The Devil to Pay (John Pearce series)

by David Donachie

  Pearce paused and rubbed his temples, watched in silence by the others. ‘But?’

  ‘Yes,’ Digby asked, his desperation undiminished.

  ‘In search of a rich prize …’

  ‘What are you thinking?’

  ‘What if we went in but Flirt did not?’

  ‘To what purpose?’

  ‘To cut out those two French merchantmen.’

  ‘Now I think you as mad as you are claiming me to be.’

  ‘No. We got ashore in the darkness and I can assure you if we struggled to get the cutter off the beach we managed and the slope on the inshore side was of the same incline. The cutter is our largest boat and we have two more that we can get into the water with enough men to get aboard the cargo ships and cut their cables.’

  ‘They must be guarded.’

  ‘Against what? The only threat they face are the crew they must be holding as prisoners, whom our friend Mehmet seems intent in stringing up for entertainment. There is no threat from outside the gulf for they do not know we are in the offing. You were probably too far out to even be spotted by fishermen.’

  ‘You reckon we could surprise them?’

  ‘I doubt they are as sharp as they should be and what backs that up? There was no sign of those sentinels I was so concerned about. Mehmet and his men have allowed complacency to replace watchfulness, for they cannot see where any threat could come from by which they would not be well warned.’

  ‘We have no idea of numbers.’

  ‘If I can get aboard with the same number I took in the cutter I will wager it will be Mehmet’s men who will be well outnumbered. Mr Grey if you can do as you have suggested then you would have to subdue both batteries so we could sail those merchantmen out, but I must add they are made of more robust timber than our brig and could probably withstand a bit of a pounding.’

  ‘And if we fail to cut them out, John, and are required to flee?’

  ‘Then as long as our marines control one battery we row out right under their guns, for in that case depth of keel is of not account.’

  ‘That still does not solve a certain problem.’ The sideways glace at Grey was enough; he had not been appraised of Hotham’s treachery. ‘And that to me is central.’

  ‘Henry, I have had a long an exhausting day and it is now the middle of the night. I beg you for some sleep and while I am doing that if you wish to cogitate further on alternatives then who am I to stop you?’

  ‘I too am in need of sleep,’ Digby said, taking the solution offered. ‘Mr Grey, you too have been up for too long.’

  ‘And the watch?’

  ‘You trusted this crew, John, I am content to do likewise until Mr Dorling comes on duty. We are set on a circular course so let us leave it that way. If anything untoward occurs let them call our attention to it.’

  No amount of cogitating could keep John Pearce awake but he did dream and they were not all of a happy hue so when he awoke he was far from refreshed. There was a way to alleviate that and once up he went on deck, disrobed and dived naked over the side to stroke hard in the water, a mixture of warm currents and others of icy but invigorating chill. Whatever they were an aid to clarity.

  Back aboard, dry and refreshed, he could face Henry Digby, who looked as though he had not slept a wink. His eyes were puffy and his cheeks drawn, without much in the way of colour and he was given to rubbing his face hard as Pearce began to talk.

  ‘The problem.’ A nod. ‘You approached the Gulf of Ambracia and took a precautionary look in without trying the narrows to find two merchant vessels you thought had been taken illegally in the anchorage, these espied from the tops of HMS Flirt. I know you not to be averse to going aloft personally.’

  ‘Why did I think that?’

  ‘Damage to their hulls and upper works as well as the presence of a pair of brigantines identified by yours truly as those he fought and ran from in HMS Larcher, thus a reasonable conclusion since they are known to be pirates or at best privateers and not British Letters of Marque.’

  Now it was fingers kneading Digby’s brow.

  ‘Therefore the notion of taking one of His Majesty’s warships through the narrows, passed double batteries and with two well-armed brigantines within of an unknown allegiance, seemed risky until matters could be clarified.’

  ‘And how do I do that?’

