid, 32-pound rounds of iron. More gratifying was that those same balls, at such close range, demolished the scantlings on the Vengeur du Peuple, reducing the outer layer to matchwood and in a couple of cases exposing the carpenter’s walk.

  Even better, where they met an opposing gun port they went through the thinner wood with enough force to dismount the enemy cannon, evinced by the loud clanging and the screams which overbore the boom of blasted powder, though smoke made it impossible to see what bloody turmoil had been inflicted.

  No one was considering those things on the Semele gun deck; they were too busy reloading. The recoil had taken the guns back to where the muzzles could be got at and new charges, wads and balls were being rammed home, new quills being fitted to the touch holes and broken to allow the firing powder to dribble through.

  The gun captains were ready, and before the French realised what had just befallen them, before they had taken in their smashed guns, the broken scantlings and the bodies that littered the red-painted deck, they took a second, even more deadly broadside, which was sent through the already shattered sides.

  ‘Depress your cannon,’ came the order from Beresford in the infinitesimal lull, as more shot was loaded.

  It was not easy to hear that command, given the roar of the guns, despite their covered ears, made men deaf. But it was obeyed, even as the third round was being rammed home, the wedges at the pommel bases being hammered in hard so that the muzzles pointed downwards as far as was possible, then the cannon were run up to fire.

  Now the great balls tore through already shattered wood to smash into the gun deck planking on the French ship – thick boards on which to walk, but too flimsy to retard heavy shot. That it devastated them and went on to hull the ship below the waterline was only one part of the damage; the splinters created did terrible execution to the enemy gunners as, like swords and spears, they flew in a dozen directions to kill and maim.

  ‘Reload.’

  ‘What does Berry-boy think we’re about?’ gasped Rufus as he hauled on the relieving tackle.

  ‘Sunday in the park,’ Charlie replied, his voice equally hoarse.

  If he was good-humoured, that evaporated as the cannon next to theirs was struck on the muzzle, the clang of contact ten times noisier than the blast of powder and balls. The men working the gun were blown away in a bloody mass of flesh and bone, the cannon, its relieving tackles shredding, rearing up like a proud stallion to topple over as the ropes parted under the massive strain.

  ‘Secure that damned cannon!’ Beresford shouted.

  That was a priority; a loose cannon on a deck heaving on the swell was deadly to all. Ropes were slung by those who knew the drill and hung on to for dear life by those who did not. It was Charlie Taverner who got a whip round the muzzle, Rufus the more nimble who, with dancing steps, secured the pommel end, both men lashing off to the first fixed point that came to hand, carried out under the frightened gaze of an officer who would have been maimed in both legs had they not succeeded.

  ‘I’ll stand you a drink in Pompey, lads, for that,’ Beresford cried.

  ‘And will be held to it, Your Honour,’ Charlie called cheerfully, moving back to his own cannon, which had been run out and fired with reduced numbers.

  The quarterdeck was now like a charnel house, with bodies everywhere and bloodstains where the fallen had been removed. Still Devenow stood by his captain, unflinching, this while Gherson cowered as best he could behind anything that would afford him protection. In the end, both captain and bully-boy took their wounds at the same time, Barclay a ball in the soft part of his thigh, Devenow spinning away as, seeking to protect his master, another took his shoulder.

  ‘Gherson, to me and hold me up,’ Barclay yelled, before pointing to the now kneeling Devenow and calling to the great cabin servants, ‘and get my man below!’

  When his clerk did not obey he screamed at him that he would have him shot this instant if he cowered any more. To watch Gherson crabbing across to his employer would have been enough to make those facing death with equanimity – and Ralph Barclay was one of them – cringe, if they had not been too busy.

  The quarterdeck of Vengeur was devoid of human occupation now. The wheel had shattered and the mizzenmast had gone by the board, hanging over the side and by its weight dragging both engaged ships out of a French line that had become jumbled rather than formed in any true order.

  Montagne had fallen away south to a point where it could raise flag and act as a rally for the shattered French fleet, and the gun deck of Vengeur, pounded by broadside after depressed broadside, was being reduced to matchwood; it was also obvious that she had been badly hulled – she was taking on water as she began to settle.

  ‘In the name of Christ,’ called Barclay, actually leaning on Gherson’s crouched back. ‘Somebody get aboard that damned ship with axes and cut us free.’

  ‘Stand by to board,’ shouted Lieutenant Beresford, third at the opening of the action, premier now.

  When the order was relayed, men left their guns below to become fiercely armed boarders, taking from the tubs the swords and axes they needed, rushing to the upper deck and running in screaming mobs to the side, there to leap over the hammock nettings and splintered bulwarks on to the enemy deck to continue the slaughter.

  That the tricolour was cut away within minutes came as no surprise, though with continued fighting it was moot who had sliced the line, a Frenchman or a Briton. But it was clear to Ralph Barclay that the enemy ship was getting lower in the water by a foot at a time, evidence of serious damage below.

  ‘Sir, you are bleeding copiously,’ said Lieutenant Beresford. ‘I must insist you go to the surgeon.’

