A Treacherous Coast

by David Donachie

  ‘Gone. Dragged off young Ivor Conway, who could scarce walk.’

  ‘He’s in for a long wait on the quay.’

  ‘No. He ordered his boat in for the eleventh hour. Said I should return with you and reminded me that I was on duty as usual at dawn.’

  ‘We are on anchor watch,’ Pearce protested, to a look from Grey that said he was wasting his breath.

  No other ship in the harbour would act as if they were at sea, but Digby would, just to spite his officers, him especially. It was then the purpose dawned. Digby knew he would want time with Emily and had set out to deny him any real opportunity. If he disobeyed, either by commission or a lack of knowledge, he could be reprimanded again which, if it was not fatal, would act as another mark against his name for future deployment.

  ‘He must spend his entire time with me on his mind.’

  It transpired he was not the only one to return to the ball, after all Mrs Wynne had deserted her daughters and would want to ensure they did not do anything too outré. And with her were Mrs Pollard and Mrs Udeny. Most important of all, and with her beady eye on him, was Mrs Teale.

  ‘Now there’s a rare beauty,’ Grey exclaimed, albeit he slurred. ‘Now, for such a creature I would defy Digby.’

  Fan waving, the Contessa di Montenero was coming towards them both. Pearce thought for a moment that, even if he doubted Grey could perform as he should and his pretentions to bovine abilities notwithstanding, an introduction to her might make his night. It was the eyes of Mrs Teale that changed his thinking. What better way to deflect her suspicions could there be than …

  ‘Chère Contessa, je suis désolé. Pardonnez-moi, je ne vous ai pas fait attention.’

  ‘I say, John, you do have a way with the old Crapaud lingo.’

  Ignoring Grey and still speaking in French, he insisted it was time they danced together, and with a degree of determination that surprised even her, he took her hand and led her out onto the floor, Grey’s voice in his ear but humorously so.

  ‘Damn you, Pearce, I had my eye on that filly.’

  The waltz being all the rage, he soon had his arm around her waist, to begin to swing her through the dance, every time he faced the battleaxe producing a big smile, a lean forward and a definite hint he was imparting something intimate.

  ‘What is it that you are up to?’

  ‘I have to admit a smokescreen.’

  ‘The lady to whose side you rushed is special to you, I think.’

  He was facing Teale, so he produced an unprovoked, false laugh, his word in the ear ploy used once more. ‘The child is mine.’

  That got him an amused look, which once more stirred uncomfortable thoughts, not aided by her quite heady perfume. ‘Were you careless?’

  ‘If I was, I have no regrets,’ he said firmly, before explaining to her, through several dances, the whole affair, though not the ramifications of the consequences but, and this was the hard part, the difference between what passed as acceptable in England as against what was the modus vivendi in Italy.

  ‘There’s a lady over your shoulder who, when I spin you, will be looking at us with some concentration.’ The turn was swift and smooth. ‘Do you see her?’

  ‘Who could fail to? Though I have seen cliff faces of a more becoming nature. And do not assume what you call normal in Italy is the case outside the class to which I belong. It is not unknown for Tuscan fathers to kill their own daughters if they disgrace the family name.’

  ‘Barbarous.’

  ‘So you are seeking to deflect her curiosity?’ A nod, then another of those disconcerting smiles, her words larded with mischief. ‘I am bound to ask how far you are willing to take that.’

  ‘I have no idea,’ he replied truthfully.

  That got a pealing laugh, one loud enough to carry to the Teale ear. ‘Which means you have no idea if you are English?’

  ‘I know I am not,’ he replied, not bothering to name his patrimony.

  ‘Then it is possibly time I called for my carriage. It can only aid your screen of smoke if we are seen to depart together.’

  The response was a sigh; his mind might tell him one thing, his body was telling him another.

