The Devil to Pay

by David Donachie

  ‘I must go and see the Mother Superior and settle any outstanding expenses, but that done Michael here will escort you back to the quay.’

  Once Pearce had left another of the wounded, leaning on his stick, he looked at O’Hagan, clearly bent on asking a question, his voice low as it was posed. ‘Does he know yet it were you that clouted him?’

  ‘No he does not,’ Michael growled; he had knocked John Pearce out on the deck of Sandown Castle to stop him from trying to keep fighting with his sword arm broken, which could have seen him cut down and probably killed. ‘And you’d best not be overheard talking of it, or you’ll feel the same fist.’

  ‘It were a nice punch, mate.’

  ‘Never,’ came the scoffed reply as a ham-like and much-scarred set of knuckles were raised. ‘Sure, it were only half of one.’

  ‘I heard one or two of our shipmates who came to call would pay well for a repeat.’

  ‘Best grease that stick of yours afore you ever say that again, mate,’ Michael hissed, ‘for certain it is that it will be disappearing up your arse if you do.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  The ease with which Emily acquiesced in the decision came as a relief; Pearce had been expecting innumerable objections but she packed her chest with seeming calm. This left him to wonder how much of her attitude had been brought on by the refusal of Captain Fleming, with whom she had come to Palermo, to take her any further, he having found out that she was a married woman as well as her connection to John Pearce.

  In booking her passage Emily had used her maiden name of Raynesford, but that had not held after Fleming got into conversation with the crew of Larcher. Pearce had not been present when the merchant captain informed her of his decision, but he had gone to visit a man he felt owed him much when it was imparted to him, this despite the fact that Fleming’s attitude suited him.

  He had no desire that Emily should return to England; it was the implied insult that irritated him. The man was full of apologies but not willing to budge: the owners of Sandown Castle were High Church Anglican and would not stand for any scandal being attached to their vessel or their trading house; to take Emily might place his own employment in jeopardy and he had a wife and children to support.

  ‘I will however, Captain Pearce, since I have no passengers, take back home those of your men who will no longer be fit to serve, even should they fully recover from their wounds and at no cost to you or the navy.’

  That had knocked Pearce off his high horse, for that too had been a worry; he had lost enough men already to be comfortable with any dying from their wounds. To be at sea in a tightly packed man o’ war was no place for a man bearing the kind of injuries that would render them unfit to stay in the service. They would be invalided home certainly, but only when HMS Larcher was back with the fleet and probably in a returning and crowded transport. In a spacious merchantman they would not only enjoy more comfort, but they might also live to collect a small pension, their due from the Chatham Chest.

  ‘He is a good man,’ had been Emily’s response to that offer when it was relayed to her.

  This did much more to drive home her predicament than any form of continued complaint at Fleming’s behaviour. In short, she understood his thinking only too well, given it had formed the reason for her flight. Tempted to once more reassure her that things would be better in Naples, Pearce held his tongue, well aware that by speaking of such he risked her taking up a position from which, experience told him, she would be unlikely to withdraw.

  He had felt it best to go out on an errand he needed to fulfil anyway, his last visit to the Palermo market to buy fresh produce for the voyage, which included several live and noisy chickens.

  To say that HMS Larcher looked odd in the early morning light was an understatement, with her stunned mainmast now rigged with a jury yard, made to look no better by a triced-up square sail bent on that was a good third short of the height it should be. What Dorling had contrived for a makeshift bowsprit did nothing to enhance either, two spars gammoned together, with stays and the rigging for a jib that even John Pearce knew would not take much in the way of strain.

  Any attempt to tack or wear would have to be carried out with great care or the whole assemblage might come adrift, which had Pearce harbouring more than a tinge of doubt about attempting the voyage. Against that he hated the idea of withdrawal and why would he when the weather had held. It was still sunny and warm, even at this early hour and the breeze, though not strong off the land, seemed favourable to both get them out to sea and provide steerage way once there.

  The deck was alive with men working as he and Emily approached, a pair of locals at their heels with their chests as well as his logs and purser’s accounts. Ropes were still being reeved through blocks so that the makeshift yard could be controlled. Scraps of canvas were being bent on to the jib lines, the deck itself tidied to the standard required within the service all of which seemed to pause for a split second as they were sighted. If it was imperceptible it was to John Pearce very obvious and, given the lack of smiles, it did not bode well.

  Word had been passed to the bosun, Mr Bird, for unlike the day before he was on hand to pipe his fully attired captain aboard with proper ceremony, all toil being suspended until that was complete and Pearce had raised his hat with his one good hand to what was laughingly called the quarterdeck. Given he was present, it was necessary for Pearce to order Dorling to ‘carry on’ before he could make for his tiny cabin. A space small to start with, it was even less so given the presence of Michael O’Hagan.

  ‘Michael,’ Emily said, with genuine warmth.

  ‘Ma’am,’ came a formal reply that sat oddly with his grin.

  Her smile disappeared to be replaced by a slightly quizzical look as she spotted the way Michael and her man then exchanged a brief glance. Emily knew better than anyone how close these two were. It was not too much to say neither would be alive without the other for, in what was an acquaintance of not much more than two years they had been through and survived a good number of risky adventures and those were only the ones Emily knew about. They shared many secrets to which she was not privy.

