The Devil to Pay

by David Donachie

  The next obvious fact was that there was no room for him and all of his men as well as what were substantial ampoules, which posed a dilemma given it was rapidly heading towards nightfall; even if there was no pursuit the rumbling from the east, plus the now heavy atmosphere, presaged rain, which meant he needed to get them into shelter and whatever else it must be this tower had to be sound and sealed to keep out the weather.

  Faced with two problems there was only one solution; to move enough of those ampoules to accommodate his crew, so he clambered down and ordered the tower cleared. Immediately his men got to the door one great pot was sent flying, to smash on the ground, sending the oil it contained, the produce of the nearby olive trees, spraying in all direction. Pearce lost his temper then; these ampoules belonged to someone and were obviously valued.

  ‘Damn you, treat them as if they were your own!’

  No one would look at him then, he hoped through sheepishness so, in a more conciliatory tone he ordered they should be lowered with care and stacked in such a way under the nearby trees, where they would be afforded some protection from the coming downpour, with the additional instruction that it should be well away from the flaring fire that had been started by those not otherwise employed.

  Lit in what was still daylight it now glowed, which had Pearce call in Birdy and his sentinels and get everyone up into the chamber, even if enough space had not been cleared; tonight they would have to huddle. Before that had been completed and the rough ladders hauled in, the first sign of lightning ran though the barely visible clouds, soon followed by a roll of loud thunder, which was repeated regularly.

  The space was insufficient for all, which led to a deal of complaint and that was not aided when the door was jammed shut by Pearce and O’Hagan and they were plunged into stygian darkness. But if there was much complaint about crowding, odd for fellows who shared a constrained ’t’ween decks, it was very shortly overborne by another worry: bats. The first cry was one of deep alarm, a near scream, which set off many more as the perpetrators felt the swish of something very close pass their heads, that followed by the sound of animal squeaking and Emily, made aware of what was causing the distress, buried her head in John Pearce’s chest with a muffled moan that pushed his back hard into the door.

  ‘You have nothing to fear,’ Pearce yelled, but not to much avail. ‘They will not harm you.’

  ‘They’re of the devil,’ came one response, ‘and will suck out our blood.’

  ‘You’se dropped us in it again,’ called another voice, which was responded to by a number of worrying growls mixed with stifled cries.

  In daylight Pearce was sure he could have provided reassurance; in total darkness it was much harder but he tried, telling them how many times he had taken shelter with his father in old buildings and faced the same, even having had such creatures fly around his head on a summer night when sat by the roadside.

  ‘You will feel their passing but never their touch, for they have a way of knowing exactly where you are.’

  ‘If they can see in the dark then they are agents of Satan,’ called a voice Pearce recognised as being the one who had cursed him on the deck of HMS Larcher, even when it dropped to a low and melodramatic tone. ‘And happen they have come to commune with their familiar, I say.’

  ‘The door, John-boy,’ came the whisper from nearby, ‘best open it.’

  ‘Damn me Michael, how? I am jammed against it.’

  What followed was a series of curses and sounds Pearce took to be blows, but he did find he had room to move, enough to get the door open a fraction and let in air if not light. It took more effort and forced movement to get it fully ajar and just then the lighting flashed and illuminated for a second the interior, showing Pearce a mass of frightened faces; that was those who were not cowering with their hands over their hats.

  Pearce saw it as a blessing that the storm was so fierce; the sky was alive, bolts of lightning were striking the ground with scarcely a pause between them, sending up what appeared to be sparks from anything they struck, rocks or trees, in a cacophony of thunder. The light created was enough at least to send the bats back to their hanging perches and when the rain came it was even more illuminating; it seemed to magnify the light from the bolts passing through to still strike the ground, now covered with a low layer of steam.

  It did not last, passing over and out to sea as quickly as it arrived but, leaving what had been heavy air somewhat cooler and fresher as well as the wind that had driven it. It also let John Pearce with a decision to make; was it better that his men were outdoors or should he seek to keep them cooped up in the tower? There was no sign of a pursuit and surely, had there been one they would have known by now, quite apart from the fact that anyone seeking to come to attack them would have been drenched and so would be their weapons?

  ‘Anyone who would rather make a bed outside may do so,’ he called finally, for under a sky not yet fully cleared they were going to be in the dark even with an open door. ‘But call your name first, it must be done with care and one at a time. Also, anyone with a musket leave it indoors.’

  That engendered some murmured complaint so he added, in an exasperated tone. ‘Ask yourself what use those weapons will be if the rain returns to soak your flints and powder?’

  The downpour had doused the embers of the previous fire but the tars soon got another one going by the simple expedient of finding some dry kindling and timber then setting it alight where the smashed ampoule had seeped its oil into the ground. What they did not anticipate was the way it flared up and the extent to which it would spread, which provided those still in the tower with a short burst of entertainment when it seemed as if the whole landscape was about to ignite.

