A Treacherous Coast

by David Donachie

  This inspection Pearce carried out in the company of Hawker and Tobias Fuller, the clerk-cum-representative of the shipping company, who sailed with the vessel and would combine with him to keep the necessary records: what provender went to men for whom the navy was responsible, what went to the crew and was charged against the vessel’s owners. The list of ship’s stores as well as the quantity of wood and water had to be matched to the goods themselves before Pearce could be satisfied he was not being dunned, and he signed the various ledgers before it was time to inspect the ‘cargo’.

  Tarvit had been rigged out as a hospital ship, the patients already loaded. Thus she carried a surgeon who would be responsible for the welfare of the sick and wounded, some suffering from serious injuries, more from bodily afflictions too numerous to count. The surgeon also had the necessary loblolly boys to provide the care the patients needed. Looking at some of the cases, he wondered if they would indeed see home: there would be burials at sea, for sure, not a cheering thought.

  The rating patients were accommodated in hammocks on the open lower deck, but there was a screened-off portion with brand-new bulkheads for those of rank sufficient to justify a degree of isolation and/or privacy; in essence, two lieutenants to whom he declined to make himself known. In the forepeak were accommodated those seen as having a weakness of the mind and there, careful not to speak or be recognised, he found Henry Digby strapped to a swinging cot, talking to himself ten to the dozen; in addition, two other souls staring at the deck beams in mute silence.

  ‘You say you know him?’ asked the surgeon, who, with a strong West Country accent had been introduced as Stephen Byford.

  ‘Very well; too well,’ Pearce replied, going on to provide a filleted explanation. ‘Is there a chance he may recover his wits?’

  Byford shook his head, though he was quick to point out that little was known about afflictions of the character, never mind the causes. ‘Did not King George himself suffer from a cranial malady, yet we are told he is now once more of sound mind?’

  Tempted to say that was not an opinion many naval officers would agree with, Pearce held his tongue. He also declined to share his own doubts about royal sanity. To do so would impress: how many people could say they had met King George? He could not decide if silence was driven by a desire not to show away or a feeling that denigrating the sovereign might not go down too well, given the enthusiasm in Byford’s voice when he mentioned the King.

  Michael found him outside the Bedlam berth – that name was given it by Byford – to ask for money to stock the bare larder. He needed to go ashore in the company of the ship’s cook and lay in some private stores, and enumerated a list: wine, cheeses, smoked hams. When he got to eggs his friend lost patience.

  ‘Enough, Michael, go and purchase what you need, enough to get us to Gibraltar.’

  The key to the sea chest was handed over and the Irishman told to help himself to money. There was no shortage of funds: Pearce had the coinage paid to him in Brindisi from the action in the Gulf of Ambracia, very little of which he had been able to spend.

  ‘You’re a trusting soul, indeed, Lieutenant Pearce,’ Byford exclaimed, when Michael had departed. ‘I’m not sure I would be handing over such access to a servant of mine.’

  ‘That is because you don’t know him as I do.’

  An inspection in the company of Hawker and the carpenter showed she was sound of hull, though some of the running rigging was in a poor state. Wear and tear to wood, canvas and cordage had to be recorded, the cost passed to the Navy Board for reimbursement and there was enough evidence of that to be just accepted. This, once he and Hawker had compiled a list, had him going ashore with the clerk, Fuller, first to beard Captain Urquhart and see if he could acquire some of his precious and hoarded stores, next to visit Emily at the pensione d’Agastino.

  ‘I have ships of war in want of even a nail,’ Urquhart barked. ‘What makes you think I will accede to your request? This commissariat is here to provide for the King’s Navy. If you want anything for a chartered ship, you go to a ship’s chandler.’

  ‘It would save paperwork, Captain Urquhart. These are bills which fall to the navy to pay. It would be easier if the navy just provided, would it not?’

  ‘For you, perhaps, Pearce, not for me. I have no mind to have the Admiralty clerks damning my accounts.’

  ‘It would help to get rid of me,’ Pearce replied gaily, sure he was flogging a dead horse. ‘Fit me out and I will be on my way home, never to darken your door again.’

  The notion obviously appealed, because on that unsmiling visage the lips moved a fraction, but nothing was forthcoming so off they went in search of another way to be supplied. To purchase from a ship’s chandler, the money first had to be acquired from the company’s agent and that could only be done by Fuller. Pearce, impatient and getting more so, found himself visiting the bureau of none other than Mr Pollock, to whom he had been introduced at the ball and this allowed some gentle enquiries about Emily.

  ‘A woman of grace and beauty, sir,’ Pollock responded, to then assume that air of conspiracy that passes for safe exchange between men discussing any subject deemed lubricious, dropping his voice to do so. ‘I think you would not be surprised if I said that were I not a wedded husband, Mrs Barclay is a woman who would not want for my lack of attention.’

