An Awkward Commission

by David Donachie

  ‘Death or glory seems to be habitual in the King’s Navy.’

  ‘Are bad pennies?’

  ‘Even more so, from what I have observed.’

  ‘Was the letter I wrote of any use?’

  ‘Immense,’ Pearce replied, unsure if it was true or false, but the question reminded him of the help the surgeon had offered aboard Brilliant, quite unbidden, for which he was grateful. It also brought back the image of Lutyens father in his black coat and priestly collar, an older and more serious physical specimen of the son. ‘Your father could not have been kinder.’

  ‘What did he say of me?’

  His patient winced as Lutyens applied the bandage, seemingly able to jab the wound with every turn. ‘No doubt what he has said to you many times. That you are wasting your talents on your chosen path.’

  Pearce had been surprised at what Lutyens had given up to go to sea; not a promising career but an established one as a leading medical practitioner in the capital, who through his connections had a list of patients that would have been the envy of most of his contemporaries, with fees to match. To abandon that for the lowly life of a naval surgeon was bizarre, indeed.

  ‘He told you of my previous work?’ Pearce nodded, and with a worried look Lutyens asked. ‘I wonder if you would oblige me by keeping that to yourself. You will, won’t you?’

  ‘I owe you that, and more.’ Seeing Lutyens embarrassed, he changed the subject. ‘I was interested to see the Captain’s wife here, and I must say looking as bonny as ever.’

  ‘Her husband felt that the town was getting dangerous.’

  ‘It will be safe now, Mr Luytens. In fact I expect before tomorrow is over that you will find the British fleet anchored just out there in the outer roads, and you may choose to stay here or go back aboard Brilliant.’

  ‘So the men will be freed?’

  ‘Naturally.’ Pearce replied, wondering why Lutyens looked disappointed.

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I have to go aboard another vessel, called HMS Leander, to visit some old friends of mine.’

  Lutyens tapped the coat, which now lay across the bench. ‘Not till you have told me how this came to pass.’

  The arrival of the British fleet occasioned a massive discharge of guns, as every fort and bastion felt it had to salute Hood’s flag, and every ship in the fleet saw the need to reply. Stood on HMS Victory’s quarterdeck, surrounded by flag officers, Pearce kept a telescope trained on Leander, coasting in under topsails in the middle of Admiral Hotham’s division. Bourbon flag flying, the French had moved from its blocking position across the entrance to the Petite Rade, but either because of caution or good manners Hood made no attempt to enter the inner anchorage, happy to keep his ships in the outer roads. But a stream of boats did make their way to the shore, full of the fleet marines and those who would command them, this while yet more came out from the port, carrying dignitaries and French naval officers, who would conclude the terms of the agreement.

  Mancini and his fellow delegates were piped aboard, as was d’Imbert, who threw him a warm look, all there to discuss how Toulon was to avoid the fate of Marseilles. With so many boats employed shipping troops ashore, Pearce had to wait to ask for one to transport him to Leander, so he was still aboard when Ralph Barclay arrived to see the admiral. After a glaring exchange, Knight took his fellow captain to his own cabin, later sending for Midshipmen Farmiloe and Burns for what Pearce supposed was probably a happy reunion. Finally, with a meeting in Hood’s great cabin in full swing, and an injunction preventing any officer not on a particular service to stay out of both town and port, a boat became available, and he was rowed across to the now anchored seventy-four, where he went through the ritual of asking for permission to come aboard, readily granted by a fellow lieutenant called Taberly, the Officer of the Watch.

  ‘I am seeking some men with whom I served before.’

  ‘The wardroom is at your disposal, Mr Pearce.’

  ‘Not officers, seamen. Those who were taken aboard at Spithead from HMS Centurion. They were from the armed cutter Griffin.’

  ‘Seamen?’ said Taberly, with an arch look. ‘How singular that you call them friends.’

  Pearce was quite cold when he answered. ‘I find that when you face death with people, their rank ceases to have much relevance. If I were to give you their names…’

  ‘I have my own duties to perform, Mr Pearce. Besides, you will have to seek permission from the Premier, who is at present in his cabin. I presume you can find your way there.’