  ‘All’s as shipshape as I can make it, John-boy and I have had Bellam boil up some water for coffee, which will be with you in a trice.’

  Michael said this in a very soft voice; with not much between him and the deck, a thin bulkhead, it was necessary to be discreet in his manner of address. Pearce nodded, but still Emily thought with a look that did not match his acceptance.

  ‘Is there something troubling, Michael?’ Emily whispered as the Irishman departed.

  ‘What made you think that?’

  The reply came from a man now deliberately looking away so as not to catch her eye, making himself busy by arranging his logs and account books on what passed for a desk, his own sea chest.

  ‘John,’ she said in a firm tone, albeit still softly, ‘you know as well as I do that a woman can cause trouble on any vessel and have I not done so, with all innocence, in the past?’

  Pearce tried bluff, tried to pretend he was unsure at what was she was driving at for it could be many things and he mentioned more than one; the way she had reacted to her husband’s treatment of him aboard HMS Brilliant, for, against all the rules of the service Barclay too had taken her to sea with him. Then there was the incident on the voyage out from England with young Todger; she would have none of it, forcing him into a quiet confession.

  ‘But my unpopularity has nothing to do with you, Emily, it is entirely down to my behaviour.’

  ‘In pursuit of me?’

  The conversation was halted by the knock at the cabin door, followed by Michael appearing with the aforementioned coffee. He proved to be as sensitive to a strained atmosphere as Emily, seeking to get the tray down and depart with haste.

  ‘Michael.’

  This time the ‘Ma’am’ was larded with caution.

  ‘You will be aware that at all times John seeks to protect me from any
unpleasantness.’

  ‘Is that not right and proper?’

  ‘It may be so in certain circumstances but not now. I require you, as a good friend, to tell me if I in any way have acted to upset the men who serve of this vessel outside the mere fact of my presence. Will you promise me you will do that?’

  O’Hagan looked first at Pearce then back at Emily in a space between them so confined as to leave little chance of artifice; they were so close the warmth of each breath could be felt on another’s face.

  ‘I have told her what you told me, Michael.’

  ‘Then,’ the Irishman replied, looking at Emily and speaking, for him, very formally, ‘you should know that the regard in which I hold you has not suffered at all, Charlie and Rufus likewise.’

  ‘I am pleased to hear it, but it does imply Michael that a problem exists with the rest of the crew.’

  Yet another knock at the door stopped that exchange too, as Dorling appeared to inform his captain that if they wanted to make the best of the tide and the shore breeze, it was time to cast off. This required that Pearce go on deck to issue the necessary orders and he stood, hands behind his back, as the cables were lifted from their quayside bollards and HMS Larcher was polled clear, running an acute eye over everyone working on deck.

  Should he order the sweeps to be employed, heavy toil in any circumstances, doubly so in a morning in which the heat was already palpable and getting stronger by the minute? The great oars would get them clear of the mole more quickly than their gimcrack sails, for the breeze was still slight but he was disinclined to issue the necessary orders; time was not of the essence.

  ‘Mr Dorling, I leave it to you to decide what canvas we can safely employ for this so-called tide will not get us clear and into open water in less than a turn of the glass.’

  There was truth in that; the Mediterranean was not really tidal, the sea only rising and falling a matter of feet and while it would carry the armed cutter out it would do so at no great pace. Dorling acknowledged the order and began to issue instructions of his own. Ropes were hauled as canvas began to appear, some of it new, most heavily patched, with Pearce wondering if the men doing the pulling were happy at least to be on their way. It was an indication of his status as captain that he could not ask.

  As they sailed slowly out they passed the night fishermen, who, having landed their catch were now drying and checking their nets, tasks which they put aside to watch this very odd-looking vessel as it made its way towards the harbour entrance with its boats being towed behind, one containing the chickens Pearce had bought who in their cackling seemed to mock the whole endeavour. There was some laughter at the sight, but more shaking of heads in wonderment and even one or two who crossed themselves, which was not a ringing endorsement of the enterprise.

  Pearce looked aloft at the limp flags that identified HMS Larcher as a vessel of the King’s Navy, serving under the command of a vice admiral of the Red Squadron, who happened to be that irascible old sod Sam Hood. He felt that the lack of any vitality in those pennants was akin to his own, for being on his way had brought back to his mind misgivings he had too conveniently buried.

  Would he have to face Lord Hood on rejoining the fleet to explain his actions, or had the old man gone home to be replaced by the even less inspiring prospect of reporting to that slimy article and his second-in-command, Admiral Sir William Hotham. On previous occasions what was happening now, putting to sea, had induced a feeling of pleasure: now it was one of dejection.

  ‘You have shaped a course, Mr Dorling?’ Pearce asked in a loud voice, posing a question that had more to do with personal distraction than need. ‘Once we are clear?’

  ‘Sir, a few points off due north.’

  ‘Well let us hope that we can easily hold it and that we will be in Naples in good time, to have the ship restored to its former state. It will be a pleasure to rejoin the fleet in what looks like a proper vessel.’

