By the Mast Divided (30 page)

Mess Number Twelve were round the gun again, and although it had only been a half an hour since they had been practising, it was clear that most of the party, with tired minds as well as exhausted bodies, had forgotten where to stand. Pearce, his back still smarting from the blow Kemp had given him, and aware that he was close enough to administer more, ordered his messmates into place, as he overheard Lieutenant Digby, in a stiff voice, acknowledge the captain’s words.

‘Michael, with me on this side, Rufus, you and Corny on the other.’ Ben Walker, seeing where the others were going, realised his own station, and picked up the swab, and the volunteer who had joined them, though he had yet to exchange a word with them, took up the rammer. A young boy of about ten years presented himself, carrying half a dozen square 
cloth bundles, roughly sewn, and looked around the faces, clearly seeking someone to whom they should be given.

‘Cartridges,’ he piped, only to be greeted by a sea of uninterested faces. ‘Which one of you buggers is the gun captain?’

‘Sure that is the one thing missing, John-boy,’ said O’Hagan, nudging Pearce.

‘Happen you should take that on, Pearce,’ added Gherson in an arch voice. ‘You seem comfortable giving out orders.’

‘Someone’s got to take them,’ said the boy. ‘I’ll get my arse whipped if I ain’t back at the gunner’s window in half a shake.’

‘Mr Hale,’ barked Digby, realising the dilemma, and calling to the coxswain who had just come on to the quarterdeck, armed and bearing his captain’s sword and pistols, ‘double to the maindeck. Get me two gunners standing by, experienced enough to act as captains. We won’t get the real thing this time. I want them on deck as soon as we engage.’

‘You’re asking for the moon on this barky,’ Hale griped, his objection clearly more to being given the task in the first place than the requirement it placed upon him, ‘there is hardly a soul aboard who knows stem from stern.’

‘You, boy,’ Digby added, ‘lay those cartridges along the back of the shot garland. The rest of you, for the sake of the Lord do not cast off until you are ordered to do so. This is your station but because we are short of hands there will be other tasks to perform. Go to those tasks, then return here when they are complete, and don’t, at your peril, stare at the captain. Keep your eyes firmly the other way and no slouching.’

‘Mr Collins,’ said Barclay, just as Digby finished. ‘I believe it is nearly time to show our Frenchman the nature of his mistake.’

‘Sir?’

So close, Pearce could see in the way that Collins responded, that he posed very much a question, instead of what Barclay clearly expected, which was an acknowledgement.

‘Damn you, man,’ the captain hissed.

Ralph Barclay’s blood was up, and even if he was happy that it was so he had no time to indulge the idiots with whom he had been saddled. Right now he would have given his eye-teeth for the men who had sailed with him on his last commission, officers and a master who knew his ways and anticipated his orders, who trusted him and never ever returned him a questioning look when given a command.

‘Stand by to adjust the sails as we did before, sir! Are you not aware that at any moment now that Frenchman is going to luff up and run? Do you know nothing, sir, or guess less?’

Not one of the tyro gun crew, Pearce least of all, was obeying the last injunction of Lieutenant Digby to look away, all were intent on watching what was happening on the quarterdeck. There, the two men on the wheel were stony-faced and staring straight ahead; the flustered Master, face creased with worry, was trying to compose in his mind the order of words he would need to obey the Captain; Farmiloe, the lanky midshipman, fiddled with the leaves of a thick, oilskin-covered book. Plump little Burns in his oversized coat stood by and Lieutenant Roscoe, the fallen side of his face hidden from them, glared at his captain’s back as Barclay moved over to talk to his wife.

‘You must go below now, my dear. The deck will be no place for you once the balls begin to fly.’

‘Will there be wounded, Captain Barclay?’ Emily asked, glancing to where Lutyens had taken station. Her husband’s eyes followed hers.

