A Treacherous Coast

by David Donachie

  Yet the same was true of the French. It was clear whoever was in command realised he had the same dilemma for, having come some distance, they too had halted. The Flirts had reloaded, the marines doing so by rote so Pearce knew he could engage, if he wished, in an exchange of musketry, but that too had limitations. How much in the way of powder and balls had the French brought, what had they already expended and did it match or overbear that which his party carried?

  The lack of firing made it possible to assume, and it could be no more than yet another guess, that his opposite number was as bereft of the means to engage in a long fight as he was. What was happening out at sea? Dorling must have seen the flashes of the muskets; what was he likely to do about it? Had Digby come out of his cabin to take charge? Lots of questions, no answers; he could not even see the outline of the brig or its lights, which he was sure he would have done if it had come closer to shore.

  ‘Michael?’

  ‘John-boy?’

  ‘Time to test your notions. If it does not cause you to blaspheme against your religion, pray for a round of grapeshot from Flirt.’

  ‘Already done, John-boy.’

  ‘And no response.’

  ‘It is not what the Holy Trinity is for. If we are in a stew, sure, it’s of our own making.’

  ‘Mine, not yours.’

  Pearce was mentally listing the alternatives he could have pursued. Having found those boats on the beach, should he have gone back aboard HMS Flirt with the aim of closing off the enemy escape with her superior firepower? That took no account of his initial ignorance as to what he might face, the assumption of their being French heading for land included.

  ‘Mr Pearce,’ Grey said with stiff formality – he could be overheard by all. ‘I sense we are at a stand.’

  ‘We are, indeed. If it comes to a fight they have superior numbers, but how many will our opponents be willing to sacrifice in order to defeat us?’

  The marine had come close enough to whisper. ‘John, I hesitate to suggest we let them get to their boats and depart.’

  ‘For which I am glad, for if the case was reversed I would take their men prisoner and smash the bottom of their boats.’

  ‘Forgive me, I had not thought it through.’

  ‘Something I think I have failed in since we set off.’

  The advantage Pearce had was time; if the French did know there was a British warship offshore, they would not want to be around at dawn or indeed anywhere within sight from the tops. That said, he could not fathom why Flirt had not responded to the flashes of gunfire, even to the point of sending up blue lights to find out what was happening. Surely if a good proportion of the crew was onshore and might be in difficulty, it was the least they could do.

  It might have been the sight of the two French prisoners waving and pleading that broke the deadlock, not that the men Pearce had left were any better off if the enemy achieved control of the beach. In the grouped lanterns ahead, there was some kind of talk going on, for they had come together enough to provide a pool of illumination.

  ‘A volley now might be to advantage,’ Grey posited.

  ‘There are more men outside that light than close to it and they too have muskets.’

  That was said just for deflection; Pearce was thinking that a fight of any kind could be pointless. Whatever the men from La Brune had come to do, they must surely have achieved. Any act of his would be too late to put a check on their aims while he risked losing many of his crew to wounds or death, and the end result could be capture, unless help came from somewhere.

  He had a vision of a bloody contest and not only with musket fire. It would come to knives, clubs and Michael O’Hagan’s axe, and his party was unlikely to triumph. Those who survived would be taken away in Flirt’s own boats as prisoners and no amount of suffering on the part of the French would make that a good outcome. He was just about to hand his weapons to Michael, intending to then move forward and seek a parley, when those bunched lanterns parted; more than that, one of them was coming his way.

  ‘Nobody moves and if anything happens to me, Edward, try to get off the beach with as many men as you can save. I advise they then disperse using the streets of the town to survive. The French cannot chase for ever, they must get away.’

  ‘I will come with you,’ Michael whispered.

  ‘No, friend.’ Pearce replied, handing over his weapons. ‘If something untoward happens to me now, you will be the one who has to tell Emily. I would not want such news coming from a messenger who is a stranger to her.’

