By the Mast Divided (47 page)

Pearce was forced to leave off gun-laying to find out from Twyman what that meant.

‘They are lighter than us, a shallower draught, so they might drift out with greater speed.’

‘So?’

‘They will hope to foul us, run their bowsprit over our rail, snare us on lines and act as a sheet anchor so that we drift into the shore.’

‘Then,’ said Pearce emphatically, ‘I think spoiling their game comes first. Charlie, Rufus, you said that powder barrel was yours.’

‘It is, Pearce,’ shouted Charlie, for the first time in an age his face happy, something like it had been that night in the Pelican. ‘It most surely is.’

Pearce wanted to light the slowmatch before they moved from the gangway, but Dysart had too healthy a respect for powder to let him. He insisted on patience until the entire party was on the poop. Then, and only then, would he take the small piece of linstock, already burning, and apply it to the bare inch left exposed.

‘The honour,’ Pearce said to his two messmates, ‘is yours.’

‘Dinna rush,’ warned Dysart. ‘See how slow it burns.’

What crew remained on the
Mercedes
must have sensed something coming, even if they could not see what it was. Those who could be spared took up position to fire a couple of muskets at the party on the Indiaman’s poop, but they were rebuffed by a fusillade, led by Michael O’Hagan, made by his musket and numerous captured pistols.

‘Get ready,’ warned Dysart as the burning fuse reached the very edge of the bung. Charlie and Rufus lifted the barrel by the ropes and started to swing, with the Scotsman intoning an interminable
one-twa-three
for the throw. On three, the two Pelicans gave a mighty heave backwards, then forwards, and slung the barrel of powder, its fuse fizzing angrily, onto the privateer’s deck.

‘Now get doon,’ the Scotsman ordered.

It was as well they obliged. Almost as soon as the barrel hit the enemy deck, following no more than a couple of rolls, it went off, a great crashing explosion that tore lumps out of the French ship. Flaming staves rose into the rigging and lodged there, setting light to tarred rope wherever they came into contact. It seemed only minutes until the
Mercedes
was ablaze all along her forepeak, those who had been left aboard no longer seeking to close her in on the Indiaman. Now they were looking for a way to survive.

‘Back on the gun,’ Pearce shouted, finding he had to drag some away from the terrifying sight.

‘Aye, aye, Captain,’ called Charlie.

Pearce grinned, and in doing so realised how tense he had been. ‘Only a gun captain, Charlie.’

They got off one more shot, that one aimed at a target that lay astern of the ship, and this time the ball landed on the shore to bounce along, sending Frenchmen flying in all directions.

‘I never wanted to be a sailor, Michael,’ said Pearce, leaning wearily on the Irishman’s shoulder. ‘But right now I would be happy to change places.’

‘Only a fool would believe that, John-boy,’ Michael replied, ‘an omadhaun in the Erse.’

‘Is that what it means, a fool?’

‘Aye, though one tinged with madness.’

‘Then I have found my true rating.’

The flash of the exploding powder that set in motion the destruction of the
Mercedes
lit the night sky and was visible for fifty miles, brilliant fading to constant, reflected off the cloud cover. Lieutenant Digby, who had the watch aboard HMS
Brilliant
, deliberated about waking his captain, worried that a man who seemed to have clutched at so many straws would do likewise with this. He knew that the frigate should not be here, three days sailing at least from the convoy. If Gould had obeyed his instructions and cleared the great headland at Ushant he would be well on his way to passing Brest and entering the Bay of Biscay. But reluctant as he was, he had no choice – Barclay’s standing orders were quite specific.

‘It came from the Estuary de Trieux?’ Barclay demanded, night glass to his eye, nightshirt flapping in the breeze.

‘I can only report that the explosion came from the general direction, sir.’

‘An opinion, Mr Digby.’

‘I feel obliged to decline to give one, sir. It could be anything.’

‘And what, sir,’ Barclay enquired drily, passing the lieutenant his telescope, ‘would you say that was?’

Digby looked, not knowing whether to be pleased or despairing about the orange glow that tinged the sky. ‘Fire, sir.’

‘A large fire, sir, perhaps even a ship fire?’

‘We cannot assume that, Captain Barclay.’