‘Mr Lutyens,’ he called, ‘I suggest you would be better placed below decks. That is where your duty requires you to be.’ A rather abashed surgeon obeyed, as Ralph Barclay turned back to say quietly to his wife, ‘It is very possible, nothing is certain in a fight at sea, though I hope the injured are French dogs rather than any of my own men.’

‘Then with your permission, I will go to Mr Lutyens and offer my services.’

Barclay had to think about that. Was it proper for his wife to help there? She had never seen a cockpit after a sea fight. Was she up to the amount of blood and gore that could be generated, the lopping off of limbs from frightened men, their screaming mingling with that of the wounded awaiting their fate at the hands of a man who could be more butcher than surgeon? Lutyens with the knife and saw was an unknown quantity.

‘Do you have any idea, my dear, of what an unpleasant place that can be?’

‘I cannot be useless, Captain Barclay, and I hope and pray that you would not want me to be.’

Barclay had to draw in his breath then, struck, as he had been many times since their betrothal, by the sheer beauty of Emily when she took 
on her features that look of determination. He wanted to refuse her request, partly in order to spare her, but more from a fear that, faced with the reality of a bloody cockpit, she might embarrass him by fleeing. But those green eyes fixed on him were death to any resolve, and he found himself nodding.

‘But, my dear,’ Ralph Barclay added, without conviction, ‘if you become distressed, you must leave immediately.’

He got another direct look, and words that made him wonder if this young wife of his could read his mind. ‘I would not dare to do that, for it would disgrace your name, our name.’

‘Mr Burns,’ Barclay called, without turning, for he was still held by those eyes. ‘My wife will not be going to the cable tier. I require you to escort Mrs Barclay, once she has changed her clothing, to the cockpit.’

Then he did turn, to look around the ship, the expression on his face seeming to desire that all aboard should match that spirit. The triumphant ocular tour brought him right round to the gun, and the staring faces of Mess Number Twelve.

‘Mr Roscoe, are you aware of those men and what they are about?’

Roscoe, who had been looking in the direction of the chase, was startled, and his body seemed to jerk as he threw himself towards them, snarling in what was an excessive reaction. ‘I have you marked, you bloody swine, and I’ll see you damned.’

‘Language, sir,’ Barclay admonished him, ‘my wife is still in earshot.’

‘Mr Farmiloe, take the names of these men,’ Roscoe added.

‘I have your name, sir,’ Barclay continued, glaring at Roscoe, who was forced to turn and face him. The man had been daydreaming, which at a time like this was unforgivable. ‘I have it in my head, and by God I shall soon enter it in the log, and I assure you it will not be as a paean to your competence.’

‘Now there, by Jesus,’ whispered Michael O’Hagan, his body halfway across the gun, his heavily bruised face bemused, ‘is a man prone to the making of enemies.’

‘Silence, there,’ said Midshipman Farmiloe, who had come to take their names.

‘All hands to change sail,’ the master yelled.

For the first time since being dragged aboard, Twelve Mess shot to the place where they were required without either orders or the use of a rattan, leaving the lanky mid looking very foolish. Sore hands or not they stood ready to haul on the ropes that controlled the great mainsail. A line appeared out of the sky, as it had on the previous occasion, but 
this time, without being ordered to do so, Rufus Dommet caught it and hauled it to the belaying pin that held the corner of the sail taut, while Ben Walker, again unbidden, began to undo the binding. The other members of the mess took hold of the rope attached to the corner of the sail, to hold it so that it would not fly off on the wind and leave the sail flapping uselessly.

Someone, somewhere, showed a degree of competence, perhaps the master, for two experienced sailors arrived to tie the knot that would splice the two ropes together, then to supervise the way it was paid out so that the corner of the maincourse could be raised to form a triangle with the apex lashed to the yard very close to the mainmast, all the time without once allowing the pressure of the wind to carry it away.

‘Bugger me, mate,’ said one of the experienced hands, with a look of surprise. ‘Happen you’re learnin’.’

‘What’s that called?’ asked Pearce. ‘That manoeuvre?’