  ‘You send in a message demanding to know the name and designation of the merchant ships, which you suspect might be from our own country since they fly no flags.’ Pearce laughed. ‘In French Henry, if you are challenged, though it will not need to be seen.’

  ‘Not amusing.’

  ‘It will tease Hotham.’

  ‘I want him shot not teased.’

  ‘Settle for what can be achieved. You receive in reply the most insulting response and you are fired upon by the batteries protecting the narrows when you approach too close. You’ll have to falsify the log of course, time of shot etcetera.’ That got a hard look. ‘Do not pretend to me it is not done.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘In response to what is an insult you decide that Mehmet Pasha needs to be taught a lesson, was that not the gist of Sir William message, which you were obliged to open being unsure what to do.’

  ‘Was I?’

  ‘Of course and here it is as evidence if the event is examined, irrefutable proof that there was no other way to act commensurate with the dignity of our sovereign and the navy. I would like to see Sir William Hotham deny the very words that he wrote or had Toomey write for him. Henry, this turns the tables on him and makes him a victim of his own machinations.’

  ‘I still return empty-handed.’

  ‘Not if you have two fat French merchant vessels in tow. Even if we do not manage to cut them out the mere fact of attempting to do so will look like the behaviour of a committed and dedicated officer. You can then recommend that a strong squadron be sent to destroy Mehmet’s base.’

  ‘How did I send in my message?’

  ‘By a fishing boat?’

  ‘You really think anyone will believe that provides a reliable means of communication?’

  ‘Why not.’

  ‘And where is this insulting reply.’

  ‘Henry, I have yet to write it. Now let’s get Mr Grey out of his cot so we can start planning.’

  ‘You thought all this out when you were supposed to be asleep just to save my reputation?’

  ‘Saving your reputation will be a welcome addendum to the taking those two prizes out from under Mehmet’s nose. What is really driving the notion for me is the amount of money they will fetch when they and their cargo are sold.’

  ‘So you are greedy.’

  ‘No, Henry, I am needy. I have a battle to fight every bit as important to me as getting out of this hole is to you.’

  ‘Barclay?’

  ‘He’s a rich man. I need to be the same to contest with him and make happy the woman I love. And before you frown I will repeat it is none of your business.’

  ‘You castigated me for the notion of the risk I was prepared to take by sailing into the anchorage to bombard Mehmet’s fortress. Is this so very different?’

  ‘Perhaps not, but I hope it shows that we are both desperate enough to risk it. What do you say?’

  ‘I say I have no choice.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Grey was still sulking; having been told, nay ordered, that he and his men should discard their red coats and gleaming webbing. It seemed his youthful dreams of glory, of some magnificent action in a blaze of bayonet and scarlet, had suffered a serious setback. Pearce finally agreed the garments could be taken along and kept out of sight until the proposed action was at its height.

  ‘We do not want to alert Mehmet Pasha to who it is that is attacking him. If there are no torches lit on those batteries you will have to set them up and your red jacket will stick out and tell him it is Britannia.’

  ‘Surely he will guess.’

  ‘No, he will be lef
t guessing. He may well have enemies of whom we know nothing and then there are his own Turkish masters who must distrust him. Confusion is an asset, let us not throw it away. You can of course appeal over my head to Mr Digby.’

  Grey shook his head at that; he knew that Henry Digby had ceded any leadership of the cutting out expedition to the man who had proposed it. Indeed the ship’s captain seemed in something of a fog, whereas his premier was in his element, issuing orders and making arrangements for various eventualities.

  Who would man which boats, added to who would command and where; what weapons to employ; the timing of the assault, which would, in darkness and of necessity be hard to coordinate. Then there was the ship itself, which would have to come inshore to drop off the fighting men then take up a risky position to back up Grey’s marines. HMS Flirt had to be also available to evacuate the marines and to take aboard those who survived in the face of total failure.