  The lantern and the man holding it had stopped up the beach, parallel to the point where lay the combined boats, so it was to there that Pearce made his way, both men making sure their faces were illuminated, though there was enough spill for Pearce to see his opponent was still armed.

  ‘Bonjour, monsieur.’

  The voice was deep and rasping, though not in a threatening way, while his coat and gilt-edged hat marked him out as the captain. As to his face, well, the lamplight threw half his features into shadow and his hat masked much of the rest.

  ‘Parlez-vous français?’

  Having answered in the affirmative, Pearce then went on in French to outline the difficulties for both of them, an explanation that was met with evident surprise at his fluency, as well as nods to acknowledge he had summed the matter up well.

  ‘Mais j’ai advantage d’hommes.’

  ‘Beaucoup d’entre eux vont mourir, non?’

  That mention of death for many gave the French captain pause, which implied that for all his advantage in numbers, he did not relish losing men any more than John Pearce. If he knew what he wanted, the Frenchman was not prepared to give it to him without making it seem like an act of goodwill, inviting him to quit the beach with a promise his boats would not be touched and neither would the men he had left on guard.

  He was annoyed, and overly loud with it, at the implication that this rosbif lieutenant did not trust him to keep his word. However, the protests had an overdramatic quality, as if they were being advanced for show, which left Pearce wondering if the French captain felt the need to persuade those he led of the wisdom of compromise and was in fear of Revolutionary justice.

  When the hand went to Pearce’s coat the Frenchman stiffened, only to relax again when all that was produced was a watch. There was no need then for words; that in itself was eloquent enough – we can argue as long as you like, but time favours me – and that sped up the process.

  ‘Nous partons ensemble, oui?’

  ‘Parfait.’

  It could have been comedic if it was not so potentially deadly. The two groups were deeply suspicious of each other and it would only have taken one misplaced word or movement to set off a bloodbath at such close quarters. But the French were as true to the agreement as the men Pearce led, getting into their boats – and if they grumbled at the red-coated marines remaining standing, with their weapons a split second away from being ready, only Pearce understood it.

  As the boats were simultaneously pushed into the water, it was French oars that bit deep, to have them soon disappear into the darkness, with not a lantern visible. Pearce did not push his men to haul hard; he had no idea where HMS Flirt was. Why row with effort when they might as well wait for the sun to rise?

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  It seemed to take an age, from the first hint of grey light in the east, until it spread enough along the still lowering clouds to show their ship. HMS Flirt was hove to with, from what Pearce could see from his low elevation, the normal activities of the day taking place, as though a goodly proportion of the crew was not absent. The guns were run out, everyone was at their stations and still, with Henry Digby on deck, a telescope to his eye as he swept the horizon for threats.

  ‘Of which,’ Pearce opined in a mordant tone, ‘he will find none.’

  The call from the lookout was faint evidence that they had been spotted, dark dots on a sea that matched the sky, and had those on Flirt possessed
supernatural vision they would have found themselves surveying a most miserable scene. Their shipmates had been rendered listless by half the night spent in the boats, with the oars still in the water. The only real rowing had been done in order to get blood flowing and ward off the cold. Doubly galling to Pearce, Digby, who could not have failed to spot them, was acting as if they did not exist.

  ‘Do you think we should wait till they house the cannon,’ he shouted to Grey. ‘Mr Digby may wish to test them?’

  If it was a jest to lift the spirits, it signally failed to do so; what he got were grim looks that hinted he might have the right of it. Pearce immediately regretted the remark for it would only make worse a situation already bad enough and a sharp order to close was quickly obeyed. He saw his men aboard before he made the deck himself, to find Digby gone, Conway with his hat raised and his expression grim.

  ‘You are to attend upon the captain immediately, sir.’

  ‘Now there’s a surprise.’ He then turned to O’Hagan. ‘Get yourself some breakfast and then me also. I doubt I shall be long.’

  ‘He also ordered that the men you took ashore should resume their duties immediately.’

