A Shot Rolling Ship Page 4

  ‘Mr Short,’ he said, addressing the hidden midshipmen. ‘With the sea state being so gentle, as soon as the crew have finished their breakfast we will carry out practising boarding from boats.’

  ‘Christ in heaven,’ hissed Michael as Colbourne turned away, steadying himself against the roll of the ship. ‘Gentle, he says! Is that blue-coated fool resting his pins on the same bit of wood as me?’

  Colbourne, back now to the crew, the canvas screen still held up in one hand, stopped dead. Given that he had come out to the sound of Michael’s voice, he could hardly be unaware of the source of the comment, even if it had not been made out loud. Pearce reckoned that to call a ship’s captain a fool when he could hear and identify you was a dangerous thing to do. Michael liked to debunk people yet this time he might have gone too far, but the screen dropped as Colbourne disappeared. That was when Pearce looked around and observed that none of the crew, at least those he could see, had been holding their breath.

  ‘He takes a tease well,’ he said to Latimer.

  ‘Ain’t bad old Coal Barge,’ Latimer replied, ‘as captain’s go.’

  ‘Who’s Coal Barge?’ asked Rufus.

  ‘You don’t look too bright, lad,’ Latimer replied, peering into the heavily freckled face and the light blue eyes, ‘so it be a bit of reassurance to know that you is thick after all.’

  ‘Not thick enough to be sailor by trade,’ snapped Charlie Taverner, leaping to the defence of his young friend.

  Latimer responded with a slow smile designed to take the sting out of what could turn into an argument. ‘Coal Barge be the captain’s nickname, and as I say he’s not a crabbed one. Christ knows, I served often enough under worse. Dislikes the cat, which is a bonus, for there are those aboard, like there be on any commission, who give occasion to deserve it.’

  ‘Then how does he maintain discipline?’ asked Rufus. ‘I thought all captains were friends to the lash.’

  Pearce was just about to point out that the best way to control men was with consent, but Latimer’s swift reply left that as no more than a thought in his head. ‘The right way, mate. He gets we’s to do it wereselves. He’s a bugger for stopping the rum of those that gets out of hand, and the whole crew if they don’t mend their ways after the warning. Done it twice for a two day stint already this commission, which don’t do him no harm. Lines his pocket a bit, that saved rum, his being ship’s purser as well as captain.’

  ‘Is that usual?’ asked Cornelius Gherson, always quick to join a conversation that connected in any way to money.

  ‘Never in life, but where on a ship this size would you put a robbing bastard of a purser that would see him and his stores safe? No, the powers that be have gifted the captain the job, happen to make up for him having such a shit posting otherwise. He ain’t as bad as the natural breed, but I doubt he’ll come out of the commission showing a loss.’

  Pearce almost asked outright if he was aboard a happy ship, or even a contented one, for what Latimer had been saying had elicited nods from those closest to them, but the old sailor, dark-skinned face closing, carried on. ‘Can’t say I blame him, being fair. Ain’t Coal Barges’ fault that we’s crammed like sardines in a barrel, with not the proper room to eat and sleep, that be the fault of those who reckon this a ship fit for the duty, which it is plainly not.’

  ‘The duty being?’ asked Pearce.

  ‘To protect ships like the one you was nabbed off, goin’ in an’ out of their home ports. Griffin ain’t no flyer, which she needs to be to catch Johnny Crapaud, for as sure as hell won’t freeze they rarely come out from their home ports in laggards, and the sight of us and a deck full of cannon is enough to have them put up their helms and run for home or safety. An’ putting double the hands aboard ship don’t help neither. Looks a good duty on the face, this here patrolling the sea lanes lark, an’ it would be if’n we could take one or two.’

  ‘Prize money?’ said Gherson, with a familiar and avaricious gleam in his eye.

  ‘Fat chance,’ sneered a man between them, ‘the workhouse more like when peace comes. We’s been out here near a month, barring a trip a week past to revictual, and though we might have seen plenty the only thing we’s ever got alongside is some Dane or Hanse merchants, which being neutral ain’t no use at all.’

