The Devil to Pay (John Pearce series) Page 6

  It was a relief to see the great golden orb first touch water, to begin to go red as it picked up the dust that existed in the air, even at sea, the residue of desert sand carried on the wind all the way from the Sahara. Then it was gone, leaving a short glow, the first stars already beginning to show, for the transition from day to night in the Mediterranean is swift. Soon the sky was a mass of them again, while the moon, huge and as low as had been the sun, was now the colour of cheese, changing to white as it rose.

  The makeshift rafts lay on the deck, six of them, with half barrels of powder given that full ones might be too heavy and cause them to sink. Gingerly, and by the light of nothing but the stars and the moon, they were lifted over the side to sit on the water, before being gently poled clear to ensure they did not snag on the ship.

  At first they were obvious, the glow of the slow burning match visible. But that soon faded and, given they were as dark as the sea on which they sat, like their enemies they had no idea of where those rafts were. Pearce was wondering if the Jonahs would now be predicting it would be Larcher that would suffer from this folly that they would explode hard by to crack her hull. There was a new fellow aloft, but just as in daylight there was no mistaking the pursuit; their sails picked up the moon and starlight with ease, their bow waves the phosphoresce of the breaking water. To order a change of course would do no good, merely adding to the distance to shore.

  The light on the binnacle had been shaded, likewise the stern lantern had not been ignited, so there was a ghostly feel to their progress, aided by a wind that was not strong enough to make their rigging whistle. Almost everyone was on deck, no one was in their hammock, some trying to appear indifferent, most unable to avoid staring over the stern, like their captain waiting, he with his watch in his hand, for the first barrel to explode.

  As it was two went off at once and a goodly distance from each other, sending great flashes of orange light into the night sky. Pearce waited for a cheer and he waited in vain and nor did that come when the rest of the slow match hit the powder on another, blowing the barrel to matchwood. Had they gained what he had hoped, had the enemy let fly their sheets and hove to? In the available light, there was no way of telling for certain but the indications of their presence, flashes of canvas and that bow wave did seem to disappear.

  Five having gone off, the wait for the last seemed interminable and in the end it never came and neither did the prayed for miracle; that one would get so close as to blow in the scantlings of one of those brigantines. Perhaps the raft had sunk or the match had been extinguished by a freak wave. They would never know and slowly the deck cleared as the men went below to their slumbers, or in some cases to their rumblings of discontent.

  Pearce lay in his cabin, still stifling from the daytime heat, listening to Emily’s even breathing. If he had succeeded in what looked like a hare-brained enterprise, how would that affect the crew? Would wiser counsels overcome the Jeremiahs predicting doom and would the level of trust they had in him be on the way to being restored? On consideration he doubted it; only when they were in a safe harbour would anything of that nature happen and perhaps not even then.

  He was on deck before anyone was roused out, there to see the gun crews man their cannon as was required, though this time Pearce had ordered them loaded with powder and shot and the flintlocks put in place – normally a precaution avoided given the worming of a loaded cannon was time-consuming and wasteful. It was always silent on deck at dawn, yet this time it seemed oppressive as the first hint of light began to grey the eastern horizon.

  Slowly it spread towards them and no cry came from the masthead. Then the first tint of gold began to appear, swiftly rising until it filled the sky with deep blue, that fading to duck egg as it rose. Still no cry came from aloft and that lasted until they could say with certainty the sun was full up. Pearce began to feel his chest hurt, so much was he holding his breath and he released it in a thankful sigh; he had humbugged his enemies!

  ‘Sail Ho!’

  That cry dashed his hopes and that of all on deck, every one of whom was looking to see how he would react as the cry came to tell of the second enemy still on their tail, with Pearce forced to remind himself that the aim had never been to lose the pursuit but to delay it.

  ‘Have we made any gain?’ he shouted.

  ‘Hard to tell, Capt’n,’ came the reply.

  This was nonsense; either those brigantines were as close as they had been the day before or not, indeed, if they had not hauled their wind they should be much closer. Again he was prevented from doing what he needed by his dammed arm and he had to make a call that he would rather have avoided.

  ‘Mr Dorling, will you please go aloft and tell me if the chase is as close as it should be? Indeed have they gained on us at all?’ Looking around the deck he then shouted. ‘The rest of you get about your duties.’

  ‘You’re going to hell, Pearce, and taking us with you.’

  Having turned away, Pearce could not place the voice when he spun back, for every head was down and the order he had just given was being carried out. The guns were being run in to be wormed, the balls removed and the barrels cleaned. To stand and stare, to glare and let his fury show would do no good and he fought to make his tone humorous.

  ‘Lucifer may be looking for your company, fellow, but he will scarce want mine for fear he might lose his kingdom.’

  One or two laughed, not enough but at least some kind of reassurance that not everyone was wholly taken in. Dorling came to his aid when he called down that the enemy had lost way overnight; they were further off now than they had been at dusk, so his ploy had worked. That occasioned some nodding heads and a few looks at the quarterdeck that did not have within them any hint of animosity. But it was not all and, for once, upset by that shouted prediction, Pearce did nothing to supress the bile that rose within him.