  ‘Insist, sir!’

  ‘As is my duty, Captain. It will not aid us if you bleed to death.’

  ‘Take possession of Vengeur, Mr Beresford,’ Barclay said, finally, ‘and save her if you can.’

  Then the captain of HMS Semele passed out.

  On the deck of Vengeur du Peuple the crew were surrendering or running below to seek safety, leaving Charlie Taverner and Rufus Dommet amongst others, chests heaving, rejoicing in victory.

  ‘Christ, Rufus,’ Charlie gasped, ‘we’d want Pearce and O’Hagan here for this, would we not?’

  Unbeknown to John Pearce, the fickle gods were in a foul mood as far as he was concerned; a man he had never heard of, Admiral Sir Berkley Sumner, had received his reply from Sir Phillip Stephens, finding himself astounded that not only was he again denied appointment, but that the Admiralty was not intending to take immediate and strong action against some poltroon and probable fraudster sullying the good name of the service.

  There and then he decided it was necessary for him to act: he would go personally to Lymington and beard this damned impostor, taking with him his horsewhip as well, and he would be damn sure to let their lordships know of what he had done to protect the good name of the King’s Navy, which would also make them aware that he was not past being of use.

  Alderman Denby Carruthers had no trouble at all in finding out the whereabouts of a Lieutenant John Pearce, the information came back to him within a couple of days. Druce, his brother-in-law, used the same St James’s gentleman’s club as Henry Dundas, so it was not difficult to glean that the fellow was on active service having sailed from Buckler’s Hard, a place to which he would return quite soon, certainly within the month, with the obvious caveat that nothing was certain when it came to time, survival, ships and the sea.

  The only thing that perplexed the alderman, apart, that is, from t
he continuing strange behaviour of his wife and the increasing unreliability of his clerk Lavery, was that the Tollands, bad-tempered Jahleel and the seemingly more sensible Franklin, when told of this, immediately put any notion of their forthcoming partnership on hold; they were, it seems, off to the New Forest to find their man.

  To a fellow dedicated to the making of money, if you excepted the need to revenge himself on Cornelius Gherson and deal with the ongoing problem of Codge and his blackmail, it seemed absurd to delay the accrual of profit in the pursuit of a personal vendetta. There again, he knew nothing of this Lieutenant Pearce or the cause of the feud.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  John Pearce and Michael O’Hagan, in the company of their hosts, had spent two whole days looking at the various French outworks that formed an arc round the coastal region, each replete with a tented company of infantry, a pair of cannon, stabling for horses close to some building of note, a manor house or a large still-intact church, which, judging by the flying tricolours, acted as the local headquarters.

  From each rose the smoke of numerous fires, to pinescent the air, but not much in the way of activity, creating the impression that the generals of the revolutionary army had decided upon containment rather than aggressive suppression of the remains of revolt; Pearce had already been informed that the main task of the men occupying these encampments was in feeding themselves.

  This being an activity which bore down heavily on the local farmers and peasants – the major landowners had all fled or were in hiding – it thus cemented their support for the revolt, because when they were paid at all for what was taken, and that was rare, it was at best with promissory notes or the worthless revolutionary assignats that served as currency in France.

  The sweep of this extensive reconnaissance had been from south to north, starting out at near first light and lasting the length of each day. Pearce was, finally, bleary-eyed and weary, examining, as he had been for two hours, a more substantial redoubt backed up by proper barracks. There was also an open field on which, to the sound of trumpets and shouting, he had observed men drilling, as well as cavalry horses being put through their paces.

  This was an army camp containing men in their several hundreds, possibly even thousands, and the reason for its size and importance lay far to the rear in the city of Nantes. France’s premier port sat well inland on the broad River Loire which, being navigable to small sailing boats and barges, was the gateway to the interior.

  For the two days they had been so engaged in this reconnaissance he had listened to every one of his hosts expound the same theory, and that continued as they made their ways back to the marshland hideaway: the capture of Nantes, with their aid, would be a worthy objective for any major incursion by the forces of Great Britain, though they were less forthcoming about their failure the previous year to achieve that very thing.

  Puisaye and his ilk were sure that a token force of ships and soldiers could secure the well-guarded and powerful forts at the Loire estuary, which would open the river up to the Royal Navy – not the capital warships, which drew too much water, but certainly to powerful frigates. An army could then be safely landed to advance on Nantes itself, and with local aid succeed where the Vendée rebellion had failed.

  ‘Achieve that, Lieutenant, and the Revolution will crumble.’

  Willing to admit to himself he was no military expert either on land or at sea, John Pearce knew oversimplification when he heard it. What was suggested required a huge force of warships and hundreds of transports to sail down the Channel and get past the main French naval base at Brest without interference.

  That being unlikely, they would then have to enter one of the most unreliable stretches of water in the world, the Bay of Biscay, while fighting, and land sufficient troops to take, in conjunction with the navy, the estuary forts, before proceeding up the tideway – both on foot and afloat, he surmised – while fighting a desperate enemy all the way, to invest a major city which had, he had got them to admit, stout walls.

