He had watched them as they were brought aboard and stripped for examination, prodded and poked for disabilities and their orifices checked for signs of disease. It had not been hard to spot the men about whom Pearce spoke, the one with the scar too obvious. Yet it was the other who was of the most interest, for where others had complained he had remained silent and that told Moyle he was likely the fellow to deal with. Slowly, as he munched on his supper, Moyle framed his questions as well as the possible answers, then called to the man who guarded the door to his cabin to tell one of gaolers to proceed below to the very lowest deck and fetch up for him the fellow brought in this very day called Jahleel Tolland, adding a description, given he had not been listed as being aboard and had as yet no number. By the time the summons was answered – he could hear the clanking of the leg irons and chains – he had finished his food and a servant had cleared it away, but the bottle, not yet empty, was left on his table.
‘Leave us,’ he said to the man who had brought Tolland up from below, an individual in a short blue coat with brass buttons gone green from the rank atmosphere and white ducks that had been clean once but were grimy now. Then he added, as soon as that was obeyed and the cabin door closed, ‘Would you care to sit?’
Jahleel Tolland raised his chained hands and replied in his rasping voice, ‘I’d care more to have these struck off.’
Moyle smiled, which would have looked pleasant if his eyes had not narrowed at the same time. ‘The wish of every prisoner, everywhere.’
‘I’m not a prisoner, nor am I a volunteer to the King’s Navy, which is what I reckon you have in mind for me and my company.’
‘Company? That is a strange expression. Are they not mates, friends, companions?’ Moyle picked up the bottle, filled his tankard, then added, ‘I suggest you sit and perhaps drink some of this wine.’
Jahleel Tolland had come up from below expecting to be humiliated, on the grounds that John Pearce would have left instructions that it should be so, taking him down a peg prior to this fellow sending him to serve before the mast: there he would be, till he could find his feet, at the mercy of anyone with a rope starter. This was not like that, and if the elder Tolland was a ruffian he was no fool. He had been obliged many times in his life to deal with folk who made him appear saintly by comparison, for smuggling was a business full of violence. But it was also one in which subtlety was as necessary as a pistol and one where the need to pick up on the least hint was required for success and profit.
‘I would be wanting to know if there’s a price for that wine?’
Moyle smiled again. ‘There is, Tolland, a price for everything.’
Tolland clanked forward and sat down, picking up the tankard. ‘Then I do not mind if I partake of some, happen enough to cover what was in the purse your men filched from me when we were stripped of our clothing.’
‘That is a serious allegation,’ Moyle replied.
In reality the lieutenant was cursing himself for it had not occurred to him that, coming aboard as they had, these fellows might have possessions of value still upon them, the sort of things normally stolen by the press gangs long before they ever made the hulk. He sat rigid until the glass was drained, saying nothing but watching unblinking, like a cat examines an unsuspecting bird. Finished, his prisoner was in no hurry to speak either, which left the pair in mutual examination, seeking to discern from eye contact alone what could only be explained in words.
‘I am told you are a smuggler?’
‘By a liar, so why believe him?’
‘Do I take kindly a fellow naval officer being so traduced?’
‘You should have put that question to John Pearce, not I, for he’s your smuggler.’
‘And you?’
‘A man seeking a bounty by bringing him in, which failed, for we did not know that he had a whole crew from a King’s ship to prevent his being taken up.’
Moyle leant forward, his elbows on the table. ‘If we are to understand each other, then I require the truth, not some made made-up tale.’
‘Are we to understand each other?’
‘The possibility exists, Tolland, but first I need to know to the very last detail what I am dealing with.’
What followed was another double stare, but it could only have one outcome: Jahleel Tolland had the choice of telling the truth or being taken back to his stinking cell not much above the bilge. After a few seconds he nodded and began talking to a man who had the ability to listen without in any way showing on his face either surprise or understanding. It was lengthy and the glass was refilled to wet Tolland’s throat, but eventually all was explained from the very first sight of the Tolland ship sailing out of Gravelines with Pearce at the helm, to how they had come to be sent aboard HMS York.
‘You got to admire this Pearce, have you not?’
‘You can if you wish, that I will forgo.’
‘I have to tell you Pearce has made the strangest request, one that has seen him “forgo” a decent bounty.’ Now it was Moyle’s turn to explain, which he did in short, sharp sentences, but never once letting his eyes leave his visitor’s face. ‘So, Tolland, what do you make of that?’
‘Is it your intention to meet his wishes?’
‘I must, but I have room to manoeuvre, do I not?’
The question was left hanging in the air, not that there was any doubt as to what it was. ‘A better offer might change matters?’
‘As of this moment none of you have been entered as having been brought aboard. I have to tell you that not to meet Pearce’s primary concern is something I suspect might backfire, but that only applies to half of your … what did you call them? Company.’
‘You could be brought to let half of us go.’
