A Treacherous Coast Page 3

  John Pearce stood several places to the rear of Nelson, his eye on the French consul. He was much given to whispering in any available ear, no doubt to counter what was being said about breaches of neutrality, it being galling that there could be no knowledge of what was being imparted, he being too far off to overhear.

  If the words the commodore used, directed at His Serene Highness Signor Brignole, had any effect, it was far from obvious on the face of the man he was addressing. Richly garbed in his official robes – those bejewelled – he was a master of sophistry, too long in the tooth to react to accusations of collusion, and nor could he be anything other than compliant to the views of his black-clad fellow citizens. In Genoa, the Doge was elected bi-annually; if he wished to continue in office, the support of the Signoria was essential.

  When the matter was summed up, it was with deep regret that such a lapse had occurred; not even he could term it properly as duplicitous. Brignole sonorously announced that customs controls would be tightened to ensure such an unfortunate incident never happened again; with the caveat of an inability to check every cargo departing the port, as well as its destination, ship’s masters were not always truthful.

  ‘A full blockade is what is needed,’ was Nelson’s conclusion, once they were back in his barge and making for Agamemnon. ‘Only Sir William can authorise such a thing, so I will ask that he accede to it.’

  The opinion of John Pearce, that he would not, remained unspoken.

  ‘I fear I must condemn you to a pinnace once more, Mr Pearce. HMS Spark needs her boat back so you must take it to Leghorn, which I am sure will please you, while I make for the anchorage in Vado Bay, the flank of our armies, suggested by Mr Drake.’ The reference to Leghorn got Nelson a sharp look as he added, ‘And from there, unless our C-in-C has other duties he wishes you to perform, you will soon be sent back to the deck of your own ship.’

  He wanted to say that any request to him from Hotham would be thrown back in the sod’s face, not that such a chance was likely to occur given their mutual hatred and history. It had been Hyde Parker, captain of the fleet, who had engaged him for the mission on HMS Spark, and even he had done so with reservations, having seen as the executive officer of the fleet how Pearce had shown scant respect for Lord Hood.

  Parker had been surprised at his ready acquiescence, unaware that Pearce had his own motives, wishing for two things: to be off his own ship and out of Leghorn. Had Nelson been indulging in any form of deceit regarding Leghorn and happiness? The conclusion was that he was not, or if he was, it was so expertly done as not to show. Emily Barclay was in Leghorn and, much as he longed to see her, Pearce knew their relationship to be far from as simple as it had once been, and that too had been larded with complications.

  The next day found him sailing down the coast past endless bays of hemmed-in fishing villages, with only steep, rocky paths cut with steps providing a way out landwards; this allowed him many hours in which to think, while gnawing on several problems. He gave a decently wide berth to La Spezia and Pisa, where the mountains that lined the shore finally gave way to an open landscape and the wide delta of the River Arno. The sight of Leghorn harbour, Livorno to the locals, only served to heighten his mixed feelings at what he would face, not helped when he saw that not only was HMS Spark in harbour, but so too was HMS Flirt. He had supposed her to be in San Fiorenzo Bay.

  Her beautiful lines did not lift his heart as they should, for he would be obliged to go aboard and not proceed ashore as he had intended. It proved worse when he did get his sea chest hoisted onto the deck, it being plain the fourteen-gun brig was preparing to get to sea. It was with mixed feelings that he was informed they were off to join with Commodore Nelson.

  CHAPTER THREE

  John Pearce had for some time been suffering from a whole portfolio of frustrations and being back on board HMS Flirt was only one; only this was now a daily affliction. Relations with her commanding officer, Henry Digby, were far from cordial, their association not having recovered from the latter’s repudiation of his promise to help Pearce against Sir William Hotham.

  A commitment given when Digby was far away from authority and recovering from a serious wound had, despite the fact that Pearce had probably saved both his life and his reputation, been retracted when he came back within the admiral’s immediate orbit. Digby’s attachment to the advancement of his career had come to take precedence over his principles and a bounden promise.