  Pearce decided he did not like Taberly, and it was plain from the look on that fellow’s face that the feeling was mutual. So he nodded and made his way aft, then down to the deck below, but instead of making for the wardroom he just carried on to the lower deck, to the crowded quarters which were home to the crew and the ship’s main armament. The sight of an officer made quite a few men stiffen; the presence of a blue coat in this part of the ship, outside a battle, was to order some unpleasant task carried out, to ensure none of the Articles of War were being breached, or just to nose around looking for something not right, in other words to cause trouble.

  Bent over and hat off, for the deck beams were close to his head, Pearce made his way down the central walkway. The mess tables were down, one between each cannon, with its six-man section taking their ease, happy to be at anchor, with little to do, talking, no doubt speculating on when they would get ashore and what they would find there in the article of women and drink. Some were dicing, but not for any money he would be allowed to see, others carving or mending clothing, the rest just idling, with one or two sleeping, heads on their tables.

  It was Charlie Taverner’s hat he saw first, that item of clothing so dear to him, always tipped back to show his fair hair, which he felt marked him as how he wanted to be seen; not a sailor, but a bit of a gent. There was Michael O’Hagan’s back, broad enough to blot out two others in the mess. Fat Blubber, spotting the uniform coat, made sure his mates were aware of the approaching danger, which killed off their conversation and had them all looking at the table top. It took no flash of insight to guess, at that point, this was not a happy ship. The men had been like that aboard Brilliant, chary about catching the eye of authority. After the postal packet and his time on HMS Tartar with the sarcastic Captain Freemantle, he had seen how a happy ship was run, knew on such a vessel the crew were pleased to smile at an officer and expected the same in return. No eye met his as he stopped by their table. As well as those already identified he recognised old Latimer, Rufus Dommet stuck in the corner and the merchant sailor, Littlejohn, who had been pressed with them into Griffin.

  Pearce put his hat on the table, and spoke quietly. ‘Well here’s a sorry bunch of tars, I must say, not willing to offer a seat to an old shipmate.’

  Rufus Dommet could not keep his head down, he being a person who combined youth and endemic folly, but neither could he speak, his mouth working silently and his finger jabbing towards the visitor.

  ‘Somebody pinch me,’ said Latimer, the next to look up, his dark weather-beaten face even more wrinkled than usual by disbelief.

  ‘John-boy.’

  Pearce held out his hand, looking into the bright green eyes of O’Hagan, and to the fact that the brows on his square face seemed to be swollen and that he too was bruised. ‘Michael, it is very good to see you. Indeed it is very good to see you all.’

  ‘You took your time getting here,’ said Charlie Taverner, but there was joy in it, not malice. ‘Pull up a barrel and park yourself.’

  ‘Now my old eyes might be playing tricks, Pearce,’ said Latimer, ‘but that ain’t no mid’s coat you’se ‘a wearing.’

  ‘It’s not, old friend, but it is mine by right, gifted to me by Farmer George himself.’

  ‘You’re on a ship?’ asked Michael, so far more reserved than the others.

  ‘I am not. I am here to get you free, and I can tell you that it has been a damned hard job to make the journey.’


  The rest of the crew, four hundred men barring those on deck, were made curious by the sight of an officer sitting jawing with common seamen, all seven at the table hugger-mugger, gasping and occasionally laughing as he told them a tale. Enough of them braved the possibility of censure to move closer, and as each part of Pearce’s story was told, the salient point was passed around the deck. But there was one person who hung back from this, and eventually decided to go aloft and tell someone in authority of this strange apparition, which led to the arrival of a midshipman with a ‘request’ that Mr Pearce attend, immediately, upon the Officer of the Watch. Looking past him, standing, though well back, Pearce saw Cornelius Gherson.

  ‘I see Corny has not lost his gift for duplicity.’

  ‘He never will,’ said Charlie, glaring at the man.

  ‘Sir!’ insisted the midshipman. ‘If you cannot command the men to silence, I must.’

  ‘What happened in Portsmouth, John-boy,’ asked Michael, ignoring how much the midshipman was angered by his temerity in continuing to converse. ‘Why did you not come back as you said you would?’