‘I could be brought to let go anyone who could prove to me he was a gentleman, indeed I would be obliged by law to do so. It is not often that a press gang takes in a forty-shilling freeholder but it has been known to happen. But I must have a care, for there has never been a case where a press gang has taken up four of such fellows.’
‘Two?’
‘Highly unusual, but possible,’ Moyle replied.
Tolland picked up the empty tankard. ‘And then there is the price?’
‘Of course, but the other question is can you meet it?’
‘I would need to know what is being asked for.’
Moyle nodded, then shouted out for a gaoler, his lips compressed in a more cynical expression. ‘However, I do think a night with the rats will make you more amenable when it is discussed.’ The door opened and the man who had brought Tolland up from below appeared. ‘Take him back down, and tell my servant on the way to fetch another bottle of wine.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
The destination of the Lyndhurst coach was another inn called the Wykham Arms, which, like all of Winchester was in total darkness by the time the two weary horsemen rolled up. They were required to bang hard to rouse out what passed for a night porter, in truth a fellow who, judging by his rank breath, drank too much and looked very unthreatening albeit he had a cudgel in his hand. That, originally raised in a defensive manner, dropped as he lifted his eyes to take in the height of one of the men he might be obliged to thwack – Michael O’Hagan made it look as if he would hardly reach, for the porter was short in the leg, so he undid the chain and let them into the hallway.
‘The Lyndhurst coach came earlier?’ That got a nod and a foul exhalation. ‘Were there aboard two French folk and an English lady?’
‘There were, took their bags in myself.’
‘How did they seem, I mean in each other’s company?’
‘Weren’t attending to that.’
‘Did they dine together?’
‘Can’t rightly say, don’t take much to foreign folk who don’t know a coin is due for porterage and I has other work to do, any road.’
‘Would that be the supping of ale?’ Michael asked.
Courage came from somewhere, probably what he had consumed through
out the day. ‘None of your damn business, Paddy.’
That got the fellow a grab at the front of his grubby shirt and a lift that had his feet off the floor until Pearce admonished his friend to put him down. As soon as he was released and breathing normally Pearce asked for a room they could share. For all he was in fear of the giant before him, that did not extend to rousing out the innkeeper or his wife, so both new arrivals had to settle for a bench in the taproom with Pearce moaning that he seemed to spend all his nights now on hard board instead of a comfortable cot. That fell on deaf ears; Michael O’Hagan was already snoring as through the window by John Pearce’s head came the first whistle of the dawn chorus.
Toby Burns had not slept at all, but at least in that, on this occasion, he was not alone. Brave as they sounded, every fellow going ashore was prey to nerves and it was a relief to man the ship’s boats and, when daylight came, head for the troop transports to load on the bullocks who would carry out the main assault. On a shore in plain view it was obvious that the French garrison had a clear idea of where to mount a defence: files of blue-coated soldiers could be seen deploying and some of them digging, their backs to the slight dune that kept storm tides at bay.
On board HMS Britannia the marine officers had paraded their men, for it was the Lobsters who would mount the initial landing given they were more nimble, on a swell, at getting in and out of cutters and the like and quickly engaging. In reality it was because, inured to life at sea, they were less likely to be seasick, which the soldiers would most certainly be, for the swell in a ship’s boat cannot compare to that of a large capacious transport.
‘You have done this before, Mr Burns, I am informed.’
Staring glumly at the shoreline through the open entry port and lost in a reverie of a life so much less dangerous, Toby started at being so addressed. Walker, the man who had posed the question, a captain of marines, had arrogance written all over him, nose high, chin in and a look in his eye that implied he was of superior mien. The captain had served on the ship all the time that Toby had been aboard, yet these were the first words he had ever addressed to the midshipman, no doubt a lowly creature in his elevated eyes. The thought of his previous experience in carrying out a by-boat assault was not a fond one and his reply was almost savage enough to be disrespectful.
‘I was, sir, at San Fiorenzo, and the man who commanded my boat took a ball in the leg.’ He had no idea what had happened to that naval lieutenant but he felt it deserved embellishment. ‘I do believe it led to an amputation.’
‘It will be hot work right enough,’ the captain replied with studied calm, which had Toby cursing the man under his breath; this was not work, it was slaughter.
‘Hotspur’s on deck,’ came a whispered alert, which referred to Hotham, whose wholly inappropriate soubriquet that was, ironic rather than complimentary. ‘An’ heading your way.’
The marine officer had gone rigid and Toby too was obliged to stand upright, to turn and to raise his hat. ‘Well, Mr Burns, here you have another chance to distinguish yourself.’
‘For which I am truly grateful, sir,’ he replied. ‘I was just explaining to Captain Walker how I lost my officer the last time and perhaps he would not be pleased to know that in a previous action above Bastia the fellow in command of the marine detachment was taken by a ball in the chest when we attacked a French redoubt. Come to think of it, the lieutenant who commanded our battery at the actual siege was wounded too.’
