The Devil to Pay

by David Donachie

  They were at the mercy of both the sea and those cannon, one seeking to drive them to possible safety, the other intent on destruction. Along the deck most had obeyed his order and were lying down, others close to the companionway following the Irishman below, which seemed to promise more safety, yet that could be an illusion.

  If the Barbary captain aimed his cannon right, the shot would blast through the flimsy stern of Larcher to wreak havoc as the balls swept along the lower deck. There was nowhere really safe on a small, armed cutter in battle, no deep cockpit where round shot could not reach. Worse for John Pearce, for the men steering the ship the option to do more than duck was not available; in his case he could not even do that.

  As captain it was necessary to not only show an example of bravery and or indifference – a fatal panic could ensue if he did not – but in the situation in which they now found themselves he had to be fully aware of what was happening. He could not leave Dorling as the only upright figure on deck. All he could do was briefly close his eyes as he heard the crack of passing shot, feeling blessed as he realised that it had gone overhead, this evidenced by the splinters flying off the stump of the mainmast, which was hit with such force that what had be rigged above came loose and fell to one side, a skein of wood and rope that was arrested by its own tangle.

  It mattered not, the sails had no effect on the ship now; it was the force of the sea that was driving her further in and what came next cheered him. The gun crews behind him had leapt up as soon as it was safe to do so and without any orders had trimmed their aim and loosed off a telling reply. Black smoke from the powder, like the seawater borne on the wind, swept over and past him.

  Larcher was close to being jammed now, only moving forward in inches not yards, with high grey and jagged rocks to either side. Looking at the enemy, still on his own with his consort too far away to affect matters, Pearce could see and revel in his problems. Stationary on broken inshore waters, any accurate timing of gunfire was near to impossible.

  He must have aimed at the hull with his opening salvo. That was the most effective thing to do in the prevailing circumstances, but a passing wave probably lifted his hull so it had gone high to where it would do little good. Yes he had wounded the armed cutter but to what purpose? Against that, the men manning to two makeshift stern chasers, now that they were within the maw of that inlet, had a more stable platform from which to take aim, plus the ability to reload their cannon at a speed no other navy could match.

  They got their second shots off before Barbary reloaded and the balls struck the upper hull with an encouraging sound of ripping timber. Within seconds his men were hauling and swabbing their guns and might have got off a third before the enemy could match their second. Barbary did get off a salvo just ahead of them but this time it happened as an incoming wave caused the brigantine to down roll, which sent their shot into the sea yards from the stern and uselessly, the intervening water taking out most the velocity.

  Dorling had called for hands to pole the ship in using the sweeps. Men were leaning into one end while the other was pressed into any available fissure in the rocks. Initially ineffective it became so when the master had them work separately so as to take maximum advantage of the minimal space off either beam, the result, a fractional move forward by first one side then the other, again aided by the incoming waves.

  ‘Barky’s taking water fast, Capt’n,’ came the call from the companionway, this before Brad Kempshall’s dark locks disappeared back from whence they had come.

  Pearce went forward to where he could see clearly there was still a gap between the now naked prow and the end of the inlet, not much of one but just too much to bridge, which made it another kind of race. Would Larcher become waterlogged and get stuck where she was, or would there be enough buoyancy left to make that last few yards?

  The clang of metal made him spin round in time to see one of his cannon upend and begin to roll along the deck, the trunnions below in bits as well as the taffrail, his heart sinking to think of more deaths and injuries laid at his door. It was in the nature of a miracle that this was not so; when he ran aft to count the cost, all of the gunners were alive, though two were wounded, yet not enough to render them unable to move.

  ‘Get forward, all of you, those of you unharmed help the wounded.’

  ‘One last round, your honour?’ called Todger, who was gun captain on the remaining cannon and given the grin that went with the request it was one impossible to deny.

  ‘Carry on, but abandon the gun as soon as it is fired.’

