‘It could be better coming from you.’
‘If I was to say it, it might come to overruling him, what then?’
It was as if all around him died away, with Pearce contemplating what Dorling was suggesting. Digby was being so intransigent as to endanger the ship and in that case he should be superseded. A loathing of hierarchy was one thing, what was being advocated could be construed as mutiny and it would be down to the vagaries of a court martial as to how such an action was perceived. Precedents were both very rare and not promising, palpable madness historically the only sound reason to remove a captain.
And Dorling had the right of it; he was the only one, as second in command, who could replace Digby, but he would require the backing of everyone aboard imbued with authority. Would Grey support him? Could he ask Conway? Dorling might say he would do so now – would he hold to that when faced with a line of belligerent accusers? For that was what it would come to; the navy took as sacrosanct the power of a captain.
At that point the marine lieutenant appeared, indicating he had come from Digby’s cabin, his expression grave. He waited for a moment to assess the heaving deck before the dropping hull had him scurrying towards Pearce to grasp at the binnacle, and now it was his ear pressed close. Even then his voice needed to be loud.
‘I have been ordered to put a pair of my men outside the spirit room.’
‘Which will inflame those already alarmed,’ Pearce shouted.
‘It will,’ Grey acknowledged.
Outside the need to alter course there had been few hands on deck, yet anyone by the wheel would have needed to be blind not to observe the looks thrown in that direction. This was mainly a crew of volunteers, people who made their living at sea in both war and peace, tars who left the merchant service as soon as a conflict was in the offing for the better pay and conditions – flogging notwithstanding – of the King’s Navy.
With all those years of experience came knowledge, which if it did not match that of Dorling was yet acute. Those looks were asking what those in command and steering the vessel were about, holding this position in such conditions. The cook had doused his coppers, the fire being too dangerous on a ship behaving like a bucking horse. So it was cold provender and strong hands needed to keep a place at a mess table, while movement, when down below and blind to what was coming from wave and wind, could be fraught with the risk of injury.
Hardly surprising the men were disgruntled and worried. It mattered not how Digby, stuck in his cabin, had assessed the mood as dangerous, he had clearly done so. Sailors, if they faced drowning, were wont to wish to do so in a blind stupor and the way to that lay in the barrels of rum in the spirit room; hence the marine guard.
‘Hold on that, Mr Grey.’ The master was called to huddle with them, Grey’s eyes widening when he heard what Pearce said. ‘Mr Dorling, I will speak with the captain but I want you prepared to alter our course to one that will ease matters and if necessary the command will be issued by me. Should you feel it essential to act when I am off the deck, do so and I will back you.’
‘John—’
‘It could be that or drown, Edward.’
‘That’s the truth, Mr Grey,’ Dorling insisted.
‘Precedent says you should include Conway.’
‘He’s too young and besides, Edward, I am not even going to include you. This is a decision I will make and live by.’
‘No, I will stand with you.’
‘Thank you.’
Digby had one of Grey’s marines guarding his door, if hanging on for dear life half the time could be termed that. Even instructed he would not have impeded the first lieutenant so; after a perfunctory knock, Pearce ducked his head and entered, with Digby making a good fist at surprise to see him present.
‘Sir, I wish you to order a change of course.’
‘You may wish, Mr Pearce, it is my job to decide.’
‘Which would make sense if you were in command of the deck instead of skulking in your cabin.’
The word ‘skulking’ struck home. ‘How dare you—!’
Digby got no further than that expression of protest, because Pearce shouted over him. ‘I dare and I will do more than that. I cannot sense what it is that is animating you: hatred of me or a shame so deep at your own reprehensible actions that it has rendered you spineless.’
‘I have orders to stay on this station and my right to command will see those orders obeyed.’
‘Nelson would tell you to throw them overboard if he were present.’
‘He is not, Mr Pearce, and I am. Leave my cabin this minute and I will forget the words you have used. Continue and I will have you replaced.’
‘By whom, Henry?’ came the reply, utterly lacking in passion. ‘No one will obey you.’
That forced him back in his chair, his face flushed. ‘Has it not been ever thus, you snake? Ever since I took command you have undermined me.’
‘I reckon you to have done a better job in such a thing than I, Henry.’
‘I am not Henry to you, I am Captain Digby!’
‘Shame is a terrible curse, but I will not allow you to take everyone aboard to perdition to assuage your guilt. I give you the choice, sir, either give the order to change course or I will have you confined to this cabin and take command.’
‘Which will see you damned.’
‘To be damned I will have to be alive. Choose.’
At that point Flirt yawed and the deck dipped alarmingly, forcing Digby to grab his desk to stay in his chair – his hat shot off the desk – while Pearce was thrown onto the bulkhead of the captain’s sleeping cabin, hands held out to prevent injury. Very slowly, groaning like a wounded animal, she righted again, with Pearce wondering at how much water had been shipped to either get below or hopefully spill out through the scuppers.
Running feet came as the first sign, but it was not long before it was obvious that Dorling was coming round to get the wind on the stern; all the while this was happening the two men stared at each other with locked eyes until finally Digby blinked, which allowed John Pearce to speak.
