‘He may be, and a fool for it to my mind, but that is not a punishment extended by admirals to midshipmen.’ The kindly tone was replaced with one false but gruff. ‘That however does not apply to first lieutenants who find such creatures hanging about and not attending to their duties. Especially not those seeking to shift such duties to another.’
Ivor Conway blushed, for Pearce had smoked his purpose: to get him to take the news of the likely presence of the fleet to Digby.
‘Don’t be afraid, Mr Conway, and even if you are, keep it hidden. Whatever the captain is going through it does not extend to taking lumps of flesh out of his fellows, however young, tender and tasty they might appear.’
‘Will we be going ashore, sir?’
Slightly thrown by the question, it was the voice, now somewhat deeper than the croak of a few weeks ago, which alerted Pearce to the drift of Conway’s question. He was coming to manhood; indeed, he might have already made his way through that stage of his growth and begun to contemplate those things he might gain from it.
If he had, the fleshpots of an Italian port would seem like a looming paradise, which had his superior wondering whom he could detail, not to keep the lad away from temptation – there was not a human born who could achieve that with passionate youth – but someone who could ensure he avoided the obvious dangers of both disease as well as the one quite common in young and fresh dippers: the forming of a misplaced amour.
‘Damn me, Michael,’ he opined, when Conway had gone and O’Hagan had returned, to be told of the lad’s progression. ‘I am becoming like a pompous parent.’
‘Without, sure it be, recalling your own first temptations.’
‘Michael, you would scarce credit, even if I told you, how many of those Paris afforded me in the year ’91.’
‘By the way you’re grinning, I can guess. But our mid’s question raises another: will we be getting a run ashore?’
‘Not if I request it. Speak to Mr Grey, who can ask on behalf of his Lobsters. Not even Digby would grant them liberty and deny it to the crew.’
‘Is it not that you should speak to Mr Grey?’
The response was a reluctant nod.
If Pearce had seemed relaxed about coming under the scrutiny of the flagship, that did not apply to others. Toby Burns saw the sudden burst of activity on the deck of HMS Brilliant and wondered what it portended, for his lookout had yet to inform him of the cause. When it was eventually reported, he had a genuine cause to be angry.
Could he bring it off? This question assailed him. If he was entitled to respect and got it in a showy way, Toby Burns knew only too well how he was perceived by the men he had fetched aboard this galley. Yet the need to display authority in such a setting promised less behind-the-hand ridicule than that he would have faced aboard the frigate, a fact he pointed out to his leading hand, Martin Dent.
‘His name will be taken and his tardiness – or was it his blindness? – will be reported to Captain Taberly.’
Dent knuckled his forehead, which if it was prescribed as proper still left Burns wondering at what motives lay behind the bland expression on his face. ‘Which will see him at the grating for certain, your honour, with you being asked to plead his case, Porky Ditton being from your division.’
That drained the blood from Burns’ cheeks; he disliked witnessing flogging, which was awkward given Richard Taberly was a strong proponent of the punishment. Even worse, and he had experienced this, were his feeble pleas for mitigation, which never served to gain amelioration. Then his duty obliged him to watch the blood and scarring with a pretence at indifference.
‘I would add, your honour, that the mainmast cap on this barky is a mite lower than those of Brilliant, so happen Porky didn’t see it as clear as others.’
The word ‘bollocks’ sprang to mind, which had Burns castigating himself for blaspheming, only to then realise that Dent, who was smart as well as cheeky, was offering him a way out, which meant the crew were well aware of his squeamishness. How to play it? It would never do to just give way.
‘I hear what you say, Dent, will bear it in mind and make a decision prior to our dropping anchor.’
The knuckle was at the forehead again, the dancing eyes steady. ‘Very good of you, your honour, an’ sharp thinkin’, if I may be so bold.’
Damn the man, he is not fooled one bit. Change the subject, Burns.
‘Meanwhile, we have done a great deal to turn this filthy French barky into something the King’s Navy could serve in, but if it is true that Sir John Jervis is in the offing, I think we best do more.’
