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The Grey Raider

The Grey Raider

by John Flanagan
Paperback
Publication Date: 01/07/2015

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From international bestseller John Flanagan comes an explosive cat-and-mouse chase and high-stakes adventure across the high seas, set against the backdrop of the American Civil War.


From international bestseller John Flanagan comes an explosive cat-and-mouse chase and high-stakes adventure across the high seas, set against the backdrop of the American Civil War.

It is October 1863, and the American Civil War is in full swing. The Union has a preponderance of men, munitions and manufacturing and the pendulum is swinging its way. But the Confederates have a powerful bargaining point in any peace negotiations- the CSS Manassas, commanded by the audacious Captain Pelle.

The Manassas is a commerce raider, searching the seas far and wide for the Union's merchant fleet. And when it finds the enemy, it sends the ships and their million-dollar cargoes straight to the ocean floor.

As the ships go down, insurance rates go sky high, and Abraham Lincoln is under extreme pressure to stop the Manassas dead. But with the Union Navy stretched to breaking point blockading the South's ports, only one ship can be spared to seek out the Confederate raider.

Enter Captain Samuel Stacy and the USS Oswego. Stacy is tenacious and bull-headed and, perhaps more importantly, has a long-standing feud with Pelle.

There is nothing he wants more than to send the 'grey raider' to a watery grave. After all, the outcome of the war may depend on it ...
ISBN:
9780857986504
9780857986504
Category:
Historical adventure
Format:
Paperback
Publication Date:
01-07-2015
Publisher:
Transworld Publishers (Division of Random House Australia)
Country of origin:
Australia
Pages:
512
Dimensions (mm):
232x154x38mm
Weight:
0.66kg

CHAPTER 1

Washington, DC

October 1863

He’s looking tired, Gideon Welles thought as he

entered the familiar office. The figure seated behind

the desk, his back to the French windows, looked up at the

sound of the door latch clicking shut.

The long legs were splayed out under the desk. The

awkward, angular body seemed too frail to support

the over-large head. The craggy face with its shaggy,

unkempt-looking beard, hawklike nose and prominent

cheekbones was familiar to the entire country – admired,

even loved, by many; reviled by almost as many others.

But for all the distinctive elements that made up that

face – and there were enough to gladden any cartoonist’s

heart – none was more striking than the eyes. Dark,

intense, framed by those outlandishly bushy eyebrows,

they held a light of intelligence and determination that

burnt through the disappointment and weariness that

three years of largely unsuccessful war had lain upon

this man.

‘Good afternoon, Mr President. You’re looking well.’

Lincoln allowed a half-smile to crease his lips. ‘You’re

a poor liar, Gideon. I’m looking bruised and battered in

body and spirit. And I have every right to be.’ He gestured

to a chair and Welles took it.

Welles didn’t bother replying to the President’s statement.

He knew he hadn’t been summoned to offer

sympathy.

The two men studied each other in silence for a moment,

as if seeing each other for the first time. Welles noted that

Lincoln’s silk bow tie was slightly awry under the wing

collar and it occurred to him that he had never seen it any

other way. He wondered vaguely if this were not an intentional

device, an artifice on the president’s part, designed

to create a picture of a man who had not been entirely won

over to the trappings of high office but was still, at heart,

a simple country boy – Honest Abe himself, who couldn’t

quite get the fancy clothes to fit.

On reflection, he decided that it might well be. Lincoln

was dedicated and passionate, yes. But he was also a consummate

politician and by no means above such simple,

albeit effective, tricks of the trade.

Lincoln broke the eye contact first, looking down at a

sheet of paper he had been writing on when Welles had

first entered. He considered it for a second, then turned

it around and pushed it across the desk to the other man.

‘You were a writer,’ he said. ‘What do you think of this?’

‘I was an editor,’ Welles corrected him.

Lincoln shrugged and gestured for him to read. Welles

scanned the scrawled words for a few seconds. He

looked up.

‘This is a speech?’ he said, and when Lincoln nodded

assent, ‘When are you planning on delivering it?’

Again, the president shrugged. ‘I don’t know, as yet,’

he said. ‘When the time is right. There will be a moment

that’s right for it, I know that. When the opportunity

comes, I want to be ready for it.’

Welles pursed his lips. ‘It reads that way,’ he said. ‘It’s

striving too hard for greatness.’

He saw the flicker of annoyance cross Lincoln’s brow.

When that face scowled, it scowled in spades, thought

Welles, an avid whist player. It seemed that down-to-earth

country boys liked criticism no better than any other kind

of president.

‘I’ve worked on that all afternoon,’ Lincoln said indignantly.

‘It’s florid,’ said Welles. ‘It’s too . . . high-falutin’ in tone.

Say what you mean. Don’t dress it up in self-conscious,

overstated language. That’s not what the country expects

of Honest Abe Lincoln. They expect you to get to the

point. Speak their language, not the language of some

self-important lawyer.’

He knew how much Lincoln disliked the ‘Honest Abe’

sobriquet. Few people used the term to his face but Welles

had earned the right to take the liberty. As much as anyone

else in the country, he had been instrumental in Lincoln’s

securing the Republican nomination. He passed the page

back across the desk.

‘You didn’t call me here to critique your writing,’

he said.

‘And I won’t in the future,’ Lincoln replied tartly.

Welles smiled inwardly. As a newspaper editor, he had

seen many a reporter take offence when he changed their

words. Strange how people developed an overweening

vanity for their own phrases once they were committed to

paper, he thought.

‘You have a problem,’ Lincoln said and again, Welles

smiled inwardly. He had no doubt that if he had praised

the draft of the speech, the statement would have been,

‘We have a problem.’ He already had a shrewd idea what

it was.

‘I take it this problem affects me in my official capacity?’

he said mildly.

Lincoln looked quickly at him, sensing from the cool

tone that Welles had correctly interpreted the reason for

his intentional use of the second person. He made an effort

to stifle the annoyance that had crept into his tone.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘As Secretary for the Navy.’

Welles nodded, leant back and crossed his hands over

his stomach. ‘Would I be correct in assuming that the

name of this problem is the Manassas?’ he said.