  The fact that he had not acted to stop Pearce remaining aboard seemed surprising, given the heated exchange in which they had engaged, one in which his first lieutenant and supposed friend had used some very harsh words on both his character as well as his honour and they must still rankle. He had expected Digby to demand his removal, and when that did not happen he looked for motives, which were not too hard to fathom.

  A request to dismiss his first lieutenant would have to go to the flagship while it could not be made without some form of explanation, and Digby would shy away from providing one. It was easier to tolerate Pearce than risk his demanding a court martial, which was his right, at which certain things would be aired, matters that would be more than detrimental to any number of people, not least Digby himself, for the defendant would have the right to question him under oath. On board he could be controlled; in front of a panel judging his case, even if they were appointed by Hotham, Pearce was a loose cannon.

  The captain had another reason to disapprove of Pearce, this relating to his relationship with Emily Barclay, which had been no secret aboard the ship and it made no difference to Digby that the lady was now a widow. When last seen by anyone from the brig, she had shown unmistakable signs of being with child and no great calculation of dates and who was by her side at the probable time of conception was required to put the likely paternity at the door of John Pearce. It was doubly galling the man made not the least attempt to hide the fact that the supposition was correct.

  Since, outside of the efficient running of the ship, they now barely spoke, Digby was utterly unaware of the other matter troubling his premier. Emily would probably have been relieved that he had not landed, which would risk for her embarrassment, something of which she was in terror. She did not share his desire that he should be openly acknowledged as the father of her child, insisting it would be too shameful to her reputation. This oddly mirrored Digby’s concerns for his naval career; in his wilder flights of fancy, Pearce reckoned them more suited to each other than he to her.

  Emily had declined to go home in her condition, fearing the risks of a sea voyage, with the very strong possibility that the birth would occur before she reached England. Safely ensconced in Leghorn, she was insisting that the child must be born there and under her married name of Barclay. The future possibility of adoption was mooted, that not possible for at least three years, the time polite society allotted to a respectable widowhood.

  She had also talked of their future life together – a distant prospect to him, the right and proper gap to her – in a manner Pearce found unappealing, not least that she expected him to live off the wealth her late husband had acquired in prize money. The life she was mapping out for them both, based on what she would inherit, went against everything in which Pearce believed. In order to avoid disputes, and he had to admit it was at Emily’s bidding, he had accepted an active naval role, one that had put him under the temporary command of Somers and now back aboard Flirt. If it had its discomforts, it provided peace of a sort.

  The fact that Emily was free of a man they both despised had come as a shock; Pearce had witnessed Barclay’s seventy-four-gun ship-of-the-line being captured after a desperate battle, to then subsequently find Emily had been aboard and not, as he had supposed, safe in Naples. In order to rescue her from an extended incarceration he had sacrificed a set of papers that could have seriously threatened not only her husband, assumed to be still alive, but also Sir William Hotham. His reward was not, he thought, commensurate with that which he had given away.
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br />   From the tiny quarterdeck he could see the poles and triced-up sails on the yards of the anchored vessels; these made up Nelson’s squadron, HMS Brilliant being one of the five frigates, a sight that produced several conflicting emotions. She was the ship into which he had been press-ganged by the very same Ralph Barclay. It was also on board Brilliant that he had first met Emily.

  At a distance the squadron looked to be in good order, but he knew that would not survive proximity: nearly every vessel in the Mediterranean fleet was in need of refitting. They lacked even such a mundane article as paint, while in many cases a dry dock would be required to bring them back to a proper condition. On some, their scantlings had sprung, requiring frapping to keep the hull watertight, with rot an internal problem throughout the beams and futtocks. The deck planking was worn from two years of daily sanding and the same wear and tear applied to the weathered rigging.

