The Devil to Pay (John Pearce series) Read online

  The Devil to Pay

  DAVID DONACHIE

  To my grandson,

  Lewis Nelson Donachie,

  who was born when this

  novel was in its infancy.

  Contents

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  BY DAVID DONACHIE

  COPYRIGHT

  PROLOGUE

  John Pearce found it easy to be irritable in a place like Palermo. The weather, even in early September, was searing hot during the day and scarcely less so at night without a breeze. With a broken arm in splints, held in place by heavy bandaging, the amount of itching it caused was enough to drive him near mad with frustration. Added to this physical discomfort, he was required to deal with the folk who undertook the repair of ships in the harbour, there being no dockyard in the proper sense, while he had in HMS Larcher, after his recent battle, a vessel in need of much restoration before it could be considered fully fit for sea.

  The damage to the hull and upper works he could, in the main, leave to his own men, at least those who had survived whole, while much of the ship’s tackle, like blocks and sheaves, if torn from their usual location, were serviceable. Canvas to repair sails too shot through to be of any use was something to be bought in bolts and fashioned by those same hands. Likewise cordage, albeit much time was spent in bargaining for a fair price, a restraint imposed on him by limited funds, much of which was expended on those woodworking tasks beyond the skill of the ship’s carpenter and his mates.

  It was in the article of an upper mast and especially the bowsprit that he was struggling to get the armed cutter ready for sea and this in an island not short on timber, though it seemed to lack anything of the required length and shape. He had some suspicion that the wily locals knew very well what was needed, knew as he did not, where to find it and were holding out for an excessive price aware he was in a poor position to bargain.

  All his rigging had suffered damage and in the case of the long bowsprit the lack of it left Larcher bereft of her major asset when it came to manoeuvrability. In a short and unusual naval career dealing with the dockyards in England had figured low to non-existent in Pearce’s experience, though he had heard much through wardroom gossip regarding the practices and peculations of those who both ran and laboured in them, tales of theft and corruption so comprehensively murky that he was left to wonder how the nation ever got a fleet to sea.

  Even with such outright chicanery they must be paragons compared to the Sicilians, who seemed to see physical labour as a crime against the person and payment for what amounted to scant effort as rightful reward. The whole process was rendered even more trying due to the slothful behaviour of the man supposed to represent King George in what was the second city of the Kingdom of Naples. His inaction – he rose late, lunched long and biliously in the article of wine, before taking to his bed – was surpassed only by the lack of his willingness to provide the credit required to pay the necessary price demanded by the local chandlers.

  ‘Signor di Stefano, I must have both a mainmast and bowsprit whatever they may cost while you must recognise that any monies you advance to repair a vessel of King George’s Navy will be met and reimbursed in full.’

  ‘But when Capitane Pearce?’ came the reply, in dramatically accented English, this before the consul produced from a desk drawer an untidy sheaf of papers. ‘Here are copies of bills I have incurred on behalf of King George, some over two years in age and yet to be satisfied. My credit is not so good that I can run up the level of expense you demand, for in doing so I face ruin.’

  Di Stefano was good at theatricality of the outré sort and he did the misery of impending penury well, both in his wretched facial expression and the way his plump body slumped, as if suddenly afflicted by a great weight, to the point where even his knees, giving way slightly, played a part. It was a hard case to argue against, it being no mystery that His Majesty’s Government was notoriously tardy when it came to meeting the expenses incurred by its agents abroad.

  ‘Sir William Hamilton may undertake to reimburse you.’

  Now the mobile di Stefano countenance, puffy from imbibing and dark skinned from the climate, morphed into an image fitting to the burial of a dear friend; one to which John Pearce had been witness to on the day he and di Stefano interred the ten men he had lost in the recent fight and one which took him back to that desperate battle that had occasioned the damage, which, if it could be counted as an ultimate success, was not much of one.

  ‘I must question whether the income from Sir William’s estates, which he uses to maintain his own position in Naples, are sufficient to bear as well the cost of my duties.’

  John Pearce suspected there was something of a lie in that; Sir William Hamilton was the Ambassador to the Kingdom of Naples and had to be a direct link between Sicily and London, even to the cost of the consul’s duties here on the island. If he thought it he could not say for certain he was being misled. For all he knew, Sir William, a man he had met on only two brief occasions and a seeming gentleman, might be as sluggish at meeting his obligations as the clerks working under the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs in London.

  ‘Might I point out, sir,’ Pearce said, in an emollient tone, ‘that costs do not diminish with time. I am running out of ship’s stores and with what I am obliged to buy locally am low on the funds needed to keep fed my crew—’

  ‘Added to your other obligations, Capitane,’ di Stefano cut in with an oily tone, unable to keep a sly look off that mobile countenance, unwittingly preventing Pearce from mentioning another expense; the bill for those wounded and still accommodated in the Lazaretto, ‘for you have too the burden of your Bella Signora.’