  There was no racing through the streets in his shirt this time, but Pearce did have to hurry, as well as engage a local bumboat to get him out to HMS Flirt. The feelings of guilt only really assailed him in that boat. He had been too pressed for time to consider how he had betrayed Emily and at such a delicate moment, while telling himself it had been justified hardly cut the mustard. But then, to his mind and morals, there was nothing untoward in once more sharing the Contessa’s bed, and given his lack of recent congress, he had been a hearty and more than one-time lover.

  It was also a very new expedience to a fellow who had never previously had to worry about fidelity. In all his escapades, he had consorted with women who never pressed for such a promise and might have been, in fact, deterred from receiving him if they thought him too serious. And that brought to him that all his previous lovers had been married and experienced. Emily might have been the former, but she was certainly not the latter.

  If he acceded to her desire to wait three years before he could even begin to court her, what had just taken place would not be a one-off event. He was a man, and if he was out of Emily’s orbit, which he would have to be to remain even partially sane, temptation was bound to arise and it would not need the basilisk eye of a Mrs Teale to ensure he succumbed.

  Such reflections had to be put aside as the bumboat, rather untidily, bumped into the side of the brig, which got him a glare from the ship’s carpenter, Brad Kempshall, on deck and carrying out repairs.

  ‘Damned Italians,’ Pearce called in a jolly voice, knowing they would not understand and that Kempshall, with the British tar’s disdain for foreigners of any hue, would be pleased by it. ‘Can’t ply an oar to save themselves.’

  ‘If they bump this barky again it’ll be their damn saints they’ll need, for I shall skin them.’

  He leapt aboard, not only sated, but ready to dash down a quick cup of coffee and avoid answering any questions from Michael O’Hagan regarding where he had been, only informing him of Emily’s condition and that the baby was due, which had the Irishman crossing himself again.

  ‘May the Holy Mother of God see over her.’

  ‘You will be pleased to know the fellow whose care she is in is one of your fellow countrymen, name of Flaherty.’

  Michael grinned as six bells rang, which meant Pearce had to be on deck well before the first hint of daylight. ‘Then half the work is done.’

  Apart from Digby, Pearce was the only officer who took his place without a hangover, to look his captain in the eye and dare him to say anything. Both Conway and Grey were bleary-eyed and suffering badly, that rendered even more uncomfortable when Digby gave orders to get ready for sea. Tempted to ask when these orders had been received, that died in his throat as did every question to his captain.

  He had no choice but to put into practice what was required, noting that HMS Troubadour was also preparing to pluck her anchor, which meant the instruction had come from the commodore before the ball had even begun. There was no point in being irritated, certainly no possibility he would give Digby the satisfaction of showing it, and he then wondered if his captain had departed the Archbishop’s Palace knowing what had occurred with Emily. Surely yes, but was he au fait enough with the travails of childbirth to smoke what came next.

  It was a wistful John Pearce who looked over the side as they were hauled over their anchor, the stomp and go on the capstan sounding steady as it came up from ’tween decks, the fiddler’s scraping bow less cheering. The topmen were aloft, darting about in their usual cavalier fashion, to loose the canvas that sheeted home began to draw, this as the man on the wheel spun the rudder to aim the prow for the harbour entrance.

  The sky was grey again with dark clouds over the distant hills dense enough to obscure them completely, which reflected his mood. Howe
ver, no amount of staring could get his gaze through the walls of the pensione where, at that moment, attended by Flaherty and the wife and daughter of the proprietor, Emily, screaming in pain and being urged to push in both English and Italian, gave birth to a baby boy.

  The cord was cut, the sole of the feet slapped to bring forth the first yelling complaint of the next generation of Pearce’s family, and had he been present – not in the room, for that would have been frowned upon and considered odd – he would have been furious when the doctor said to Emily, ‘Mrs Barclay, you have a son, and one I take leave to suggest your late husband would have been proud of.’

  When the child was washed, and Emily’s needs taken care of, it was swaddled and handed over for his mother to cradle in her arms. Then and only then, through her exhaustion and continuing pain, could Emily whisper in one tiny ear.

