A Shot Rolling Ship by David Donachie Read Free Book Online Page B

place, faced with a series of lines and the command, deliveredwith 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.
    ‘Sorry mate,’ he called as he slipped by, looking for Michael O’Hagan, who would be bound to be in the thick of things.
    The Irishman was not hard to spot, standing near the ship’s wheel, head and shoulders above those trying to contest the deck with him. He had eschewed a weapon, and was merely fending off his attackers, one of them the blond fellow called Sam, with his huge open hands, causing no pain and laughing out loud, calling to them to come at him again. Pearce’s sword was required again, this time to fend off a fellow with a similar weapon. The sailor clearly thought himself a swordsman, for he took on a fencing posture. That lasted only a second as Pearce, who had been properly taught, whipped his weapon up, slid his underneath, and jabbed him in the solar plexus, a blow that, winding him, had him doubled over on his knees.
    Pearce tapped the lowered head he as made his way towards Michael, who spotting him called out, ‘Come on John boy, and see if you can better these spalpeen fools, not one of whom is of any use in a scrap.’
    The truth of that was in the way that Michael managed both to say those words and continue to fend off four men.
    ‘Michael,’ Pearce said, coming close, weaving and ducking as his friend tried to slap him. ‘I want you to fall away slowly, as though we are driving you backwards.’
    One of the things Pearce liked about the Irishman was the way he reacted to a request without demanding to know why. He had done so before on more than oneoccasion and he did so now, making it look as though Pearce and the others were besting him. They, not aware that Michael was only pretending, got bold, which earned the blond Sam a head-ringing clip.
    ‘I am going to push you, Michael, and when I do I want you to fall back until you hit something.’
    Pearce got a huge open-handed slap on the forehead that stopped him dead, giving him some idea of how much O’Hagan could have hurt him if he so desired. ‘As long as it’s not solid, John boy.’
    ‘No brother, it is as soft as you sometimes are in the head.’
    Michael grabbed Sam and his other attacker, one in each hand, and lifted them bodily off their feet. They still tried to club him, blows which when they landed made the Irishman laugh. ‘How can you say that and me