  Was the reference to Emily Barclay’s married estate a dig? Pearce could not tell, but he was not going to let any comment on something that had already caused difficulties pass unchallenged and this time his reply was quite brusque.

  ‘The lady of whom you speak meets her own obligations, sir!’

  ‘Then you are doubly blessed,’ the consul sniffed, adding a toss of the eyes that indicated his lack of belief that what was being imparted to him could possibly be the case.

  ‘It would be better if we stick to the subject at hand, signor, which is how am I to get my ship into a fit state to sail back to join the fleet of which I am a part and on whose behalf you are tasked to lend every effort consistent with your office. I might add that I am required by my station to note every difficulty I experience in my log which will, in time, come to the attention of others, both the Fleet Commander and the Admiralty in London.’

  Di Stefano now chose to play the part of a man deeply offended, pouting in an exaggerated fashion as if he were being threatened in a meaningful way, which Pearce, even if he had hinted at the possibility, thought absurd. What harm could a mere lieutenant in the King’s Navy, and one that was less than loved in the pla
ces of power that mattered, do to him?

  He huffed a bit and puffed a bit, as well as rolling his eyes, and pulled out a large square handkerchief with which to wipe his brow. Pearce was tempted to tell the consul he had missed his true calling; given his comedic abilities he would have had them rolling in the aisles, if he had chosen a career on the London stage.

  ‘I must leave you, sir, to consider which is the lesser of two evils, the crew of my ship begging at your door for sustenance or you meeting the requirements for the necessary repairs?’

  Seeing the consul now swell up to a proud puffball, Pearce added quickly and with faux sympathy, for he knew he had been too critical for his purpose; without di Stefano’s aid he might be stuck in Palermo till eternity so he added a total falsehood designed to take the wind out of his sails.

  ‘And please be aware I am not in ignorance of the problems this presents to a man of your abilities, commitment to exertion and your sterling reputation.’

  Interview over, Pearce left the Consul’s house to exit into the heat of the day, which, approaching noon, seemed to be trapped by the narrow confines of the streets through which he made his way, made ten times worse by the fact that any visit to di Stefano required that he do so in uniform. The heavy blue naval coat he wore was singularly unsuited to any climate other than that of the British Isles and points north, while the sword he wore – but would struggle to employ with a dud right arm – slapped against his thigh as he walked.

  His dignity did not allow him to remove it so by the time he reached the pensione where he and Emily Barclay were staying, his shirt was like a dripping rag. Her room at least overlooked the harbour and the wide bay, while the open shutters admitted a bit of a breeze that, once he had his coat and shirt off, allowed him some relief. She, sitting and wearing a single loose garment, was busy sowing for a fully occupied group of tars, repairing clothing suffering from the wear and tear of the work in which they were presently engaged.

  ‘You do not have the air, John, of someone who has succeeded in his undertaking.’

  ‘Signor di Stefano has a tight grip on his purse and I doubt he will loosen it. We may have to seek to get to Naples if we are ever to fully refit the ship.’

  ‘Naples?’ she said, in a soft and uncertain tone, before putting aside her needle and thread to come and join him by the open window.

  Pearce turned as she came closer, struck as he ever was by her beauty, and even more taken with the way the breeze off the sea was pressing the thin garment she wore against her skin, revealing every contour of her body: her breasts, the outline of her thighs and the slimness of her waist. If he had troubles aplenty, even if Emily Barclay was another man’s wife, John Pearce was happy to have her as a burden.

  ‘From there you have more chance of passage home, Emily, so very few British vessels call at Palermo by comparison.’

  It was in one such rare vessel she had come here, brought by a captain who, even grateful for the services John Pearce and the crew of HMS Larcher had rendered in saving his ship from almost certain seizure by pirates, had chosen to continue his voyage without her, refunding the monies Emily had paid for her passage.

  The hand that he reached out was taken, Emily allowing herself to be pulled close and into his embrace, her head resting in the crook of his naked shoulder as he kissed the top of her fine auburn hair. Outside the window, what had been a noisy, bustling quayside was winding down as the locals headed to wherever they lived to escape the zenith of the broiling midday sun, to first eat and then sleep until late afternoon.

  For two such young and ardent lovers slumber was not the first object of their taking to their bed and such was their familiarity with each other that John Pearce’s stiff, splinted arm was no impediment to what followed.

  CHAPTER ONE

  It was the itching of trapped skin that woke him and, careful not to disturb a still sleeping companion, Pearce sought with his fingers to get between the splints to gain some relief. Yet if his arm troubled him, his thoughts were equally taxing for he knew that the notion of any more delay was to court a very poor alternative, namely he might be required to leave his ship here and take passage to Naples, where he could make his case to Sir William Hamilton for the funds he needed.

  An even more troubling thought surfaced: that he would meet resistance there and would then be required to return to the fleet and explain his actions, hardly attractive given he had no right to be in Palermo at all; his mission had been to take despatches to Ambassador Hamilton and return with, in the navy’s favourite phrase ‘all despatch’.

