A Treacherous Coast Read online

  A Treacherous Coast

  DAVID DONACHIE

  Dave and Jane Austin

  who regularly tease my brain

  Contents

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  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

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  BY DAVID DONACHIE

  COPYRIGHT

  CHAPTER ONE

  The situation was playing on the nerves of everyone aboard HMS Spark, John Pearce included. Moving with barely steerage way, in inky darkness, under a heavily clouded sky, with nothing much of a wind, allowed the tension to mount. There were none of the usual artefacts of shipboard life to ease expectation by familiarity: no bells, jocular calls or lamps lit to guide a fellow on his way along the deck, while the lack of stars or moonlight, leading to near Stygian darkness, left all aboard with a feeling of being cut off from the entire world.

  This was alluded to, albeit in a whisper, by Lieutenant Somers, the man in command of the two patrolling vessels, his own sloop as well as the brig HMS Troubadour, which was presumed to be within hailing distance, for she could not be seen.

  ‘We could disappear and no one would be aware of how and why, not even our consort.’

  This seemed to Pearce an indication of how much strain Somers was under, these being amongst the very few words he had addressed to the fellow, who, with his command of French, had been seconded by Admiral Sir Hyde Parker – a character whose reputation preceded him – to help undertake the present mission. If that spoke of a definite amount of gallantry, that was offset and coloured in the minds of naval folk by the way he had come about his rank. In King George’s Navy, John Pearce carried a name that ruffled feathers.

  A glimmering layer of light was just visible along the imperceptible horizon, the combined candle and oil power of the port of Genoa not strong enough to reach out far into the Ligurian Sea. Yet it was hoped it would serve to silhouette what they were presently to intercept: vessels seeking to supply the so-called Army of Italy, now encamped before the town of Nice.

  Between Genoa and the forces of Revolutionary France lay a combined Austrian/Piedmontese/Neapolitan army under the elderly German general, the Baron de Vins: a coalition force funded by Great Britain, the major player in the fight against what Europe saw as Jacobin madmen; creatures who lacked total control of their own polity, given the country to the rear of their southern arm was in utter turmoil.

  Brittany and the Vendée were in open revolt while it was rumoured that Lyons, the second city of France, had risen against the rule of Paris, this as they presided over a treasury rumoured to be close to bankrupt. Thus supplies for the forces opposing the coalition were near impossible to come by, which rendered Genoa as their lifeline.

  Supposedly neutral, profit took precedence over principle, as it ever had in a city state founded on trade and ruled by its merchants and bankers. Quite apart from old habits, the present situation required a pragmatic approach from the Doge and Signoria, the council of leading citizens who ruled the Ligurian Republic, given that the danger threatened their polity from both sides.

  Austria was a historic enemy and one that had for a very long time controlled much of the land on Genoa’s borders. The Habsburg Emperors had always had designs on subsuming the republic, as it had Venice and neighbouring Pisa. To be allied to them, or even to ease their situation, flew in the face of centuries of hostility.

  The French, too, were too-frequent historical invaders of northern Italy, and if they were static now due to dearth and the approaching winter weather, they were a threat to be taken seriously for they had enjoyed outstanding military successes in the years since their revolution had swept away monarchical power.

  At Valmy, three years previously, they had broken a mid-European coalition army seeking to march on Paris, led by the noted general of the age, the Duke of Brunswick. In the following year they had, merely by clever manoeuvre, obliged the Duke of York to abandon the Low Countries. Closer to Italy and more recently, by the employment of artillery, they had chased the combined British, Spanish and Neapolitan forces out of the main Mediterranean French fleet base at Toulon.

  So there was a real possibility the French would break out into Piedmont. The route to the fertile Po Valley lay along the coastal littoral and the Alps precluded any serious alternative, for its passes were well defended. The land that lay immediately in their path was ruled from Genoa, a rich prize in itself for a revolution short of the means to feed its citizens. If Liguria was a republic, it was not one that Paris would see as comparable to its own, being an oligarchy run for and by the leading citizens who made up the ruling Signoria: men of wealth and pride of position, not proponents, in any sense, of Égalité.

  Somers, a short, rotund fellow with a vinous, bloated countenance, a man who struggled to do up the buttons on his waistcoat, lifted the canvas cover that masked the light on the binnacle to look at his watch, his voice reflecting his low mood.

  ‘If they don’t come soon we must get back out to sea.’

  ‘I think they know we are here,’ Pearce replied. ‘They might be more cautious if they could see it also.’

  It was as if Somers had been talking to himself and had only now realised anyone else was close enough to hear. He had to crane his neck to answer, the man he was addressing being so much taller. ‘If I seek an opinion, Mr Pearce, I commonly ask for one. Be so good as to keep your thoughts to yourself.’ The response was terse.

  ‘If I’m minded to have them, sir, I am also inclined to state them openly.’

