An Awkward Commission

by David Donachie

  ‘Well, be warned,’ Benton growled, recovering somewhat, ‘I expect the highest standard of behaviour on my deck, as well as competence, and if you don’t have it now, you’d damn well best acquire it. We weigh at first light, our orders to sail round the island of Corsica, home to a couple of French sloops left there to support the military garrison.’

  ‘We will be landing?’

  ‘No, Mr Pearce, we will not.’

  Suppressing disappointment, and wondering if he had chucked himself into danger, Pearce asked, ‘And if we find these vessels, sir?’

  ‘We are to report on their location and inform Lord Hood.’ Benton shouted then, in a voice that must have been heard beyond the bowsprit, ‘Harbin!’

  That brought to the tiny cabin a freckle-faced youth, a compact sort of youngster who, once outside the cabin, produced a winning smile and a proper welcome aboard. He was instructed to take Pearce round the ship, as though such a thing would take more than two minutes. Pearce met the Purser, Gunner, Carpenter and Bosun, but most importantly, remembering McGann’s injunction, the ship’s Master, a grey-haired fellow of round and ruddy country complexion called Neame, who seemed old to hold a warrant for such a small vessel. He was introduced to two other mids and the master’s mates. In doing so, he was eyed by but not named to the crew, all of whom looked at him with something approaching indifference. It was an act of course; every man jack was curious about this new blue coat, for he was a fellow who could make their lives a joy or a misery.

  His quarters were cramped, a screened-off space in a tiny wardroom, hardly surprising, but they were the best aboard excepting Benton’s. Digby’s servant had seen to his dunnage, and he immediately changed from his best coat and hat to more workmanlike apparel. He then inspected the ship unaccompanied, not with any great eye for faults, just to show that he was prepared to go aloft to check on the rigging, and to ensure that the two decks were tidy enough in the matter of ropes and other impediments not to be a danger to those using them.

  He then invited those who shared the wardroom with him, the master and the purser, to partake of some wine, a dozen of Hermitage he had bought from one of the numerous bum boats which had surrounded Victory, for this very purpose. Through a thin bulkhead forward, they could hear the mids and other warrants talking quietly, probably trying to assess this new arrival. Through a thicker one behind, they picked up the snores of the captain.

  ‘A decent drop,’ said Neame, smacking his lips as he downed his first tankard. ‘Better than the captain is inclined to serve.’ The purser, Mr Ottershaw, merely nodded, but the satisfaction at that which he was consuming was plain on his face.

  Said with caution, Pearce reckoned the master was testing him, and he pulled a face to imply agreement. ‘He treated me to some of his wine, Mr Neame. I must tell you I am in no hurry to force another invite.’

  Neame leant close, talking softly. ‘I doubt you’ll get one in a hurry, Mr Pearce. Captain Benton much prefers his own company, excepting that of a bottle.’

  ‘Another drop, sir,’ Pearce responded, smiling into the perspiring faces of two men who had relaxed a trifle. Two bottles saw the whole story out. Benton was a protégé of Hotham, his uncle, a yellow admiral who had served with the man they termed Hotspur Harry when he had been a midshipman.

  ‘He is a debt being paid, sir,’ whispered Ottershaw. ‘I am told the uncle resents being an admiral without benefit of flag, he feels shunted aside, never to be employed, and quite unable to grasp his own incompetence.’

  Neither said it outright, but enough hints were given that said lack of proficiency was a family trait, that Benton’s drinking was because he knew it to be so, that he had scraped through his lieutenant’s examination only because Hotham rigged the panel and he knew that he would make post only by a miracle. Pearce had relaxed enough to state quite openly that they best not look to him for a rise in standards, that his commission was of short duration only to cover for the absence of Mr Digby. The mention of that name changed their attitude; they thought Digby a decent, useful officer, and so did the crew.

  ‘I will strive for the decency, gentlemen, for the rest I will rely on you, Mr Neame.’ He pulled another Hermitage from the wooden box at his feet. ‘Now, what do you say we share some of this with the mids and the warrants? I find it is the best way to get to know people.’