Lincoln let go a savage exhalation of breath at the name.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That damned Rebel pirate ship has

caused us nothing but trouble for the past year and a

half! People are up in arms about it and they demand that

something be done.’

‘And of course, the Honourable William Seward is

foremost among those demanding action?’ Welles said, a

wintry smile touching his face.

Lincoln nodded several times. ‘Yes, yes. William has had

much to say on the matter.’

Welles let out a short bark of laughter. ‘He usually does

when there’s a chance to attack me.’

Seward, currently Secretary of State, had been Lincoln’s

principal opponent for the nomination in Chicago in

1860. It was largely due to Welles’ efforts that he had been

rejected. Seward knew it and there were bitter feelings

between the two men still.

Lincoln said nothing and Welles couldn’t resist the

opportunity to launch a further barb at his enemy. ‘You

should never have made him Secretary of State,’ he said.

The look on Lincoln’s face told him that he was on

the brink of going too far. It was not his part to criticise

Lincoln’s appointments, the look said.

‘He’s a very capable man. And I can control him.’

Welles raised an eyebrow at the words. ‘That’s what he

thought about you,’ he said.

Now the anger was evident on Lincoln’s face. ‘And . . .

he . . . was . . . wrong,’ he said, very deliberately and very

forcefully. ‘He has learnt that the President, or at least this

President, does not dance to his tune.’ He paused, enough

to let the next words develop a none-too-subtle message.

‘Nor to any man’s.’

Welles inclined his head, acknowledging the rebuke. ‘Of

course,’ he said, ‘and regardless of Secretary Seward’s . . .

distaste . . . for me, the Manassas is still a problem.’

Glad of a new focus for his anger, Lincoln rummaged

among his papers for a file and slammed it on the desk

between them.

‘Do you know how many ships that damn pirate has

sunk or burned?’ he asked.

‘Sixty-two,’ Welles told him and the president was taken

aback for a moment.

‘Sixty-two? I’ve only had word of sixty.’

Welles shrugged. ‘We received advice today of another

two. They’ve been overdue for weeks but their crews have

finally turned up and confirmed that they are gone. Both

of them were burned to the waterline by Manassas, off the

Newfoundland coast. I have their names and cargo details

in my office. I’ll send them across to you.’

‘Damn that man Pelle for a black bloody pirate!’ Lincoln

raged. He stood abruptly and turned to face the French

doors behind his desk, where rain from a grey Washington

afternoon ran down the panes.

Welles coughed gently. That sort of rhetoric was for the

masses. Somehow, painting the captain of the Confederate

raider as a pirate seemed to excuse the federal navy’s

inability to stop him. But it served no purpose in a rational

discussion.

‘He is acting perfectly within the law, you understand,

Mr President?’ he said.

Lincoln turned back to face him, his face dark with

anger. ‘You’re taking his side?’

Welles allowed a little asperity to creep into his reply.

‘Of course not. But we are at war and Manassas is a

Confederate cruiser –’

‘A Rebel cruiser,’ Lincoln interposed.

6 the grey raider

Welles hesitated. There was that rhetoric again, he

thought.

‘If you prefer. But whatever we call her, it is perfectly

within the rules of war for a commerce raider of a belligerent

to attack our shipping. And Pelle is scrupulous

about observing the rules of engagement. He doesn’t fire

on unarmed ships and he disembarks all passengers and

crew and ensures they have safe passage to a neutral port.’

He paused. Lincoln already knew that, of course. But

the Manassas tended to raise Northern passions to a

remarkable degree.

‘It may be within the rules of war, but have you seen

what it is doing to insurance rates? The premiums our

shipowners are being forced to pay now are ruinous.

Ruinous! And they become worse with each new vessel

that she takes!

‘Sixty-two ships! That is an outrageous figure, Mr Secretary!

An intolerable figure! Our shipowners and traders

are facing ruin – and that is not rhetoric! That is hard fact!

People are losing heart for this war. I can sense it. I hear it

whispered. I see it in their eyes.

‘My God, we’ve even had riots in New York over

the draft! Hundreds of people killed. Property destroyed!

Negroes beaten and hanged! This country is losing its heart

for the war, I tell you.’

There was no need for the statement, Welles thought. He

knew it already, as did most of the cabinet. The war had

dragged on too long, with too many deaths in its wake, and

too little prospect for success.

Lincoln continued. ‘We have had too many defeats on

land – far, far too many! And we are losing too many ships

at sea. We need to buy guns and equipment and boots and

uniforms and we need to export our grain and timber and

hides to pay for them. And while this . . . Manassas is at large,

our traders are refusing to take the chance. They’ll keep their

ships and cargoes in port rather than risk losing them!

‘The cost of this war is appalling in terms of lives and

money and material. I can feel the resolve of the people

wavering – and this I cannot have!’

The President threw himself into his rocking chair and

it slewed dangerously back and forth for a few seconds

under the onslaught.

Welles gave him a few seconds to calm down, then

asked, ‘Mr President, what would you have me do?’

‘Catch this damn Manassas! Assign a squadron. Or a

fleet if you must. Take them from whatever they are doing

now and set them to catch this damned raider and sink her!’

He realised that Welles was shaking his head halfway

through his statement and his voice rose again. ‘You are

saying me no, Mr Secretary? Then let me tell you, you will

do this if I say you will! I want this pirate caught. I want

his ship sunk and I want Pelle himself hanged. From the

yardarm! That’s where your naval people do it, isn’t it?’

Welles sat, unblinking, unmoved, his hands still folded

calmly across his stomach. Finally, the tide of Lincoln’s

rage abated and the older man spoke again.

‘Of course, Mr President, if you order it, I will assign a

squadron to hunt her down. Just tell me, which Southern

ports do we no longer need to keep under blockade?’

This time, his expression was grim as he faced the flush

of rage growing again in Lincoln’s face, suffusing the

gaunt cheeks above the beard.

Lincoln saw the determination in his eyes and reined in

his anger, holding it under control, at least for the moment.

‘What do you mean? You know that the blockade is vital

to our overall war effort.’