  He heard the intake of breath from a man who was his superior by many years of service. Pearce was not willing to let that affect him; he had never been a respecter of rank and that extended to admirals, never mind long-serving and irascible lieutenants.

  ‘Since I am as likely to suffer as anyone else aboard from any errors of judgement, and I am not part of the ship’s company, I feel I have a right to air my apprehensions.’

  ‘Your arrogance is astounding!’ Somers spluttered in his response, but then he did that a lot, Pearce being convinced the mere sight and sound of his person brought resentment to the fore, based on more than his dubious elevation to the rank of lieutenant. Envy for good fortune, given he had enjoyed much success, a handsome appearance as well as several added inches in height only compounded the bitterness.

  ‘I cannot fathom what Admiral Parker was thinking for seconding someone like you to me.’

  ‘Someone like me?’ Pearce responded with a growl, one that implied a physical follow-up.

  ‘I also think, on reflection,’ Somers spluttered again, either out of frustration or caution, ‘I require you to leave the quarterdeck.’

  ‘Odd to see reflection in pitch-darkness. You must have extraordinary powers.’

  The smoothly delivered pun went right over Somers’ head, but he knew an insult when he heard one. He was audibly inhaling to
issue a reprimand when a soft voice called from above.

  ‘Two sail, your honour, they crossed the glim onshore as they cleared the mole.’

  ‘No lights?’

  ‘None, sir.’

  Exiting the harbour would have been the only point of risk; any trading vessel seeking to get to sea in a clandestine fashion would hug the harbour wall until they were obliged to clear the entrance. This only underlined the objection John Pearce had raised: whoever was seeking to break their cordon knew that British warships were in the offing, just as they knew they would not be the kind of capital ships that could sink them with ease, not that such a thing was in any case permissible.

  In seeking to stop supplies getting to the French, the Royal Navy was engaged in a delicate task and one that required a nod to diplomacy. Interdiction had to be carried out while avoiding incensing the Genoese, this in case they abandoned their supposed and tenuous neutrality to go over wholly to the enemy, a move which would seriously impact on the role of the Mediterranean fleet.

  Led by Sir William Hotham, its main task was to bottle up the French Navy in Toulon, and if they came out, to beat them. He had done so twice, but his triumphs had been partial rather than total; the enemy was still a fleet in being, so that task had not in any way been diminished. Ports like Genoa must be allowed to trade as normal with the wider world; indeed, much of the cargo came and went in English bottoms.

  Ships came into and out of the harbour from any number of other ports on the Italian mainland as well as the entire middle sea. Merchant vessels from North Africa, the Levant, Spain and even the Americas were common. To embargo the entirety of that would be to create another active opponent.

  Hotham had a concomitant problem. To simultaneously impose a full blockade on Genoa as well as Toulon was fraught with peril for a fleet seriously lacking strength, added to which, with winter approaching, the waters of the Mediterranean were dangerous per se, none more so than those off the coast of Liguria. It was a time for ships of the line to find a safe anchorage, not to be endlessly at sea when they lacked the facilities for repair or the numbers that would allow such an action to be truly and continuously effective.

  Subterfuge was required in Hotham’s opinion; no British warship could be openly seen to interfere with Genoese trade, hence the lack of lights and the need Somers saw to get out of sight of land by daylight. Pearce, not by nature bellicose, was of the opinion, and not alone in such, that the best way to contain Genoese chicanery – the oligarchy openly colluded and profited from these nefarious trades – was to threaten a devastating bombardment of the city and port if they did not cease their duplicity.

  Quiet orders were now being passed for men to ready themselves, the ship itself having long been cleared for action. Those below, who would have been nursing their boarding weapons, crept onto the deck to crouch between the cannon, while others took station on those very same weapons ready to fire off a first salvo, it being axiomatic that any vessel seeking to come out at this time of night could not be engaged in any kind of legitimate dealings.

  Pearce had moved forward to the place allotted to him in the forepeak, where he would command four of the twelve-pounder cannon as well as some of the men about to board against whoever they were set to face; that could be anyone, including their fellow countrymen. The Army of Italy would pay well for supplies of any kind and a Briton was as greedy as any. There was a very active French consul in Genoa and he was ever busy in his efforts to support his confrères, while he cared not from whom willingness came.

  ‘Can’t see bugger all,’ came a voice out of the darkness, one of the gunners remarking on the obvious.

  ‘Belay that,’ Pearce hissed, ‘and use your ears.’

  ‘Got a bandana round them, your honour,’ came the sniggering reply, followed after a short pause by, ‘What was it you’se saying?’

  This was the cause of suppressed laughter; in this light a man could speak and avoid identification, especially with a blue coat on board temporarily, a man who would struggle to recognise a voice. Pearce had to hold back a loud response and not only because it might carry. He reasoned a rebuke would mean nothing and he was disinclined that way in any case. Let them have their jest while he concentrated on listening out for their quarry.