  ‘A woman, Michael.’

  There was a pause, with Pearce waiting for the bitter condemnation that was bound to follow, but the huge Irishman just put back his head and laughed, spluttering, ‘A woman. Holy Mother of Christ, how often have I fallen by the wayside for that sin. A woman by God, sure I hope she was a decent filly.’

  He could see that the others wanted to speak, some to follow Michael and laugh, Charlie with the peaked look of a man who could not decide if he was angry or jealous, but the presence of the midshipman, plainly seething, ensured silence.

  ‘I will get you free lads, I promise.’

  The midshipman actually growled. ‘Mr Taberly is waiting, sir.’

  The name brought a strange look to Michael’s face. The laughter evaporated as quickly as it had emerged, and whatever thoughts he had were mirrored in the glum faces of the others.

  ‘That might no be as easy as you think, John-boy.’

  Pearce half stood, picking up his hat. ‘Yes it will. I have Lord Hood on my side, as well as the law.’

  ‘I demand to know what you, sir, were doing on the lower deck of my ship, sitting on a barrel, talking to those men like some fishwife without permission to do so.’

  ‘I told you Mr Taberly, they are friends of mine. What’s more, three of them were illegally pressed, and it is my intention to get them ashore and free.’

  ‘Illegally pressed,’ Taberly demanded, as though the notion itself was nonsense.

  ‘O’Hagan, Taverner and Dommet are their names. I will not trouble you with the actual circumstance, but I can assure you of the absolute truth of what I say.’

  ‘You can assure away, sir, but I can likewise assure you that those men will serve in this ship, probably until the peace.’

  ‘Forgive me, sir, but you are not the captain, who is the man who will make the decision.’

  ‘I can speak for him, Mr Pearce, and a great number of the crew, especially as we are here in Toulon and the fleet is at anchor. Seek to remove O’Hagan and there will be a riot.’

  ‘A riot?’ asked Pearce, totally thrown.

  ‘Every man aboard Leander expects to make a bit out of his prowess. As soon as possible we will challenge every ship in the fleet to put up a bruiser, maybe even one from the French, I hazard that few will match O’Hagan, which will line the pocket of every man who backs him, and his shipmates will.’

  ‘Like in Gibraltar?’

  ‘Exactly,’ Taberly replied, his face eager. ‘That made us a pretty penny I can tell you.’

  ‘It did nothing for Michael O’Hagan. I have seen how his face has altered.’

  ‘Rubbish. He had light duties for a week, he gets special food, though, annoyingly, he shares that with his mess, as well as a cash reward for his efforts.’

  ‘It does not occur to you that he might prefer not to fight.’

  ‘Prefer not?’ demanded Taberly, in a shocked tone. ‘What the devil, sir, are you talking about? Seamen do not state their preferences, they do as they are bid and hope to do it well enough to avoid being punished. Or are you one of these tender-hearted fools who indulges common tars? They need the lash, man, to do their duty, if not on their backs, in their minds.’

  ‘I would like to see the Captain.’

  Taberly sneered at him. ‘I very much doubt if the Captain would care to see you.’

  ‘He can see me now, or when I come aboard with an order from Lord Hood to release the named men. I would prefer it, and I am sure he would too, to offer them up without instructions.’

  Taberly took a step back and put his hands on his hips, examining Pearce as though he was some freak show exhibit. ‘You really are the most extraordinary fellow, Pearce. I have never heard of you and I doubt anyone has. You have a commission a few weeks old and yet you come aboard my ship, looking as if you’ve been brawling in the gutter, bandy about the name of the Commander-in-Chief as though his sole purpose is to do your bidding, and even threaten the captain with discomfort. I think you have taken leave of your senses.’

  Pearce wanted to slap him, but instead he smiled. ‘It is you who are the fool, sir, you who will face the wrath of your captain when I explain to him, as I most certainly will get an opportunity to do, that you failed to see the seriousness of my request.’

  ‘What I fail to see, sir, is what you are doing on this deck, which I would be obliged if you would leave.’

  ‘I will be back.’

  ‘Then you’d best come with orders, sir, for I will ensure that every officer on Leander knows of you, and that any attempt to return to this deck without official sanction will be declined.’

