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Authors: David Donachie
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changed with anything approaching drama, quite the reverse.
The next task was to seek to time the run of the current,a fickle beast at best, so as to calculate the amount of slow match that would be needed to set off the powder barrels at the right time. In truth that was pure guesswork for Pearce’s rafts would not move at the same rate as bits of cork thrown over the bow and timed to the stern, even less an empty but sealed wine bottle.
Pearce reckoned they would move little; that the best calculation was to reckon them near stationary and time them to go off on that basis, which had Dorling seeking to make sense of the necessary numbers and with his now habitual lack of enthusiasm. His figures done, Sam Kempshall was set to cutting the required lengths of slow match.
At last the sun was closing in on the eastern horizon, dropping in what was a band of haze between sky and sea, which obscured any chance of observing the enemy deck. It had to be the same in reverse, a fact he checked with the fellow placed aloft for that very purpose. It was frustrating to then have to order the making of the kind of slings necessary to get his bombs into the water, something that previously would have been done without a word from him.
It was a relief to see the great golden orb first touch water, to begin to go red as it picked up the dust that existed in the air, even at sea, the residue of desert sand carried on the wind all the way from the Sahara. Then it was gone, leaving a short glow, the first stars already beginning to show, for the transition from day to night in the Mediterranean is swift. Soon the sky was a mass of them again, while the moon, huge and as low as had been the sun, was now the colour of cheese, changing to white as it rose.
The makeshift rafts lay on the deck, six of them, with half barrels of powder given that full ones might be too heavy and cause them to sink. Gingerly, and by the light of nothing but the stars and the moon, they were lifted over the side to sit on the water, before being gently poled clear to ensure they did not snag on the ship.
At first they were obvious, the glow of the slow burning match visible. But that soon faded and, given they were as dark as the sea on which they sat, like their enemies they had no idea of where those rafts were. Pearce was wondering if the Jonahs would now be predicting it would be
Larcher
that would suffer from this folly that they would explode hard by to crack her hull. There was a new fellow aloft, but just as in daylight there was no mistaking the pursuit; their sails picked up the moon and starlight with ease, their bow waves the phosphoresce of the breaking water. To order a change of course would do no good, merely adding to the distance to shore.
The light on the binnacle had been shaded, likewise the stern lantern had not been ignited, so there was a ghostly feel to their progress, aided by a wind that was not strong enough to make their rigging whistle. Almost everyone was on deck, no one was in their hammock, some trying to appear indifferent, most unable to avoid staring over the stern, like their captain waiting, he with his watch in his hand, for the first barrel to explode.
As it was two went off at once and a goodly distance from each other, sending great flashes of orange light into the night sky. Pearce waited for a cheer and he waited in vain and nor did that come when the rest of the slow match hit the powder on another, blowing the barrel tomatchwood. Had they gained what he had hoped, had the enemy let fly their sheets and hove to? In the available light, there was no way of telling for certain but the indications of their presence, flashes of canvas and that bow wave did seem to disappear.
Five having gone off, the wait for the last seemed interminable and in the end it never came and neither did the prayed for miracle; that one would get so close as to blow in the scantlings of one of those brigantines. Perhaps the raft had sunk or
The next task was to seek to time the run of the current,a fickle beast at best, so as to calculate the amount of slow match that would be needed to set off the powder barrels at the right time. In truth that was pure guesswork for Pearce’s rafts would not move at the same rate as bits of cork thrown over the bow and timed to the stern, even less an empty but sealed wine bottle.
Pearce reckoned they would move little; that the best calculation was to reckon them near stationary and time them to go off on that basis, which had Dorling seeking to make sense of the necessary numbers and with his now habitual lack of enthusiasm. His figures done, Sam Kempshall was set to cutting the required lengths of slow match.
At last the sun was closing in on the eastern horizon, dropping in what was a band of haze between sky and sea, which obscured any chance of observing the enemy deck. It had to be the same in reverse, a fact he checked with the fellow placed aloft for that very purpose. It was frustrating to then have to order the making of the kind of slings necessary to get his bombs into the water, something that previously would have been done without a word from him.
It was a relief to see the great golden orb first touch water, to begin to go red as it picked up the dust that existed in the air, even at sea, the residue of desert sand carried on the wind all the way from the Sahara. Then it was gone, leaving a short glow, the first stars already beginning to show, for the transition from day to night in the Mediterranean is swift. Soon the sky was a mass of them again, while the moon, huge and as low as had been the sun, was now the colour of cheese, changing to white as it rose.
The makeshift rafts lay on the deck, six of them, with half barrels of powder given that full ones might be too heavy and cause them to sink. Gingerly, and by the light of nothing but the stars and the moon, they were lifted over the side to sit on the water, before being gently poled clear to ensure they did not snag on the ship.
At first they were obvious, the glow of the slow burning match visible. But that soon faded and, given they were as dark as the sea on which they sat, like their enemies they had no idea of where those rafts were. Pearce was wondering if the Jonahs would now be predicting it would be
Larcher
that would suffer from this folly that they would explode hard by to crack her hull. There was a new fellow aloft, but just as in daylight there was no mistaking the pursuit; their sails picked up the moon and starlight with ease, their bow waves the phosphoresce of the breaking water. To order a change of course would do no good, merely adding to the distance to shore.
The light on the binnacle had been shaded, likewise the stern lantern had not been ignited, so there was a ghostly feel to their progress, aided by a wind that was not strong enough to make their rigging whistle. Almost everyone was on deck, no one was in their hammock, some trying to appear indifferent, most unable to avoid staring over the stern, like their captain waiting, he with his watch in his hand, for the first barrel to explode.
As it was two went off at once and a goodly distance from each other, sending great flashes of orange light into the night sky. Pearce waited for a cheer and he waited in vain and nor did that come when the rest of the slow match hit the powder on another, blowing the barrel tomatchwood. Had they gained what he had hoped, had the enemy let fly their sheets and hove to? In the available light, there was no way of telling for certain but the indications of their presence, flashes of canvas and that bow wave did seem to disappear.
Five having gone off, the wait for the last seemed interminable and in the end it never came and neither did the prayed for miracle; that one would get so close as to blow in the scantlings of one of those brigantines. Perhaps the raft had sunk or
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