‘You have two choices, Henry. Either write in your log that you ordered the change of course or take the consequences. For myself, I will keep what has been said in this cabin private. I suggest you do the same.’
‘I will take the deck, Mr Pearce,’ Digby growled, standing and bending to grab his hat.
Pearce followed him out, both requiring man ropes, and as he came onto the deck it was not just Dorling who looked at him; those men who had so recently manned the falls and were still looping the excess onto the bitts did so likewise. The gap before Digby spoke seemed to last a lifetime until he said, ‘Carry on, Mr Dorling. Mr Pearce you may go below and rest.’
‘Sir.’
‘Mr Grey, my previous instruction. Please put it in abeyance.’
‘Damn me, Mr Digby, I was sure I had lost you. Babbage and Troubadour came into Leghorn days ago and in a poor state.’
‘We are not much better, sir. Had we not altered course I am not sure I would have been reporting to you, though I regret it overturned your orders.’
‘I never do other than trust the man on the spot, Digby. It would be an asset if London did likewise, but they don’t.’
That got a sympathetic murmur but neither agreement nor demurral; if it was not wise to traduce senior officers, that applied tenfold with the Admiralty. Sir John Jervis might be on his way to take command but there was no news of the very necessary reinforcements of both ships and men that the Mediterranean fleet required to be truly effective. In addition, their so-called Spanish allies seemed ever more disinclined to move from their base at Minorca to undertake any of the heavy work of containing the forces of the Revolution.
‘Trouble is,’ Nelson continued, his unnaturally young-looking countenance closed up and bellicose, ‘the French have been making hay while the weather has moderated. As soon as it was observed you were blown off your station and the storm had abated, half th
e vessels in Genoa harbour sailed for Toulon and Marseilles. If the so-called Army of Italy was on short commons before, they are unlikely to be so now.’
‘Then I need to get back on station, sir, though you will see from my logs there are repairs required and we did lose a rate of canvas and cordage. Mr Pearce is at the Navy Board office now, seeing what he can garner as replacements.’
‘Good fellow,’ was the hearty response to the name. ‘Though it is a fairly barren locker.’
Had John Pearce been present he too would have wondered at the fulsome nature of that expression: Henry Digby certainly did. Was Nelson referring to what might have occurred after that embarrassing moment on deck, when he revealed Digby had exceeded his orders? That the commodore had been happy for him to do so had no bearing. Nelson had shipped young Conway to HMS Agamemnon and, after the ship’s surgeon had seen to his arm, had dined the lad in his cabin, this while his coat was expertly mended. What had Nelson asked him about the Bay of Villafranca? What had Conway said?
His dignity as a captain had not allowed Henry Digby to enquire and if Pearce had done so, he was not saying anything – why would he? This left Flirt’s captain in a state of some anxiety, for the way he had worded his despatch on the raid had skirted over his orders to Pearce, which had been verbal, while also being obscure as to what was the actual purpose, other than those going ashore should take what opportunities that presented themselves to discomfit the enemy.
Conway would not have been privy to the real instructions but he had certainly been there to witness the action. Had he praised Pearce and in doing so inadvertently diminished his captain, that was the worry, for he wished to impress this man. Nelson was close to getting his rear admiral’s flag, while Sir John Jervis was coming out to take command of the fleet, so any residual resentments held by Sir William Hotham – and he had no idea if there were any – no longer applied.
Such an exploit, attached to the Digby name, something he had set out to ensure would be read as such, must elevate him in the eyes of these superiors, and who knew where that could lead? He suddenly realised the commodore was still talking and cursed himself for letting his mind wander.
‘I won’t have it, Digby. The time has come to take a stand.’
‘I agree, sir,’ came the reply, even although he was unsure of what Nelson was talking about.
‘I am off to Genoa, and I intend once I get there to put my ship right outside the harbour mouth. Nothing will get in or get out until the slippery sods in the Signoria and that damned Doge of theirs stick to their word. If they try to get anything past me, be assured, I will sink it.’
CHAPTER TEN
Cornelius Gherson spent many days in the privateer’s sector of Leghorn, walking the quays and examining the various craft, all sleek vessels and well armed, though his interest in those was limited. More often he frequented the taverns used by the crews, making no overt moves to be overfamiliar in surroundings he reckoned to be adverse to pushiness. This he knew from his own background, growing to manhood in the criminal warrens of London, places where a stranger stood out markedly and where suspicion of someone seeking to infiltrate any brotherhood of villainy was endemic.
He knew his presence had been noted by the people who patronised these drinking dens; the surreptitious glances aimed at him were frequent and often belligerent, but that he expected, given he was drinking in his surroundings, seeking to get a feel for the temper of various inns. In doing so it was impossible not to notice certain things, like who was enjoying a recent success, boasting never being a quiet affair, and sailors the world over prone to expending that which they had acquired in very short order.
There was rivalry, a factor he thought might be to his advantage. The various crews tended to form exclusive groups, suspicious of each other and inclined to hug to themselves information about prospective captures. As a natural observer and accomplished eavesdropper, Gherson hoped, even from minimal scraps of information overheard in passing, to build up a picture of how these letters of marque operated and where he might fit in to his advantage.
