A Treacherous Coast Read online

‘Your opinion is not welcome, sir. I repeat: return to your post or face an order to go below and stay there.’

  The need to be polite evaporated as Pearce’s temper, never easily controlled, came to the fore, adding to a carrying voice that paid no heed to Somers’ dignity.

  ‘If I wondered why you have stayed a lieutenant for so many years, I do not do so now.’

  That was like a slap and a well-aimed one. Somers had been a lieutenant for a very long time, indeed even before he had come out from England with Lord Hood to a station where the attrition of officers was high due to incompetence, illness, wounds or death in action. A man like him should surely have been promoted, but he was demonstrating now, by his lack of imagination and stubbornness, why he had not been elevated.

  ‘I intend to close enough to sink them.’

  ‘Why, when you can capture both the vessels and their cargo, which has to be of value?’

  ‘Sinking could send the message Sir William wishes to impart.’

  ‘I think I know Hotham better than you, Mr Somers. Line his pockets and he will be a happier man, which also goes for your crew.’

  Somers was spluttering once more. ‘I look forward to telling Admiral Parker you are affected more by greed than sound policy.’

  ‘And while you are cogitating on that, your quarry could well make Genoa harbour, which will satisfy neither.’

  ‘You forgot to mention your purse, sir, which I assume has great bearing.’

  ‘It is a pity striking a superior officer is so frowned upon. I daresay the navy would be a sight more efficient if it were not.’

  Somers chose to ignore him, instead moving to the bulwark to look at the two trading vessels, now using the long oars to make headway; there was no doubt the gap was increasing. It was only when Somers turned to give an order, perhaps one to break off the chase that, with fresh blue lights sent up, he saw Troubadour had her boats in the water and they were closing fast.

  Pearce rushed back to his station, shouting to the cannon to fire off a salvo, then to load with grape. Those boats would take time to close and the best way to slow their quarry was to make the deck too deadly a place on which to be working. He had no fear that Somers would question his actions; what had happened with Troubadour had driven home the point. Somers would now be wondering how to quickly get his own boats in the water as well as how to frame his despatch so, if the ploy was a success, he could claim the credit for the actions of his consort.

  The people they were after were no fools. They saw what was coming and took men off the sweeps to line the side with muskets, in the hope of driving off the assault, thus presenting Pearce with the perfect target. Now it was a case of timing his grape salvo so that those muskets would be fired off in panic, while the closeness of the boats would deny them time to reload. The eyes of his four gun captains were on him, Pearce reckoning if Somers had ordered them to fire, they would have awaited his agreement.

  He did not shout the order to do so; there was no need.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘That is hard to credit. Boots, by damn?’

  This statement was posited by Horatio Nelson, the expression on his face showing the measure of his surprise. Having always been possessed of a lively countenance, youthful for his years, the damage to his right eye, sustained at the siege of Calvi, now gave it an odd, unbalanced cast. He was obliged to slightly swing his head to the left in order to fully fix an object or person, yet anyone looking at him full face would think his wounded eye seemed normal; plainly, it was far from the case.

  Happy to get rid of John Pearce, Lieutenant Somers had put him in a pinnace with instructions to rendezvous with Commodore Nelson, his immediate superior, who was beating to and fro off Cape Noli, and inform him of what had happened. He had already related the tale of the boarding operation as well as praised the man commanding HMS Troubadour for the way he had read both the situation and produced a solution.

  There was no point in him alluding to his own attempts to persuade Somers it was the right course of action; that would smack of boasting. Nor, except by omission, did he seek to ditch the man and his comparable incompetence, which probably flew counter to the despatch the commodore had just read, one written by the captain of HMS Spark.

  This told Nelson the two captures were now on their way to Leghorn, where their cargo would be landed and handed over to a naval commissariat that had little use for it. No doubt the cargo of boots would be sold to the coalition forces to use as they saw fit, the price gained added to the total prize value, part of which would come Pearce’s way.

