She was set on pretence, making friends with the few naval wives who had elected to join their husbands on station as well as joining in the social life created by the small British community, set up for their own pleasure as well as to entertain visiting officers. She was playing bereavement and the weeping widow left with what would be a fatherless child to the hilt, a point made to O’Hagan.
‘If you were to think on it like a tar, John-boy—’
The Irishman never got to finish the point before he was interrupted with ‘God forbid’, which was a strange epithet from a man who had little certainty that any such deity even existed. If John Pearce saw himself in any guise, it was not of a lieutenant in the King’s Navy. It was a service he had come into as no volunteer, a point he now made forcibly to his fellow victim of Ralph Barclay’s press gang.
‘Were we not damned in numbers,’ was O’Hagan’s mordant response, for there had been many others taken.
‘Do Charlie and Rufus still talk with you of it? That foul night?’
‘The Pelican Tavern comes up from time to time, and they seem to remember it with fondness when it does.’
‘A fondness for dearth? When I met them they lacked the means to buy a pot of ale, just as I recall you did have the means and were loud in your drunkenness. Do you too see it as past joy?’
‘Jesus, is it not the way of us all to think back and see only the warmth?’
‘Not for me, Michael. I curse the day Ralph Barclay and his brutes ever entered the Pelican, even with what it has brought me.’
The Welsh-accented voice, croaked by being in the process of breaking, came through the canvas screen. ‘Captain’s putting off from the flag, sir.’
‘So soon?’
‘He’s already in the cutter.’
‘Thank you, Mr Conway. Please alert Mr Grey. I take it Mr Bird knows.’
‘By the gangway, sir.’
More tradition; a captain coming aboard had to be properly greeted. That meant the bosun piping on his whistle along with a quartet of the marines, half the ship’s total, in uniform and spick and span, ready to be inspected by a man who had last set eyes on them only a few hours past. And, of course, it was essential the premier be there to add his greeting.
Once on deck, Pearce was reminded of the fact of how few people he had to openly converse with. He wanted to allude to the short time Digby had spent aboard HMS Agamemnon, to suggest the possibility that his captain did not enjoy much respect in a cabin and wardroom that was always welcoming to him. There was no one to say it to.
A careful eye was cast over the deck to ensure all was shipshape. A warm greeting to the marine lieutenant, Mr Grey, went along with a glance at his men to ensure they were both properly attired and as smart as was demanded. He nodded to the master, Mr Dorling, to acknowledge his presence, for it mattered not that others had responsibilities. He was the first lieutenant: all ended at his door if there was anything amiss and he was determined never to give Digby the slightest excuse to criticise him.
The watch on duty knew too how to behave: if they were not required for ceremony it was wise to look busy. In their number Pearce could see Charlie Taverner and Rufus Dommet coiling falls that did not require such attention, and he smiled at them even if they would not see it, they having also been his companions in misfortune on the night he had been pressed. With Michael O’Hagan they made up what he termed the Pelicans and the thought promoted a memory of those now absent: Ben Walker and old Abel Scrivens, the latter dead for certain, Walker almost certainly so.
Looking out over the gangway, he saw Digby sat upright in the thwarts, staring straight ahead in what was such a false but commonplace pose for naval officers. It was not enough to have the rank, one always had to behave like one and never let the men you led observe even a hint of weakness.
‘Stuff and nonsense,’ Pearce murmured to himself.
‘Sir?’ asked Edward Grey, his face showing unease. Was something amiss?
‘Talking to myself, Mr Grey, and reflecting on follies, which is, I acknowledge, a questionable habit.’
‘Common to us all,’ the marine replied gaily, for he was by nature a cheerful soul.
The cutter, under the experienced hand of Tilley, the coxswain, swung in a wide arc to fetch the captain alongside the scantlings without so much as a bump, with Digby quick to grab the man ropes and haul himself aboard, greeted by the piercing whistle and the stamp of marine boots. He lifted his scraper to the quarterdeck. Pearce, hat raised also, was afforded a cold look of acknowledgement as his captain passed him by.