  Two other factors had to be in place, enough of a wind to aid an exit. Even if it was small, the fall of the tide in the Adriatic would create a stronger outflow current and aid the enterprise. If he sensed impatience Pearce paid it no heed, he consulted the tidal charts as the ship sailed up and down many miles off shore and well out of sight of land, this maintained until he felt the wind shift into the east with the kind of force that would be required. Nothing less than a stiff pennant would do.

  Final preparations included the writing of letters for those with the skill. Dorling had command of the ship while the action was under way and it was to him that Pearce handed his letter to Emily. The master had orders that the integrity of HMS Flirt was paramount – most of the crew would still be on board to man the cannon and sail the ship; if it looked as if evacuation was impossible and that integrity was threatened he was ordered to get her out of danger.

  The sentiments Pearce expressed were heartfelt and true, acknowledging that he would leave Emily in a less than good situation but with his own confidence that she had the strength to cope. In addition was a note to be taken to Alexander Davidson as a sort of last will and testament, saying that any funds he had remaining or still to come in should be for the sole use of Emily Barclay neé Raynesford. That, after a repeat of his regard, was sanded and sealed.

  Digby had asked about the letter Pearce had undertaken to write, purporting to be from Mehmet Pasha and downright insulting; the response had been that it could wait. If the raid were a success it would be written; if it failed such a thing was likely to be superfluous.

  ‘You do realise I might be put in a position where I must lie under oath.’

  When Digby said that, Pearce wanted to ask him if he anticipated being struck immediately down by lightning. He forbore, the man was not in a good frame of mind, evidenced by the question. Digby was worrying about his immortal soul when he ought to be concentrating on keeping alive his corporeal being.

  ‘Captain, I calculate that the conditions we need are as good as they are going to get and that we should proceed to action.’

  ‘How very formal, John.’

  ‘What we do is your decision.’ Raised eyebrows questioned that, so Pearce added. ‘I will not give the orders, Henry, you must. What we do has to be seen as coming from you.’

  Digby nodded slowly, further proof to Pearce that what he has suspected was the case; his captain had little faith in what they were about to attempt but he stood up, picked up his hat and followed Pearce onto the quarterdeck where he addressed the ship’s master, who in truth was waiting for what Digby said.

  ‘Mr Dorling, put us on a course for the southern arm of the Gulf of Ambracia.’

  The cry of ‘all hands’ went out and quicker than normal the ship came alive with hurrying bodies – they too had been waiting in anticipation. The topmen went aloft to let out the reefs in the maincourse that had curtailed their speed, the youngest and most nimble making for the topgallant yard to set those telling stretches of canvas.

  Below them the waisters hauled on the falls to bring round the yards so that they took what wind they could, for Flirt was going to have to tack and wear into the teeth of the easterly breeze to make the correct landfall and at the right pace to bring them there in darkness, while leaving enough time for the proposed action to be carried out.

  ‘Tilley?’

  ‘Your honour.’

  Pearce indicated that Digby’s coxswain should come close and he leant forward to whisper. ‘Mr Digby is in low spirits, Tilley, and I fear he may not act with the speed required in a tight spot.’

  ‘He’s lost his colour right enough, Mr Pearce.’

  ‘Feel free to nudge him or even push him if it becomes necessary and at worst take over the ordering of your boarding party.’

  ‘Not sure I can manage that, your honour.’

  ‘I am, Tilley, and do not doubt yourself when others have faith.’

  That got a touch of the forelock. ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  It was a laborious haul to hold their course, an endless shifting of yards and sail adjustment to get the most out of the brig, with Pearce eyeing his watch at intervals, while examining the slate to try and calculate how they were faring.

  ‘You’re fretting, Mr Pearce.’ Dorling said softly, ‘which I say is a waste.’

  ‘Can’t help it. Action is one thing, the wait for it another.’

  ‘But a joy if we succeed.’

  The tone was posing a question; Dorling was no more certain that Digby.

  ‘If all goes well we will have complete surprise. I doubt there is any plan in place to cover what we are about to attempt, which means a lot of fighting men running around to no purpose and leaders having no idea how to command them. The wind is right, the current is favourable and if the marines do their job the way out will be secure.’