Welles nodded. ‘Just so, sir. And our navy is stretched to

breaking point keeping watch over a dozen harbours and

a hundred creeks and rivers and inlets up and down the

coast. There is no squadron to spare from this duty. You

can have a squadron to hunt the Manassas or you can have

the blockade maintained. You cannot have both.’

8 the grey raider

A wise man never tells kings or presidents what they

may not have, he thought. Unless he is being asked to

carry out two mutually exclusive tasks, he added.

‘So you are telling me there is nothing to be done about

Pelle?’ Lincoln’s voice was dangerously quiet.

Welles shook his head. ‘No, sir. I think there is a

solution. Not a squadron, but one ship. One ship assigned

to the task of finding and sinking the Manassas. Of concentrating

on that task until the job is done. We can spare

one ship indefinitely. And even if she doesn’t capture

Manassas straight away, she’s bound to cramp her style

to a degree. Nothing like having someone on your tail to

keep you distracted, looking over your shoulder.’

‘One ship? You believe that is enough?’ Lincoln asked.

‘It’s one ship has caused all the trouble so far,’ he

replied. ‘And with the right ship and the right captain to

hunt her down, yes, I think we have an excellent chance.’

Lincoln stood again, thrust his hands in his pockets and

began pacing the office. ‘Do we have the right captain?’

he asked, bitterness evident in his tone as he launched into

one of his favourite topics. ‘Please tell me that the navy

is not like the army, where every halfway capable officer,

every general with a whit of ability, seemed to desert to

the Rebel cause five minutes after Sumter was fired upon.’

‘I think we have the right man, sir,’ said Welles, but

Lincoln was inexorable now as he recounted the disappointments

and what he called the betrayals his generals

had handed him over the years.

‘How can I prosecute this war with incompetents,

Gideon?’ he asked. ‘You know, I thought McClellan was

a man with grit. But he let me down. He let me down.’

He stopped from his pacing and whirled to face Welles,

towering over him. ‘D’you know what I had to say to him

while he sat on his hands, doing nothing?’

Welles did know. Every member of cabinet had heard,

at least half a dozen times, what the president had said

to his latest commanding general. Usually, the story was

told by the President; Welles was willing to bet that it

was never told by the General.

‘I said to him, “General, if you’re not planning to use

my army, would you mind if I borrowed it for a spell?”’

Lincoln nodded emphatically several times, making sure

that Welles had got the point.

Welles felt some response was required. ‘You won’t have

to do that in this case, Mr President. I’ve been looking

through our captains’ list and I believe I have the one for

the job. Samuel Scott Stacy, captain of the sloop Oswego.’

‘Stacy? What’s he like, this Captain Stacy? Is he capable,

d’you think?’

‘Exceedingly so, Mr President. He’s a good officer, sir.

Career man. Annapolis background. Brave as a lion they

say – he was cited for gallantry in the Mexican War. Best of

all, he’s a bulldog, sir. Once he sets his teeth, he won’t let go.’

Lincoln began to smile at the words. ‘A bulldog, you

say?’ He liked the sound of that. It was a quality he felt he

could understand and depend on in a fighting man.

Welles nodded. ‘Capable, brave, skilled and dashing, sir.

And a bulldog.’

The President smacked one large fist into the palm of his

hand. ‘And by the Almighty, Mr Secretary, that’s just the

sort of fellow we need!’

Suddenly, he was fired with enthusiasm for the project,

seeing a moment somewhere in the not too distant future

when Welles would report to him that the Manassas had

been destroyed.

‘There is one other interesting point about him, sir,’

Welles continued. ‘Apparently, he and Pelle served together

in Mexico.’

That wasn’t surprising, given the small size of the

pre-war navy. But Lincoln frowned at the news. ‘So they

were shipmates?’ he said. ‘Will that be a problem for Stacy –

being asked to hunt down his shipmate?’

Welles smiled. ‘I doubt it, Mr President. I don’t have any

details but apparently it’s an open secret in the navy that

there’s a longstanding feud between them. He hates Pelle.’

A savage smile lit up Lincoln’s face. ‘No more than I do,

I’ll warrant,’ he said. Then he rubbed his hands together

in satisfaction. ‘Excellent, Mr Secretary! Let’s get orders

to this bulldog of yours, this Captain Stacy, straight away!

Let’s not waste a minute more in getting rid of the damned

Manassas.’

Gideon Welles rose and took the President’s handshake.

‘His orders are already being written, Mr President,’ he said.

Lincoln’s free hand gripped his shoulder and the handshake

tightened.

The President had strong hands, Welles thought.

‘Thank you, Gideon,’ he said, ‘I knew I could depend

on you.’

He released Welles’ hand and the secretary turned

towards the door. As he opened it, Lincoln’s voice stopped

him.

‘Gideon?’

He turned. The President had that damned page of

script in his hand again. He was frowning at it.

‘Mr President?’ Welles said.

‘Florid, you say?’

Welles nodded. ‘Florid, sir,’ he said firmly.

Lincoln shook his head, a bemused smile on his face as

he read through the words. Welles knew the look.

The President could see no fault in his phrasing. ‘Where

is it florid, might I ask?’

Welles sighed. But he was weary of pandering to presidential

vanity any longer. ‘Right from the first words, sir.

If you say it that way, you’ll have people counting on their

fingers to see what you mean and they’ll miss the next two

sentences while they do it. Nobody will understand it that

way. Just come out and say it in simple, everyday terms:

eighty-seven years ago . . .’

Lincoln frowned, shaking his head again as he studied

the page.

Welles opened the door. ‘Good afternoon, Mr President,’

he said.

But Lincoln said nothing. He was still looking at the

page, mouthing the words silently as Welles shut the door

behind him.

 

CHAPTER 2

CSS Manassas, sloop of war

Bay of Biscay

October 1863

Late in the afternoon watch, they ran alongside a

Spanish fishing boat out of Santander and took her

under their lee.

‘Speak to her, Mr Havelock,’ Captain Pelle told the first

lieutenant.

Havelock, tall and gangly, saluted quickly and ran down

the companion ladder from the bridge. He’d come up

shortly after the foretop lookout had sighted the Spanish

fishing fleet, guessing that he’d be needed before long. He

swung up onto the catwalk and then into the mainchains,

where he could call down to the skipper of the boat.