  No smiles greeted that either; no nods of agreement as of old, so feeling useless Pearce nodded to no one in particular and went to partake of his rapidly cooling coffee.

  It was not necessary to be on deck to be aware that the ship was struggling to make headway; every dip and rise of the sea was exaggerated, every fluke of a different wind as well as every little alteration in the run of the sea, currents that Larcher would have previously been untroubled by, affected her progress and made her yaw off course, sometimes to the point where sails had to be struck and reset. Added to that the level of creaking timber, an ever-present sound at sea, seemed to be ten times more audible and prevalent, as the temporary rig made known the strain it was enduring.

  The day went by without incident, falling into night in which the most telling thing was the lack of gathering on the deck, which had been a previous commonplace in any benign climate. The hands would come up to take the clean air – to talk and joke, to sing and to dance – often to be joined by their captain and his lady after a supper of toasted cheese. Emily had a sweet, melodious voice to add to their masculine timbres and sang of the land and green pastures as opposed to the sea and the lives of the men who sailed it. Odd how what had worked to make her popular was now being used to damn her as a siren.

  There was no singing now but quiet talk that was prone to an unwelcome interpretation from a pair who needed to get out of a stuffy cabin just as much as the crew wanted to vacate the stifling t’ween decks. Having on this occasion eaten a good dinner made of fresh produce, prepared by Bellam the cook and delivered to them by an unusually uncommunicative Michael O’Hagan, they stayed well aft when it came to taking some air.

  HMS Larcher ploughed on throughout the night, making at best three knots but often two or even less, the hands roused out before first light with John Pearce on deck soon after, as was required by all naval captains, to ensure that no threat had crept up upon them in the hours of darkness, as if they could under a carpet of bright stars. He was there again once the planking had been swabbed and dried to inspect their work, no great hardship in these waters before the whole ship took breakfast and their captain washed and shaved.

  Pearce was called when any other sail was sighted to establish what vessel it was and to be sure it presented no threat, a duty only he could undertake given any subsequent orders fell to him. He was there to see the bells rung, the glass turned and especially when it came to the change of watch, ordering the decks to be wetted in the heat, given the pitch sealing the joints in the planking, the devil in naval parlance, was prone to melting. Likewise the boats stayed in the water to protect their seams.

  Seven bells on the forenoon watch required that he be on desk with his sextant, in the company of the master, to shoot the noonday zenith by which they could establish their position in what was now nothing but an empty seascape. On each occasion, he sought also to discern any level of obvious dissatisfaction in each crew member, not he later had to admit to much avail. The only smiles he got, and they were given with some discretion, came from the trio he knew as his fellow Pelicans.

  He could not think on that tag without recalling how they had come to wear it and also, despite the circumstances in which it had been gained, the way it represented a rebellion against the kind of authority he now represented. How odd it was in this glaring sunshine and just past midday heat, to imagine himself once more in a smoky London tavern on a freezing winter night, to forget his present rank and station and recall that he had been a civilian on the run from the law.

  The thought that, Michael O’Hagan apart, he had fallen amongst thieves in the Pelican Tavern induced a slight smile; Charlie Taverner the street-hunting sharp, Rufus the runway apprentice, the wiser head, old Abel Scrivens, dead now, running from a ruinous debt. The last of the original Pelicans had been quiet, unlucky Ben Walker, thought to have been lost overboard but last seen as an emaciated slave, beyond rescue, toiling on the waterfront at Tangiers and also probably dead by now.

  All, again excepting Michael, had been on their uppers and wit
hout the price of a wet, each one avoiding a writ of some kind, none of the magnitude facing John Pearce. Where they had encountered each other had protected them, the Liberties of the Savoy, a stretch of the Thames riverside from which the bailiffs were banned due to ancient statute. He had hoped that it would protect him too but fate had decreed that the hand that he felt on his collar, as well as those of his fellow Pelicans, was not a King’s Bench Sheriff but the clasp of a hard-bitten tar, one of the press gang employed by Captain Ralph Barclay.

  Right at that moment he felt the loneliness of being in command; he would have loved to talk to those he considered his friends at any time, more especially now, so as to find out how to counter what was troubling the crew. It was all very well sharing his cabin with Emily but she was not someone with whom he could discuss such matters and that was not the only subject best avoided.

  The whole area of her husband and their own relationship, if it was not out of bounds, was fraught with difficulty, so much so that Pearce had to consider what he was going to say before he said it, lest blurting out some unpleasant reminder of her predicament he drive her towards a resolution he was determined to avoid. It was like walking barefoot on broken glass.

  ‘Sail Ho!’

  ‘Where away?’ was the automatic reply and one that drew him from his melancholy reflections, to withdraw a telescope from the bulkhead rack by his side, freeing his arm from its sling at the same time, just as it seemed every man below, including those off watch, found a reason to be on deck.

  ‘Dead astern, caught a flash of topsail.’

  With some difficulty due to his constrained arm, he adjusted the glass and laid it across his splints in the required southerly direction. This was not carried out in any great hurry, given he had no great expectation of getting sight of anything immediately; the man aloft could see things many miles further off than he.