  A shout from Dorling had him rush to the prow, to see that his use of the sweeps had made a difference. There was a small gap still, but it was now possible to get people over the bows and onto a section of flat rock on the larboard side. From there, albeit with wet feet, they could make their way onto dry ground and into the low bush-covered screed, which led to a command for all left on deck to get below and prepare to abandon ship. He was back to see the last shot from the armed cutter fired, a success, Todger having taken much time and such careful aim. Every head on the enemy deck went down as a very visible ball swept over their quarterdeck, which brought forth cheers and salacious gestures from the gun crew and then an irascible command from their captain.

  ‘Belay that. Move all of you, grab your dunnage, but stay below decks until I call you up. Todger, spread that turps over those rags and then do likewise.’

  Pearce went into his cabin, to see his sea chest open and half emptied. There was one thing he could not leave, something that even Michael would not know about, a small tin that he sometimes carried in his coat pocket, which contained earth from a Paris burial ground, the very place where his father was buried. There were other possessions, books and the normal souvenirs of his peripatetic life, but they would have to be abandoned without remorse; had he not had to do that so many times in his life?

  His last act was to take the lantern from the wall, before he made to go back on deck, halting as he heard the thud of multiple shot as a raft of small balls struck various parts of the ship, which told him his opponent was finally using grapeshot. It was an almost spiritual reflection he had then; finding and pocketing that tin had delayed him and may well have saved his life!

  ‘Too late, I suspect, my friend,’ Pearce remarked to himself, reflecting on what had been employed by his enemy, ‘should have used that on your first salvo.’

  The enemy deck now had a line of men with muskets, the sight of his blue coat enough to bring on a ragged discharge, but at a range where they would be lucky to cause him any harm, not that he could hang about: another salvo of case was a near certainty. The tallow flared in the breeze as soon as he opened the glass door and he put a turpentine-soaked rag to it that caught light immediately. The rag was used to ignite the rest and by the time he made the companionway himself the blocks of pitch were surrounded by flames. It took little time for the thick paper that covered them to begin to burn and that set alight the pitch itself, sending up into the air a thickening pall of black smoke.

  ‘You might guess what I am about, my friend,’ was the next quiet remark, ‘but by damn you will not see it.’

  The crew abandoned ship in batches, Pearce first onto that flat rock so as he could supervise departure, timing his shouts to take advantage of the gaps in salvoes of grapeshot, coming now at regular intervals and firing on to a deck they could no longer see. There were the wounded from Palermo to see to, those who had suffered on that overturned gun as well as the one-legged cook. The happiest moment was when he helped Emily off the ship closely followed by all three of his friends, O’Hagan carrying his few rescued possessions. Matthew Dorling, his own logs under his arm, as well as a map of this section of the coastline, was the last to depart.

  ‘I have told everyone to hurry, Mr Dorling, and find a place where they will be protected from what will shortly happen. I say the same to you.’

  John Pearce was right on the master’s heels, to jam himself into between two
large boulders and to wait. It was not long, for those turpentine-soaked rags had set light to the sun-dried decking and the pitch in the seams. That had had spread to the main timbers as the armed cutter was soon alight right across the stern. Eventually the flames reached the powder store and if there was not much left it was enough to cause a serious explosion, one that lifted the whole ship slightly and sent parts of HMS Larcher flying in all directions. When Pearce and the others stood up to look, she was aflame from end to end.

  ‘Move out, all of you, muskets with me to the rear, just in case our enemies’ seek to come ashore.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Sir William Hotham, acting C-in-C of His Majesty’s ships and vessels in the Mediterranean was closeted in the great cabin of HMS Britannia with the man who was now his chief clerk. He had inherited another clerk from Lord Hood as well as a pair of writers, making a total of three, to execute the mass of orders and correspondence he was now obliged to issue. He was the representative of his country in the region, a remit that ran over an area half the size of continental Europe and contained within it many conflicting communities and responsibilities.

