A Sea of Troubles

by David Donachie

  ‘Perhaps I will sell it to the Whigs, the proper ones, of course. I am sure Charles James Fox would excel himself in the house with sight of it.’

  That got him a look of thunder, which was pleasing, for it indicated that he had hit home. Fox was a fearsome debater, but more than that he employed the kind of wit that tended to squash opponents across the floor of the house and Dundas, too often the butt, hated him with a passion.

  ‘Do that, Pearce, and you’ll spend the rest of your days in a prison hulk off the Medway Marshes! And stick to your duty, for I never met a naval officer yet that did not whore after a prize or two.’

  Ralph Barclay was testing the use of a stick to support his wounded leg, this for his journey to London, a trip he had insisted to a reluctant Sir Roger Curtis was necessary for him to consult the very best physicians. He was stomping to and fro when Gherson brought him Davidson’s letter, the clerk exchanging a glare with his employer’s so-called servant Devenow, tall enough to have his head touching the deck beams and broad with it. He now had his arm in a sling as well as a still swollen ear given to him just before the 1st June battle, though it was not as bloody and as gory as it had been right after it was inflicted. The sling at least stopped the cack-handed buffoon from trying to do any of the tasks that fell to a servant, for it was an area in which he was worse than useless.

  Gherson and Devenow loathed each other as much for their differing manner as for their competition for the captain’s attention. The clerk saw Barclay as a means to an end, while Devenow was slavish in his devotion, a man to follow Ralph Barclay from ship to ship and, it had to be said, into the cannon’s mouth; indeed he had turned up in Sheerness to join him aboard HMS Brilliant, though at that time his presence had been seen as a mixed blessing. He had been welcomed but with reservations.

  Not anymore; it was Devenow who had carried Ralph Barclay to Heinrich Lutyens’ hospital when the captain had taken the ball that shattered his left arm, subsequently amputated. If he had not changed from what he was – a lout, a drunk and a bully – then he had risen in Barclay’s estimation to become a very necessary aide, if not a confidant, and there was only a modicum of true regard. In truth, neither was Gherson a confidant, but he did handle things of a private nature, even down to arranging investments for the large sums of Barclay prize money already earned. The safe investments were in Captain Barclay’s name, the very risky ones, which might go bad and lead to writs for repayment, were in the name of Devenow; Ralph Barclay reckoned the ruffian could stand a debtor’s prison more easily than he.

  The name on the letter Barclay recognised, for if he was represented by Ommanney & Druce, he yet knew the name and reputation of every person who traded as a prize agent for the officers of the Royal Navy, their various abilities a common subject of conversation as well as their failings when it came to settling cases; like most captains Barclay had one mired in the courts for a well-laden merchantman recaptured off Brittany in his first week at sea.

  ‘Surely he is not soliciting my custom?’ he said as he broke the seal and began to read, his head slowly beginning to shake. ‘I cannot believe that a man of his standing is worried about a couple of tars.’

  ‘Sir?’ Gherson enquired and Barclay passed the letter over and after a short perusal he provided an explanation. ‘I think you will find that Davidson represents John Pearce, sir.’

  ‘Of course, damn it, I did not smoke the names.’

  ‘Do you recall sir, that absurd soubriquet, the Pelicans?’

  That got a low growl from Devenow; it was Charlie Taverner who had split his ear and he had suffered at the hands of those Pelican sods before that, the worst being Michael O’Hagan.

  ‘Why would he offer four prime hands, it says here they are ex-smugglers, for two such creatures?’

  ‘They have a bond, sir, and I fear he thinks you might ill use them.’

  ‘Give me half a chance, Gherson, and I will do so. The slightest slip on their part and I’ll see them at the grating for a round dozen each.’

  That had the clerk smirking at Devenow, who obviously had not told the captain the truth of his head wound – Barclay had assumed he had been drunk and fallen over. The look Gherson got back was full of bile. But soon Gherson’s attention was back on Barclay and he wondered if he should tell him that between decks Charlie Taverner and Rufus Dommet had a mess that would act to protect them. Indeed he half suspected that was the root cause of Devenow’s damaged ear.