‘It be called a goose wing,’ said one of the sailors. ‘Capt’n reckons the forecourse’ll draw better that way ’cause by lifting the corner of the mainsail the wind can get at it.’

‘Thank you, friend,’ replied Pearce. ‘Much obliged.’

They were moving away, back to wherever they had come from, when one sailor said to the other, ‘Much obliged. Happen there’s somethin’ to be said for having a gent aboard, Smithy.’

‘Well, we’re short of the commodity on the quarterdeck, mate,’ the other replied, ‘an’ that’s no error.’

‘Do we go back to the gun now?’ asked Charlie Taverner.

The question was addressed to Pearce, underlining how he, without wishing for or seeking it, and with Gherson objecting, was being deferred to. His affirmative nod had them all moving.

‘Look out for that midshipman that was set to take our names,’ hissed Rufus.

‘That sailor was right,’ said Pearce, ‘we are learning.’

It was a silent group that shuffled back to the gun and when they got there they kept their eyes firmly away from the knot of officers on the quarterdeck, though they could hear clearly enough whatever was being said.

‘There he goes, sir,’ called Digby, ‘he has let fly and ported his helm.’

Barclay responded boastfully. ‘But we have stolen half a cable’s length on the son of a bitch.’

Lieutenant Roscoe snorted with what could only be termed derision. ‘Hardly that, sir.’

Pearce had to sneak a look, guessing that if he had deliberately set out to rile his commanding officer, Roscoe could not have chosen a better way. He saw Barclay swell up. ‘I take leave to surmise you would not have done anything. I admonish you to learn from this, sir, for it is to the pity of the Navy that you may one day command your own vessel.’

‘Sir, you cannot address me so,’ Roscoe protested.

Barclay’s reply was icy. ‘Sir, I am the captain of this ship. I can address you howsoever I like.’

‘That, sir,’ Roscoe responded, ‘will, I think, be decided by those in higher authority when I demand a court martial.’

‘Demand away, sir. I look forward to a public exposure of your conduct. Now you will oblige me by being silent. We have, in case you have forgotten, an enemy to fight.’

‘On deck there!
Firefly
signalling.’

Farmiloe was glad to be back in his signal book. He was able to see clearly the flags, and was no longer obliged to stare straight ahead and listen to the bitter, embarrassing exchanges of his Captain and First Lieutenant.

‘Captain Gould is asking again for permission to pursue the chase, sir.’

Pearce saw Ralph Barclay lose his temper completely then, yelling in a voice that could be heard all over the deck. ‘Am I to be plagued? Is there an officer in the service that understands an order when it is given?’ His voice dropped, but not much. ‘Mr Farmiloe, repeat the signal to
Firefly
to hold his position.’

‘I feel I must speak, sir,’ said Roscoe. ‘My duty demands it.’

‘What?’

‘Captain Gould is surely a match for the chase.’

‘So?’

‘It flies in the face of all reason not to let
Firefly
pursue, and I can only assume that another reason, not a tactical one, intrudes on your thinking.’

‘Mr Roscoe…’

‘Please, sir,’ Roscoe interrupted, ‘make sure that those remarks are noted in the log along with anything you may choose to enter.’

‘I will note that you have undertaken to exceed your position. Now oblige me by remembering your rank.’

Ralph Barclay had to turn away then, because his Premier had stung him into examining what he was doing – and Roscoe had the right of it. Davidge Gould did command a vessel that could sail closer to the wind, 
and his sloop was well enough armed to fight the Frenchman. But Gould did not need what he needed, which was something that could be set against his name to elevate it. Gould had influence and a seeming rapport with those in authority. The captain of HMS
Brilliant
enjoyed none of these advantages; indeed he was sure in his own mind that amongst those who mattered at the Admiralty there was a conspiracy to do him down.