Pelle listened to the brief exchange in Spanish. He spoke

the language tolerably well himself but Havelock was

fluent and it was best to leave the talking to him. There’d

be less chance of misunderstanding that way.

Eventually, the lieutenant swung back to face the bridge.

‘He says he’s seen several ships this afternoon, sir,’ he

called. ‘One Yankee – a sailing barque flying the stars

and stripes.’

‘What heading?’ Pelle called back to him.

Again there was a brief exchange between the fisherman

and Havelock, then the latter swung back to face his

captain. ‘He says east of north, sir. Making about eight

knots when he saw her some three hours back. Says he

doesn’t know what cargo she might have, sir.’

‘No reason why he should.’

Pelle’s Virginian drawl was more evident when he

spoke reflectively like this. What the cargo might be was

relatively unimportant, so long as it existed. Of course,

the ship could be in ballast, but he doubted it. Yankee

shipowners were too fond of profits to have a ship sail

without cargo of some kind. If the barque were taken and

the cargo, whatever it might be, destroyed, that would

mean a loss for some Boston shipowner and trader – and

a subsequent rise in insurance and shipping rates, all of

which would mean the Manassas was doing the job she

was intended for.

The Confederate States Ship Manassas was a commerce

raider and the second confederate warship to carry the

name. Her predecessor had been a river gunboat, sunk

during the Federal attack on New Orleans. The sinking

had taken place around the time when Pelle took delivery

of the as-yet-unnamed ship from her English builders. He

had christened her Manassas to commemorate the plucky

little gunboat – and to provide an uncomfortable reminder

to the Union forces of their ignominious defeat early in the

war at the Battle of Manassas, better known to Southerners

as Bull Run.

She was a sloop of war, powered by both sail and steam,

armed with two pivoting seven-inch Brooke rifles and six

32-pounder smoothbore broadside guns. She was an ideal

design for the role: ship-rigged, with three masts carrying

square topsails and topgallants and fore and aft main and

headsails. This gave Manassas a respectable turn of speed

under sail alone, with the fore and aft rig allowing her

to point higher into the wind than a pure square-rigged

arrangement would have. Under sail, she could roam far

and wide in search of Union shipping, conserving her

supplies of coal until the chase was joined. Then, when she

sighted a quarry, her steam engine gave her the ability to

close with it, no matter where the wind might lie or what it

might do, at which point her powerful armament quickly

settled the matter.

The Brookes alone, cast in the Confederate foundry at

Tredegar, were exceptionally accurate weapons, capable of

firing solid shot or explosive shells, each one 110 pounds

in weight. Merchant ships were usually armed lightly, if

at all, and they stood no chance against her. In fact, there

were few Union warships that would have engaged the

Manassas with total confidence in the outcome.

That is, of course, had Captain Pelle been willing to risk

Manassas in an action against a Union warship, which

he was not. She had not been bought and paid for with

increasingly scarce Confederate funds to seek combat

with Federal warships. Her task was to harass the North’s

merchant fleet, destroying them wherever she found them,

disrupting trade, creating havoc and sending shipping

rates and insurance premiums sky high in the process. In

an eighteen-month cruise that had taken her south and

east to the shores of Malaya and India, then back and

forth between the Caribbean and European waters, she

had enjoyed spectacular success. If she were to catch the

barque the Spanish fisherman had seen, it would become

her sixty-third victim. Millions of dollars worth of ships

and their cargo had been sent to the bottom by this lone

wolf raider. That was her role in the war between the

states and she fulfilled it superbly.

Captain Pelle moved to the lee-side wing of the bridge

and called his thanks to the Spaniard. He nodded to

Havelock, who tossed a five-dollar Mexican gold piece

down to the fisherman. The Spaniard grinned, testing the

coin with his teeth, and waved them farewell as they drew

away. Manassas was well known to the Biscay fishermen –

as was her reputation for paying generously for information

about Yankee ships.

As they cleared the fishing boat, Pelle ordered the helm

over and the Manassas swung in a wide arc until she was

heading just east of north, in the wake of the federal ship.

The sea was quartering them now, and she swooped and

rolled as the chase progressed. Once on course, Pelle went

below, accompanied by Havelock and Judd, the sailing

master. They studied the chart of the area, laying off a

north-north-east course from their current position.

‘Heading for La Rochelle, maybe?’ Judd guessed.

Pelle nodded and pointed to a spot a little further south.

‘Or the mouth of the Gironde. Could be he’s heading to go

upriver to Bordeaux.’

‘Maybe he’s heading inshore a little to follow the coast

further north,’ Havelock suggested but the other two men

shook their heads. No master of a pure sailing vessel, as

this had been described, would put himself any closer

inshore than absolutely necessary in the Bay of Biscay. The

risk of being caught on a lee shore was too great.

Pelle studied the chart thoughtfully. He was a tall, slim

man in his early forties. He carried himself gracefully

and his old-fashioned uniform, with the long frockcoat

favoured by so many Confederate officers, was immaculately

tailored – if by now a little the worse for wear. He

was a handsome man, with a rather high forehead and a

slightly receding hairline. The nose was straight and the

mouth and chin firm. As was the fashion, he wore bushy

mutton-chop whiskers and a thick, carefully tended moustache.

His hair was brown, tending now to grey and his

eyes were blue, brilliant blue, with a light of intelligence

and a hint of humour in them. Men would describe him

as dashing. Many women might find him irresistible. His

officers and crew revered him. For his courage, his leadership

and his fair-mindedness.

He drummed long fingers on the chart as he studied it.

La Rochelle and the Gironde estuary were close enough to

each other. But even the moderate diversion between the

two meant that the wrong choice would put the Yankee

ship out of reach. He tapped his forefinger on the chart

table, conscious of the other two men looking at him.

‘La Rochelle,’ he said finally. There was no rhyme or

reason to it. It was an even-money chance and an intuitive

guess. He looked at Judd now that his decision was made.

‘Lay us a course for La Rochelle,’ he said. ‘And calculate

the speed we need to make if we are to bring her into sight

at first light. We’ll assume she maintains the eight knots

the Spaniard estimated.’