  ‘Well I’ll be damned if I’ll oblige Pearce.’

  The letter was handed back. ‘Four good hands in place of two, sir.’

  Barclay waved the paper with some irritation. ‘You’re not suggesting I do?’

  ‘Wouldn’t be right, your honour,’ Devenow snarled.

  That got him a rebuke. ‘This is none of your concern, man, please stay out of it.’

  Gherson was strong on self-preservation and he could recall very clearly the scary tales he had been told when he too was a pressed seaman. If others eventually saw that the older hands were playing upon them, Gherson had taken to heart their tales of how easily a fellow aboard a ship at sea could come to harm – the most frightening, for a man who had been tossed by Denby Carruther’s thugs into the River Thames to die, was the notion that on a dark night any unpopular cove could so easily go over the side.

  Vanity, and he had a great deal of that, did not prevent Gherson from the knowledge that he was not much loved by his fellow man – he despised most of them in return and made little secret of it, the only exception being his propensity to grovel when he needed their help. Having no idea how Devenow had got his split ear it was not too far-fetched to suppose it had come from either the Pelicans or the members of their mess, and if they would attack and wound a big sod like him, what would they do to anyone else against whom they had a grudge, he being the most likely?

  ‘I think it would be safer if they were off the ship, sir.’

  ‘Safer?’ Barclay demanded.

  It’s all right for you, Gherson thought, secure here in your great cabin with a marine sentry at the door and every eye on you when you go anywhere, never mind that Devenow is ever by your side. What about me? I dare not go on deck after dark, and who is to say that daylight renders me safe?

  ‘Sir,’ he said, trying to sound sage, ‘they are troublemakers.’

  ‘Not on my ship.’

  ‘They are cut from the same cloth as John Pearce and he has caused you no end of nuisance in the past.’ That being reminded did not go down well was obvious by the expression on Barclay’s face – he looked like a mastiff who had swallowed a wasp. ‘I am merely suggesting that it is not prudent to allow these two individuals to remain aboard when you have an opportunity to remove them and stop them from fomenting disorder.’

  ‘It seems to me, Gherson, that you have some indication that they have been at that already.’

  ‘I took it upon myself, sir,’ Gherson lied, ‘to warn them against it, but can I be sure they heeded me?’

  ‘By damn, they’ll heed me.’

  ‘Ask Devenow how he got his ear.’

  ‘What?’ Barclay asked, turning to the man in question.

  ‘You thought he was drunk, sir, but I know he was not, so how did he come by such a wound?’

  ‘Well, Devenow, how did you?’

  ‘I’d not like to say, your honour.’

  ‘No doubt,’ Gherson advanced, his tone mocking, ‘because of a spirit of comradeship within the lower deck.’

  ‘Who was it, Devenow?’

  ‘Can’t rightly say, your honour. It were dark and it came out o’ the blue.’

  Gherson surmised he was lying, he being reluctant to admit that he had been bested in a fight.

  ‘Just the kind of trouble, sir,’ he droned, ‘that no one wants aboard a ship of war.’

  It was interesting to watch Barclay ruminating, for he was fighting an internal dispute, between obliging John Pearce, which he hated to do, as against having trouble brew
ing under his command, which, like every officer in the Royal Navy, he dreaded. In concert with the likes of Gherson he neither sought nor needed popularity, but he did need efficiency and between decks feuds were inimical to that.

  ‘What are they like as hands?’ he asked, after a long silence.

  ‘Mediocre, sir, I am told.’ Gherson had no idea and would not have been able to give an opinion even if he had watched them; when it came to being useless in the art of sailing he was top of the class. ‘You could enquire of their divisional officer.’

  The response that such a notion was stupid nearly came out – no captain who valued his dignity would ask such a question of anyone but his premier, and having equal to his regard for his standing now, he made a great play of reading the letter again.