  He was required to keep the French fleet bottled up in Toulon and if they should issue out to then find and defeat them. Britain being part of a coalition of European states gathered to oppose the French Revolution, Hotham had to cooperate with the Austrian Empire, maritime city states such as Genoa and Venice, to keep in some form of order the various Beys and Deys of the North African littoral and treat with the Turkish Sultan as well as contain the activities of a mass of minor satrapies of that polity.

  On the admiral’s table lay the latest despatches, delivered that very day by one of the regular packets that plied the route between the Admiralty in London and the fleet base, presently in Corsica. If what the letters contained was of great import, a difficulty that had come in with the sacks of mail was more telling. Toomey was in possession of some unpleasant news and had set out to distract his employer with another communication, one come in from an unusual source, this so he would have time to think.

  Hotham was reading what he had been given and wondering what to do about it, indeed why he should even react to it landing on his table. The missive came from a Major Lipton, in command of a group of bullocks who had gone to Leghorn for a spot of leave and relaxation. He claimed that he and his officers had suffered a serious assault in the port of Leghorn, visited upon them by midshipmen who made no attempt to hide the fact that they were from HMS Agamemnon. Indeed the name of their captain, Horatio Nelson had been shouted many times, the implication being that the attack was some kind of retribution for insults they had heaped on his name.

  In addition, and Lipton made this sound worse, the Agamemnons were aided in their assault by a number of common seamen, Liberty Men from half the navy vessels presently in the anchorage, it being a double slight that an officer holding the King’s commission should be manhandled by the lower orders. The army men had been beaten and ducked in the harbour so severely that one or two had come close to drowning while the rest were rendered unfit to undertake their duties for several weeks due to the injuries they sustained.

  Lipton’s description was fairly graphic in its detail, which caused Hotham to allow himself a quiet smile, to recall that if it was many years past he too had once been a midshipman and like all of his fellows had taken part in a number of onshore brawls if ever they came across bullocks. In his present rank he was, of course, obliged to frown on such behaviour but in his heart he found it difficult. What his clerk put down to Hotham’s habitual slow thinking was in fact this reverie, which was finally broken by a lazy drawl.

  ‘When did this happen, Toomey?’

  ‘Near a month past, sir. It has taken some time to get here.’ Hotham looked up, the blue eyes his clerk thought to be vague posing a question. ‘Agamemnon was in harbour at the time stated by Major Lipton and the young gentlemen of that ship are known to be a mite full of themselves, so the complaint has some credence.’

  ‘It does not surprise me that Nelson cannot control his mids berth,’ Hotham growled. ‘Damn me, he can scarce control his own damned servant and as for the men he commands, well?’

  Captain Horatio Nelson, presently ranked as Commodore, was not popular in this cabin or the breast of the man who occupied it. He was an officer too independent of mind, too lacking in the keeping of discipline and not just in his own private quarters. Even worse for Sir William Hotham, Nelson was much admired by Samuel, Lord Hood, the man the admiral had only recently taken over from as temporary C-in-C Mediterranean and one he saw as an enemy in both politics and tactics.

  ‘Hood overindulged Nelson, Toomey, but I will not. As soon as he rejoins he will hear of this. I have the right to remove his blue pennant.’

  There you go again, Toomey thought, letting your irritation run ahead of itself. The clerk knew his employer to be a man preyed upon by perceived slights and imagined concerns many of which, in keeping to himself tended to magnify themselves in his thinking. Bad enough before Hood departed, it seemed to be getting worse but right now it was not worth saying anything; best stay with the subject at hand.

  ‘Major Lipton is demanding compensation for the medical bills incurred as well as damage to equipment and uniforms.’

  ‘For which he will whistle,’ Hotham responded after his usual gap for thought. ‘The navy has better use for its coin.’