Dent was not fooled by that either. They had scrubbed out the galley, which, typically for a French warship, could not even begin to match the standards of cleanliness that were common in a British man-o’-war. Vinegar had been sent over from their mother ship and the whole vessel now smelt of it, this while the slave rowers had been shaved and obliged to wash weeks if not months of grime from their scabby bodies.
The decks had been tidied as well, fraying falls trimmed and useless articles struck below. If more was to be done, it was not for increased order or cleanliness; it was to appease Taberly, who would, without doubt, have a discreet eye on his acting lieutenant’s behaviour. Given the young man’s unpopularity, Taberly would not be alone.
It was not long before the rituals began, with endless banging guns, Digby on deck to be seen to be carrying out his duties, boats in the water as the three captains were called to attend on the flag. This, after a short interval, was followed by the sight of the admiral’s barge, with its carefully clothed crew, pulling away from HMS Victory. In the place of honour was the stern countenance and steady presence of Sir John Jervis, heading first for the captured corvette, manned by men from Inconstant. Then, his inspection complete, he came on to the first galley.
Burns had to hang on hard to his sphincter as the admiral was piped aboard, while nothing in the look aimed along the deck did much to mitigate his concerns. He had to pray that naught was amiss as Jervis carried out an inspection, being especially attentive to the released British captives who had been galley slaves, while nodding to the rest when they expressed their gratitude for their freedom. Odd they would gain that; the British tars would renew their service with the fleet on HMS Brilliant.
‘I daresay she is not as you found her, Mr Burns?’
‘No, sir.’
‘French dogs live in filth and are content to do so,’ Jervis growled, before adding. ‘Your first experience as commander of a prize, Captain Taberly tells me.’
Toby could not help but glance past Jervis’s shoulder – the admiral was not that much taller than he – which was immediately picked up and commented upon.
‘He’s in the cabin of the captain of the fleet, sipping wine and making his report. I was going to enquire if you enjoyed what you have experienced, but that is superfluous. If you have not, you’re no good to the navy.’ The hard voice softened. ‘I recall mine and the misery of returning to my normal duties, but it serves to feed ambition, which is valuable to an officer. Well, it is time to say thank you, Mr Burns, and proceed to the other galley.’
‘I am very glad to have made your acquaintance, sir.’
‘Daresay, lad, but you’ll get another chance, even if it is a slim one. There’s a ball in the Archbishop’s Palace tonight in my honour. Too damn insultin’ to turn them down, which I would like to do.’
‘It can only be deserved, sir, surely?’
‘Maybe so, maybe so. Any road, all officers to attend, no exceptions. Begins at seven.’
With that, Sir John Jervis was piped back into his barge.
CHAPTER TWENTY
‘I have no desire to go to a damn ball, Michael, and there’s an end of it.’
‘Do I not have a recollection of you sayin’ you might stay in the navy, John-boy?’ That got an irritated nod. ‘Then I don’t see it as serving to go and ignore a direct order from an admiral.’
‘While I would remind you
how often I have done that before.’
‘Holy Mary, that was fine when you didn’t give a shite, an’ from what I am being told by some of the older hands, this one is a right bastard.’
‘Not a soubriquet from which I would except any of them.’
‘It would aid what we’s discussing if you talked English.’
‘They’re all bastards to my mind.’ Pearce stopped to raise his head in a contemplative pose and look at the overhead deck beams. ‘Mind, Michael, if everyone is at the ball—’
‘Sure there’ll be few prying eyes to see you call on Mrs Barclay?’
‘Could I ask you to stop calling her that?’
‘You can ask, but habit forces me not to oblige. Besides, what else in the name of Christ risen would I call her?’
‘Miss Raynesford, which is her maiden name and the one we used when …’ The voice trailed off; there was no need to elucidate.
‘And I would look a right eejit callin’ her that and her carryin’ a child.’