‘No Mr Digby, we cannot. But I think we are obliged to investigate. Please set me a course for the mouth of that estuary. I want to be close inshore by dawn.’

‘Aye, aye, sir.’

Unbeknown to Pearce, Twyman had been busy getting some kind of sail on the ship that would enable the helmsman to hold her head steady. Firing his cannon, watching the gunpowder bomb and the subsequent fire, he had not even been aware that men had gone aloft. They had rigged a jib and the gaff, as well as a topsail that could be braced round into what were now light airs. With this the
Lady Harrington
could set and maintain a course, with the added advantage that the topsail, backed, could slow their progress down the channel, very necessary if they did not wish to run aground.

Nor was he aware, as a nautical novice, just how swiftly the tide fell in the bight of Brittany, the speed with which the water exited from this estuary. At the mouth of the inlet it was like a tidal race, a cataract that met the incoming seawater, breaking over rocks in abundance, to create a maelstrom of white water, something the locals avoided like the plague.

‘I need hands on the braces,’ Twyman yelled. ‘For if we don’t have sails set right we could broach to in that water, an’ that don’t take no account of the rocks.’

He had caught Pearce cold; he was still, like his shipmates, basking in the glow of the martial success. One Tooth Twyman had no tact at all, so when he yelled at them for some activity it was well larded with expletives.

‘Are we being required,’ Michael scoffed, with an expression that boded argument, ‘to do willingly what we hated to do for Barclay?’

‘We are,’ Pearce replied, ‘and I fear we must.’

In a voice full of irony he simulated what he had heard on
Brilliant
. ‘So clap on to them falls, me hearties, an’ pull like the very devil.’

Which the Pelicans did, their spirits as high as his, running to where they were told, hauling on ropes like demons, aware that Martin Dent was aloft doing what he did best on
Brilliant
, handling the highest sails, while Mr Burns was likewise replicating his naval behaviour, standing by the wheel being utterly useless. Dysart, with only one good arm, had taken on the task of ensuring that ropes were properly attached to their cleats, that they would not fly off and endanger the whole ship.

The Indiaman hit the disturbed water to rear and buck like a horse, with Twyman and two others fighting a wheel that wanted to rip itself out of their hands. The bows dipped alarmingly, and the long bowsprit shot well east. Pearce and his mates raced to loosen one set of braces, then ran with equal alacrity to tighten those on the larboard side. The wind on the sails, in that configuration, brought the head round and the
Lady Harrington
ploughed out into less tempestuous waters.

The boom, and the shock that hit them seconds later, took everyone aboard by surprise. They had been too busy seeing to the needs of their ship to think of what was happening to the
Mercedes
, illuminated like a torch by the flames that ran through her sails and rigging. The hull had been ablaze too and as the flames reached her store of gunpowder she simply blew up, a great cataclysmic explosion that sent most of the decks skywards, while the scantlings were blown out to reveal the fiery red ball that was the seat of the blast.

‘Jesus,’ said Michael, crossing himself.

‘Fire got the magazine,’ said Dysart.

There was a moment of uncertainty for Pearce; part elation, part regret at the death of a ship and quite possibly several men aboard her, pride at what they had achieved tugging at every pacifist tenet he had ever been taught. If that had been
Brilliant
and Barclay would he care so much? That was a thought that brought him abruptly back to consideration of the next dilemma.

‘Twyman,’ he shouted, ‘is it possible to set a course that would take us east?’

‘Whatever for?’

Pearce looked out into the inky western darkness of the sea, lit only by a streak of moonlight. ‘I think our frigate is out to the west, and I have good reasons for wanting to avoid her.’

‘Then if that’s what you want you’d best get back on those bloody falls and haul away on command, though I won’t put the helm down till we are well clear of that damned shore.’

Once on a settled course, sailing easy, everyone aboard could relax and count the cost of what they had done. They had one
Harrington
dead; the two wounded were brought in to rest in what had been the Indiaman captain’s sleeping cabin and rendered what aid was possible. It was not much, and worryingly, Michael identified one fellow who had saved his life as critical. It was that smooth-faced cove that Pearce had first met at their prison window, the one known as Dusty.

‘Seen it before, John-boy, that lack of colour. Poor sod can barely breathe. He needs a medical man.’

‘How long, Twyman, till we raise the home shore?’