‘Aye aye,’ replied the sailing master, reaching for his

parallel rule and dividers.

Pelle left him to it and returned to the bridge. He was

a good enough navigator – in fact, well above average for

his time – but the more complex calculation of the differential

in speeds and distance covered would be a chore to

him. He could do it well enough but he knew Judd would

do it more accurately and, more to the point, more quickly

than he could.

At the academy, calculus had been one of his weaker

subjects. Judd, on the other hand, was one of those men

for whom figures were a language – and one that was

readily spoken and understood. That, after all, was why he

was the sailing master aboard the Manassas. That was why

Pelle had recruited him over two years ago when he was

forming his crew. It was typical of the man that he would

delegate so readily – as he had done with Havelock,

leaving him to talk to the Spanish skipper. His officers and

men liked the fact that he trusted them, trusted their abilities.

It did nothing to diminish him in their eyes. In fact,

the opposite was true.

Pelle surveyed his ship as he waited for Judd’s calculation.

The concept of a transverse bridge set forward of the

funnel and deckhouse was still something of a novelty to

him. He had gone to sea in an age when the traditional

conning position for a ship was aft, on the quarterdeck.

But he had to admit this new position gave the commander

a better vantage point and provided an improved all-round

view of the ship and her immediate surroundings.

It was the introduction of steam, of course, that had

led to the development. The bulky deck housing and tall

smokestack set amidships would restrict vision from the

quarterdeck, as would the inevitable clouds of coal smoke

what would issue from the stack. Heading into the wind,

the stern half of the ship could all too often be blanketed

in the thick, gritty smoke. The quarterdeck in those conditions

would be no place to be making split-second

decisions about course changes or rudder orders.

He felt the vibrations of Judd’s heavy feet on the

larboard bridge ladder, then the stocky sailing master was

alongside him, peering at a scrap of paper in his hand.

‘I figure if we make a shade over nine knots, we should

come up on her around first light,’ he said.

Pelle glanced up at the sails, seeing how they were

drawing in the brisk south-westerly wind.

‘We’ll need a little more canvas then. Mr Sommers,’ he

called, raising his voice.

Sommers, third lieutenant and currently officer of the

deck, took a couple of paces closer. ‘Sir?’

‘We’ll have a cast of the log, if you please.’ Pelle was

always polite with his officers. He had no need for abruptness

or brusqueness to bolster his authority. After two

years’ successful cruising, he knew he had the respect of

his officers and crew.

‘Aye aye, sir,’ replied Sommers, and turned away to

call for a master’s mate and a ship’s boy. Receiving their

instructions, the two hurried away to the quarterdeck. The

trio of officers waited as the log line was run out against a

sand-glass and measured, then the master’s mate returned.

‘Eight and a half knots, sir.’

He reported to Sommers, although Pelle was only a few

feet away. The captain insisted on the proper chain of

command. Sommers had issued the order, so it was to him

that the report should be made.

Sommers turned to Pelle, knowing it was unnecessary

to repeat the figure, raising his eyebrows in an unspoken

question.

The captain was already looking aloft again. They

wouldn’t need too much alteration in sail area to achieve

the slight increase in speed required. Like most skippers of

sailing steamers, he used his sails as much as possible. Coal

was a precious commodity and needed to be hoarded and

conserved for those times when he really required it.

‘We’ll have the fore topgallant on her,’ he said. ‘Cast the

log again when she’s settled. We want to make just a shade

over nine knots. If she’s doing more, take in a reef in the

fore t’gallant and check her again.’

‘Aye aye, sir.’ Sommers took the speaking trumpet from

a bracket beside them and began issuing orders to the

watch on deck. Topmen swarmed into the rigging and the

topgallant sail on the foremast was let fall. It shivered a

moment, then swelled, then hardened into a perfect curve

as Sommers directed the deckhands to sheet home.

Pelle watched with a sense of satisfaction. Steam engines

were well and good and a mighty handy invention when

it came to heading straight to windward. But there was

nothing to match the living, vibrant feeling of a wellfound,

well-handled sailing ship, which the Manassas

certainly was. He sensed the increase in speed as she

surged more forcefully through the water and nodded in

satisfaction. That should be all the change they needed. He

glanced at Judd and saw the master nodding in reply. The

two men’s years of experience told them already what the

next cast of the log would confirm for the younger officer

of the watch. Pelle nodded to the other two men.

‘I’ll be in my cabin,’ he told Sommers. ‘Tell Mr Ablett

we won’t be needing his engine until around first light –

unless we lose this wind. Tell him to keep his fire banked

and he can stand down his men as he sees fit.’

‘Aye aye, sir,’ Sommers replied. He called for a bridge

messenger and began scrawling the instructions Pelle had

given him on a signal sheet.

Judd glanced around them, sniffing the damp, salt air.

‘This un’ll hold all right,’ he said. ‘Won’t have no call for

that tea kettle.’

Pelle smiled at the older man. ‘You’re showing your

prejudice, Samuel,’ he told him. ‘Many’s the time you’ve

been glad of that engine, when we’ve had a Yankee prize

to windward.’

Judd smiled in response. ‘Maybe so, Captain,’ he said.

‘But I can’t help it if I prefer this to all that clanking and

hissing.’

‘Can’t say I blame you –’ Pelle began, then was seized

by a fit of coughing.

Both officers stepped forward to assist him but he

waved them away, doubled slightly over by the bridge

railing. He smothered the coughs with his handkerchief

until he finally had himself under control.

‘I’m fine,’ he gasped eventually, then, in a more normal

tone: ‘Just can’t seem to shake this damned cough.’ He

straightened and turned away for the starboard bridge

ladder, but not before he saw the worry in Judd’s eyes and

the concern on the third lieutenant’s face. With an effort,

he forced himself to walk normally to the ladder and

descend to the starboard gangway. He felt another almost

overwhelming urge to cough, knowing this outburst

would be even worse than the first. They seemed to be

coming more often these days.

With immense determination, conscious of the eyes of at

least a score of the crew upon him, he drove the sensation

back, overcoming the physical need with willpower alone.