  Pearce was not looking at Latimer or the speaker, but at the rest of the crew, at least those he could see, nodding vigorously in agreement, or shaking their heads in wonder at the foolishness of an Admiralty that had sent the wrong ship on such a vital task.

  ‘And to think we signed for this without a press gang in sight,’ Latimer added. ‘Buggers got a full complement without so much as a cuff round the ear.’

  Charlie was quickly on to that. ‘If you are volunteers, why press us?’

  ‘Replacements, mate. We fell foul of a frigate going south short on numbers. Captain of that bugger whipped half a dozen men out, prime seamen too, which tells you all you need to know. We’s at more risk from our own in these waters than them French sods.’

  ‘They could press me out of this bugger any time.’

  Pearce recognised the voice that had spoken up to rile Michael, a heavy set, but fleshy fellow called Blubber, who might have been one to challenge the Irishman. In looking for it he observed very clearly that it was a statement with which a great number of the crew also agreed.

  ‘The Med will be teeming with well-laden Frenchmen,’ said another sailor. ‘The buggers that went will be lining their pockets in the weeks to come.’

  ‘As well as warm with it, Matt,’ said a third, ‘with room to sling a hammock for a decent night’s kip.’

  ‘An’ droppin’ anchor at Majorca,’ Blubber added, ‘so it will be warmer still when the señoritas are boated out.’

  The buzz of general conversation broke forth, for there was nothing like carnal anticipation to get a group of tars talking; but beneath the happy anticipation or tale-telling of Mediterranean beauties lay a clear discontent. These men had signed up to this ship for the prospect of quick prize money, no doubt on the promise that it would be easy; it always was on any poster John Pearce had ever seen. They would have accepted any hardship in food and space for enough of that and the dream that went with it; of a prize so valuable, or captures so numerous, that they could live in comfort for the rest of their lives. Latimer had turned away, to continue his talking with one of the men who had joined with him, allowing Michael to speak softly to his fellow Pelicans.

  ‘Well there’s consolation, we being miserable, that we might not be the only ones.’

  ‘We’ll fit in right nicely,’ opined Rufus Dommet, getting a slight raised eyebrow from his mates, for the boy was not one to put an opinion above the parapet.

  ‘Mr Short,’ called a voice from beyond the screen. ‘I think it time to pipe all hands on deck.’

  ‘Heard us moaning,’ said Latimer softly, turning back to them. ‘Which he should too. Reckon he thought this a duty that would see him in clover just like us. Happen he believed what he had printed on his posters just as we did. Well, it is only right that if we have the hump, he should know it.’

  Not a happy ship, thought Pearce, on either side of that canvas divide.

  ‘That ain’t gentle, is it?’ moaned Rufus, trying to steady himself while looking unhappily at the endlessly moving grey-green waters of the English Channel.

  ‘He must be joshing us,’ Charlie replied, jabbing a finger at the choppy waters.

  ‘No sight of land,’ said Michael, ‘nor the smell of it.’

  Pearce had already spotted that but he was more attentive to the way a called for duty had tempered the moaning so evident between decks; whatever discontent these men harboured was laid aside as soon as they were given something to do. Those given the task hauled in the ship’s boats, which had been towed behind, covered with tarred canvas to keep them dry, sent over first thing after they were piped from their hammocks for there was no room on deck to do anything if they were inboard; y
ou could not work the guns or clean the deck lest they were sent astern.

  ‘Line them up, Mr Short.’ Colbourne called, ‘then send them aft for their weapons.’

  The second midshipman, a stripling called Bailey, stood with a burly marine, wooden swords, dummy hatchets and padded clubs at his feet, two others holding muskets to their rear, as his messmate walked along the lined up sailors saying, ‘Attacker, defender, attacker, defender.’ Before he got to him, Gherson, unseen, nipped round an indifferent sailor to ensure he got the deck. Standing next to Michael, Pearce got the boats, while the Irishman got the defence.

  ‘Luck of the Irish, for them boats is set to be damned uncomfortable.’

  ‘I’ll try to make this deck uncomfortable for you, Michael.’

  ‘Don’t trouble, John boy, it is enough that already.’