  By the time the men were roused out to weigh, word had got round that this new premier was no hard horse, in fact that he was more likely to be a Digby than a Benton, so there were no sour looks to contend with as the capstan bars were shipped and the anchor hove short, nor when the topmen went aloft to loose the sails. Pearce issued his orders to Mr Neame, and gave responsibility to Harbin, whom he had been told was a keen – though sometimes too keen – midshipman. As the sun rose, the gold of its colour reflected the mass of freckles that covered the boy’s face, and he responded to the request to alert the captain with a grin that showed a set of teeth that seemed too numerous for his mouth. All went rigid as Benton came on deck, and what the rising sun did to his flaccid complexion was far from flattering.

  ‘Ready to weigh, sir.’

  Benton turned and looked towards HMS Britannia. ‘Have you observed, Mr Pearce, our number flying from the masthead of Admiral Hotham’s flagship?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Pearce replied truthfully, following his gaze and ignoring the furiously nodding head of Neame. ‘I have not.’

  ‘If you had, Mr Pearce, you would see that we are ordered to proceed to sea. I only hope it has not been aloft for long. I would hate to be rebuked by Admiral Hotham for your inability to see his signals. Now be so good as to get us moving.’

  ‘Mr Neame.’

  Topsails were dropped and sheeted home, the rudder creaked as the quartermaster used the forward movement induced by a land breeze to bring Weazel over her anchor, and sweetly it was plucked from the sandy bottom, to be fished and catted.

  ‘Mr Harbin.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Issue the orders to swab the decks, and alert the cook that he needs to get his coppers lit, since with the sun rising and a warm day, there will be no need for flogging dry.’

  He turned to look for Benton, to see if that would be acceptable, but the captain had gone.

  He had to deal with Benton, but in his quarters, for it seemed the captain had a mortal fear of fresh air, or such a love of wine that he feared to be separated from a supply. The man took his breakfast alone and that extended to his dinner. He did come on deck before that, but only for a short time to ensure that Pearce was not sailing them in the wrong direction. But after a brief look at the slate and the course, and a glance at the sail plan, he grunted his satisfaction, ordered that the details be sent to him in his cabin, and retired there. In contrast, Pearce was relishing the sun and the wind on his face, the azure blue of the sea, with dolphins off the bows and the fact that the contact with his inferiors seemed easy. The gunner, particularly, was a chatterer, a crook-faced fellow happy to converse with this new officer about weight of shot, the size of powder charges, elevation and ballistics, in a way that assumed Pearce knew what he was talking about, all the while rubbing with a loving hand one of the twelve nine-pounders that were Weazel’s armament.

  ‘As you know, sir, a set of long nines like these won’t do much at range, well short on a mile with a five-degree elevation and a four-pound charge, but they are enough to put a ball through a foot of scantlings at half of that. Was you, beggin’ your pardon, Mr Pearce, to get us close they would answer well.’

  Recalling his service aboard Brilliant, and the insistence of regular exercise, he soon established that it was not something into which Benton put much effort. Even after less than a day, he was tempted to ask what the captain did do, only to deduce from the replies what he knew already to be true; that a captain, provided he properly kept his logs and did not seek too much in the way of bookish deceit with his muster and stores, could do very much what he pleased.

  ‘Mr D
igby suggested, your honour – with not a thought that it gave us work – to keep them blacked and handsome. Half hour each day, sir, late afternoon, he wanted, but the captain wouldn’t have it. Can’t do it now, I reckon. With our marines gone ashore, we is short on hands to man the breechings, so if you’re thinkin’ that way, it might be best left until we has all the labour we needs.’

  That left Pearce not knowing if the gunner was for exercise or against it, especially as, at that moment, the fellow leant over and kissed the royal insignia on the top of the cannon he was caressing.

  The bosun and carpenter were not as relaxed as the gunner in commissioned company, the latter particularly ill at ease, for the sloop was no spring chicken and even after a refit at Buckler’s Hard the scantlings moved in a heavy sea and apparently wept significant amounts of water.