  Eventually matters settled and so did the exterior crew, with Pearce setting a watch from those who remained inside – there were moans of unfairness – until he made it plain they had two advantages; the height with which to oversee the area and the weapons to defend it from intrusion. Sleep, even indoors, could not be much more than fitful and so it was a drowsy and grubby looking bunch that began to study themselves at first light, where they could examine the effect upon their clothing and faces of that desperate climb up from the shore and with no ability to boil water with which to shave they would have to stay that way.

  With daylight the crew, Pelicans and Emily Barclay apart, vacated the tower, so Pearce elected to search for the means to reach the top. This consisted of a well-worn and equally well-cracked stone stairway. Several of the bricks dislodged on his ascent and fell crashing down to alarm those below and when he emerged onto the top it was to disturb a positive colony of nesting seabirds, who set up a cacophony of noise before seeking to chase him away by swirling around his head.

  This meant he only got a glimpse of the inlet in which lay the charred timbers of HMS Larcher, no more than the skeleton of the keel, being hit by waves that were much more forceful than those he had faced the day before, which drove home that he had been very lucky. More to the point there was no sign of that pair of brigantines, which brought forth a sigh of relief: he and his crew were safe.

  ‘Best come down quick, Capt’n,’ called Michael O’Hagan up the stairwell, ‘we got trouble here.’

  The descent had to be undertaken gingerly, with all that loose masonry, so he was appraised of what he was about face before he saw the threat, a crowd of over a hundred peasants armed with every kind of agricultural tool that would serve as a weapon lined up just as the edge of the trees and on closer examination it was made up of men, women and children. He could hear them too, a low and angry mummer that carried over the intervening ground to remind him of what he had so recently witnessed aboard ship.

  No great genius was required to work out why these folk had come; this tower must have served as some kind of communal storehouse and not only had he and his men broken into the place but they had moved some of its contents and destroyed at least one container of oil, in this part of the world the source of
heat, light and the basis of their cooking and very likely any trade they undertook.

  It was the line of raised muskets that kept the peasants from coming on but that would not serve. Pearce could not contemplate any shooting to drive them away, quite apart from the presence of women and children. These people were citizens of a power allied to Britain and he had no idea how far away where he and his men from some kind of authority that could aid him.

  ‘Michael, the ship’s coffer, fetch it if you please.’

  ‘You seeking to buy them off?’

  ‘Tell me another way.’

  ‘Sure I hope they come cheap, John-boy, for it’s a bare store of coin we are left with.’

  ‘First I have to get them to understand me. Best I wear my coat too.’

  Charlie Taverner was quick with his opinion, this as O’Hagan aided Pearce to dress. ‘Never known anyone confused by a bit of coin.’

  ‘I have my money, John,’ Emily added; originally pledged for her voyage, the result of her having traded her jewellery in Naples, it had been returned to her by Captain Fleming. ‘You may use that.’

  Pearce nodded, adding a sad smile, as Michael came with the coffer and he opened it to slip a few coins into his pocket. ‘Let us hope it is unnecessary.’

  It was a stiff and slow one-armed descent down that rough ladder and an unhurried walk to the line of his men holding muskets, where he issued a sharp order that no one was to think of pulling a trigger before proceeding, Michael, Charlie and Rufus on his heels. He searched the line of faces before him seeking out the man who was their leader – there had to be one – and as soon as he alighted on a suspect the fellow, swarthy and squat, stepped forward, a billhook swinging loosely at the end of his arm, angry shouts and imprecations at his back.

  French had no immediate effect so Pearce tried the bit of Latin he knew only be replied to in a tongue, a local argot, which to him had no discernible root. So it came down to grunts, the odd word and sign language in which he imparted his regrets and caused utter confusion by trying to describe with his one good hand a naval pursuit and the outcome for his ship, in short their reason for being here.

  In the end Charlie proved to have the right of it; a proffered gold coin, a full guinea on which sat the head of King George, once it had been bitten by the few remaining teeth of the peasant spokesman, began to allay the animosity. It took two more guineas, which left Pearce with an equal amount, to find the price for their losses, or at least one that would satisfy this squat fellow, with Pearce well aware he was probably paying well above the need.

  ‘Should have put a couple of balls over their heads afore you spoke to them,’ Rufus Dommet opined as the crowd dispersed to make their way back to their homes. ‘Would have saved a guinea at least.’

  ‘Whatever happened to that peaceful young lad I used to know?’ Pearce asked, with a sigh. ‘The one who rarely raised his voice.’

  ‘Sure he joined the navy, John-boy,’ hooted Michael O’Hagan, ‘and if it has taken a while I can tell you he has learnt to throw a decent punch.’

  ‘Just as I thought,’ came the response, ‘we are in a service that makes good people bad and bad people worse.’

  ‘Then it’s perdition for you, I say.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  Throughout the night, in between bouts of sleep and troubled wakefulness, John Pearce had gnawed on what to do next. He had no surety that his enemies had given up on their pursuit, which would mean them heading for Sapri, where they thought he would go next, it being the nearest point of habitation. If that was to be avoided then so was any notion of progressing inland to seek out a road to the north for the fishing port was on the way, which had him inclining to the idea of making their way north by sticking to the coast.