Straight-backed, he walked aft along the gangway to the

quarterdeck, then descended to his stern cabin.

There, with no eyes upon him, he fell face down across

his cot, burying his face in the rough pillow as the coughing

fit racked him, over and over, seeming all the more vicious

for the time it had been denied.

He didn’t hear the cabin door open, didn’t see the

worried face of his steward appear around it. The former

tobacco planter shook his head in concern, then quietly

closed the door again, leaving the captain alone.

 

CSS Manassas

Bay of Biscay

The coughing subsided and Pelle lay gasping and

breathless on his cot, his chest heaving as he drew in

oxygen. Gradually, his breathing stabilised and he lay,

exhausted, his face filmed with sweat. It was only a matter

of time now, he knew. He couldn’t go on much longer.

Not like this.

His chest had always been a weakness, for as long as he

could remember. As a child, he had always been susceptible

to chills and bronchitis. Now, there had been simply

too many months of bad weather, too many miles of

soaking wet clothing and freezing cold winds.

The racking cough had started four or five months ago,

when they were deep in Southern Ocean waters, prowling

for Yankee ships that sought to round Cape Horn and

begin the long trek north to California. He remembered

it as a time when everything about him was wet, when

cold was the order of the day, the inescapable, invariable

condition. Moisture dripped from the deckhead in his

cabin. Frozen mould grew on leather, ice formed around

the panes in his stern gallery windows and hung in fantastic

dagger-like shapes from the rigging. His clothes were

never warm, never completely dry, no matter how long his

steward kept them in front of the galley fire – sometimes

scorching the material in his efforts to provide his captain

with warm clothing.

Warmth had been a dimly remembered concept in those

days. The blankets and sheets on his cot were clammy

to the touch and icy against his skin as he lay shivering

under them at night, waiting for his body to warm them,

exhausting his physical resources as it did so. And each

day, after comfortless hours trying to sleep, he would

drag himself to the bridge again, slowly mounting the iron

ladder, feeling the icy touch of the metal through the thick

woollen gloves he wore. The cold, raw air would sear his

lungs and he would cough – endlessly and without relief.

It had started then and it had never left him. Sometimes,

in the warmer latitudes, it would recede into the

background until it was nothing more than an occasional,

uncomfortable constriction at the back of his throat. But

then as they sailed further north or south and the glass

dropped and the damp, cold wind filled the Manassas’

sails, the cough would re-emerge, as if strengthened by its

absence. Sometimes wet and rumbling. Sometimes hard,

dry and unbreakable, striking like a sword blade through

his chest.

And sometimes, like a sword, it drew blood.

The acrid coal smoke belching from the ship’s funnel

was another constant irritant. One incautious breath, one

chance eddy of wind, could set him off, coughing and

wheezing helplessly as he tried to rid his lungs of the sharp,

foul-tasting smoke.

The others on board had endured the same conditions,

of course. Some had even fallen sick from them. But most

had recovered. Sailors seemed possessed of rude, indefatigable

health and endless stores of energy. For them,

sickness would come, visit, be defeated and depart. For

Pelle, it was an ever-present companion.

He knew Havelock, Judd and the others worried about

him. But there was little he could do or say to allay their

fears. Sometimes, he considered having himself set ashore

and making his way back overland to Virginia leaving the

Manassas under Havelock’s command. But he hesitated.

Havelock was a capable officer. Brave. Loyal. Steadfast.

But he was lacking in one vital attribute – imagination.

Havelock’s steadfast nature lacked the sort of instinct

and decisiveness that a successful raider needed. Were

Havelock in command, he would still be agonising

over whether the barque they pursued was heading for

Bordeaux or La Rochelle. Pelle had taken a guess, guided

by his instinct. If he were right, all to the good. If he were

wrong, there would be other Yankee ships. Havelock

lacked the ability to make such instinctive decisions and

then live by them.

Pelle knew that Manassas had survived this long because

he had that ability, coupled with the knack of putting

himself into his enemies’ minds, of thinking as they might

think. And so he had avoided the Union’s warships successfully

for nearly two years. But he shrank from turning

over his precious ship and men to the first lieutenant’s

care. There would be no official recriminations if he were

to do so. His poor health was obvious to anyone with

whom he had more than a passing acquaintance. But if

the Manassas were taken or sunk, he was conscious it

would be a blow to the Confederate cause that far would

outweigh the loss of one ship.

In practical terms, the Confederacy could afford to lose

Manassas now. She had taken, burnt or sunk over sixty

Union ships in her cruise, so in simple dollars and cents, she

had long ago repaid her side of the ledger. War, however,

was more than simple dollars and cents. War concerned

itself with ideals. With symbols. With individuals or

groups who captured the public imagination and became

icons of hope, tacit confirmation that the cause was just.

For, after all, wasn’t success the ultimate justification – the

proof that distinguished right from wrong? Would God,

that severely overworked and frequently invoked figure in

any conflict, allow the unrighteous to prosper?

On land, J.E.B. Stuart’s cavalry were one such icon. Lee

himself was another, larger than life, charismatic, revered.

His mere presence on the field of battle was worth a half

dozen divisions, his successes against the odds legendary.

And at sea, the Manassas was another. She embodied

the spirit of the Confederacy. She was a daring will-o’-

the-wisp that defied the North and its overwhelming

numbers, its crushing technological and logistical might.

The Southern press had dubbed her the paladin of the sea

lanes: appearing and disappearing at will, a cavalier who

struck at the Yankees where they were most vulnerable –

in their purses.

If the Manassas were lost, an ideal would go with her.

Pelle simply couldn’t take the chance on Havelock. Particularly

now, when the ship needed all her captain’s guile

and ability to survive. For the ship was almost as tired

and worn out as he was himself. Eighteen months at sea.

Hundreds of thousands of miles under steam or sail, with

no port in her home country able to receive her. Her sails

were threadbare and patched. Her rigging had been spliced

too often and replaced too rarely. Her engine was in desperate

need of an overhaul, its steam lines choked with

boiler scale and her furnaces thick with clinker.