‘My cabin in ten minutes, Mr Pearce.’
This was delivered over his shoulder and with scant pretence at politeness, which got glares from any of the crew who heard it and were foolish enough to react with hard looks aimed at Digby’s retreating back.
‘Be about your duties,’ Pearce barked.
This caused him to recall the words of Michael O’Hagan so recently imparted. If their regard was a thing to savour it was not something he could allow to interfere with his responsibilities. He took out his watch and examined it; when Digby said ten minutes he would mean it to the second, for if Pearce was late it would be his first remark.
To be so constantly on guard for openly stated disapproval was wearing and it was within his rights to ask to be transferred in order to avoid such slights. But he could not take his fellow Pelicans with him. He was sure Digby would block it if only for the sake of malice and he could not countenance such an outcome, they having been through so much together.
‘Mr Conway, you have the deck,’ he said when the time was up.
He had to stoop to enter the cabin and remain in that pose, so low were the overhead deck beams, which was annoying since it always gave the initiative to the man seated at the desk, as it had to him while, with Digby wounded, he had temporary command. He could see the pocket watch was on the table, the captain glancing at it in a meaningful way before speaking. Pearce was not asked to sit and when Digby spoke, his head was lowered to avoid eye contact.
‘We have our orders, Mr Pearce: we are to raise anchor and sail west along the coast beyond Nice.’
‘Are the French stirring, sir?’
‘It is our task to find out.’
The reverberating sound of cannon fire penetrated the cabin, which had Digby raise his head for a moment and smile. Pearce knew it could not be the sound of battle, but clearly some event had occurred of which he was ignorant, one that would create the grounds for noisy recognition. The fact that Digby had come from San Fiorenzo Bay carrying despatches and had only just returned from Nelson’s flagship hinted he might be aware of the reason. It was galling to have to ask.
‘They are saluting the new commander-in-chief. I was given the privilege of passing on to Commodore Nelson the news that Sir William has been replaced. We will very shortly, as soon as he arrives, be under the command of Sir John Jervis, Vice Admiral of the White.’
‘Hotham?’
‘Has decided to retire to Naples, I gather, and leave Hyde Parker in charge.’ Pearce wanted to ask why not Sam Goodall, who held superior rank to Parker, but he feared a rebuff. ‘So your attempts to bring Sir William down turn to dust. If you had a fox, Pearce, I would say it has been shot.’
‘And you did not think to pass it on till now?’
‘Your rank does not qualify that I tell you anything.’
‘Rank,’ Pearce said with some deliberation, for Digby had taken pleasure in that put-down. ‘Now there’s a word with more than one meaning.’
The inward taking of breath was audible; premiers did not slight captains.
‘I believe your place is on deck.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ was the deeply sarcastic response. ‘I will take comfort from the fresh air.’
CHAPTER FOUR
HMS Flirt could not come into Vado Bay without attracting attention and that was long before the firing of any signal gun. The sight of topsails in the offing, to a squadron of fi
ghting vessels at anchor, guaranteed scrutiny, peace or war being irrelevant. Any number of people had used their spyglasses to identify her, few mystified regarding her name and class, least of all Passed Midshipman and Acting Lieutenant Toby Burns.
On the deck as the officer of the watch aboard HMS Brilliant, his only question was to wonder at who might be aboard. Indeed, he was so taken with his curiosity, it was some time before he realised he had failed in one of his standing duties, which had him growling at a midshipman ten years his senior.
‘Please inform the captain that HMS Flirt is making her number.’
Several factors initiated the reprimand he later got for his laxity. First was the amount of time between the sighting and the message being passed to Captain Taberly, established by the gap between delivery and the banging of the signal guns. Next was the person sent to relay the information, who could not help – and this was brought on by malevolence – but apologise for being late in its provision.