  ‘And the child?’ Pearce asked, annoyed.

  ‘A small price to pay for such a reward,’ Pollock stated, before again dropping his voice as if imparting a confidence. ‘Why, sir, you know her, I recall, and I doubt any man who has clapped eyes on the lady would wonder at her in a situation of delicate congress.’

  ‘I think we came to access some funds,’ Pearce replied, his irritation showing. ‘Mr Fuller, would you please deal with this and expeditiously? I will wait outside.’

  ‘Prickly lot, these tars,’ Pollock said to Fuller, when Pearce had vacated the room.

  Buying cordage on Pollock’s credit was the simple part; getting it delivered to the ship was not, the chandler insisting it would have to be fetched from his warehouse and that could not be done until morning. Pleas from Pearce that he was desperate fell on deaf Italian ears, as well as a raft of gestures and excuses, many of which did not add much to elucidation. He was tempted to take out his sword, only to reckon it would cause a rumpus and that he did not want. He wished to slip his mooring quietly, not with a noise.

  ‘Mr Fuller, I bid you go back aboard. I have one more chore to perform of a private nature.’

  The look that got from the man, small, ginger-haired, with rimmed spectacles and bad skin, spoke volumes: he assumed the private nature to be carnal, which had Pearce wishing the fellow was correct, albeit not in visiting a bordello. It was dark by the time he got to the pensione and could announce himself to the owner, asking for Mrs Barclay.

  ‘Partito questo pomeriggio.’ That answer was accompanied by a wide gesture, with Pearce struggling to make sense of what he was being told, and that took several additional enquiries and much gesticulation to solve.

  ‘Gone where?’ led to more confusion.

  ‘A prendere la nave.’

  That Pearce understood, being close to French, but it did not get him very far, because the owner, having said she was going aboard a ship, had no idea which one she was travelling on. Out in the harbour there were a dozen flying Union flags. Whichever vessel, it was must be weighing in short order: Emily, with a newborn child, surely would not go aboard prematurely. The only people who would possess that information were in the harbour master’s office. They required to be paid by ships anchoring in Livorno up to the time of departure. It would have been a solution except when he got there, he found it closed.

  To return to Tarvit or stay ashore? The latter seemed sensible, even if he had to admit what he was after might have already weighed while he was trying to sort out stores for the vessel he now commanded. Recollection of coming ashore provided no enlightenment; he had not been paying attention to such
things as ships plucking their anchor and this put him in a quandary. The chandler was supposed to be delivering his cordage and canvas first thing in the morning, but you did not have to be in Italy long to realise that time was, to the locals, a mutable concept. ‘First thing’ could mean sometime before dark unless the fellow was chivvied early.

  The conclusion took him back to the pensione d’Agastino and a set of rooms for the night, oddly the very same chambers so recently occupied by Emily, though having been cleaned they retained scant evidence of her presence. A heightened imagination made it seem to him as if there was a miasma of her being there, her scent and that of a baby and he went to sleep feeling as though she was there, sharing the bed, the baby in a basket beside them, to sleep as well as his infant son. He woke in the same manner as Adam John, early and needing food.

  Bill satisfied and having been fed, he was outside the harbour master’s office, which serving sailors opened early, to find himself in a queue for attention as newly arrived captains haggled for a mooring fee, and others – and these he took note of regardless of nationality – settled accounts prior to departure.

  His request being an unusual one, it took time to explain, longer to get a response. Why did he want to know? Was there some form of criminality in his enquiry? Finally, he found that the good ship Nevern, out of London, had plucked its anchor at mid afternoon the day before, taking advantage of an advantageous wind.

  He also got the information that no other British vessels were due to depart for days and none, as far as they knew, were destined for home. If it was chastening, at least he knew which vessel she was likely to be on and Tarvit might overhaul her, especially if he could get away soon. Luckily, he was not required to settle an account; that was a bill that went to Urquhart’s Navy Board.

  It took half the morning to get the ship’s chandler to fulfil his obligation and no fewer than a dozen hints he might resort to violence. Finally, the purchases were on the quayside, where the Italian purveyor began to haggle for a boat of a hull size sufficient to carry them. While the sod was engaged in bargaining, the usual cacophony of guns announced the arrival of another King’s ship. Since he had seen much of her in recent actions, he knew it to be HMS Inconstant.

  There had been, and still were, several cutters landing people, officers included. Gunfire had them stop, stare and congregate and it was not long before one of their number, satisfied with naming the newcomer, realised the reprobate John Pearce was along the same quay and pointed him out. Pearce had been in the Mediterranean a long time, had visited many ships and been visible from the quarterdeck of too many others, so his identity was no mystery and nor was the attitude of those blue coats now staring at him in an unfriendly way.