  ‘I do suppose,’ Nelson said, with a jaunty air, one that indicated a coming jest, ‘that contrary to the common old saw about stomachs, an army actually marches on its feet.’

  ‘Droll, sir, very droll,’ Pearce responded, knowing it would please one of the few naval seniors to whom he was willing to defer. He got a wide grin for his observation, one that made the commodore look like a mischievous child.

  ‘I shall no doubt get a sharp letter from the Signoria condemning this action, copied of course to our C-in-C.’

  ‘I would say, sir, that on this occasion they would be best to hold their tongue.’

  ‘Not an Italian quality, Pearce. As a nation they think to shout and gesticulate is the way to win a dispute, though I think here we have the right to protest first. Not even those devious souls can claim that a cargo of military boots counts as a legitimate cargo and, as to their coming out in darkness, well, that fact alone pins it.’

  ‘They could only have one destination in mind, sir.’

  ‘Which we will tell them,’ Nelson insisted, before calling to his servant, Frank Lepeé, more sober than was normal, to fetch a midshipman.

  ‘“We”, sir?’

  ‘I think it wise that someone involved in the action is on hand to describe how it came about, albeit not the exact location. Best if it was seen to be further out to sea and a fortuitous meeting rather than a planned one; not that they will be fooled, but we must play the game. You are conversant in French and it will aid me to know what, if he interferes, the French consul is actually saying instead of what is passed on to me by an Italian interpreter.’

  ‘You exchange matters with the French consul present, sir?’

  ‘It is hard to see the oligarchs without him there. They are in terror of the Revolution and rightly so. The beasts are less than four days’ march from the city and they no doubt anticipate their heads will roll off a damned guillotine if Genoa is taken.’

  ‘The enemy have to fight to get there, sir.’

  ‘Indeed, and let us hope our allies and the Baron de Vins have the stomach to stop them. For myself, I would be happier with a younger and more spirited fellow in command. Vins is long on two things, Pearce: verbal bellicosity and years. It is only in activity that he can be found wanting.’

  After a rap on the door, Midshipman William Hoste entered the cabin of HMS Agamemnon, an eager expression on his face, while a smile was aimed at Pearce. This served to remind the recipient that of all the ships in which he had sailed, this was the happiest; such an attitude manifest most in the youngsters. It was also one on which he was genuinely welcome.

  Such a state of harmony was entirely due to the man who commanded the vessel; all his officers took their cue from Horatio Nelson, who saw encouragement as the way to gain efficiency and, having sailed himself as a common seaman, albeit in a merchant vessel, had ways of connecting with the crew that few of his peers could match.

  If there were many in the fleet who thought him lax in the article of discipline, Admiral Sir William Hotham being one, they had never been aboard when the ship engaged the enemy. HMS Agamemnon cleared her sixty-four guns for action faster than any of her consorts, then plied her cannon with such commendable speed she was well capable of engaging more powerfully armed opponents on equal terms.

  ‘Mr Hoste, do I have to remind you of your manners? A grin will not do. Say good day to Lieutenant Pearce.’
/>   ‘Delighted to renew your acquaintance, sir.’

  ‘Reciprocated, Mr Hoste.’

  The voice had broken since Pearce last saw the lad, while along with that had come a modicum of facial eruption in the article of spots. Hoste was one of the commodore’s favourites, being of Norfolk stock, yet Nelson was even-handed in his pleasure in young company, easy when he only took on board spirited, skylarking types who appealed to his own slightly juvenile nature.

  ‘Regards to Mr Hinton, we need to shape a course for Genoa.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  ‘And you and those of your berth not on duty will join Mr Pearce and I for dinner, where, I am sure, in order to further your education, he will recount to you every detail of the recent action.’

  If such a prospect delighted the fifteen-year-old midshipman, and it plainly did, it made Pearce inwardly groan; if there was one naval habit he abhorred, and there were many, it was the constant reciting of past battles and exploits, in which valour naturally tended to grow through repetition. Being asked to recount his own adventures always made him feel like a fraud, made doubly so by the attitude of those listening.