Tobias Garforth was a fellow in his mid twenties, who for years had failed to rise above the rank of midshipman. This showed in his attire: a badly worn and patched coat, down-at-heel shoes that had long lost both their buckles and their shine; a man who clung zealously to his position to avoid the alternative, which was to be cast ashore to fend for himself in the article of food and a place to lay his head.
Garforth had sat for lieutenant four times and failed to pass on every occasion, unknown to him by a serious margin and, Taberly apart, who knew his father, he lacked the interest to alter his situation, being singularly bereft in both high connections and the kind of flag rank patron who could ease his passage into paid service.
He was thus obliged to acknowledge an incompetent like Toby Burns as a superior, a fellow who had passed the examination, though he was yet to be confirmed by the Admiralty. Never once, his self-esteem being so high, could Garforth accept that he too was not in the first ranks of naval personnel when it came to ability.
He also heartily disliked Burns, a view shared by many members of a crew who knew him of old, so every time he was given an instruction it made his blood boil. Common gossip had it that Burns only got his step in rank through the personal attention given to him by Sir William Hotham and at an age that did not qualify, with many allusions being made to dubious motives.
Added to that, he had a reputation aboard the frigate that flew in the face of the heroic one in which he was shrouded and nothing he had done since coming back on board from HMS Britannia had altered that. The frigate HMS Brilliant had once been commanded by Ralph Barclay, his uncle by marriage. This was the ship in which he had first put to sea as an eager midshipman something over two years previously, a feeling of enthusiasm that had long since atrophied until a great deal of his being wished for nothing more than to be shot of the navy for good.
On deck, looking through his telescope at a sleek brig preparing to anchor, his heart sank at the sight of John Pearce on the quarterdeck. As he saw him lift his hat to Henry Digby, another old Brilliant hand, Burns felt a pang of envy as well. He was looking at a man who seemed to be in possession of all the things to which he aspired but lacked, not least his acknowledged and unquestioned bravery.
The last bell had been rung, which brought up from below the men coming on watch, those they were replacing glad to be off the deck for, at this time of year, the Mediterranean was no benign location wafting warm breezes. Autumn brought on rough seas and frequent gales, while if the wind was in any way northerly it also brought biting winds.
Burns handed over his duty to the next officer to have the deck and went below to the wardroom, with John Pearce at the very forefront of his mind. He had good cause to worry that the man could be his nemesis, all to do with a case for false impressment brought against his late uncle. Any hopes that such a problem would die with Ralph Barclay seemed misplaced, the worry for Burns being the pack of lies he had told at a gimcrack court martial to help get his uncle off the hook.
There were times when he reasoned that his having been coerced would save him, others when he imagined a black cloth on the head of a judge passing sentence on him for the capital crime of perjury. John Pearce had the means to bring that fate down upon him.
‘Grim of face as usual,’ cried the marine officer, as he entered the wardroom and made for the stove to remove his gloves and warm his hands. ‘You’re like a bad penny, Burns, to whom good cheer is alien.’
The remark had all those present look up from whatever they were about, to check the veracity of the statement. This had Toby altering his expression from the one caused by gloomy reflection to an insincere smile, but the result was as dispiriting as his mood; heads shook with dejection as they examined the latest addition to their assemblage.
‘I should leave the young man alone, McArdle, don’t you think? He is yet nervous in our company.’
That support came from the second lieutenant, Thomas Whitlow, who threw a look of sympathy in the direction of Burns, which began to lift his mood; the next words sent it down again for it was only an excuse for a reprimand.
‘And I would remind you of the conventions of our naval profession, from which the possession of a red coat and a captain’s commission does not excuse you.’