  ‘They are of insufficient interest to me to care. If Pearce wants them so badly let him have them and we will profit by it.’ Thinking perhaps that he might be giving way too easily, Barclay actually barked, ‘But the replacements better be as he says, or I’ll have his guts.’

  Even Devenow, devoted as he was, seemed embarrassed by that idle boast.

  ‘Detail one of our mids to rig out the pinnace and take this pair up-channel to HMS York. Best take a quartet of marines also; we don’t want any trouble on the return journey. Now, is all in order for my journey to London?’

  ‘Your barge is waiting, sir,’ Gherson replied.

  ‘Then let us be off.’

  ‘I will just gather my investment portfolio, sir.’

  That cheered Gherson’s employer up no end; if Ralph Barclay had possessed two hands he would have rubbed them, sure as he was that the money he had put into various projects should by now be beginning to show handsome returns.

  Ralph Barclay was not the only one on the move; when it came time to take a hack to Charing Cross, there ostensibly to put Emily Barclay aboard the northbound coach, the whole trio were in a joyous mood. Pearce had gone round the hotel tipping the various people who had seen to his needs, for along with Didcot there were the maids who cleaned and made up the beds, the people in the kitchen, and even the stuck-up sod who manned the front desk, the same fellow who had presented a bill that made the recipient’s eyes water a little.

  ‘I do hope you will grace us with your custom again, sir.’

  ‘I will if I take a Spanish plate ship.’

  ‘Which, sir, I surely hope you do and recommend us to your fellow officers.’

  Pearce was tempted to say that a recommendation from him in that quarter was likely to lead to bankruptcy, but held his tongue and he went out to the waiting hack calling out loudly their destination, that being changed as soon as they were out of sight. The hack took them to the same person from whom Pearce had hired transport to take him originally to the New Forest, with Michael riding on the box seat with the driver.

  ‘We are free, Emily,’ Pearce said as they passed the Bishop’s Palace at Fulham.

  ‘For now, John.’ Seeing his crestfallen face she took his arm and squeezed tightly. ‘Let us enjoy it while we may.’

  The crew of HMS Larcher were mightily pleased to see him again, and given that their previous passengers had been odd no one raised an eyebrow to the fact of a woman, and a very pretty one at that, being brought aboard. Emily, if she was surprised at the paucity of accommodation, hid it well, praising it as cosy in such a way as to win the smiles of those who overheard her, that to the accompaniment of nudges, nods and winks regarding the rakish nature of their master and commander, who was brisk about his business once she was settled.

  ‘Mr Dorling, we will sail to Portsmouth to victual from the dockyard.’

  ‘And then, sir?’

  ‘Then we will sail down-channel, and when we are out of sight of land I will tell you where we are going.’

  The Admiralty pennant was inside his coat; that would not be lifted to the masthead until no one could see it from the shore.

  ‘If anyone asks in Portsmouth what we are about, tell them we are casing smugglers.’

  ‘Could become a habit that, your honour.’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  HMS Larcher took on board what she could from Buckler’s Hard, especially fresh provisions such as bread and greens, but there was no way they could supply salted beef and pork, as well as the quantity of peas, small beer and rum and general stores that the vessel would need for such an extended commission; that could only be found in a proper naval dockyard, likewise spare canvas and yards, which were too steep for the funds Pearce had. As soon as all was loaded that could be acquired the anchor was raised and the ship drifted down on the tide and the rudder into the Solent, where sails could be set to take advantage of the prevailing westerly wind.

  The quartermaster weaved a course through the dozens of warships anchored off Spithead: 100-gun Leviathans, abundant seventy-fours as well as numerous frigates and sloops. Emily Barclay was confined to his cabin, in which he had admonished her to stay until the armed cutter was fully loaded with stores and anchored away from the shore. The surprise for John Pearce was when Michael O’Hagan approached and asked that he be allowed to stay out of sight as well, seeing he knew the intention of where to tie up.