  He could hear the cordage straining on HMS Spark and he sought to force that to the background. Whoever was coming out, even in light airs, would create more noise as they tried to get what benefit they could from what was no more than a zephyr. At the same time, he was reflecting on how he had got here, on this deck, when he had been about to foreswear the navy in its entirety. So much for showing his mistress, Emily Barclay, a flash of independence.

  ‘You could get yourself killed, John Pearce, just to satisfy a bit of stupid flummery.’

  Whatever he thought of Lieutenant Somers, and that was not a great deal, Pearce had to admit he ran a tight ship; that bit of seaman’s banter had been exceptional. The crew had been together for years so they knew each other well, and such continuity could only have two outcomes: discontent enough to render the ship useless or mutual respect, the latter seemingly being the case here.

  So it was the innate discipline of HMS Spark that gave them the advantage; they maintained a degree of silence, something their quarry failed to achieve. The call was faint but telling − a man used to daylight and easy communication forgetting his present position and aim, though the words used were incomprehensible.

  In a situation where Pearce had expected anything spoken would be in French, a language in which he could play the native and which had seen him seconded to this task, what he now heard was more guttural, perhaps German. That mattered less than the fact that it was audible enough to allow Somers to send aloft a pair of blue lights.

  The rockets whizzed into the air leaving their trail of golden sparks, which alone would alert and hopefully alarm their enemies enough to have them put up their helm and head back to the safety of Genoa. Somers was not necessarily here to fight; he was here to dissuade, and if they turned tail, his task was done.

  The overhead explosion bathed the seascape in the ethereal light, showing not only two trading ships, but also HMS Troubadour, half a cable distant, precisely where she should be. Pearce could see Somers on the quarterdeck with a speaking trumpet at his mouth, ready to shout out an order to reverse course. It did not remain there as the very visible blast of a cannon preceded the sound of firing, followed by the whistling of a ball as it swept at head height across the deck.

  There was no need to command the response; the gunners were prepared with their cannon loaded, the gun captains already having had their men levering on the trunnions to adjust the aim as soon as the blue lights broke. They hauled on the flint lines as soon as the weapons began to bear, working on the assumption of superior force. The lanyards were pulled before Pearce even gave the order to fire, gratified to see evidence of damage just as the illumination provided by the rockets began to fade.

  Replacements were sent up from both warships and it was plain their targets lacked the will to counter the weight of shot. All four vessels were trying to gain steerage way: the traders to get back to safety, the two warships now seeking to get close enough to board. They had fired on the Royal Navy, so if the vessels could be taken and their purpose could be proved, it would be Hotham complaining to Genoa for the laxity of their customs controls, not them to him for interference.

  The fact that they were up against coastal trading vessels – small, with deep hulls and a couple of defensive cannon – had registered, so there was no contest when it came to the ability to get a modicum of way on or to maintain steady fire. More troubling was the lack of sea room in which to effect a capture with so little wind; if their opponents made the harbour entrance, they would be safe.

  Somers had hauled men off the guns and any thought of boarding to get as much canvas aloft and drawing, Troubadour doing likewise, while their quarry had naturally come round to run for safety.


  ‘Why in the name of God did they fire?’ he yelled out.

  Pearce thought it futile to speculate, with panic as likely to be the cause as any plan, but it was a measure of Somers’ frustration at the lack of speed. At times like these a captain could do little, something Pearce had himself experienced in a similar circumstance. The crew were working flat out, any orders needing to be issued being made vocally by the yeomen who commanded in the tops and on deck by men with years of experience, who did not require creatures in blue coats to remind them of their duty.

  Under such light as was sent aloft, it was impossible to see if they were closing, which took no account of the common difficulty at sea of discerning distance without a fixed point of reference. Sweeps appeared on the merchant vessels as they sought to use those to compensate for the lack of wind, this while Somers made a slight alteration of course, which he hoped would get his ship between them and safety.

  Pearce wanted to point out that sweeps would serve Spark better than canvas – with a much bigger crew they should be able to overhaul – only to decide that any observation of his would be unwelcome. Thus it was with a feeling of growing pessimism he reckoned the gap to be increasing not closing. Unless something was done, they were going to get away and in thinking like that, the solution became clear. The ship’s boats with boarders would catch those two lumbering coastal traders easily and that was too favourable a solution to be left unsaid.

  Somers’ face was thunderous even as he approached, it being obvious Pearce had something to say, and an abrupt command came that he should get back to his station. The bulbous eyes almost popped when the captain saw he was being ignored.

  ‘I told you to return to your station, Mr Pearce.’

  The temptation to shout at the man had to be suppressed; getting him to act was more important than displaying anger, so the view imparted was delivered in a voice too low to carry; wounding this man’s delicate pride would achieve the exact opposite of that which he sought.