  ‘It is my intention to get us to safety, lads, that I will do despite the wiles of Satan and his naysayers. When I do, I promise you this. I will find out who it is has been spreading falsehoods and then they will discover that I am not the kindly soul you reckon me to be, for the sight you will see is their back entirely lacking in skin! I will have them flogged round the fleet for stirring up mutiny.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  If there had been a gain it did not seem to persist for long and worse lay in the increased feel of the wind as it swung due west then to a few points north. If it had not sang in the rigging before it was beginning to do so now, not in any great way but enough to tell Pearce that any advantage he had was rapidly diminishing. Given the top hamper HMS Larcher was carrying, a low-slung mainsail, this change did not amount to much in the way of speed, indeed, looking at the strain on the canvas and the effect that was having on the temporary upper mainmast it seemed it might be necessary to lessen the amount they had rigged in case the pressure caused it to carry away.

  The sight of a thin line cloud on the horizon was a blessing indeed, for that indicated land; not the shoreline but the high peaks of the mountains that covered much of Italy and trapped the moisture at high altitude. Yet set against such good news was the one plain fact; the enemy were gaining a great deal more from any alteration in the weather than the armed cutter.

  At least Dorling seemed to have set aside some of his lethargy, spending time over his charts and the slate to try to advise his captain what chance he had of making his landfall before those brigantines could close. His furrowed brow at every cast of the log was enough of a message to all that it was going to be so much nip and tuck that the lightening of the ship could no longer be delayed.

  The water long gone, next it was the supply of wine bought in Palermo, which occasioned one wry smile from Pearce; the crew seemed sad to see that go for if they pronounced it to be not much above vinegar it at least contained a measure of alcohol. Next came the last barrels of beef and pork before a derrick was rigged that would see over the side most of the cannon and their nearly as weighty trunnions, albeit
the act was held in abeyance.

  The increase in speed from what had been discarded was again minimal and there was a downside too; lacking that weight Larcher was higher out of the water and so even more likely to yaw off course on a fluke in the current, something that could only increase the closer they got to shore: it might be, once they hit the swirling flows that were common close to land, she would actually lose speed rather than gain it.

  There was silence on deck now: no quiet conversations or murmuring, just exchanged glances intermingled with looks astern at the increasingly obvious pursuit and the clear sight of a complete suit of sails, all drawing well. It seemed whatever suspicions the men harboured had altered in its objective; no one wanted to look aloft at the man swaying on what was a less than wholly secure perch, his telescope trained mainly forward for the first sight of the shoreline, in case by doing so they dammed the chance of it ever happening.

  ‘They’re splitting up, your honour,’ came the cry, for the same fellow had the task of watching the pursuit.

  There was no need to be so elevated in order to see the truth of that; it was as plain to everyone else with eyes. Both brigantines had made only a slight alteration but it was significant; it was a message to say that the endgame was approaching. The time was coming when HMS Larcher would too have to alter course; that the chance of safety lying dead ahead was diminishing.

  Pearce had hoped, though with no great conviction, they might manage a change of course to the north so they could enter to Gulf of Salerno where lay two great cities, one of the same name and Amalfi, both important centres of trade and thus with harbours heavily fortified against raiding, perhaps even home to some Neapolitan warships that, seeing the danger they were in, would help to drive off the enemy. Mere proximity to such ports would be bound to make those brigantines cautious.

  Out came the charts again and with them all the information gathered over years by the men of the British Navy; written reports and drawings, details of landmarks and hazards as well as soundings taken by any number of seafarers to tell those who came after the depth of water they could expect under their keel, often made by officers and warrants for pleasure as much as duty. In examination of the options Pearce, in discussion with Dorling, had alighted on two possibilities; slightly to the southward lay the ancient harbour of Scalea, little used now. The other alterative lay to the north-east, the small fishing port of Sapri at the apex of the Gulf of Policastro, the great bight into which they were being forced.

  The former, Scalea, was the better option, given it might have some kind of defence. Sapri lay in a deep horseshoe bay and by all accounts possessed a mole but seemed too much of a backwater to justify any cannon, even less a garrison able to use it. Both suffered from the same drawback; once in their harbour Larcher would be trapped and any help would have to be sent for, that is if the enemy made no attempt to cut them out.

  ‘Our friends have the same charts as us, your honour.’

  ‘And may well have more local knowledge, Mr Dorling, given their predecessors have been raiding on these shores for centuries.’

  ‘I take leave to doubt they are as diligent as the King’s Navy.’

  Said with pride it seemed to Pearce that it would be churlish to point out that at one time this had been a Saracen sea and one in which, even when evicted from the island of Sicily, they had plundered at will. When it came to the despoliation, Italy, with over 600 sandy bays on two elongated coasts, was indefensible.

  ‘We are not yet forced to a decision, let us see what happens.’