  There would be a coastal path, in his experience of traversing his homeland there always was and he had no reason to doubt that matters were the same here in Italy. They were the routes of trade and travel that went back to time immemorial: on many occasions he and his father had used such paths to make their way from one coastal town to another and if they were not roads they were usually better than the muddy, rutted so called highways that were as likely to be home to thievery as any other hazard.

  His thinking was also affected by what he had read, from the annals of empire that began with Rome and extended to the writings of those who had undertaken the Grand Tour, not all of them rich and idle youth. The road to Rome was one much travelled by enquiring minds and one of the things Pearce recalled, amongst their accounts of ancient buildings and fine works of art were their descriptions of the climate of Italy’s interior; hot, disease ridden and, outside of the monasteries and occasional grand edifice, desperately poor.

  If it had been a fancy of his father’s, his oft-repeated assertion that sea air was beneficial was a hard notion to refute but then there was the other factor to consider: would it be longer in terms of miles? In the dark a look at one of Dorling’s charts was out of the question, which threw up another fact: if they showed the coast and the immediate hinterlands charts did not stretch far inland and tended to be bereft of topographical features other than obvious landmarks such as the tower in which they now sat.

  Yet on the coast they could not get lost and would often have good sight of what hazards lay in their path. So it was make their way with some knowledge of their location or to set off towards the high hills immediately north of the place they now were and step into the unknown. As a dilemma it was unresolved when daylight came and that was before any subsequent problem arose. What was obvious, when those over-rewarded locals had gone on their way, and while his men made as much as they could of a less than perfect breakfast, was the fact that he would have to decide, there being no hint from any other quarter of a alternative, though he did fell it incumbent to explain his thinking to the warrants.

  ‘As we saw on the way to here many of the bays have boats on the beach, which means they live mainly off fish. But it is a fair bet there will be some kind of livestock too, goats or sheep. It also means they must have fresh water nearby for how could they otherwise sustain themselves. So there we have it, potential food and a certainty of water, plus a knowledge of where we are in a strange land.’

  Not a word came in reply and nor was there much faith in the looks he was getting.

  ‘And who knows what we might find to aid us on our way?’

  ‘How far will be have to go, your honour?’ Birdy asked finally of a man who had yet to work out the answer to that particular question, which meant his reply was somewhat lacking in confidence.

  ‘Think of it day by day Mr Bird, ten to twelve miles maybe more, with stops at the height of the hours when the sun is at its hottest.’ Which was as good as saying it was going to be a long trek and an uncomfortable one so he added a bit if wishful thinking to seek to cheer them up. ‘And I cannot see it as necessary to cover the entire distance on foot, where we can we will seek out a boat.’

  ‘And what boat will that be, John-boy,’ O’Hagan asked as they walked away, for he had overheard the conversation.

  ‘A celestial barge, Michael,’ Pearce replied, with a gaiety he did not feel, this as he looked at the bright blue sky, with one single white cloud set over a distant mountain north of their tower, a one-time volcano by its shape. ‘For which I would be obliged you heartily pray to the deity you so worship.’

  As ever, when any reference was made to God, Michael crossed himself.

  ‘At least,’ Pearce added, ‘if we stick to the coast we cannot get lost. Now let us gather ourselves up and get moving before it gets too warm.’

  In the nature of things even the flagship of the fleet was required to replenish its stores, not least to take on water, without which the ship’s cooks could not prepare food, so Sir William Hotham found himself on deck as HMS Britannia made her way into the roads of Leghorn to anchor, this to the sound of banging ordnance as his vessel saluted the titular suzerain of the free port, the Grand Duke of Tuscany, while repr
esentatives of the Empire of Austria acknowledged his rank, position and Vice Admiral’s flag.

  Boats of all sizes, carrying traders of every description as well as a goodly number of whores, to the accompaniment of flutes and stringed instruments, had long set out to intercept the 100-gun warship which, with its crew of over 800 men would be a source of much trade in all areas, especially if the vessels captain would allow them aboard – if not the denizens of the port would still manage to turn a pretty coin.

  Despite the Articles of War declaring that the presence of non-naval persons on a warship was forbidden, it was a decision left to each captain as to whether such a stricture was observed. Hotham was not a man to relish his flagship being turned into a raucous whore and playhouse, so John Holloway, the captain of the ship, had strict instructions.

  ‘They may trade though the lower gun ports and no more.’ The acknowledgment of the order was delivered with a suppressed sigh; Hotham would not have to deal with the consequences of a crew full of pent-up frustration when they were denied their full pleasures: that would fall to the captain and his officers. ‘You will, of course, accompany me to the inevitable ball and I would be obliged if you would choose from among our officers men who can come along and behave themselves.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  ‘And a strong word to your liberty men too, as well as your midshipman. There has been too much trouble here in Leghorn of late and I do not want to have to deal with any more.’

  The story of what had happened with the youngsters from Agamemnon had spread and, of course, grown in the telling so that now, as far as the navy was concerned, there was not a bullock officer anywhere in the entire theatre of conflict fit for duty, and to the tars a damn good thing too.

  ‘Port Governor’s barge setting off from the quay, sir.’