‘God alone has knowledge of that, mate, and if you was a sailor you would know better than to ask. The wind will decide. If it favours us, and the weather stays clear, two to four days. But I’ve been stuck in this stretch of water for a whole fortnight, beating up the Channel into the
teeth of an endless easterly, and that with a full crew of hands.’

‘I would hate to be responsible for anyone’s death.’

‘We’s all got to go sometime,’ Twyman replied, heartlessly.

Pearce was now feeling guilty, his mood black, not only about the remarkably few casualties they had suffered, but also about those amongst the Frenchmen – he was sure he had killed more than one – which he knew to be absurd. They would have killed him if they could, and probably celebrated the fact of doing so. But being irrational did not make that emotion any easier to avoid. He was assailed by the stupidity of some of the decisions he had made, easily able to imagine the consequences had the whole party not been favoured with remarkable good luck. Added to that was the certain knowledge that he had risked a great many lives to achieve an utterly selfish end – his own return to England. The excuse that he was acting for them collectively was now, obviously, so much moonshine. His mood rendered him uncommunicative, which did not register with the crew of the Indiaman, but offended those with whom he had come ashore.

‘Anybody wid think we lost,’ moaned Dysart, unaware that the look Pearce gave him was not one of annoyance, but yet another twinge of conscience; if the Scotsman was not to lose the full use of his arm for life, he needed a surgeon as well.

Sitting in the capacious main cabin, his mood was not helped by his surroundings. Pearce could only wonder at the area allotted to the man who ran the ship compared to that given to everyone else. The whole space, which could fore and aft be divided in two, seemed to occupy a third of the length of the vessel. The captain had his own privy and a separate space for his bed. The furniture would have graced any salon at home and the quality of the late captain’s private stores – the Frenchmen aboard had been heavily at the wine – reeked of easy wealth.

‘He was of a high colour, mind,’ said Twyman, talking of the previous occupant, while happily occupying his chair. ‘And choleric, forever yelling and going blue with it. So when he had his seizure none of us were like to be shocked.’

‘What happens to the ship now?’

‘God knows,’ Twyman replied, his single fang gnawing at his lower lip. ‘Sail into an English port, send a note to the owners and see what happens.’

‘Some of us would need to be put ashore prior to that.’

‘Was you pressed?’ Pearce nodded, as Twyman added, ‘And freshly so judging by your skills.’

‘Not much more than a week ago,’ Pearce replied, ‘though it feels like a lifetime.’

The thought of his destination had obviously made Twyman gloomy, but he brightened considerably when responding to Pearce’s request. ‘I’d be an ungrateful swab if I couldn’t manage that, mate. Don’t you fret, I’ll get you clear.’

‘Lying one-toothed bastard,’ said Dysart, when Pearce accosted him to ask him what he wanted to do – come ashore with them or stay on the ship. He kicked the bulwark by which they were standing. ‘The bugger is salvage at least.’

‘So?’

‘The value o’ the ship and the cargo has tae be redeemed by the insurers – them bastards that tak their coffee at Lloyds. It’s worth thousands, maybe tens of, since we dinna know the cargo. Nae wonder he’s happy to get you off the bluddy thing so you’ll no get a share.’

‘Are you sure?’ asked Pearce, feeling rather foolish.

‘As sure as a canny straighten my arm,’ Dysart responded, his normally kindly face a mask of real fury. ‘That’s the law o’ the sea, man. You wouldna credit it, would ye? Having saved the bastard’s arse, he wants tae diddle you oot of ony reward.’

‘It’s not one we could claim anyway Dysart, since we intend to desert.’

‘Well, dinna tae it near to any naval port, for the sake of Christ. There’s an army of glass-combing buggers in them towns that’ll spot you in nae time an’ will hand you o’er for a bounty.’

‘I will have to talk with Charlie, Rufus and Michael, and see what they want to do.’

Dysart’s voice was soft now, fatherly even. ‘Just remember, Pearce, drop anchor in this and you and yer friends are safe, ’cause you’re no deserters. Yer still Navy and you might also be in for a right good dose of coin when this barky is condemned.’

‘And then?’

‘I grant ye that’s no sae nice. You’ll be sent aboard another man-o’-war.’

‘It’s not worth it,’ Pearce replied.