  That did have him draw his sword – he had to get a move on – to put an end to the endless price negotiation, wringing of hands, emotional pleas and slapping of Italian foreheads. He assumed it would do nothing for his reputation: to be seen waving his sword at a civilian, who cowered in a manner that would not have disgraced a thespian. The scene would be recounted throughout the fleet to further diminish what little standing he enjoyed.

  It was a fiery and impatient John Pearce who got the supplies loaded and if he upset Hawker by his manner, his order to weigh immediately was so brusque he was required to apologise, using the excuse of an old acquaintance on Nevern who he wagered he would beat home. This did little to temper the looks he was getting from the crew, if you excepted Charlie and Rufus, who were full of smiles.

  In supervising the weighing of the ship, he was joined on deck by O’Hagan, who got a more honest explanation.

  ‘Holy Mary, all you need to do is beat her to Gib, John-boy.’

  ‘I must try to catch her before she gets home, Michael. Once there and back amongst her own, I’ll never persuade her to abandon her silly notions.’

  ‘Sure, you’ll struggle even then, if I know the lady.’

  The anchor was plucked and Hawker gave orders to set more sail, a task carried out with none of the haste of the King’s Navy. Pearce was obliged to raise his hat to the quarterdeck of Victory, which did not elicit a like response, no more than a slow hand to a scraper. He realised that apart from appearances he was superfluous, though he felt he should stay on deck till Tarvit cleared the harbour entrance.

  ‘We have coffee, I take it, Michael?’

  ‘Enough to get us to the Caribbean.’

  ‘Then get the water boiling, my friend.’ Pearce lifted his head to air redolent of fresh seawater; the stink of the port, of human waste and rotting food, was fading. ‘And let us take pleasure in our freedom.’

  ‘Minutes it will be, John-boy. Do you wish to take it on deck, your honour?’

  The salutation got a grin. ‘In my cabin, Michael, please. Mr Hawker, may I leave you the deck?’

  ‘Aye, she will sail easy on this wind.’

  ‘Call me if you require my presence.’

  The look that got implied pigs might fly, so Pearce made his way to his cabin, to open the door and find a smiling Emily sitting in a captain’s chair, in her lap their swaddled child, behind her, a grinning Michael O’Hagan. Pearce’s jaw dropped; his Pelicans had known all along, hence the smiles on deck, which left him speechless.

  ‘John, Admiral Jervis offered me free passage home, as the widow of a deserving officer. He did, however, warn me to have a care of you, for you are, he says, a scoundrel.’

  ‘I will revise my opinion of the man.’

  ‘I’ll be after making that coffee, John-boy,’ O’Hagan said, going straight off to his pantry and leaving them alone.

  Emily stood as he moved to kiss her, only to be commanded to take from her his son. Cradled in his arms, he bent to kiss the child, noting the perfect features in miniature and feeling for the first time in many a day that the future was one of hope and happiness. There was a look in Emily’s eye as she added, ‘I hope you will not object that I chose to occupy a part of your cabin, Mr Pearce?’

  ‘Damned effrontery,’ he replied as he bent to kiss her cheek.

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  About the Author

  David Donachie was born in Edinburgh in 1944. He has always had an abiding interest in the naval history of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries as well as the Roman Republic, and, under the pen-name of Jack Ludlow, has published a number of historical adventure novels. David lives in Deal with his partner, the novelist Sarah Grazebrook.

  By David Donachie

  The John Pearce series

  By the Mast Divided • A Shot Rolling Ship

  An Awkward Commission • A Flag of Truce

  The Admirals’ Game • An Ill Wind

  Blown Off Course • Enemies at Every Turn

  A Sea of Troubles • A Divided Command

  The Devil to Pay • The Perils of Command • A Treacherous Coast

  Written as Jack Ludlow

  The Last Roman series

  Vengeance

  Honour

  Triumph

  The Republic series

  The Pillars of Rome

  The Sword of Revenge

  The Gods of War

  The Conquest series

  Mercenaries

  Warriors

  Conquest

  The Roads to War series

  The Burning Sky

  A Broken Land

  A Bitter Field

  The Crusades series

  Son of Blood

  Soldier of Cr
usade

  Prince of Legend

  Hawkwood

  Copyright

  Allison & Busby Limited

  12 Fitzroy Mews

  London W1T 6DW

  allisonandbusby.com

  First published in 2016.

  This ebook edition first published in Great Britain by Allison & Busby in 2016.

  Copyright © 2016 by David Donachie

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  The moral right of the author is hereby asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent buyer.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from

  the British Library.

  ISBN 978–0–7490–2057–6