‘I could go to the ball and slip away. Who’s going to notice I’m missing?’
‘Would it be that I am hearing some sense?’
‘You are, brother, so get the iron on the stove, a tub of fresh water, and we will see to my uniform.’
‘I best do Mr Conway’s as well, for he will be so eager to find a trollop and fire away he’s likely to singe his coat.’
Such endeavours were taking place all over the harbour, for Sir John had decreed that on this night there would be no shore leave for anyone other than officers and midshipmen, who had also been commanded to attend, each ship standing no more than an anchor watch. The hours after dinner were spent in preening, with some discussion, yet even more private thoughts, on the lax morals of Italian women, which were ruminated upon more in hope than reality.
Naturally, Digby declined to share a boat with John Pearce, which had he and Grey in one and Conway with the pariah in another. As they waited in a queue to get ashore, Pearce found himself playing the part of an older sibling and advising Conway not to pay too many visits to the punch bowl.
‘For it will be a heady brew.’
‘How do you know this, sir?’
‘I have been to one of these affairs previously, Mr Conway.’
‘And was it pleasurable, sir?’
Pearce had to turn away to hide a smile, or was it a blush, as the memories of that occasion surfaced. ‘In many ways it was very pleasurable.’
The long trail of officers, clad in the best they could manage and with their swords at their side, made their way to the Archbishop’s Palace, on a route lined by hundreds of lanterns and curious locals, to be finally brought face-to-face with the kind of magnificent edifice that always irritated Pearce, a building of soaring towers and elaborate construction.
How many times had he sought to persuade Michael O’Hagan of the folly of his papist religion? Not that others were different. Such creeds were no more than a conspiracy to fleece the poor, so lazy clerics, who probably had no real faith in God to speak of, could live in luxury, no doubt with as much female companionship as they desired. Why did an archbishop of any denomination need a palace when the man they worshipped lived so humbly? Every Italian city would have one, and in England, the Archbishop of Canterbury had two, as well as a stipend of twenty-five thousand pounds a year.
If the local ton had to produce invitations, such a requirement did not apply to the Royal Navy; their uniforms were their calling card and very soon Pearce found himself within the candlelit great chamber, a cup of punch in his hand, surveying the scene with his usual jaundiced but amused eye, while seeking to ensure Conway, now with a bunch of fellow midshipmen nudging each other, did not get up to anything untoward. Young Hoste was with them, his leg in plaster from having tumbled down a scuttle in Alassio Bay.
There was always danger in such occasions; the ball would be attended by local youths who matched in age and assertiveness their naval counterparts and they too would partake of the punch bowls. Given the presence of young women, who would be seen as objects of desire, competition was inevitable. Some would be sisters or cousins and the Italians were noticeably touchy about the honour of their female relatives. Too forward an approach or any ribald sally was a recipe for trouble, not aided by the fact that the midshipmen were wearing their dirks.
He saw the group drift into one of the many side rooms that abutted the great chamber – the location of the punch bowls – casting a casual eye on the band setting out their music stands and instruments, wondering how long he would have to remain there before he could slip away unobserved. The thought made him smile; who cared enough to keep an eye on him?
‘Lieutenant Pearce, is it not?’
He knew who had spoken before he turned to face her, just by the low timbre of the voice and the Tuscan-accented French. Thus the movement was slow, the smile of greeting a trifle forced.
‘Contessa.’
Her hovering hand, not demanding, merely habit, obliged him to take and kiss it. When his gaze lifted, he was reminded of her beauty, which had proved such a previous attraction. High cheekbones, flawless skin not masked by powder and well-defined eyebrows that had seemed in conversation to have a life of their own, this added to a ready smile and an animated personality.
‘As I saw you I wondered if you deserved to be snubbed. Did you not treat me somewhat badly the last time we were in company? Running off, my honour besmirched and never a word to follow.’