  Still in the same line they trailed the few feet to where Bailey and his marines stood, those early enough given the choice of weapon. Pearce took a sword and in weighing it, he realised that were it real, not wooden, he was close enough to the ship’s captain, provided his weapon was sharp enough, to sever his neck with one swift blow. What would happen then? Probably the musket-bearing marines would lower their weapons and shoot him, but what he could observe did bring home the notion that a disgruntled crew inclined to rebellion would have little difficulty in taking the ship if they so wanted, a quartet of marines being insufficient to stop them.

  He called to mind his reading of William Bligh’s published narrative of the Bounty mutiny, how easy it had been for Christian and his fellow conspirators to take the vessel. Really, like Bligh, all that Colbourne had to protect him was the authority vested in him by his officer’s commission and the threat of punishment that hung over any sailor who mutinied. He had a vision of casting this lieutenant adrift in one of the boats. At least he was close to home, unlike Bligh who had had to sail four and a half thousand miles to find a civilised landfall.

  ‘Move along there,’ the lieutenant said, and for the moment it took for Pearce to obey their eyes locked, Pearce holding the look for longer than discipline allowed so as to annoy Colbourne. The expression to which he was treated showed him how well he had succeeded.

  ‘Defenders to the lee rail,’ called Colbourne, ‘attackers to the weather. Mr Short, take on board your grappling irons.’

  Charlie Taverner had to push Rufus so that he went to right bulwark. As soon as he spotted Pearce moving in the same direction the boy joined him. ‘I ain’t looking forward to this Pearce, having seen the way those boats were heaving about as they was hauled in.’

  ‘They will be a little more stable full of bodies, Rufus.’

  The voice was tremulous as he replied. ‘What if I tumble o’er board.’

  ‘Then you have a choice, Rufus, swim for the ship or stay afloat till you are dragged back in.’

  It was telling comment of the youngster’s naivety that he seemed to give the twin notions due consideration. Then he brightened. ‘You can always dive in to my rescue, you being a right good swimmer.’

  ‘You got gills, Pearce?’ asked the sailor stood the other side of Rufus. The face was friendly, bright blue eyes and a broad winning smile under blond, near white hair. Pearce responded in kind, eager to address the first crew member, barring Latimer, to call him by name.

  ‘I’m a shark, mate, so if you tell me what you’d like for supper I’ll slip into the water and fetch it for you.’

  ‘Name’s Sam, mate, and I is partial to a bit of cod.’

  ‘You be too far south for that, Sam,’ said the man on the other side of him. ‘Water’s too warm.’

  ‘I’d like to hear you say that, Matt, if you was dipped in it.’

  ‘Mr Short,’ Colbourne shouted, ‘to command the cutter, Mr Bailey the jolly boat. Tally off the men you need.’

  The sailors preceding Pearce and Rufus dropped into the boat with commendable ease. Getting over the side was not so easy for either of them, though the former did not make as much of a pig’s ear as the boy. Lowering yourself, even if only some ten feet, on a single rope wet from seawater, into a boat bobbing four or five feet up and down, with a wooden sword dangling between your legs, was not easy. While Pearce dropped into the boat with a thud, Rufus practically fell in from his second hand-hold, dropping the padded club he had chosen as a weapon in the process.

  ‘Anybody still see that Indiaman, lads,’ asked the sailor called Matt, ‘for we will be wanting to send these arsewipes back.’

  ‘No need,’ came the reply. ‘Next man o’ war comes along we’ll ship them out in that.’

  ‘Not if I get first in line you won’t,’ replied Matt. ‘I’ll have my ditty bag shouldered and a foot over the side before they gets hull up.’

  ‘You,’ commanded a voice behind Pearce, ‘sit here. Somebody get hold of Ginger an’ get him holding somethin’ afore he tips into the briny. And make space for the first boarders.’

  Order was swiftly applied and Pearce found himself holding the thick end of an oar, the wood wrapped with twine to aid his grip. The space between him and the opposite oar was quickly filled by those who would board first. Looking towards the stern he was facing the prematurely lined face of Midshipman Short, who had taken station on the tiller.

  ‘Haul away,’ he shouted, much louder than was truly necessary.

  Pearce could not claim to be efficient on an oar, though that commodity was all around him in the ease with which the true seamen hauled away, but he had competence enough to outstrip Rufus, who could not get his blade into rhythm with the others, it being in the water when theirs were out and vice versa.