  ‘It was from here myself, Charlie and Rufus ran and I fear that the press gang you overheard might be based at Portsmouth too. Sight of me and they might just want to take me up on that warrant, and that does not speak for those in pursuit of the reward.’

  ‘Which I would not let them do, and I would point out, Michael, that if they know you by your description they do not know your name.’

  It was a stroke of good fortune that had the Pelicans on a vessel in which they had never been mustered; it was a frigate that had rescued them from the ocean and a ship that had caught fire and sank, leaving them drifting in an open boat.

  ‘And since we are going to pack every spare inch of space with victuals, where would you hide?’

  ‘I daresay Mrs Barclay would not object to my sharing your little cabin for a while.’

  ‘No she would not, and if it makes you feel secure, so be it, but we will miss your muscle when it comes to shifting barrels.’

  ‘Port admiral’s boat approaching, your honour.’

  ‘Best get out of sight now, then.’

  It was not, of course, the admiral in charge of Portsmouth Dockyard in that launch, but one of the officers employed by him to keep in order the busiest naval base in the world. The town sat on the best and safest anchorage on the south coast and had grown from a small port to a sizeable conurbation entirely due to the presence of the fleet, replacing the Nore, once of equal importance and still a major base. When the Dutch had posed the greatest danger to the nation the mouth of the Medway had been the vital location for the fleet but for nearly a century the threat had shifted and stayed with the French. Not only did it provide ample space to anchor – the whole of several fleets could assemble here – it also, for the purposes of shore leave and a way to put a lid on discontent, abutted the Isle of Wight, which held the two satellite bases of Ryde and St Helen’s. As an island it was a place that allowed for shore leave.

  Portsmouth might be on the mainland, but it had an added advantage: the city stood on a series of islands, was traversed in its entirety and entered and exited by a series of bridges. Given the propensity of Jack tar to desert that meant a few well-placed marines could stop the flow – necessary, for once in open country the men of the sea were hard to catch in a nation whose sympathy extended to those perceived to be oppressed. Indeed there were many old hands who boasted they could travel the length and breadth of the country and never be taken up by those seeking deserters.

  The fellow who clambered aboard was, like Pearce, a lieutenant so the lift of the hat was to his commission in command of the ship rather than his rank, and he gave his name as Pettigrew. Under normal circumstances it would have been in order to offer him some refreshment, a glass of wine and a biscuit perhaps, as well as a period of conversation in which the hunt would be on
for mutual acquaintances; that, with his fugitives occupying the cabin, was not possible and for once, and against all common custom, John Pearce did not merely introduce himself by name alone.

  ‘You will have heard of me, I am sure, given I was assigned my rank at the insistence of King George himself.’

  Pettigrew’s face took on that look folk have when they are memory searching and it was not long before enlightenment replaced the furrowed brow; the case of John Pearce had rippled through the navy with most officers deciding that such an elevation, even by royal hand, was an insult to a service which prided itself on its professionalism. That a man could be made a lieutenant by a mere stroke of the pen at the base of an Order in Council flew in the face of all precedent and it was only long-serving and getting-nowhere midshipmen who saw a possible avenue to advancement.

  ‘I would invite you to take a glass of wine with me, Mr Pettigrew, but—’

  The other man cut across him. ‘I would have to decline, sir, as I have too many other duties to perform.’

  Since Pettigrew would not meet his eye it was probably a lie, but having achieved his aim, Pearce could allow himself to look hurt, which produced on the other man’s face a hint of satisfaction; he would be able to tell his contemporaries, and quite probably his superiors, that he had put the upstart John Pearce in his place. For all he had set out to produce that result, there was still the temptation to reverse matters and that could not be put aside, which led to a very pointed and long look at the city of Portsmouth all the way down the shore to Southsea.

  ‘A nice safe billet you have here, Mr Pettigrew, not much chance of being required to face shot and shell in a safe anchorage. Tell me, what kind of interest does it require to get you such a comfortable posting?’