  Back on deck he joined Emily in looking over the stern – she had, as usual, vacated the cabin so they could examine the charts – and to him it was immediately obvious that what he had just said to Dorling had some resonance; the Barbary brigantine to the south was making a fraction more speed than his consort, which in time and if nothing was done would remove the option of Scalea. In short, they knew the possibilities as well as he did.

  ‘Is it permitted to ask how we fare, John?’

  He looked aloft at the pennants, which if they were not stiff on the breeze had more life in them now than at any time since they had left Palermo. ‘I would say our enemies have a plan while we are on the wing, which is not where I would like to be. But nothing is decided.’

  ‘Are we worth the effort?’

  It did not seem a good idea to mention that such people made a profit from selling slaves as well as captured cargoes. But Emily had raised a telling point: HMS Larcher, for those bent on piracy, was no great prize; indeed he had hoped that seeing the chase as lengthy and one of little return they would desist, but they had not. This led him to the unwelcome conclusion that they could be in search of retribution, a thought he had suppressed, it being not far off the superstition of the on-board Jeremiahs.

  Could it just be for pride? Had that been so dented by their previous defeat that redress was essential? And what about Captain Fleming and Sandown Castle? Pearce had to assume the merchantman had got away but maybe he too had found these two waiting for him in a situation in which he could not avoid being taken?

  ‘They think so, which is all that matters.’

  ‘Land ho!’

  The cry from aloft and a pointed hand told him, before the words were spoken, that their landfall lay right over the makeshift bowsprit. It was gratifying not to have to issue any orders to Dorling; he was already on his way as Pearce ordered the helmsman to alter course slightly north, which would take them close into the headland of the gulf. The way that southerly brigantine was behaving made any notion of Scalea too risky.

  Walking forwards he laid a hand on the lower part of the mainmast, original and well seated in the keel that would hold. It was what sat above it that caused worry, for the only thing holding two bits of timber together were the thick laths lashed tightly with cables and it was now creaking so alarmingly that any notion of more sail and increased strain was out of the question; if they were to survive it would have to be under what they had.

  The next positive sign was the presence of gulls, at first resting on the water, next in flight, birds that rarely flew out of sight of their land nests unless in the wake of a fishing boat. By the time the shore was in plain sight so were the decks of their enemy, the one closing in on the larboard beam, the other seeking to headreach them to the south, which slightly baffled Pearce; given their fire and manpower surely they should just be seeking to get close enough to engage then board. Was it a mark of respect; had they suffered so badly in the previous encounter that they declined to risk a repeat?

  He was watching the sky as well, but with no hope that night might come to his rescue; the sun was high and it was, through a telescope, illuminating the grey ragged and mast high rocks of a shore that looked dammed unwelcoming, while behind it lay what looked like densely scrub-covered land rising to thick woods circling the higher hills.

  Having double-checked the course, he made sure they were heading straight for Sapri yet with no guarantee that they would find there what they needed. Given that was taking them closer to that rocky shoreline, the man in the chains was casting for soundings not speed; the latter mattered not at all, given the problem there was plain to see. These waters had been well charted but that did not mean they were without hazard; a rocky landscape indicated a like seabed and it would be too cruel an irony to have come so far only to founder on some unforeseen underwater obstacle so he sent a man to the prow to keep an eye out for any water breaking over submerged rocks.

  Again time became of no relevance and talk too; every possible outcome and move had been so thoroughly discussed there was no more to say, until the point came when everyone with sense, and that included John Pearce, realised the game was up. The southerly brigantine was now on course to get ahead of them and cut them off.

  The derrick was still rigged that would get the cannons over the side but if undertaken, with Larcher’s deck in plain sight, what message would that send to their enemies? Come on at will, you have
nothing more to fear, added to which what would be the gain; it was unlikely to grant them the speed they needed to escape. Pearce knew he had delayed that particular gambit too long and that had him examining his own motives.

  Was it a determination to be able to fight, even in an unwinnable battle? If it had been suggested to him that he cared for the ship as much as he did Emily Barclay, Pearce would have laughed. Yet there was some truth in the assertion, for he was not immune to a trait that affected every sailor. Prior to Palermo, he had been proud of HMS Larcher and the men he commanded and it was only now that he was beginning to realise how much that had been so.

  He hated the notion of being taken by the enemy and not just for the sake of the preservation of life. If losing a ship was not a stain that particularly troubled him – it tended to have a negative effect on a naval career – losing this armed cutter did. Nor was he enjoying being passive in the face of the oncoming threat, which went against his entire nature.

  ‘A whip to the yard,’ he called, ‘and something on which I can sit.’

  It was not a command swiftly obeyed, which had nothing to do with ill-feeling, more to do with confusion and that was evident on every face he could see; expressions indicating a thought like what the hell did the daft bugger want now? It was eventually obeyed and a sling was rigged on a line, lashed to a slat of planking that provided a seat, which was raised gingerly on his command so that he got halfway to the point at which sat the lookout.

  If the man was better placed than Pearce to see, there was a judgement to be made that could only fall to him. Hooking his injured arm around one side of the sling so he could keep his seat as well as provide support allowed Pearce to employ his telescope, albeit adjustments to focusing were painfully slow.