  Pearce turned to go, but spun round for a parting shot. ‘You best tell the ship, sir, that if they want a boxing bout, they best find another champion. O’Hagan will not fight, for I will tell him to refuse.’

  Taberly had no idea how close he came himself to being floored, when he replied with a humourless grin. ‘Refuse. Men in my division do not refuse. I do not think O’Hagan will dare, especially when the option is to fight or take a turn at the grating.’

  Still seething, John Pearce returned to HMS Victory, to find the whole Toulon delegation still there, including a worried-looking Baron d’Imbert, his concerns, once voiced, weighing heavily.

  ‘I persuaded Admiral de Trogoff to stay on the grounds of his own personal safety, and treat with Lord Hood, but it will not surprise you to know that St Julien, in order to save his own skin, left without bothering to take with him his Republican followers. So we have near five thousand of them, officers and men, sitting in the town, and the Lord alone knows what to do with them.’

  ‘Did you not say there were no officers in the crowd at the Place D’Armes.’

  ‘I lied, Lieutenant Pearce, for fear of the effect it would have on my admiral. Now I fear for the effect it will have on yours.’ A voice summoned him to the great cabin, and d’Imbert gave Pearce a weak smile as he moved away. ‘I must go in there and propose a solution.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Ralph Barclay had to wait a long time to see Lord Hood, which underlined to him his place in the pecking order, this driven home to him when Captain Knight played host to several captains who had been admitted, amongst them the captain of HMS Agamemnon. He was a man for whom Barclay had an almost visceral dislike, Horatio Nelson being the antithesis of what he considered to be a competent officer. Added to that were two facts that rankled even more: though just ahead of him on the captain’s list, Nelson had been given command of a sixty-four gun ship, while he had a small frigate. The other was more telling: Nelson was known to be esteemed by Lord Hood, which Ralph Barclay was most assuredly not. Then there was the other point which mystified him; Nelson thought of him as a friend, and treated him as such, but then the man was like that. Quite a number of his fellow captains found him to be a bit of a sycophant.

  ‘I have orders for Nap
les,’ piped Nelson, in that voice which Ralph Barclay described to others, including his wife, as girlish. ‘They are being drawn up as we speak. I must impress upon the Court of the Two Sicilies that a failure to support the Toulon enterprise will do them harm in the long run.’

  Naples! Him! Ralph Barclay thought, looking down at Nelson. Hood must be mad! Surely he should send someone of stature, not to mention height, instead of this pint-sized poltroon!

  ‘How interesting, Captain Nelson. You will be able to exercise your diplomatic skills.’

  Nelson laughed, or as Barclay would later describe it, giggled, totally missing the sarcastic tone. ‘I am damned short on those, I can assure you. But I am informed that the representative at Naples is a competent fellow.’

  ‘Hamilton.’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘I know of him, who does not? He tied himself to that trollop who sat for Romney, the one with the auburn hair, Emma something or other. Only God knows how many men she lay on her back for before she snared the old fool. Imagine, a relative of the Duke of Hamilton, a childhood friend of the King, in his sixties, and he goes and marries a whore.’

  A servant topped up Barclay’s glass, but Nelson declined. ‘I was not aware of this, I must say.’

  ‘I am surprised, sir. Where have you been?’

  ‘Norfolk,’ Nelson replied, in a hurt tone. ‘Five years of unemployment, which I know is an experience we share.’

  Ralph Barclay actually growled, though not at Nelson. Those five years on half-pay, lying to tradesmen, fobbing off his creditors, denying things to his sisters they saw as essential, were not something of which he cared to be reminded. At least they had ended happily with marriage and a ship.

  ‘Well, let’s hope that old Sir William has not lost his marbles completely.’ Ralph Barclay waited for the response to his jest, but none came, which led him to conclude that amongst the other things Nelson did not know was that Sir William Hamilton was a noted collector of Roman antiquities. ‘I am sure you will enjoy a visit to Naples, Nelson. I have heard the ladies are very willing in that neck of the woods. Captain Augustus Hervey apparently sired several bastards in those parts in the late fifties.’