  There would be no gleaming cream sails when they were dropped from the yards; after such extended service in warm climes they were a dun-brown colour, while the dress of many of the less well-off officers was likewise faded. Was it a reason to be thankful that HMS Flirt was in better condition than most and thus likely to be employed? Pearce reckoned, being nimble, she would be used for inshore operations.

  ‘Mr Conway, please be so good as to inform the captain that we are about to make our number to the commodore.’

  HMS Flirt was flush-decked and nor was she large, and that applied especially to the space between the quarterdeck and the captain’s cabin, below Pearce’s feet and a short companionway distant. He could have shouted that piece of information and would have fully expected to be heard. But this was King George’s Navy, which required messages be delivered in a way that enhanced the dignity of the recipient.

  He smiled at the alacrity with which Ivor Conway lifted his hat and ran to oblige. Fourteen years of age and not large for his years, from the island of Anglesey, the lad had been a midshipman aboard Barclay’s ship, HMS Semele, when much battered she struck her flag to a trio of French frigates. Sent to a brig lacking officers, he had shown he could stand a watch as long as nothing untoward troubled the ship.

  Conway also worshipped John Pearce and was not shy of saying so, though not to him personally; the mid rated Pearce as the man who had rescued him from life in a French dungeon. If the orders to exchange prisoners had come from Hotham, it was John Pearce who had seen them executed. Never stated to anyone was the fact that it was he who had initiated said transaction, for that would smack not only of boasting, it could also expose the fact that he had blackmailed Hotham into acting, which he was bound by his word not to do.

  As Digby came on deck he was afforded a lifted hat, but not a verbal greeting, while Conway stood stiffly behind the captain, clearly in awe of his rank and position. Digby and Pearce were both lieutenants, the former longer serving by not much more than a year, but it was enough to make a difference; added to that Digby had been given command of this non-rated ship, so he was now ranked as a master and commander. That carried with it all the powers the navy afforded a captain, as well as being a sure route to being made post and elevated into a rated vessel like a frigate. This alone put a person on the captains’ list, which if they stayed alive long enough, would see them one day promoted to admiral, with all the pay and perks that went with flag rank, even if they spent the rest of their life ashore.

  ‘Is the signal gun ready, Mr Pearce?’

  ‘It is, sir.’

  ‘Carry on.’

  Manned by a pair of experienced hands, the small brass signal gun was also within earshot; indeed, they could not have avoided hearing the order even if they so desired, but once more custom required it be relayed, the first blast of black smoke following immediately. Repeated nine times, this acknowledged Nelson’s rank in what John Pearce considered to be a piece of excessive flummery, a waste of precious powder, which would be better employed in propelling balls at their enemies.

  Flags broke out at the masthead of HMS Agamemnon to order Digby aboard and, as soon as the anchor bit into the seabed of the Bay of Vado, the cutter was hauled in from astern. Digby fetched his logs along with the despatches he had brought from the main fleet base of San Fiorenzo Bay; he had only stopped in Leghorn to revictual.

  The logs would be examined by Nelson’s clerk, before being copied into the ledgers of the ship-of-the-line. The information would later be passed to Hotham’s flagship, HMS Britannia, for yet another perusal, in time to make its way back to London and the Admiralty. Once there it would be pored over by crab-fingered clerks looking for faults in the use of stores, the distribution of food and rum in the barrel, the wasting of powder and shot, as well as the improper use of cordage and canvas. For such people war was waged with their own naval service, not that of the enemy.

  Whistles blew and hats were raised as the captain departed and, once all was secured, the sails on the yards and the decks prettied up to please Digby when he returned, John Pearce felt himself relax, something he found hard when his captain was aboard. Retiring to his screened-off cabin below decks, he was brought a welcome cup of coffee; he was also brought news of the less-than-content feelings of the crew now he was back aboard.

  ‘The lads don’t care for it, John-boy. It was easier when you was absent. You two being at loggerheads makes them worry.’

