Hera and the Griffon

“Deck there, sail off the larboard quarter,” the masthead lookout called down from his lofty perch in the crosstrees.

“Mister Beattie, get aloft and see what you make of her,” Captain Martin Boyle of HMS Hera, a thirty eight gun frigate, ordered.

“Aye, sir,” midshipman Ian Beattie said, grabbing the large signal glass he threw it over his back and climbed into the rigging, he seemed oblivious to the deck tilting below him as Hera ploughed through waves and troughs alike.

“Where away, Tom?” He asked the top man, seeing the surprise on the man’s tanned features that a young gentleman would know his name.

“Two points to larboard, sir,” he said, pointing in the direction.

Ian trained the glass in the direction Tom had indicated, thinking back to the last time he had done this. He shuddered at the memory. That ship had been the Eagle, an East Indiaman, the victim of Captain James Morgan, one of the many pirates that plagued these waters, the man they were hunting now. Ian had been with the boarding party sent across. What he saw there would stay with him for the rest of his life. People herded onto the decks and slaughtered with grapeshot, even the wounded on the orlop deck had been killed, only the brief entry in the captain’s personal log was left to tell what had happened that fateful day, Griffon, once a brig in His Britannic Majesties Navy, now in the hands of Morgan had boarded the Eagle under false colours.

“We are all agog, mister Beattie,” Captain Boyle called up, bringing the youth back to the present.

“It’s the Griffon, sir,” he called down, she still ran her number from the mizzen, “our prey,” he whispered to himself.

“We’ll get justice for those poor souls, sir, mark my words,” Tom said, then quickly lowered his head, aware that he had been too familiar.

“Well said, Tom,” Ian said, gripping his arm. “This time we will have the advantage, Morgan doesn’t know we are aware he has taken Griffon yet. Let us see how well he fights against a king’s ship.”

Tom didn’t bother to mention that the Griffon had been a king’s ship until Morgan had taken her, he didn’t need to, everyone on board was aware of that. How he had taken the brig was a popular topic on the mess deck. Some believed, mostly the landsman, that Morgan had over powered the small vessel somehow. Most older hands were well aware that the Griffon had been an unhappy ship, her Captain a touch too fond of the lash. While they were careful never to say the word aloud, for fear of an officer overhearing and misconstruing it, the old hands were convinced it was mutiny.

***** *****

Captain Martin Boyle could hardly contain his excitement, he had almost given up on finding Griffon, more importantly the pirate Morgan. “Get the ship cleared for action, quietly, don’t run out just yet and see that the main deck looks as normal as possible,” he said to his first lieutenant, Paul Leary. “Connor, put us on a converging tack.”

“Aye sir,” both men said, barking out orders of their own.

Paul Leary glanced to larboard, as if he would be able to see the enemy. He had led the boarding party onto the Eagle, had seen the carnage done to crew and passenger alike, he shuddered as he recalled almost slipping on someone’s intestines, the mangled bodies of women and children to torn apart to tell whose, the result of a swivel gun loaded with grape.

“Ship cleared for action, sir, the main deck crew are in the companionways for the most part, as are the marines,” Lieutenant Stephen Brown reported.

“Nine minutes, very good, Mister Brown,” Boyle said. “issue the men with an extra ration of rum.” He would have preferred giving them a hot meal, but there had been no time before they’d had to douse the galley fire.

“Shall I have the boats lowered, sir,” Leary asked.

“Not yet, Paul,” Boyle said, it was a huge risk, but if the ruse was to work Hera had to look as if she were on routine patrol. “On second thoughts, lower them on a tow, hopefully he will assume we are just keeping the seams wet. Keep them astern as best you can.” The risk of adding the boats splinters, more deadly than cannon shot, was too great for him to leave them on board.

“Griffon’s signalling, sir,” midshipman Beattie, back at his post as signal midshipman called over, “ Heave to for dispatches.”

“Acknowledge the signal, Ian,” Boyle said, “then make ‘captain repair onboard.’”

As the senior captain it was within his right to request the audience, any refusal and Griffon would risk being discovered and she was no match for a frigate.

“Griffon acknowledges, sir, she is changing tack to meet us.”

Of course she is, Martin thought, the only advantage the brig could have was if she got close enough to board,one thing pirates and mutineers had in common was they were dead men already, unlike an enemy ship surrender was not an option. He glanced at his sword and coat, neatly stowed under one of the quarterdecks carronades.

“She’s running up the black flag and changing tack; they’re going to try and ram us, sir,” Leary said.

“Cast the boats away , run out the Starboard batteries, get the for’ard carronades ready for our first guests,” Captain Boyle said. “Let us show them the same mercy they showed Eagle,” Boyle ordered, allowing his coxswain Peters to clasp his sword to his hip. He held out his arms and felt the familiar weight of his dress coat on him.

Griffon’s main mast toppled as Hera’s starboard battery poured her iron into the brig. One or two guns, hastily manned tried to respond but the attempt was feeble.

Hera’s carronade turned potential borders into fragments, he paused slightly, “ ready the second one.” He ordered, pushing the revulsion aside.

Griffon had hoped to use surprise and numbers they were not prepared to match a frigate broadside for a broadside, nor an opponent that could and would defend herself.

All pretences were over; it was time for Hera and her crew to do what they did best, fight.

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