  If not aboard Agamemnon, many, in other wardrooms in which he had been obliged to relate some action, while paying lip service with their congratulations, were consumed with envy at what they saw as his good fortune. To say, truthfully, he had walked blindly into any action in which he had partaken and not sought either danger or glory, was ever brushed aside as sly modesty.

  The sounds above, running feet on worn planking, were of a ship of war coming round onto another course. Pearce knew there would be few raised voices on the deck; everyone on HMS Agamemnon was a volunteer, many from Nelson’s home county of Norfolk. They had sailed with him in previous commissions and were so well versed in avoidance of press gangs they could with seeming ease, at the outbreak of a new war, cross half of England to get to the ship in which they wished to serve.

  He watched as the sunlight worked its way across the salt-streaked casement windows, until the ship was heading west, the wind causing the whole to heel. By the time the manoeuvre was complete, Pearce had excused himself and made his way to the wardroom, leaving Nelson, quill in hand, writing letters.

  Genoa was an impressive city – how could it not be when for centuries it had been a premier trading port through which a great deal of the wealth of Italy flowed? In olden times that had included fine and colourful cloth from Florence, made from wool imported from England, also armour from Milan, which had the means to forge weapons and protective fighting equipment of the highest quality. Lying to west of the fertile Po Valley, the breadbasket of Piedmont and Lombardy, it had also been a major exporter of foodstuffs, and part of the task at hand for the British fleet was to ensure none of the abundant surplus was available to the French army.

  The republic had never quite matched the imperial pretentions of its great competitor, Venice, yet it did produce as one of its sons Christopher Columbus, as well as many of the ships and admirals who had beaten off the expansion of the Ottomans at Lepanto. From the sea the city was framed against the forested blue-grey mountains, the smell of pine wafting outwards on a foul wind, which, in forcing HMS Agamemnon to beat up tack upon tack, afforded plenty of time for examination.

  The most obvious sign of long prosperity lay in the number of remarkable church spires and domed basilicas that formed the skyline as well as, once landed, the fine buildings that fronted the quays. The harbour itself was a great sweep of pallid stone, hooked to the south to keep at bay the tempests that plagued these waters every winter, for Genoa’s climate was much affected by the proximity of the Maritime Alps. There was a twenty-eight-gun French frigate at anchor, La Brune, which Nelson eyed greedily and swore he would take one day.

  ‘But not today, Mr Pearce. Their damned neutrality, which is false to my mind, prevents me acting as I would wish.’

  ‘A cutting-out expedition in darkness, sir,’ Pearce replied mischievously.

  ‘Tempting,’ Nelson replied, a wicked gleam in his good eye as they approached the quayside, ‘very tempting.’

  Traversing the streets, it seemed as if all the buildings had the dimensions of a regal palace, being large, square and constructed from alternating black-and-white marble. The telling point was made by Pearce that if they were replete with windows, none existed on the lower floors, while the high gates were formidable, hinting at a fear of violence.

  ‘They will get all the violence they can handle,’ Nelson insisted with almost wishful thinking, ‘if the sans-culottes ever get within the city walls to plunder the place.’

  Mr Drake, the British consul to Turin and, for London, the man at the political heart of the coalition, was the first person to call upon, the British representative in the city being seen as more Italian in his attitudes than English. Drake was coming through Genoa on his way home on leave and would provide an appraisal for Nelson of the state of the allied defences as well as how he should proceed when presented to the men who ran the Genoese Republic.

  Pearce was surprised at what was proposed as a solution to their secret supplying of the French, nothing less than a blockade to stop neutral vessels trading anywhere along the Ligurian littoral. The response from Nelson so worried him he felt it incumbent, in the coach ride back to the harbour, to take it upon himself to propose caution.