  ‘Welcome to the world, Adam John Pearce.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  It was back to the slog of endless patrolling off the Ligurian coast, the tedious business of interdicting shipping to ensure their cargoes were as the manifest said and not supplies destined for the French. They were still in their defensive lines and no doubt suffering, but not as much as their opponents. The situation in the lower Alps was much worse for the coalition forces.

  They had to guard the passes the French could use to march into Italy. Away from the coast the temperature dropped alarmingly, while the weather was ten times worse the higher the elevation. It was reported soldiers were dying at their posts from the cold, or falling asleep during blizzards to be buried in drifts.

  The weather was not pleasant at sea either. If the sun shone it meant a biting north-east wind. When absent, those same leaden skies that so depressed the spirits were prevalent and that was without the permafrost of gloom brought on by the relationship between Digby and John Pearce, though the captain’s oddities no longer excited much comment; everyone was, by now, accustomed to them.

  Pearce had the added distraction of Emily. She must have given birth by now and he was concerned for how she had fared. This was mixed, of course, with short bouts of self-justification or remorse for his betrayal. In more melancholic moments, he imagined her dead from the shock of childbirth, an all-too-common fate in his recollection, added to which babies too often struggled to survive the event as well as the attendant sickness to which they were very prone.

  To that was added the feeling of isolation, so the sight of HMS Agamemnon on the horizon was welcome indeed. She closed, then let fly her sheets, to request both Digby and Babbage, the master and commander of HMS Troubadour, to repair on board. This gave Pearce an opportunity to seek news, so he sailed Flirt as close to the sixty-four as was prudent, then hove to so that he could exchange shouts with her quarterdeck.

  Nelson’s premier, Martin Hinton, was on deck and he got a greeting. With him stood William Hoste, still hobbling on his sticks yet doing his duty, for it would be weeks before his leg healed. Pearce addressed his enquiries to the youngster and if it sounded like extended commiseration, it soon turned into a request for news of events in Leghorn.

  ‘Sir John Jervis has taken the Wynne family on board Victory.’

  ‘Whatever for?’

  The look on Hoste’s face did not match his words. ‘Kindness, I imagine.’

  The implication seemed obvious; the old rogue had been anxious for the company of the girls at the ball, which was odd given his reputation for being crusty and a confirmed bachelor. Clearly, Jervis had enjoyed it so much he wished to continue, but that was of no account in the pursuit of what Pearce really required, which was a long time in coming.

  ‘Oh, and Sir John stood as godfather to Mrs Barclay’s boy.’

  ‘It has to be said on a decent barky that would call for an extra tot of rum.’

  This pronouncement came from Michael O’Hagan, listening to the exchange, as was the entire crew who were scarce in ignorance of what Pearce sought. He also took the liberty, in full view of his shipmates, of slapping his friend on the back, before turning to the fellow who called for three cheers to tell him to hold his tongue. What was known on the brig could not be shared with the crew of Nelson’s ship or any other.

  ‘Did you get a name?’ Pearce asked, with some trepidation. ‘I know Mrs Barclay quite well.’

  ‘Adam John, I think, sir. Baptised in the font of St George’s with a real crowd present, every officer who could attend and all the English community of Leghorn.’

  It was hard for Pearce to hear that and hold his tone of mere curiosity, given his heart was swelling, feeling too the prick of tears in the corners of his eyes. He was the father of a son, yet Emily had agreed to a swift baptism. Did that portend a weakness in the child? He could not ask.

  ‘Well, I daresay the whole fleet is pleased for her.’

  ‘Lusty little brat, by all accounts, Mr Pearce. He yelled fit to shake the rafters when they wetted his head.’

  ‘Healthy, then?’

  ‘Full of vim.’

  Digby and Babbage appeared by the gangway, wrapped in heavy oilskin cloaks, which brought the exchange to an end. The sea was running too strong for use of the entry port so they were obliged to descend to their waiting boats, which put off on the heavy swell to row the short distance to their respective ships, not without difficulty. By the time a spume-splattered Digby was back aboard, Agamemnon had reset her course and was pulling away, Hinton with his hat raised.