‘I will respond to you, Mr Roscoe, so that when we meet in court, in front of officers who comprehend the matter more clearly, the thing is clear. I agree that
Firefly
is a match for our Frenchmen, but she is no more than that. Thus, in an engagement, when nothing is certain, she may suffer either in casualties or shipboard damage. That is something, which as joint escorts, who are not yet clear of the Channel, we can ill afford. Who knows what force we might meet at this, the beginning of a war. And, sir, I would remind you that we are bound for the Mediterranean and it is incumbent upon us to arrive whole and of some use. We, on the other hand, risk nothing against such an enemy. If we cannot catch him we will at least drive him off.’

Roscoe snorted again. Pearce reckoned he could not say the captain was a liar, not openly anyway, but wished to make it clear he thought him so.

‘I cannot comprehend this,’ said Pearce softly to his mates. He was wondering how, when these men had a ship to command and a possible battle to fight, in which the sailors under their command could be wounded or die, they could indulge themselves in a personal quarrel.

‘It’s simple, Pearce,’ said Ben Walker, in his measured West Country drawl. ‘They’re both bastards, but one is a bigger bastard than the other.’

The Frenchman could not have been unaware of the approach of HMS
Brilliant
, because quite apart from her course, the signal gun was in almost constant use to alert merchant captains to get out of the way. Barclay was crowding on sail, topgallants and fore and outer jib, and ploughing through the water looked set to ram any sod that got in his way. Not everyone reacted with the required speed, and the frigate captain showed his impatience by putting a roundshot over the bows of one merchant ship that was a tad laggardly in backing its top hamper to let him through.

The captain of the French barque had done what Barclay had supposed he would – put up his helm and headed for his home shore over the eastern horizon. Barclay’s intention was to cut an angle that would bring the fellow to battle before he could get clear. It would be touch and go, he
could see that, but he was slightly strung in the amount of canvas he could bear aloft. The overnight gale had abated somewhat but he still had to contend with a blustery west wind that was far from constant, so that what appeared a sound sail plan one minute looked excessive the next, as the frigate heeled over in a gust and the lee rail came close to the water.

‘Holy Mother of Christ,’ groaned Michael O’Hagan, as the pea-green sea, flecked with foam, rose up to meet him. The others, particularly Gherson could not look. Pearce was far from sanguine, though he had seen the Dover to Calais packet in the same state and recalled that, alarmed as he had certainly been, the vessel had always righted itself.

Just as Barclay was about to ease something to take the pressure off his sails the wind would decrease, leaving him with the conundrum of knowing that very likely he would face the same dilemma in a few moments. The chase was not idle; sailing large, with the wind coming in over her stern, the enemy ship had also crowded on canvas to escape. Barclay realised that with such a wind on such a bearing the barque could trend away southwards whenever she liked, increasing the distance at which he would cross the T of her course.

‘Mr Collins, I require a little more southing,’ said Barclay.

‘Then we must take in some sail, sir, or ease the braces. With the yards so far round the wind will be coming in over our beam.’

‘Let us see how she fares. She is a good sea boat I think, and will serve us well.’ It was a gamble, because Barclay was risking carrying away something major.
Brilliant
would not be thrown on her beam-ends but one of his tightly lodged and stiff masts might go by the board with so much pressure on them. ‘Mr Roscoe, a party standing by to ease the wedges on the mainmast.’

‘Chase is altering course to the south, sir,’ said Collins.

Even given the time it was taking to close there was added tension on the ship. Pearce had the feeling that not everyone was happy. Collins, from what he could see was incapable of the emotion and Roscoe was miserable, convinced that what his captain was about was wrong. But it was the crew that interested him most, or those he could see. All were looking forward one minute, then at a mast when it, and the rigging that held it, groaned with the strain. It looked to be a strange combination of exhilaration and fear.

‘A bow chaser, Mr Roscoe,’ Barclay ordered, never once taking his eye off the prize. ‘Only the windward port can be opened with any safety I think. Get it manned and run out if you please. Let’s try the range as soon as it is loaded.’