  ‘I know what I propose appears arduous, but it is not impossible.’

  ‘Monsieur,’ Pearce responded, determined to pour a douche of cold water on this enthusiasm, ‘given the importance of Nantes, and the many wars Britain has fought with France, surely my government has considered this before?’

  ‘And discarded any such plan as doomed to failure,’ Puisaye responded, almost with glee.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There is one crucial difference, Lieutenant,’ the count cried, finger raised, eyes flashing once more as he leant out of his saddle to make his point. ‘They will be able to land unopposed, for if we own little, we do hold a coast of many beaches. Once ashore and with our aid, they will help us trigger an uprising that will drown the ungodly in their own blood.’

  After two days of travel, three for Pearce and Michael, everyone was weary and perhaps it was that which led to a degree of complacency. If Pearce had thought about it – and he had not, as had become habit of late – and put himself in the shoes of those these rebels were fighting, he would have reasoned that an active commander who knew what awaited him in the swamps and marshes might contrive a few tricks of his own.

  That they had an old Indian fighter with them probably saved them from certain death; he was a man who knew which birds should be in the sky and which animals should be disturbed by passing horsemen and it was the lack of those signs which first alerted them to possible danger. His signal to halt, added to the look with which he peered ahead as they approached a deep stretch of woodland they intended to enter, must have told those waiting that to continue doing so was useless.

  The musket fire was thankfully at near extreme range and none of those firing them seemed to be the kind of marksmen who kept their own barrels and made their own balls to fit. Nevertheless they got the prelate, perhaps because his canonical staff, raised to catch the sunlight, acted as a good target.

  He took two musket balls, which had Pearce cursing himself for a terrible thought, thinking he was a typically greedy priest even in death, that as he spurred his pony into a canter, shouting to Michael to do likewise. The Irishman was not listening; he had seen the muzzle flashes and lowered his own musket to reply, with Pearce, looking over his shoulder, trying to mentally calculate the reloading process taking place with those who had sprung the ambush.

  O’Hagan fired and very sensibly flung himself to the ground, keeping hold of his bridle and beginning to run, dragging his frightened animal along with him but heading toward the gunfire, not away. Pearce, having hauled on his own reins, fired his pistol in the general direction of the enemy for no other purpose than to keep a head or two down, this while all around him the party of which he was a member scattered and split.

  Puisaye, no fool, was riding hard for a fold in the ground to their right, gesturing that he should be followed, unaware that his opponent had worked that out as the place of refuge. The four men who stood and fired should have waited, for if they had, every man they sought to kill would have fallen victim, but excitement got the better of them and they stood to loose off a volley when those heading towards them had time to veer away and spoil their aim.

  Pearce was shouting and gesturing that they should go back the way they came as the only safe course of action, only obliged because there was no alternative. Crouched over their withers, the party raced for the last set of trees from which they had exited, there to reform and seek to sort out an avenue of escape, passing as they did so the crumpled body of the bishop, staring glassy-eyed at the heaven he was so sure he was bound for.

  They were out of range before they reached safety, in the trees, all telling each other the same thing, to get behind some cover, dismount and reload their weapons in a cacophony of unnecessary advice. Pearce was kneeling, reloading his pistol, which done allowed him to look for Michael, only then realising, after several unanswered shouts, he was not present.

  ‘Do not worry, Lieutenant,’ Puisaye gasped. ‘We can go round thi
s. They do not know the terrain as we do.’

  ‘How did they know which way we would be coming?’ Pearce asked, searching the land ahead for a sign of Michael.

  ‘A coincidence, no more.’

  ‘Not that someone has perhaps betrayed you?’

  ‘If they have,’ Puisaye snapped, ‘they will burn in hell.’

  ‘Like your bishop out there, perhaps?’ That got a sour look, as if it was not only unbecoming, but also impious to speak so of the dead.

  ‘We must move.’

  ‘Not without I know what has happened to my friend.’

  ‘Servant?’ Puisaye said, confused, which got him the same kind of glare as he had just handed out.

  ‘We cannot stay here, Lieutenant, this is the territory of the enemy and if we are held up we will be trapped. Please believe me that is not a situation you would wish to happen to you. Death is certain and it will be painful.’

  The man in loose buckskins was beside Puisaye now, whispering in his ear, yet his narrow eyes, surrounded by many wrinkles, were on Pearce as if he did not trust him to overhear, he supposing that once the man had fought in the great forest of America against Britannia, there was no way of being at peace with anyone who represented them.

  The flash of lighter colour above the long grass caught Pearce’s eye, as two blue-coated men with muskets inched out of the treeline ahead, muskets at the ready, at which point Michael stood up from the hummock which had kept him hidden, hands raised.

  ‘It would be best he had died,’ Puisaye said, when Pearce drew his attention.

  ‘Monsieur,’ Pearce said, making a point of looking at the French Indian fighter’s long musket, a weapon of some repute that had proved deadly in the hand of the colonials who had kicked out King George’s armies. ‘Are those men in range for you?’