The very coal she burned, taken from a prize and occasioning

eight hours of backbreaking work for officers and

men alike, was brown and damp and unreliable. It burned

at a lower temperature than good black Appalachian coal

and so generated less steam pressure to drive the pistons

and the screw. Of course, she was designed for speed and

assuredly she could still muster enough to overhaul most

merchant ships. But if she were to be pitted against another

of her own kind, her deficiencies could well prove fatal.

JOHN FLANAGAN 25

The bald truth was that the daring will-o’-the-wisp

of public imagination, the paladin of the sea lanes, was

a patched and shabby homeless fugitive, with never the

time to overhaul engines or re-reave standing and running

rigging. On those rare occasions when Manassas entered a

neutral port, she did so without fanfare and slipped away

again as soon as possible, with time for only the simplest

repairs, before word of her presence might reach the ears

of any patrolling Yankee warship.

The ship’s bottom was foul with weed – huge banners of

it that dragged beneath her and robbed her sails and engine

of their power. He longed for a sheltered cove where he

might beach her with the tide then unload her and careen

her to scrape the hull clean and replace the copper sheets

that he knew she must have lost over the months.

But the thought of his ship, his precious ship, empty and

laid over on her side on the land, her guns removed and

her magazines emptied, was like a waking nightmare for

him. He could picture her that way – and picture the first

sight of the Federal flag as a Northern cruiser rounded the

point and found her helpless under its guns. Careening,

like Havelock, was a risk he couldn’t take.

There was a discreet knock at the door. Edelston, his

steward, had waited until the coughing paroxysm died

away. Like Havelock and the others, he knew it was not a

topic for discussion. So, like all of them, he pretended to

ignore it. Now that there had been some minutes’ silence

from the captain’s cabin, he knew that Pelle would allow

him to enter.

‘Come in,’ the captain said. He sat up, swinging his legs

off the cot.

‘I made tea, sir,’ Edelston said as he entered, placing the

tray on Pelle’s desk, by the stern windows.

It was a strong herbal concoction and both steward and

captain knew it would ease the unbearable urge to cough,

hold it at bay for another brief respite. Pelle smiled.

26 the grey raider

‘Thank you, Edelston. What would I do without you?’

he said.

Edelston ducked his head in a semi-bow and eased his

way out of the cabin, leaving the captain to his tea. He

looks tired, he thought. But then, don’t we all?

 

CSS Manassas

Off the French coast, near Ushant

In spite of Judd’s optimistic forecast, the wind died

away to a breeze during the night, then veered to the

north-west and freshened once more. Pelle returned to

the bridge an hour after midnight and the Manassas made

more sail.

An hour later he was back, and Mr Ablett’s men were

called to begin raising steam once more. As ever, Pelle was

the soul of courtesy as he passed the order to the lanky,

grey-haired engineer.

‘My apologies, Nathaniel. I hoped your stokers might

have a few more hours’ rest. But we’ll need the extra speed

to overtake this Yankee of ours.’

Nathaniel Ablett grinned broadly as he ordered his mate

to rouse the engine-room gang. As a practitioner of a relatively

new branch of maritime technology, he was always

glad of a chance to show up the deficiencies of the old

ways. He sensed the master, Mr Judd, sniffing disdainfully

on the far side of the bridge.

‘Any time, Captain. Any time at all,’ he said. ‘My men

are always ready to give you as much speed as you require,

no matter where the wind lies or how she’s blowin’.’

He added this last for the master’s benefit. Judd sniffed

more loudly.

Pelle smiled inwardly at the internecine battle between

the two men, knowing it was founded in goodwill. He

nodded to the engineer, dismissing him. Ablett saluted and

clumped down the bridge ladder, heading for his hissing,

clanking domain below decks.

Within five minutes, the wisp of smoke that had been

issuing from Manassas’ single funnel became a dense cloud

as the stokers poured coal into the hungry furnace. Ten

minutes later, with the steam pressure up, Pelle felt the

rhythmic thump of the pistons begin under his feet and

the sloop began to surge more eagerly through the water,

leaving a broad banner of brown coal smoke heavy against

the night sky behind her. After a quick consultation with

Pelle, Judd left the bridge to calculate courses and speed

once more now that the situation had changed.

Conlon, the second, was officer of the deck. Pelle turned

to him and ordered a course correction, swinging the

Manassas further west of north. Conlon passed the orders to

the helmsman and the bowsprit swung across the dark sky

and sea. He was a young officer and Pelle, conscious of the

responsibility incumbent on him to train his officers for their

role, thought it worthwhile explaining the action to him.

‘With the wind veering to the west like this, the Yankee

skipper will likely give himself more sea room,’ he said.

The younger man’s eyes were on him; he nodded his

understanding as Pelle continued. ‘I’ll come westward as

well. It’s my plan to come up on him out of the west.’

He paused, and the question was evident. Why am I

doing this? After all, a lee shore held no fears for a steampowered

ship and the change of course would add miles to

the distance they would need to cover.

Conlon hesitated a moment. In older times, an attacker

would always look to achieve the weather gauge on

another ship, to have the wind behind him so he could

run down at will. But Manassas’ engine made such tactical

positioning unnecessary. There would be another factor,

he knew.

‘The sun,’ he said, after a few seconds’ thought. Pelle

nodded approvingly.

‘Exactly, young Mr Conlon. The sun. I want our quarry

nicely framed against it as it rises, while we come up on

him out of the darkness.’

‘Do we know is he armed or not, sir? Will he fight, do

you think?’ the younger man asked.

Pelle began to answer, but the ever-present urge to

cough asserted itself and he crouched slightly over the

bridge rail as his shoulders shook with it.

Conlon looked away until Pelle recovered.

Slightly breathless, the captain continued. ‘He may well

carry a few small guns – but nothing to equal our two

Brookes. Still, it’s always wise to assume an enemy will

fight, and approach him accordingly.’

‘Few of them ever do, sir,’ Conlon said.

Pelle recognised the tone of regret in his voice and

smiled. ‘You’re a fire-eater, Gregory,’ he told the second.

‘Don’t wish too hard for battle. You’ll find it sooner or

later. And when you do, it may be less to your liking than

you imagine.’