The besmirching was a jest, while the occasion referred to had seen John Pearce fleeing her bedchamber, a hurried exit carrying only his breeches, obliged to abandon his coat and hat. They had been laying in post-coital bliss when the hallway below began to resound with loud threats, made in Italian but unmistakable, coming from another fellow who claimed he had the rights to her affections.
She had named the irate person as a young and too ardent buck called Paolo, who mistook the depths of her feelings. She had also translated, and was somewhat amused in doing so, the nature of the menace. The suitor was not alone, he had men enough with clubs in hand to subdue this inglese swine, that followed by a promise to castrate him.
As he fled, leaping from a first-floor window, her pealing laughter had been in his ears, while the tale of him making his way through the streets of Livorno clad in only his flapping shirt had sped round the fleet. If it was wont to amuse some, it had done nothing to enhance an already questionable reputation.
‘The English have an expression, Contessa, that discretion is the better part of valour. Given the fate you outlined for me, it seemed fitting to adopt that course and depart.’
She laughed again and that was charming, as was the inviting twinkle in those lovely black eyes. This brought on a certain uncomfortable girding, which he knew he must resist. He was in a vulnerable state as a man who had lately been denied intimacy, not only because he had to stay away from Emily, but also it being debarred by her condition.
‘Do I still have to fear retribution?’
‘No. Paolo has moved onto other women and is, the poor romantic creature, as passionate and silly about them as he was for a while about me.’
‘To be replaced by?’
That, in reality quite impertinent, was out of Pearce’s mouth before he realised the consequences. He was asking her if she had another lover and the nub of the enquiry could only be deciphered as renewed interest on his part.
‘The men hereabout are too eager. Paolo was not alone in such a fault and they tire me with their demands.’
The way it was said, fan waving, the low voice, the slightly conspiratorial gaze added to a very minor twitch of the lips, was designed to tell John Pearce she was not only available, but she found him attractive enough to be willing to renew their relationship. If anyone had asked him how he could be so sure, he would have boastfully been obliged to reply that he possessed prior experience. In Paris, when he had been as young and ardent as her Paolo, he had met women like the Contessa, free spirit
s who knew how to subtly convey desire.
Pearce was aware of several things, not least that the room was filling up. There were too many eyes for comfort, which given his previous adventures had caused so much comment, left him on dangerous ground. Most disturbing was his own reaction to what was a clear invitation to not only pay attention to her but also to revisit her bedchamber, this from the same fellow who had so recently been advising Conway to keep his breeches buttoned.
‘I am sure you must circulate, as must I, for obvious reasons.’ He was saying that discretion was necessary for both and her nod was confirmation that she got the point. She was, after all, a married woman, which mattered even if her husband never interfered with her liaisons. ‘Perhaps we can talk further later?’
That smile again. ‘Most certainly, Lieutenant Jean.’ The lack of a surname spoke volumes.
As he moved away, naturally glancing around the room, his eye was drawn to a group consisting of three young ladies, as well as a more elderly couple, who looked to be parents. The women were well dressed in fine embroidered garments, each wearing a turban of a different design, one cooling herself with a furiously flapping fan in a chamber becoming increasingly warm. It was not until she decided to also examine the room and turned side on to do so that Pearce saw first her shape and then her face, to realise it was Emily.
It was only a second before her gaze alighted on him, to be, and this was disturbing, immediately switched away. Angry, Pearce made straight for her and she could not avoid seeing his approach out of the corner of her eye, and then spun to face him full on, this accompanied by what he thought was a rather forced smile.
‘Why, Lieutenant Pearce, how good it is to see you.’
To call her Mrs Barclay stuck in his craw, but he had no choice and he responded in the appropriate manner, albeit he struggled with the tone.
‘I hope I find you well, madam.’
‘Tolerable, Lieutenant, which in my condition is all I can ask for.’ She must have interpreted his direct look as portending a breach of their arrangement, for the wave of her encompassing hand was immediate and a perfect ploy to stall. ‘You must allow me to introduce you to the Wynnes, father, mother and their two lovely daughters, Eugenia and Betsey.’
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