  ‘Most of them have not rested for twelve hours.’

  ‘His instructions were specific and he said not to be questioned.’

  Which was exactly what Pearce wanted to do, but where would that leave Conway? The lad was just starting out on his naval career and if he did not get his head knocked off by a cannonball it might be a fine one. Digby had given the youngster a direct and unequivocal order. To countermand it would not do much good for anyone, so his voice was loud as he responded.

  ‘Mr Conway, if you hear grumbling – and you will – stamp on it using my authority.’

  He expected the cabin door to be opened for him as usual as he approached; it was not and given the eyes of the marine sentinel would not meet his, it was as good as saying you need to knock, which he did, to be met with a shout telling him to wait. The discourtesy was, of course, deliberate as was the time it took, several minutes, for permission to enter. That was followed by another bit of theatre as Digby sat, quill in hand, writing in the ship’s log, which ensured his eyes never met those of his premier.

  ‘Captain.’

  ‘It is interesting to hear you use that appellation, since you seem commonly to show it little heed.’

  ‘I—’

  ‘You may speak when you are spoken to, Mr Pearce, and not before. I have matters to attend to that are more important than anything you have to say.’

  Pearce felt his anger rise and fought to check it; it was bad enough to be so rudely interrupted, but to be treated like a nonentity was even worse. It took several deep breaths before he could answer in a voice that hid his true feelings.

  ‘Given you are so occupied, I will call upon you at a more convenient time.’

  ‘You will not. You will wait until I am ready to attend upon you.’

  About to walk out, Pearce stopped, halted by the realisation that these very words had probably been rehearsed, which meant he was playing to the captain’s vision of how matters would pan out. When talking to himself, he would be indulging in imaginary arguments in which personal success was assured, common enough to all, but rarely articulated out loud.

  ‘I wonder if I can wait for what follows, Henry. What would your imaginings have me say next?’

  He did look up then, quill poised and eyes cold. ‘I do not have any inkling of what you mean.’

  ‘The problem is that I compose my own responses, so if it does not suit what you have outlined, I can only apologise.’

  The shout of ‘Come back at once!’ was half muffled by the cabin door being slammed shut, while for Pearce, the temptation to look back and wonder at what the marine guard thought had to be resisted so as he was not seen as seeking complicity. It did matter: what had happened would be all over the ship as soon as the Lobster’s duty ended.

  Michael had done as he was bid, so Pearce was able to eat his fill to the sound of the decks being sanded and flogged dry. There would have to be another encounter, he knew that, just as he knew it would not be one-sided, for there were questions for Digby to answer. The arrival of Conway, who was reduced to stuttering when delivering his message, did not aid matters.

  ‘Captain’s orders, Mr Pearce, you are to be confined to your quarters until we return to Vado Bay. He has ordered Mr Grey to place a marine outside your berth to ensure his instructions are complied with.’

  ‘A prisoner again, Michael,’ Pearce hooted, as much to cover his anger as to make light of it. ‘And you, Mr Conway, stepping into my shoes, a premier at such a young age. For all my good fortune you have surpassed me with many years in hand. Surely there is a flag awaiting you before you make your majority.’

  For a youth who had expected to be roundly cursed, the response came as a surprise, so much so he was at a loss to respond, to which Pearce could only be sympathetic.

  ‘Go about your duties, Ivor, and let me have concerns for my well-being.’

  Pearce waited several seconds, enough to allay any chance Conway might overhear, saying softly to Michael, ‘Get the word out to the crew, who may be tempted to act against this and make their displeasure known. They are to do nothing that will give Digby an excuse to claim them mutinous.’

  ‘Are you sure you have the right of it, John-boy,’ came the grinning response. ‘Half the lads would see you keelhauled in the time it takes to spit.’

  ‘Perhaps I could ask for it and fit in a refreshing swim.’