He coughed again, not so badly this time but enough to

forestall any reply from the younger man. Once more, he

glanced aloft. It occurred to him that a sea captain spent a

great deal of his time looking up at the sails spread above

him. As steam became more and more the prime moving

force of ships, he assumed this age-old habit would begin

to die out.

Studying the sails, Pelle frowned slightly. With the

engine heading them so far upwind, the fore- and aftrigged

sails were still providing some advantage. The

square topsails and top gallants, however, could only be

braced round so far and now they were as much hindrance

as help. He pointed the fact out to Conlon and waited

while the second lieutenant called the watch to take in

sail. As the square sails were gathered up and furled, he

felt a slight improvement in the ship’s motion. He nodded,

contentedly.

‘I’ll be in my cabin, Mr Conlon,’ he said. ‘Mr Judd will

be up presently with adjustments to our speed. Call me if

there’s any other change.’

‘Aye aye, sir,’ Conlon replied and the captain left the

deck to him.

Barque Maine Dancer

Off the French coast

The first streaks of dawn were lighting the eastern sky as

Captain Jethro Weatherby came on deck. He nodded a

greeting to the second mate, currently in command.

‘Any change, Mr Pearson?’

Pearson shook his head, yawning at the same time.

He felt tired and crusty, after a four-hour stint through

the final hours of darkness. Somehow, that seemed to be

the most debilitating of watches – perhaps because this

was the time when the natural rhythms of the human

body demanded the deepest sleep. The fact that the ship

was short of men and officers, due to the demands on

manpower made by the war, made it even more so; there

were only three officers to stand deck watch. Now, the

glories of the new day held little attraction for him. His

bunk was foremost in his mind, as it had been for the past

hour and a half.

‘Wind’s still from the north-west, Captain. Sea’s calm.

Last cast of the log we were making seven and a quarter

knots. No ships sighted this watch.’

Weatherby grunted in satisfaction at the last piece of

news. These days, there wasn’t a Yankee skipper who didn’t

harbour, at the back of his mind, a fear of running foul of

the Rebel pirate Manassas. And Weatherby, with all his

assets tied up in what was to be his final trip, harboured

it more than most. The damned raider seemed to have a

knack for being everywhere at once – so much so that sometimes

Weatherby believed that there was really more than

one Manassas and the insistence that there was only one

was mere propaganda on the part of those incompetents

in Washington, who knew that Northern shipping would

be shut down in a matter of days if they were to admit the

existence of an entire Southron raiding squadron.

His officers and crew didn’t seem to entertain the same

fears of the Southern raider. Perhaps because they had less

to lose than he did. Consequently, he spent a great deal of

his time keeping his lookouts alert, and exhorting them to

keep a better watch of the horizon.

As the thought struck him, he leant back his head and

called to the lookout in the main crosstrees. ‘Masthead

there!’

Like all sea captains of his time, Weatherby had a voice

that could be heard above an Atlantic gale. In these calm

conditions, it carried to the lookout without any need of

the speaking trumpet by the compass binnacle.

The voice that replied was faint but clear. ‘Masthead aye!’

‘What do you see?’

There was a pause as the lookout scanned 360 degrees

of the horizon. Weatherby felt a familiar surge of frustration,

knowing that it was probably the first time the

lookout had done so in the past ten or fifteen minutes.

‘Deck! All clear all round!’

Weatherby felt the little knot of tension that had tied

itself into the pit of his stomach slowly unravel. Each

morning he suffered these few minutes of apprehension,

waiting for news that there was no sign of the Rebel ship

on the horizon. This morning the feeling had been particularly

strong. He knew the Spanish fishing fleet had sighted

32 the grey raider

them the day before – one of them had even followed in

their wake for several minutes, almost as if ascertaining the

Dancer’s course. It had long been Weatherby’s suspicion

that the Spanish boats were in league with Manassas and

he knew the Confederate sloop had visited these waters

several times in the past two years.

Relaxing a little now, he moved to the binnacle to

check the course. The helmsman nodded a greeting and

he grunted in reply. Behind him, he heard Mr Dodds, first

mate, relieving Pearson of the watch. He stretched once,

decided it was time to go below for a cup of coffee and a

bite of breakfast. He had actually started towards the companionway

when a further hail from the masthead stopped

him in his tracks.

‘Deck there! Something . . . mebbe something . . . on the

larboard quarter!’

Instantly, Weatherby was at the larboard rail. He could

see nothing from this lower vantage point. He faced the

lookout again and bellowed.

‘Something? What d’you mean something? Is it a ship?’

A pause, then the lookout replied, the uncertainty

obvious in his voice, even at this distance.

‘Dunno, Cap’n. Mebbe too big for a ship. A low cloud

mebbe . . .’

Weatherby strained his eyes westward. The sea and sky

were dark there, particularly in contrast to the dazzle from

the east. Abruptly, and with surprising agility for his fiftyfive

years and his bulk, he sprang into the mizzen mainchains

and ran halfway up the ratlines, turning to hang

back and peer into the darkness. There was something

there all right. A dark, amorphous shape that was blacker

than the darkness around it. Too big to be a ship, he

thought. And too low to be a cloud . . . at least, a natural

cloud.

As he had the thought, Weatherby recognised the shape.

It was the funnel smoke of a steamer, spreading dark and

thick behind a ship as she raced on a parallel course to

the Dancer, quickly overhauling the slower sailing ship.

Weatherby knew, illogically but without a shadow of a

doubt, that he was looking at the funnel smoke of the

Manassas. He raced down the ratlines, yelling before his

feet hit the quarterdeck.

‘All hands! All hands! Dodds! Get those frappings cast

loose from the guns!’

John Flanagan

John Flanagan's bestselling Ranger’s Apprentice adventure series originally comprised twenty short stories, which John wrote to encourage his twelve-year-old son, Michael, to enjoy reading. The series has come a long way since then.

Now sold to more than twenty countries, the series regularly appears on the New York Times Bestseller List and has been shortlisted in children's book awards in Australia and overseas.

John, a former television and advertising writer, lives with his wife, Leonie, in the Sydney beachside suburb of Manly. He is currently writing further titles in the Ranger’s Apprentice series.

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