The captains mattered to him for they would be the employers. Some were the actual owners of the ships, others he knew from his own sea service were employed by wealthy men who saw funding such an enterprise as a worthwhile investment. From the comings and goings, as well as the whispered conversations that reeked of conspiracy, these men were in receipt of intelligence about possible captures.
He reasoned this would be gleaned from any number of sources and often it would be far from complete: scraps of news from a whole network of sources, which in its entirety allowed a picture to be built up of what trading ships could be profitable captures as well as in the offing. To merely go cruising and hope for success would be fruitless and costly; crews had to be fed and if they were not regularly provided with opportunity they would be tempted away by the more successful ships’ masters.
On many occasions, and for several days, a whole crew would be missing, their vessel having slipped its mooring at dawn, going about their business. At other times, one out cruising would return either with a prize in tow, which meant a Frenchman, or with holds full of cargo to be sold, which implied a neutral had been captured. This lay outside the limits of what these brigands were permitted to do and led to speculation as to the fate of the captured crews, men who might bear witness to what was really piracy.
From the feeling that time mattered little, he became increasingly frustrated by the amount expended observing the number and designation of the various boats or, more often, being sat alone for hours on end nursing a goblet of wine. Nor could he ignore that which he lacked the means to enjoy: the young whores, comely and olive-skinned, who plied their trade in front of his eyes.
Limited funds could not be expended on carnal pleasure, which meant he was many nights, this being one, a disgruntled fellow making his way back to his lodgings, cursing Ralph Barclay for allowing himself to be killed in a battle he could have avoided, as well as the whole King’s Navy for its inability to appreciate his qualities.
‘Hold there, fellow.’
The voice, coming out of the darkness, in an unlit street not much wider than an alley, made Gherson’s heart thump. He immediately dropped his head and made a move to increase his pace, only then to comprehend he had been addressed in English. Another voice spoke, also in his native tongue.
‘If you look ahead, friend, you will observe there is nowhere for you to go.’
An injunction impossible not to comply with, Gherson saw his way blocked by the outline of two men, with one holding a lantern low down, which told him only, by the garb – baggy trews and striped stockings – they were tars.
With the same number of voices to his rear that spelt at least four and real danger, something he had experienced more than once in his life. Vivid imaginings along with memories raced through his mind – of being assaulted more than once or the ruffians once employed to throw him off London Bridge on behalf of a rich husband he had cuckolded. Leghorn was split by any number of canals, which might serve the same purpose as had been sought in the River Thames.
Proximity to the pair at the head of the alley forced him to stop, and that low-held lantern was lifted, this as a hand was laid on his back to push him roughly forwards and closer to the arc of light, the hat he was wearing lifted from his head.
‘Him right enough: Barclay’s factotum.’
‘Fucktotem, more like,’ came the sniggering response from his rear, ‘him being so comely.’
‘Who are you?’
‘I think that is a question you might be obliged to answer first.’
The voice was different, more refined; it was the voice of the one who addressed him as ‘fellow’, which meant they lacked a name. Yet Barclay had been mentioned, so something about him was known. Slowly, Gherson turned round, aware of the feeling of dread in the pit of his belly, his knees trembling and knowing when he spoke his voice would likely betray his fears; by the light of anothe
r upheld lantern he registered there were five men in all.
‘The name is Gherson.’
‘Never knew the name,’ came the response from one of the rougher voices, ‘just the face.’
‘Never one to spare a word for the likes of us, I recall, Cole. Looked more likely to spit on us than extend a common greeting.’
‘But a fellow,’ the man named as Cole replied, ‘I have seen too often these last weeks, noseying around.’
‘No,’ Gherson replied quickly, wondering if the tremor in his voice was obvious. He felt he had good cause to be fearful; snoops in the London he knew only too well were generally fished out of the river of a morning.
‘Well, this is no place to find out. Bring him along.’
With that the refined voice spun round, the swinging lantern giving a very brief glimpse of oiled and curled locks, with ribbon decoration on the ends, and a slight flash of what had to be gold decoration on the neck.
‘Are you going to walk on or do I need the use of my boot?’
‘Hold, Fred,’ Cole jested. ‘Can you not see it’s terror that has him rooted?’
Gherson did move, aware of the sour taste of regurgitated wine in his throat, acid and searing, which did nothing to slow his teeming thoughts. How could these men know him, have recognised his face but not know his name, they being folk he had not acknowledged? It had to be sailors, must be aboard a King’s ship and out here in the Mediterranean: that meant HMS Semele.
‘Where are we going?’
‘You?’ Cole enquired. ‘Might be perdition, less you have a good tale to tell.’
‘I have done nothing untoward.’
‘That we will find out,’ the voice from the front growled.
They came to and entered a low wooden door, which opened on to a room that looked to be used for business. There was a high clerk’s desk of the kind at which Gherson had too often toiled, seeking to find ways to cheat those employing him. There were shelves laden with ledgers and a round table with several chairs, one of which he was pressed down into, this while the candles in the sconces on the walls were lit to illuminate the whole.
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