  These softly spoken words came from the only person Pearce reckoned he could open up to about his problems. The concomitant of that was the reverse; he was talking to a man who had it within him to check his superior in a way no one within the service would normally dare.

  In title his servant, Michael O’Hagan had neither the build, manner nor, indeed, a true inclination for the role. The Irishman was massive in both height and girth, while his broad face was scarred enough to show that he was not averse to the odd bout of fisticuffs. Indeed, he had bare-knuckled in any number of contests and always as the victor. Yet he played the role to perfection when they were not alone. When that happened, he became a friend and one who could not be ignored.

  ‘There’s not much I can do about it, Michael.’

  ‘Sure, a bit of pretence wouldn’t go amiss. The way the lads are gabbin’ they fear that it will all go ahoo in action and they will pay in blood for your squabble. Mind it, they will attend to you, for they trust you.’

  ‘More fools them,’ was the astringent response.

  Pearce knew that part of the problem was loyalty and he had more of that from the crew than Digby, a fact of which the man could not be unaware. These were the very same tars who had come out with him from England, manning the armed cutter HMS Larcher, the only vessel he had ever rightfully commanded. They had enjoyed both some success as well as near catastrophe under his hand, but in the end he had brought them to safety. The shared experience of what happened had melded them.

  The feeling of fidelity was not, of course, universal; there were those who would never like a blue coat, especially given he had once tested their tolerance to the limit. In addition, no ship of war ever sailed without one or two natural malcontents, men for whom a feeling of satisfaction was alien to their nature. Yet, in the main, the crew tended to look to him when danger threatened, for he had shown himself as a man who could not only handle such situations but keep the majority of them whole in the process.

  ‘The only fight I have at the moment is not on this ship.’

  Michael pulled a wry face. ‘They say being with child does strange things to a woman, changes the way they think, as it does to a man when he first holds his bairn.’

  The response was bitter. ‘I doubt I will be granted the pleasure of any handling, Michael. I won’t be allowed near the thing for fear of shaming its mother.’

  To John Pearce, Emily was being foolish with her prating on about respectability. If, the likes of Michael excluded, no one spoke of their liaison in his presence, it had to be the subject of gossip, some of it malicious. It was he who had detached Emily from her marriage vows and brough
t her out to the Mediterranean, to lodge her in Leghorn on arrival, before shifting her to Naples to avoid the repercussions of an unfortunate contretemps.

  As the main revictualling port for the fleet, Leghorn not only had standing officials – a consul and a Naval Board office overseeing fleet supplies, added to various functionaries to see to pay and the like, as well as merchants from home – it was constantly visited by the vessels of the fleet in rotation, so they could make up their water and stores. If the ship’s commander was of a mind to allow it, there would be liberty to go ashore for the members of his crew trusted not to desert, not that there was much to fear in that quarter, being so far from home.

  Officers were another problem altogether. They normally enjoyed the right to come and go as they pleased off watch and Leghorn was like any other port – not short on fleshpots and, for the less carnal, social entertainments, though they were held to be of a low calibre. As such, it was a hotbed of gossip and some of it had to be about the newly-widowed Mrs Barclay, her association with him, as well as her present condition.

  The male of the naval species might be woefully ignorant of the ways of Mother Nature – Pearce reckoned some still ascribed to the Ancient Greek belief that pregnancy came from a northerly wind – yet there had to be enough women and wiser coves who, appraised of the time at which Ralph Barclay had appeared to join Hotham’s fleet, set against a visibly swelling belly, could calculate that he was unlikely to be the father.

  This left as the culprit the man too often seen in her company, which Pearce did not care one whit about. In a peripatetic life he had seen much, lived in a louche manner and formed an opinion that eschewed hypocrisy; he was Emily’s lover and he wished to make little attempt to disguise the fact. This had been an attitude never shared by her, and pregnancy, allied to widowhood, had made matters worse.