  Those orders did not mention Emily Barclay who became, as she had been on the voyage out from England, an unofficial passenger, he harbouring the hope that he could find her accommodation, as well as protection with Sir William and Lady Hamilton. The ambassador’s wife being a lady of an uncertain pedigree and a chequered past was someone, he was sure, who would be non-censorious regarding her present situation.

  The first part of his orders he had fulfilled, delivering not only his despatches but also a private letter to Lady Hamilton from Commodore Horatio Nelson, the latter carried out with a degree of misplaced apprehension – the ambassador was privy to the regard in which his beautiful wife was held and not only by that particular officer. Having dined and spent the night at the Palazzo Sessa and with arrangements made for Emily to stay behind, he set off from Sir William’s home intent on fetching her ashore, only to find she had fled his ship and taken passage in a merchant vessel bound for England.

  As he set off in pursuit and, angry as he was, Pearce could comprehend her motives: to be a married woman at large in Italy with an acknowledged lover was to court much condensation and even downright hostility, as had been proved by a brief stay in Leghorn, the base from which the Mediterranean Fleet drew its stores. Emily’s husband was a serving post captain, known personally to a number of the officers come to the port to re-victual and by reputation to almost everyone else and that rendered her innate discomfort doubly difficult to bear.

  That many did not love Ralph Barclay, he being a man of little humour and a lot of barely disguised resentments, made little difference; the collective of the navy would, Emily surmised, feel the implied insult of his cuckoldry, making it impossible for her to remain in Leghorn and that was before such problems had been confounded by John Pearce’s own difficulties.

  Cruel coincidence had seen an old problem resurface, one which could only be laid to rest by a duel, one in which, in his darker moments, he wondered if what he had done to win the contest could be counted as honourable. Certainly the military officers who had supported his opponent did not think so, which had seen Emily in receipt of vocally expressed insults that went beyond anything that could be considered tolerable. It had also left her lover troubled by his inability to do anything about it. Those same officers, when challenged for their behaviour, had refused to give him satisfaction.

  Staring out at the sparkling Mediterranean, the jumbled thoughts induced a complex set of feelings. How had he come to be here in Palermo, indeed how had he come to be entitled to the blue coat he owned and the command he enjoyed? Ralph Barclay was the prime cause and there was some lifting of the gloom at the thought, indeed the beginnings of a quiet smile, that such a dark-hearted bastard as he might, in moments of like introspection, damn himself for his own actions.

  It took little to lift Pearce’s spirit and the sweet, melodious singing of a young girl, passing underneath his window, was enough to shift his mood to a happier plane; too many times in his life, when matters had looked desperate, the ultimate upshot had been of benefit. For all the turmoil of his being a one-time pressed seaman, how could he complain of how his life had turned out? By the personal order of King George, he was Lieutenant John Pearce and he had enjoyed in that role a degree of independence denied to most naval officers, while still sleeping in the bed behind him was a woman he would never have met had her husband not sought to press hands for his undermanned frigate.
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  Inevitably his mind returned to the main difficulty and the consideration of a possible solution: surely to get HMS Larcher to Naples was not impossible, the distance being, even in far from perfect weather, not much more than two days’ sailing on a fully functioning vessel. Right now he was looking out at a benign sea state and a wind that, if it could be felt on his skin, carried no great force.

  Could his master rig enough sail to undertake the journey? Larcher would take longer but that was not a problem if the weather held. Naples had a proper dockyard well supplied with masts and timber, was a strong ally with Britain in its fight against the French Revolution, so would surely advance him any aid he needed.

  The more Pearce thought on it the more attractive the idea became, yet it was not without risk: the climate in this part of the world could be fickle, with winds that could spring up in the turn of a glass to change a benevolent sunlit day into a nightmare of gales and raging seas. The route was also a potential hunting ground for pirates and it was in fighting a pair of Barbary brigantines, in company with the merchantman on which Emily had taken passage, which had brought on his present dilemma.

  They too had suffered in the encounter and would no doubt, like him, be seeking to repair the damage. Any place a Mussulman could do so had to be well away from the shores of Catholic Sicily, so he had nothing to fear from them, though there could of course be others, even French Privateers. Risk and reward lay at the very core of the life of any man in command of a vessel of war and, small as she was, HMS Larcher was that. John Pearce had the choice to leave his ship and crew to rot in Palermo or take a chance that good fortune would favour his attempt to get her away.

  His daily duty took him to HMS Larcher twice; he cheerfully ignored the Standing Order that a captain must sleep aboard his ship. At the cock’s crow to ensure all was shipshape and hear a report on what work would be undertaken that day, then in the evening to see delivered those fresh foodstuffs he had bought in the market for, on such a small vessel Pearce was not only Master and Commander but his own purser, with all the problems and paperwork such a position entailed. Accounts which, of this moment had to be, like his own captain’s log, filled in by Emily if they were to be legible.