  ‘Mr Pearce, you will oblige me by containing yourself. It was embarrassing to be in the company of Commodore Nelson and have you yelling away like a fishwife and I will not refer openly to the purpose.’

  ‘Even you cannot help being pleased for Mrs Barclay.’

  This was accompanied by a wide grin. If Digby had cared to look, and he sought to avoid it, there were men grinning all over the deck. Even not seen, it was sensed.

  ‘I think it our duty to be back about our task.’

  Still scowling, he left the deck and the brig was put back on course with a very happy premier on the quarterdeck. How he would have liked to have obliged Michael’s notion of an extra tot, but that kind of distribution was not within his gift. He was determined to celebrate in private and ordered that a bottle of good Tuscan wine be opened and allowed to breathe.

  Just coming off duty at this time of year was a pleasure, to be out of the wind and exposed to an immediate feeling of warmth. As usual, the stove was hot, and with only one chair and no space he gave that to Michael and sat on his cot as they both drank to mother and child, naturally speculating on what had happened since they departed Leghorn.

  ‘Mr Pearce, sir, captain requires you on deck.’

  ‘I will join him shortly, Mr Conway.’

  ‘The order was at once, sir.’

  It would have been easy to shout at the youngster, but what was the point? He had delivered the message he had been given and there had also been a bit of a wobble in his voice on the second part, which told Pearce he had been a reluctant mouthpiece for what was an unnecessary command. He drained the wine in his glass, O’Hagan immediately doing likewise.

  ‘I’ll stop the bottle for later.’

  ‘No, Michael,’ Pearce replied, beginning to wrap himself in layers of clothing, ‘finish it if you wish.’

  ‘Sure you’re always at me for my drinking, are you not? Now here you’re telling me to.’

  ‘I know your capacity and there’s scarce enough left for me to worry. And we are celebrating, are we not?’

  He was through the canvas, holding on to the memory of the times he had seen his friend drunk and they were far from pleasant. Seriously in his cups, O’Hagan commonly wanted to fight the world and no one was safe within the orbit of his fists. That left a frown on his face as he came on deck to exchange looks with Digby, who obviously took the expression as being aimed at him, which brought forth a blast.

  ‘When I say at once, Mr Pearce, it does not mean at your convenience.’ The object did not deign to reply; he co
uld not be bothered. ‘If you care to look over the starboard quarter, you will see we have work to do.’

  He was right, a fact which sank Pearce’s heart. There to the south-east were the topsails of what appeared to be three large merchant vessels and he knew he would be obliged to take the cutter and inspect them, which meant a soaking in this sea.

  ‘Signal from Troubadour, sir,’ Conway called, his eyes on their consort and the signal book in his hand. ‘We are to close and clear for action.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Digby responded. ‘They are traders, not warships.’

  This emerged before he realised he had spoken out loud, not that he would be heard beyond the quarterdeck for it was not any kind of bellow, more the normal level of a fellow talking to himself. No one nearby reacted, yet it was noted by John Pearce, given how contained Digby normally was in public.

  Babbage, being the senior, was obliged to give an order he clearly disagreed with and on this occasion his premier was inclined to agree. Merchant vessels were never a threat and if they showed reluctance to heave to, a single ball and a rising plume of white water was generally enough to make them comply. It could only be their size that had brought on the order, for they were deep-hulled vessels near to the size of an East Indiaman and they would thus have several cannon.

  Still in a reverie of drinking to the fact of fatherhood, it was some time before Pearce saw what must have stirred Babbage to clear both brigs as a precaution. The merchant vessels, clearly on course for Genoa, were flying no flags and that made them suspect. Having heard Pearce give the instruction to clear, Digby had his watch in his hand to time how long it took, a stern look on his face, one which was utterly wasted.

  He commanded men who knew well their duty and went about it efficiently, hampered if at all, only by the heavy swell, which rendered easy movement difficult. As soon as the task was complete, Pearce was ordered to haul in the cutter and take a boarding party to the nearest vessel. Troubadour would do likewise and the first completed would take the third.