  ‘Best keep that last bit quiet, your honour. Never do to go telling the lads they are relying on Lobsters.’

  If it was getting increasingly gloomy as the day turned to night, there was still enough light to see Dorling’s grin. ‘Best shade the binnacle lantern, Mr Dorling, while I make a round of the ship to ensure no one is showing a light.’

  There were lanterns below, but Pearce had ordered canvas to be draped over the closed gun ports so that nothing showed through the edges. He passed most of the men who would be taking part in the assault, they asleep, which he wondered at, sure he would not have been able to do likewise. Even Lieutenant Grey was snoring gently. Back on deck, when he got there it was full night and if there was again a mixture of cloud and clear the former scudding not drifting, showing a higher wind up above.

  ‘Would that proceed anything untoward?’

  Dorling looked aloft though he would scarcely need to; as a very experienced sailor he had seen much and heard more, the latter the accumulated knowledge of centuries of lore. The master had one thing Pearce doubted he would ever acquire, the kind of innate understanding that allowed men such as he to see over the horizon and foretell the coming of various sorts of weather, good and bad.

  It was not just the sky, it was the sea itself; its colour, the way a certain current would shade that differently, the rise and size of the waves and the rate of run. Pearce often wondered if their noses were as vital as their eyes and ears for he had many times seen Dorling sniffing the wind as if it carried for him some sort of message.

  ‘Nothing pending, though it might turn more foul on the morrow. By my reckoning, Mr Pearce, we will raise the shore at around four bells in the next watch.’

  ‘We will need to shorten sail close in.’

  ‘Accounted for.’

  Ten at night, Pearce thought, perfect. Eight hours of darkness and the certainty by that time most of their putative opponents would be at their slumbers. There was nothing he could do so he decided to try to sleep, with no confidence that he would succeed.

  ‘Time to rouse out, John-boy.’

  That whispered suggestion, accompanied by a gentle shake, brought Pearce out of a very lubricious dream and there was a certain
amount of immediate guilt that Emily was not part of it. Still dressed he raised himself to rub his eyes, with Michael indicating a bowl of water he had fetched to douse his face into wakefulness. He emerged to find the whole lower deck buzzing, no doubt, O’Hagan speculated, about how they would spend the money they would gain from tonight’s exploits.

  ‘Some of them may not come back, Michael.’

  ‘And sure don’t they know it, but within each soul sits the assurance that if there is to be a fall it will be visited upon another. Mr Dorling requests your presence on deck.’

  ‘Mr Digby?’

  ‘Already there but as silent as the grave.’

  Michael was right; Digby stood, his knees giving gently with the motion of the ship, hands behind his back, eyes set forward into what was near total darkness. The only sound was of creaking timbers, stretching cables and the soft call of the leadsman in the chains. As he looked aloft Pearce saw, and that was only faintly, that they were now under nothing but topsails and if they were making progress – it was impossible to tell – it was a snail’s pace.

  ‘Boats are in the water?’ he asked Tilley.

  ‘Two bells passed, sir and right ready to be hauled in.’

  ‘Swivels rigged?’

  ‘And loaded your honour.’

  Digby should have said something, even a quiet word to pass around would have done, for this was no occasion for a rousing speech, more for a touch of Harry in the night. Lacking that it fell to him and had to be phrased to do its job.

  ‘May God go with all of you and bring you back safe. Pass it on.’

  He heard Dorling orders the spikes to be pulled at that would, very quickly, let fly the sheets and bring the brig to a halt. It was reassuring the way the raiding party went about their business then, getting the boats alongside and loading them with their equipment, carried out in silence, the marines as ghostly as the tars without their coats and webbing.

  ‘Time to go to your boat, sir.’

  Digby seemed to wake from some sort of trance and when he moved he spoke to the master. ‘Take good care of my letter Mr Dorling.’