  ‘If you implement this, sir, it would be wise to ensure you have written backing from the C-in-C—’

  ‘Which I am highly unlikely to receive. Hotham issued a recent order demanding care when dealing with neutrals, I assume on instructions from London.’ The knowing nod from his inferior was telling. ‘Yet Mr Drake did point out that political courage is required in an officer as well as military courage.’

  ‘An argument hard to counter, but I think that the courage you speak of belongs to flag officers of the highest rank and must be promulgated in a manner that avoids excuses.’

  In the silence that followed, Pearce wondered if he should speak freely. In his dealings with Sir William Hotham he had found the admiral to be devious to the point of an utter want of trust. The way Hotham and his slippery clerk, Toomey, had exposed not only him but many others to danger still rankled; the fact that he was no longer in a position to easily exact retribution on the scoundrels was even more galling.

  If he told Nelson of what had happened in the mission to the Gulf of Ambracia, he doubted, it seeming so outlandish, it would be believed. How do you tell such a fellow, who seemed to see good in most people, that his C-in-C was a practised liar as well as a conspirator enough to be absolutely at home in the land of Machiavelli?

  Against that, he was well aware Nelson was not as happy as he had once been, serving under Hotham, having much preferred Lord Hood as the commanding admiral. Nothing exposed more the difference between the two flag officers than the twin actions in which Hotham had led his fleet: one in March off Cape Noli, another subsequent encounter with the French in July, at the Hyères Islands.

  Given two chances to overwhelm them, Hotham had, to the thinking of many of his senior officers, flunked both, settling for partial success where near annihilation of the enemy had been possible. Admiral Samuel Goodall, the man commanding the van of the fleet and thus in the best position to press home an assault, had reputedly kicked his hat all over his quarterdeck in frustration when he was ordered to desist in his attack on an enemy he was sure he could destroy. Nelson had been just as upset, though he had been less open about his disquiet.

  If open criticism of a commander was muted by service convention, Pearce suspected many letters home would contain subtle criticism of a man seen as too weak and fearful for the task he had been given. Yet there would be a residual fact of naval life included: everyone in command could be faced with difficult choices when they were so far from home and definite instructions, so it was never acceptable to be overly harsh.

  ‘I asked Drake,’ Nelson added after a long silence, ‘if the forces ranged agai
nst the French could hold their positions in the face of an attack.’

  ‘And his response?’

  ‘Was not reassuring, Mr Pearce, not reassuring at all. He reckons morale to be poor. The Neapolitans wish for nothing more than to go home, while the Piedmontese show little willingness to defend even their own hearths.’

  ‘So it falls to the Austrians.’

  ‘Who are serving, as I said to you previously, under an old man and, I suspect, old habits. The Army of Italy is far from formidable and will remain so when denied that which they need, boots and foul-weather clothing being one with winter coming, which will impact on their morale. Thus it falls to the Royal Navy—’

  ‘You mean to you, sir.’

  ‘A telling interruption.’

  ‘I apologise.’

  ‘Please do not.’

  ‘Would I be correct in pointing out that if you interdict neutral trade, then the owners of what cargoes you seize will have the ability to sue you personally for their losses in the British courts?’

  ‘Of course,’ was the impish reply, ‘but that does not mean they will win.’

  ‘And you are seriously considering taking upon yourself such a burden? Any suits could be for sums running into hundreds of thousands of pounds and I have never met a man of the law who entertained a certainty of winning even the most seemingly sound case.’

  ‘If it is the only way to contain the French, then I must.’

  ‘I wonder, sir, if I would be allowed to relate to you some of the actions of Admiral Hotham, which have impinged personally upon me and may give you pause?’

  ‘I know him not to be the warrior, Mr Pearce, but I must abjure you from saying anything more. He is a flag officer; I am a very senior captain who must support him. Your rank does not allow you to question that.’

  Drake was present when Nelson made his representations to the Doge, he flanked by the Genoese Signoria: men dressed in unrelieved black as if attending an interment. These were no gesticulators in the normal Italian mould; they were a stony-faced, arrogant-looking bunch, but silent, leaving their elected leader to listen and respond.