  ‘It was hard pumping in the Channel, your honour,’ he intoned in a miserable voice, ‘and even worse in Biscay. We’ve got a right good sea state now, but you mark it, if it comes on heavy we will struggle to keep down the water in the well.’

  Talking to the bosun about the distribution of the crew, the state of the sails including the spare suit, ropes, spars and blocks, Pearce began to appreciate the complexities of running even a ship this size; not the sailing or navigation, but getting the best out of the men, for McGann had insisted that was where the true merit of command lay. Though he could not, himself, consider going that way, he could grasp why many a ship’s captain saw the lash as the route to discipline, it being so much easier than the effort of gaining personal respect. Thankfully, given the short-term nature of this commission, it was not something to which he had to give much concern.

  Corsica, on a decent wind, was less than a day’s sailing and before nightfall they had looked deep into the long sandy bay of San Fiorenzo to the north, with Mr Neame, on Benton’s orders, making a sketch of the main features, especially the fortifications, which consisted of some odd round towers dotted around the coastline, that and of the ability of the place to provide holding ground for large warships, which saw him out in a boat with a tallow line, checking the seabed.

  ‘Why the detail, Mr Neame?’ asked Pearce, when he came back aboard.

  ‘Don’t take a genius to figure that, sir. Happen we get the heave-ho from Toulon, we’ll need another place to anchor and victual. Mr Benton has orders to look out for that. Did he not say so?’

  ‘No, Mr Neame, he did not.’

  The master grinned. ‘Didn’t let on to me either, Mr Pearce. I had it from the master of Britannia, who’s an old shipmate. Went to see him for a wet after we anchored in the Toulon roads. The Dons won’t hear of us using Port Mahon on Minorca, which we had afore, case they can’t get shot of us, and we has to have a place to shelter and revictual to keep to the Med.’

  Once more, John Pearce was forced to admit that Hood was clever. It was not a betrayal to seek an alternative to Toulon, just wise to have a backstop in case of disaster.

  Neame’s jovial note changed, to one of resentment. ‘Mind, when we gets back, captain will take my drawings aboard the flagship, no doubt sayin’ they’re his own.’

  They set a course west to weather the western arm of the bay, a bleak and forbidding promontory of rocks and black beaches, and with the northerly holding true the next morning they were able to skirt the much more formidable Calvi, a port below a high citadel and a fortified town on the western promontory of a deep but shallow-watered bay surrounded by high mountains. One of the sloops for which they had been tasked to look out for lay snug and safe under the shore-based guns, though down to bare poles and not ready for sea. Benton was on deck for that, taking a close look at the place through his telescope, remarking that from the view of the numbers on the ramparts, it had a sizeable garrison, which would make it a hard place to capture, should the need arise. Against that, at the foot of the bay, lay a long sandy beach ideal for landing troops, which the master was busy sketching.

  ‘Mr Pearce, I think we must test the defences if Neame’s efforts are to be of any use. Please take us inshore a trifle.’

  Sails trimmed and rudder down, the ship swung in towards the midpoint of the entrance to the bay, where the darker hue of the water indicated increased depth, though a leadsman was casting in the chains to ensure that they did not ground. HMS Weazel began to lose some of her way as the wind, on the beam, was eased by the high hills and it was not long before a pair of the shore-based cannon essayed the range, sending great plumes of water shooting up well ahead of the bowsprit. It was only luck that had Pearce looking deeper into the bay, where he saw a buoy with a rope attached, and what seemed like a set of flags at intervals halfway to the shore, the furthest of which they were inside. There was, as well, a pennant-carrying cutter, the cloth streaming out to show the strength of the wind. Could those flags indicate a range less than the maximum, working on the principle that even the best trained eye had difficulty with distance at sea?

  ‘Would they fire short to draw us in, sir?’ Pearce asked, then added, when Benton glared at him. ‘May I draw your attention to that buoy, sir, and that cutter.’

  Benton obliged, and the sight had him dropping his telescope. ‘Bring us about!’

  ‘All hands to wear ship!’ Pearce shouted.