  That made the Irishman shudder; if he indulged his friend in that habit, he neither understood the desire nor wished to share the experience. O’Hagan had many times termed John Pearce mad, having no more sense than the fish he swam with. But Pearce knew Michael would carry out his wish and his first ears to whisper in would be those who had been ashore with him last night, men who had come back aboard fully expecting a warm welcome and a tot of rum, to be ignored and put to deck swabbing.

  His next caller was Grey, who, with one of his men right outside the canvas screen, had to be very circumspect indeed. ‘A temporary measure I am sure, Mr Pearce, but one I am, of course, obliged to see implemented.’

  ‘Have you found out if the flash of musket fire was observed from the deck last night?’

  Grey winked. ‘A dark, cold and damp night, happen even a trace of mist, which would have rendered mysterious anything seen.’

  That was to be the excuse and such words could only have come from Digby. Grey, with his wink, was telling him he had heard from other sources and it had been plainly visible.

  ‘Not something a captain would risk a ship for?’

  ‘Not if he wished to keep his command,’ Grey added with mock gravity. ‘Which the captain made sure all knew.’

  How had that played with those who had remained aboard, men whose friends were obviously in some danger? It was not just the shore party Digby would have to worry about in terms of maintaining discipline. Every man jack aboard would be cursing him, which left his inferior with a real dilemma. The man was plainly ill, without Pearce in any way being able to see how it had come about.

  Certainly his behaviour in the action in the Gulf of Ambracia had bordered on madness, but whatever prompted his actions then had not seemed to carry through to his recovery. Had that been the trigger for his current behaviour, for Pearce could not, or would not, accept that his criticisms alone could be the cause of such a change.

  ‘I will leave you now,’ Grey said, which reminded a contemplative Pearce he was still there. ‘You may call upon me for anything you need. Just tell your guard.’

  The small folded note was dropped on his cot as the marine turned to leave and it remained there until he was long gone. Finally picked up and opened, the words inside came as little surprise and the information contained must have come from someone like Matthew Dorling. Digby had been alerted to the exchange of fire onshore, the sight of it barely registered as
had the sound, and had come on deck to observe its continuance.

  There had been no doubt in anyone’s mind what it portended, their shipmates were in bother, only to have their fears dismissed as fanciful and not something to react to, which flew in the face of the palpable evidence. Digby had issued orders to hold to their position, with an aside that if there was anything to be concerned about, it was due to a certain officer who had clearly exceeded his position.

  Grey’s note finished with the words, ‘Who, with you gone, was left to question him, John? Look to me for support and you will have it.’

  Vado Bay was no more than a day’s sailing distant but it was clear even before they opened the anchorage that there were only three frigates there, while HMS Agamemnon was absent. Digby hailed the senior captain to be told that Commodore Nelson had gone once more to Genoa to remonstrate with the Doge. From there it was his intention to make for San Fiorenzo Bay to confer with Sir John Jervis. Those by the binnacle heard Digby say, with some satisfaction, one word: ‘Perfect’. Next came the order to shape a course for the main fleet anchorage.

  News of this came quickly through Michael O’Hagan, added to the information that he had delegated Charlie Taverner and Rufus Dommet to keep him abreast of anything said ’tween decks that might spell trouble.

  ‘Sure as there is a God in heaven, nothing will bypass Charlie. He has the ears of a thief, does he not?’

  That was not said with any rancour, even if in the past that was exactly the life Charlie had lived. If Michael and he had the occasional falling out, usually from Charlie’s too waspish tongue, they were nevertheless more than just shipmates. The Pelican bond was stronger than that.

  For a man who appreciated the benefits of fresh air as well as his occasional dips in the sea, the confinement was galling. Yet what he had said in the presence of Conway, that he was a prisoner again, was naught but the literal truth. One of Adam Pearce’s more pointed pamphlets, questioning the rights of the monarchy and much else besides, had landed him and his son in the Fleet Prison. His incarceration now, set against that, was luxury.