  ‘We’s all out of kilter,’ cried one wag, ‘Ginger is showing us how.’

  ‘Happen we should gift him a short blue coat an’ call him mister.’

  Midshipman Short deliberately looked away at what was an obvious reference to the general uselessness of his kind.

  ‘Miss more like, the useless bugger.’

  One of the men set to board took pity, and using only one hand got Rufus dipping and raising in unison. ‘You just watch the back of the man in front lad. Go forrard with him and drop the blade, then haul back hard and lift when he does. Never mind the oar, that’ll do what your body says it should if’n you hold it right.’

  Rufus did not get it right, but that mattered little given that they were not going far from the side. They turned to face the ship, oars now used to steady the cutter. To their left the smaller jolly boat lay likewise, bobbing on the green water as wave after wave ran under the counter. Short passed the tiller to one of the spare sailors, and with some difficulty made his way to the prow where, transferring his own dummy sword to a wrist lanyard, he gave the command to, ‘Haul away.’

  The boats moved forward, gaining speed quickly, oars in and out before Rufus or Pearce had got their sticks into the water. When they did manage they aided progress very little as the boat headed for the side of HMS Griffin, the deck of which was now lined with their shipmates yelling and swearing a blood-curdling invitation.

  ‘Mr Bailey,’ Short shouted, ‘you take the mainchains, and I will assault them amidships, thus splitting the defence.’

  Quick to obey, the oars on one side hit the water while the others were lifted and the jolly boat was sent towards the bow. Pearce, craning over his shoulder, could see little until they came off the crest of a wave, and not much then – the ship wallowing, the side lined by those still aboard yelling and screaming – but he did reckon that what they were about against a real enemy would be hazardous in the extreme. All advantage lay with the defenders, who had height and bulwarks to protect them, while those in the boats had nothing but a few muskets to keep the crew away from the side of the ship. Done for real it seemed like a good way to get a boat load of sailors killed.

  Both Pearce and Rufus failed to react properly when the command came to boat oars. Luckily Pearce was on the seaward side, so did himself no harm, merely trailing a useless oar in the water. Rufus’ stick
clattered into the ship’s side, and jumping out of its rowlock sent him flying into the bottom. There, as everyone else aboard reached for the ropes that hung from the now-thrown grappling irons, he was repeatedly stood on until Pearce could get to him and haul him to his knees.

  ‘Come on, Rufus, time to show them our mettle.’

  Not all the sailors were using ropes; a couple had their backs to the ship’s side and, hands cupped, were propelling their mates up towards the deck. The way the boat was dipping because of this sent both Pearce and Rufus off balance and they were last to the side, the only people in the thing except those tasked to keep it pinned in place, faced with a series of lines and the command, delivered with a scream, that they climb them. The grappling irons had been thrown into the ship’s shrouds, high enough so that anyone using them could get above the level of the deck. Pearce took hold, looped one end round his hand, and jumped so that his feet were on the scantlings. Lying almost horizontal he hauled himself up hand over hand until he reached the ladder of ropes that ran to the mainmast cap. There was a brief moment in which he could observe what was happening on deck, as men who were shipmates fought each other with real gusto. The false weapons were swinging hard, and the odd punch was being added to what was a joyous melee.

  Looking aft he saw Colbourne, smiling at what was happening before him, taking no part in the actions of his men but enjoying their mutual pounding. Disinclined to join in the fighting beneath him he saw no reason why the ship’s commander should be spared active participation, should be left to enjoy his sport. Dropping down onto the deck he found himself standing over Cornelius Gherson, who was cowering, hands over his head, in the scuppers. That earned him a sharp jab from Pearce’s wooden sword which brought forth a pleasing squeal, which Pearce followed up with a telling kick that sent Gherson’s head into the ship’s side. But dealing with Gherson nearly did for him. Spinning round, Pearce just got his sword up on time to stop himself being hit with a soft sand cosh, the wood of his blade taking his assailant on the forearm, which must have hurt for his face screwed up in pain and the eyes took on a look of alarm at what was sure to follow, a clout round the ear.