Hotham was not alone in glaring at him, for the implication was plain; Walker was too, for no man likes to be told that he is going to action in close proximity to the kind of Jonah that draws enemy fire, which was what Burns was telling him. It took some effort on the part of the admiral to recover a degree of composure.
‘Then, Mr Burns, it is time that matters were altered and I am sure even if Captain Walker leads you into the thickest part of the action, you will both have tales to tell your grandchildren.’ He addressed Walker directly. ‘Not that he lacks for those, for did you know, captain, that this lad here was wounded at Toulon and, on his first voyage, stole back a merchant vessel that had been taken by the enemy.’
‘I had heard the tale, sir.’
‘“Tale”, Mr Walker? I rate it more than that.’
‘Time to get my men into the boats, sir.’
‘Carry on, Mr Walker, and since young Burns here is something of a talisman to the fleet, I suggest you gift to him the prow of your cutter. It will inspire those who follow to see an acknowledged hero standing to lead the assault.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
The boat took time to load and when complete it was crowded like every other in the initial assault. The number of marines that shared their thwarts cramped the rowers, with their muskets upright between their legs and bayonets glistening in the morning sunlight, the only difference being that the Lobsters faced forward while the oarsmen had their back to the shore. As they set off from the side of HMS Britannia, they were joined by marine detachments from the remainder of the fleet. Many of them in reality were soldiers who had been drafted into naval service to raise the numbers, but that notwithstanding – the two services heartily disliked each other – they received a collective cheer of encouragement from every main deck.
As it died away, Hotham’s voice could be heard in what was, for a man of his elevated rank, a rather undignified display of being partisan, given nearly all of his flagship lieutenants and midshipmen were engaged in getting the fighting men ashore and the more senior they were, the more they resented the apparent favour being shown to one of their number.
‘Good luck to you all, and I know, Mr Burns, you will not fail to show an example.’
Under so many eyes and sat on the tiller, despite Hotham’s suggestion of the prow, there was little choice for Toby; he took hold of the berthing line and, wrapping it round his wrist, he stood, feet as far apart as he could, using his attachment to the body of the boat to stay upright and still able to steer, gazing into the stoical faces of those men it was his duty to command and seeing there no joy. The notion of shouting slogans of bravery, which should have accompanied such a gesture, was beyond him and Captain Walker, sat in the prow with his back to him, showed an indifference to the idea that he might do so.
The warships and transports were obliged to anchor far offshore in order to ensure a good depth of water under their keel, given the very rocky outcrops, and also they were subject to wind and the state of the tide, not much of a rise and fall in the Mediterranean but sufficient to create eddies and flows as well as choppy waves. It needed a tight grip on the line to hold his place and that lasted as they passed the bomb ketches, further inshore and firmly anchored in the soft sand of the bay, the mortars primed and ready to play upon the hastily slung up French defences.
For these fellows, given the range of their weapons left them normally too close to the defence for any comfort, it was in the nature of an exercise; the enemy had nothing with which to retaliate and that lent to their cheers as the stream of boats began to pass a less than welcome bent that implied rather you than us. Toby could see the lips of the sailors move and the marines’ as well, most likely, all cursing the idle buggers in whispers and asides.
From such an elevated position and with the eyesight of his years, the youngster had a good view of the beach. He could observe that pieces of driftwood had been used to create ramparts against musket fire and in some cases sacks had been used to build up more. In his mind’s eye he could only too easily imagine rushing up the tilting sand, his feet dragging and slowing him down, as several Frenchmen took aim at his heart, which had him struggling, so vivid was the vision, to hold on to his bowels.
Soon they were over the shallow waters that ran all the way to the beach, able to see the rippled bottom and to make out the swaying seaweed where it covered the bed. Also, if indistinctly, he could see the enemy, not just their uniforms but individual faces, as well as the cocksure walking to and fro of parading officers, no doubt tel
ling their recumbent men that this was the day they would achieve glory. Down at the water’s edge a single fellow stood, wearing a tricolour sash, a plumed hat and with gold frogging to his jacket that denoted superior rank. He had a small eyeglass raised and was sweeping the line of boats. Having held his position for some time he suddenly dropped the glass and slammed it closed, then turned and walked back up to join the rest of his men, which brought forth the first words from Captain Walker that he had uttered since casting off from the flagship.
‘We will be in musket range soon, my lads, so make yourself small. Mr Burns, I would suggest that the position you have adopted is an unwise one and you will oblige me by not only sitting down but doing your best to use the men before you as protection against a ball.’
‘But the admiral, sir—’
He got no further and the reply, in tone, was icy. ‘Sir William is master on his own deck, and so it should be. But I am the ranking officer in this boat and what I wish supersedes the desires of admirals, however hungry they are for the glory of those they cherish.’
That shocked Toby; even if it was a thought many held it was not one to articulate in public and Walker turned to drive home his point. ‘Get down, sir, this instant, for there will be enough futile injury on that strand of beach without we add to it by braggadocio.’
A Sea of Troubles Page 13