  The proof of the notion was proved as soon as the men ran to the falls, to bring the ship back onto a reverse course. They too were being observed through telescopes, and by gunners who knew to the inch their range. The ramparts of the citadel were wreathed in smoke as the entire battery fired, and they could see a dozen huge black balls arcing through the air, to straddle the ship, sending up enough water to windward to soak everyone on deck.

  ‘Mr Pearce,’ cried Neame, pointedly ignoring his captain, ‘let us use the wind.’

  He did not understand and he was acutely aware of the fact, but neither it seemed did Benton. Fortunately, Neame did not wait for orders; he had the hands sheet home as soon as the northerly breeze would give them better forward motion. Pearce now comprehended the calculation, that any movement was better than the static position of coming right round to sail out of the bay, this proved by the shot that he was sure landed in the waters they had just vacated. They were now sailing towards that flag-holding buoy.

  ‘Permission to sink that cutter, sir?’ he asked Benton. The nod in reply was slow in coming, or at least it seemed so, even if it was only a couple of seconds, till he could shout, ‘Man the starboard cannon.’

  The guns were run out all right, with flintlocks fixed on, and the sight of their muzzles was enough to send off as fast as they could row the men oaring the boat. But they did not fire because the gunner had no charges filled, and by the time he did and the powder monkeys had got them to the gun captains, it was too late, the only positive being that the artillerymen from Calvi had ceased to waste powder and shot, as they were now beyond their reach heading for the eastern part of the bay.

  ‘Bring us about again, Mr Pearce,’ said Benton, ‘but out of range this time.’

  The way it was said seemed to imply that going closer inshore had been his fault. He half thought of protesting, but reckoned it not to be worth the effort.

  Was it Benton’s fault that there were no cartridges ready to fire the guns? Pearce did not know, but he was determined it would not happen again. Another, more forceful conversation with the gunner, reinforced the notion of how much he loved his cannon, but created a distinct impression that he loved them too much to see them discharged and was the type to see the proper place for powder as in the barrel, where it could be easily accounted for. He moaned that fixing the flintlocks had scratched the blacking, and asked that his gunner’s mates could be put to making them pristine again; so much, Pearce thought for getting close and blasting away.

  ‘But surely we must be ready at any time for a fight? What if that Corvette in Calvi was properly rigged and had decided to pursue us?’

  ‘We is as ready as we need be,’ he replied, bending his crooked face to one
side. ‘Stands to reason, sir, that if we see an enemy, we has time to do the necessary well afore they close.’

  ‘Mr Digby approved of this?’

  ‘Mr Digby never enquired about cartridges, seeing we was with the fleet, what would be the point?’

  Pearce had to struggle to control his impatience, and he suspected, even with his lack of experience, that the man he was temporarily replacing would have been just as upset. Hate Ralph Barclay he might, but his example was the one to follow; regular exercise with the odd discharge so that his gunners knew their tasks.

  ‘Please have powder ready for the guns at all times. Who knows, we might wake up one morning to find that an enemy has got close enough to sink us.’

  ‘The captain?’

  ‘I will deal with him.’

  ‘What weight of charge, your honour?’

  Unable to say what or why, Pearce just answered, ‘The maximum!’

  He left the gunner mumbling about muzzles being blown asunder, as he made his way back on deck and lifted himself onto the bulwark, hanging on to a backstay. Beneath him the sea was blue and clean, and he wondered if they would ever anchor so he could have a swim. Off the starboard beam lay the green-brown island, rocky promontories now mixed with long, blonde and sandy beaches, backed by rising ridges of crag-topped mountains, with a faint smell of myrtle and pines to mix with the tang of salt on the wind, just as Boswell had described it to a young and impressionable boy.

  He longed to go ashore and see if he could find anyone who knew or could remember James Boswell. According to the man himself, Dr Johnson’s biographer was something of a idol on Corsica – he had become an intimate of the local leader, Pasquali Paoli, and helped him in his attempt to eject the French from the island. But then Adam Pearce had always described Boswell as a man who cast himself in a good light. He also insisted that Samuel Johnson, whom Adam had met many times, had never said half the things Boswell attributed to him.