  This was said vehemently, involving as it did money; apart from a regard for his reputation there was no subject closer to his heart. In the month since Lord Hood had sailed away in HMS Victory he had kept a weather eye on both, not least the sums coming in from the taking of prizes; Hood being, of course, still entitled to his eighth. Hotham might only be in a stand-in commander now but he fully expected to be elevated to the full office and the temptation to calculate the difference in income when that day arrived and he had his full prerogative could not be avoided.

  It may in fact have already happened, for Hood would be home by now: friends in high places were working on his behalf in London, people like the Duke of Portland who led a faction of Whigs that took their name from him as their leader. The Tory First Lord of the Treasury, William Pitt, needed the support of the Portland Whigs to prosecute the war with Revolutionary France and they had joined the government. Hood, a Tory to his shoe buckles, would be sacrificed by Pitt in order to appease Portland and hold at bay the main Whig opposition led by Charles James Fox.

  Hotham, who had been relatively cautious up to now, was getting ready to put something of a stamp on his responsibilities by removing from command one captain whom he felt lacked the belly fire he knew would be needed should he bring the French to battle, a fellow called Frost who had previously asked to be relieved because he was sick, only to stage a remarkable turnaround once the siege of Toulon was lifted.

  Hotham had previously tried to have him replaced by Captain Ralph Barclay only to be rebuffed by Lord Hood. Now he was gone HMS Leander would been given a new commanding officer and a whole raft of promotions would follow from what was relatively small pool of officers, really too few to do justice to the needs of a fleet that had suffered, as any in action would, losses through death and the sheer attrition of naval service.

  He would send for more – there were enough unemployed officers languishing at home to equip a dozen fleets – but not until his elevation to command was confirmed. Then he could demand men that he knew would support him as C-in-C: captains and lieutenants who had served with him previously, many of the latter as midshipmen.

  He would also demand a draft of everything from warrants to common seamen, even landsmen if no others could be provided, this for a fleet now short on its establishment by near a fifth due to the same reason as his lack of officers as well as the need to man prizes, indeed they were approaching the point where good warship captures would have to be sold rather than put into service.

  He also had to decide which ship of the line was most in need of a full
refit, something that could only be carried out at home. One of the despatches open on his table told him what he would get as a replacement the newly built seventy-four gun, third-rate HMS Semele. The same message informed him that Captain Ralph Barclay had the command, which in normal circumstances might have been pleasing, given he was a client officer and thus a fellow to give him complete loyalty.

  Yet Barclay was not without problems; not in the fighting line, there he could be utterly relied upon. It was his past actions that were a cause for worry and then there was his private life! Barclay’s wife was a woman half his age and a rare beauty. There had been many instances, witnessed at the Siege of Toulon, of a less than harmonious relationship and thinking of Barclay brought to his mind the tangled web of problems that marital misalliance of his had created.

  He had involved the admiral in a matter, which Hotham now wished he had left well alone and at the very heart of that problem lay the person of Lieutenant John Pearce. As a pressed and common seaman, which is what he had been, he could have been ignored; a stroke of good fortune followed by a piece of monarchical folly had made him an officer and subsequently a threat.

  Toomey, acutely sensitive to the moods of the man who employed him realised he had begun to brood on something unpleasant. In order to distract him further, indeed to put off what he was going to have to tell him, he pointedly pushed towards him a list of the capital ships under his command.

  ‘The reports from commanding officers of the state of their vessels with addendums from their masters and carpenters, sir.’

  ‘You have examined them?’

  ‘I have.’ Hotham did not respond, merely looking expectantly at his clerk and waiting. ‘I have noted in the margins those vessels in the most desperate condition, having taken due note of exaggeration.’

  Such a trait was not likely to come from the captains; they had spent their entire service life hoping to partake of a great fleet action in command of a fighting vessel and since there might be one in the offing here going home was the last thing they sought. Added to that the Mediterranean was a place of opportunity, with vessels being sent off to re-victual in Leghorn with a wink that did not demand they proceed straight to the Italian port or back again, thus allowing a sweep in which they might secure a prize or two, a policy which was paying off handsomely.