McArdle, who saw himself as jocose and spirited, was a constant offender against the rule that within the wardroom it was essential to be polite, it being an overfull space within which the same men could be cooped up as companions for months or even years. The habitués grew accustomed to each other’s foibles, but that did not exclude them causing exasperation, which had to be contained and disguised lest it break into the kind of open disagreement that could create a poisonous atmosphere.
Captain Leyton McArdle was a soldier by trade, red of face and brusque of manner, needing to be constantly reminded of his manners. He hailed from the Irish province of Ulster, was a rabid Protestant supporter of the Plantation and never shy of saying so, not that he was in much danger of offending a papist in these quarters: no one of that denomination could be an officer in any of the services of the British Crown.
‘What have I said but the plain truth, Mr Whitlow?’
‘I refer again to the concord of the wardroom. Some truths are better kept unspoken.’
The increase in the number of servants indicated it was approaching time for dinner and that required that folk move to allow the tables to be set up. When the time came to be served, Mr Glaister, the premier, came from his quarter cabin and took his place at the head, which was set upon the cover of the tiller, with the light from the casements behind him partially hiding the bony face that had earned him the soubriquet of ‘The Skeleton’.
As the most junior, Toby Burns took his seat at the opposite end and tried to partake of the conversation, difficult given his inner turmoil, which led to his being excluded, driving him even deeper into miserable reflection. He had seen John Pearce more than once in the last few months, but he had managed to avoid a meeting, something he dreaded because the last words he had said to him face-to-face were chilling.
This was none other than the promise of a duel as a reward for perceived chicanery, one Burns knew he could never win; indeed, he doubted he could even face the prospect, for death was sure to follow. Not for the first time in his life, as he fought to hold back shaming tears, he cursed a man who had brought him nothing but trouble.
At one time eating aboard HMS Flirt had been communal; including Grey there were only three officers, no surgeon, and she even lacked a purser at present, a duty that currently fell to Henry Digby. If never truly animated – the captain was not that way inclined – meals had been tranquil affairs, albeit certain subjects were skated round and it was not just Pearce’s relationship with Emily Barclay.
The one topic never raised was how he had come about his rank, it being held that King George had suffered a recurrence of his madness when he insisted that Midshipman Pearce, in showing outstanding courage and resource should, in the face of scant precedence, be p
romoted to lieutenant without being examined. This was something only those long in years could ever recall happening and that had been once, during the Seven Years’ War, to a midshipman of many years’ experience who might have passed for lieutenant anyway.
The monarch was not to be dissuaded so it became an act that, when it rippled through the service, caused deep resentment from aspiring midshipmen who saw themselves as more entitled, all the way up through lieutenants and captains to a whole raft of flag officers, both active and those termed ‘yellow’, which basically meant retired. The navy treasured their professionalism even if it was occasionally flouted; not for them purchase of a commission as it was in the army. If some folk got a step through their connections that was tolerable. It was not that any man should get it on a royal whim!
There was no reason to dwell on that or any other of his manifest problems as Pearce ate in solitude. Digby had invited Edward Grey to join him in his quarters, that being his prerogative, which was very obviously another public snub. Much more important were the reflections on an uncertain future, for the one mapped out to him by Emily Barclay did not appeal in the slightest, while satisfactory alternatives seemed in short supply.
Why could she not see the lack of attraction, to him, of a respectable life in a country town? John Pearce had enjoyed what could be termed a colourful childhood. He had also lived long enough in post-Revolutionary Paris to be a man who appreciated metropolitan life, albeit he knew himself to be endemically restless, no doubt a result of his upbringing with a father who was peripatetic and a dangerous radical to the men who ran Britain.
Adam Pearce, a one-time alumni of the University of Edinburgh, had formed in his youth and had gone on as an adult to promulgate views that in many ways mirrored those espoused by the leading lights of the French Revolution: universal suffrage, equality of the sexes, an end to monarchy and the depredations of the rich visited upon the poor. Unwelcome at home it had turned out to be equally so with the hypocrites of Paris.
A Treacherous Coast Page 4