The Perils of Command

by David Donachie

  To make a point he reached down and raised his cutlass, examining the blade for sharpness before replacing it, adding the bottle, which he jammed under the thwart, to then reconnect with his eyes and a steady stare: there was still no expression in response that would hint at feelings.

  The sun was not yet where it needed to be so a hand waved up and down slowed the pace as Pearce pondered on what he had to accomplish. The time window was tight; in the Mediterranean it went from dusk to full nightfall very quickly and he had no desire to be within easy sight of the flagship before making his approach, albeit he could see her clearly.

  At single anchor Britannia had swung on the falling tide, small as that was, so that the route to get Peabody and his lot out and into a boat was going to be near invisible to the marine piquet cutter. That was rowing back and forth between the flagship and the quayside, so he employed the tiller to give it a wide berth. Another factor with timing was the fear that the smugglers would think he had not fulfilled his promise and they might resort to murder out of frustration.

  Watching the sun dip into the west he waved furiously as the rim hit the horizon and was rewarded with a pleasing reaction as the rate of rowing really picked up, for these two brutes were well muscled. With tiller and pointing hand he was approaching the side of Britannia at a lick, counting the larboard gun ports so that he could come alongside the right one.

  That was a hope made difficult for, as he had anticipated, the traders, singers, fiddlers and whores were being chucked off the ship, their boats crowding the side as well as the waters in between, which meant Pearce had to gesticulate much and work the tiller hard to avoid a collision for he dare not shout too loud, even if there seemed to be plenty of noise to cover it. Drawing attention to himself was not a good idea.

  Peabody was half leaning out of his gun port, which effectively precluded it being used by anyone else, and even at fifty yards Pearce could see the anxious expression on his face, one that was swift to evaporate. He took a risk and lifted and waved his hat high in the air to draw the ex-smuggler’s attention, a clenched fist in response assuring him it had been seen. Then Peabody disappeared.

  In a babble of noisy Italian, or whatever local dialect the Tuscans spoke, Pearce had his Bulgars get alongside. Their oars having been shipped, he was obliged to use his hands on the rough planking to edge the boat along till he could himself lean through the right port. There he saw the quartet hastily donning various gaudy pieces of cloth, none of which went to a full garment.

  As he had hoped and expected, the women were being removed – and that was being carried out forcibly, with much yelling, cursing and the odd high-pitched scream. The marines being now fully occupied in that task it would be possible to get his party out unobserved, but no one was going anywhere until he knew that nipper was safe and he told them so.

  ‘You’se in no position to make demands, Pearce,’ Peabody spat.

  ‘And you are going nowhere until I see him alive.’

  It was one of his companions that urged Peabody to comply, indeed he did not wait for a response but directed the other two to haul off the canvas and fetch the lad out. Pearce ducked back and used his hat to cover the lower half of his face, not very visible anyway, he suspected, as it was now getting dark outside.

  The still terrified youngster was on his feet now, the gag and the knots binding him being undone. Faintly he could hear Peabody issuing dire threats of retribution should he speak of his ordeal, those repeated by his companions until the lad was finally released to run as fast as he could away from his tormentors. If he blabbed, and he might, it was hoped they would be well clear before anyone reacted.

  The smugglers did not delay, yet Pearce was still barking at them to move, for the wailing of the trollops was diminishing, a sound they would cease to utter once they were in a boat and it was pointless. Pearce had to hold the boat steady to the side of the warship to allow it to be boarded, without the pressure creating a dangerous gap. With panic-driven swiftness and any number of curses at the scrapes endured, he soon had the smugglers aboard and was able to signal to the Bulgars to fend off and row.

  The problem now was from above; as they came out of the protection of the ship’s tumblehome anyone on deck would be able to look down and see them and as yet it was not dark enough to make them invisible. Sat with his back to Britannia, Pearce hunched his shoulders having a real feeling of eyes boring into his back, for if it went awry now one cutlass was going to be of scant use.

  Slowly, for he signalled his oarsmen to row steady, the boat pulled away from the ship, Pearce using the tiller to get in amongst the locals’ bumboats and barges wherein he would be hard to spot. Now his problem was that marine cutter, which had a man standing upright to direct the local boats to pass close to him so he could see who was aboard, this being a good time for desertion.

  Pearce steered a sideways course, he having no desire to encounter the man who might be an officer from the flagship and who could know his face from wardroom intimacy. More importantly, he would be well aware that he was not on the flagship’s muster. His act on the tiller got a suspicious comment from Peabody.

  ‘It is time you shut up, man,’ came the sharp reply. ‘I am carrying out my part of your devilish bargain and I would remind you that without my being in this boat it will be stopped by the first piquet cutter we approach.’

  ‘And we knows you can dish us, too.’

  ‘If I thought I could easily explain what I am about I would be tempted. But what is keeping you safe now is no threat of yours. It is another bargain I have had to make and one that it would be foolish of me to ignore.’

  It was close to dark by the time he waved to his Bulgars and employed the tiller and oars to set the boat on course for the shore, and given the time that took they were now separated from any other craft. Pearce issued a demand that the smugglers sing, though what emerged was so feeble one of the Bulgars grinned, showing the gaps in his teeth, which brought from Pearce a furious demand that Peabody and his ilk act as if they were drunk. He nagged them until they were bellowing out their song, a raucous and bawdy sea shanty.

  He grabbed the bottle from under the thwart and hauled out the cork with his teeth, tipping it over the side so that half the contents spilt. He then put it to his lips and allowed enough of a trickle to enter his throat to make him smell of having consumed. This was in case they got so close to the marines he was required to breathe on them. That done he began to sing too and deliberately well off key.

  ‘Ahoy there, who goes?’

  The last of the dusk required a lantern be held aloft, while underneath that light was the scarlet coat and white waistcoat of a marine. Pearce paid close attention to the details and was able to see that this was no officer – it was not a duty such men relished. He surmised instead a corporal or sergeant and that was to the good. The next positive was that in coming from a different direction it would be a piquet from a vessel other than Britannia.

  ‘Lieutenant Barclay,’ he yelled, seeking to sound very inebriated, ‘off Old Ironsides, don’t ye know.’ Then he growled for the noise had diminished. ‘Keep singing, damn you.’

  ‘Ironsides? Where in the name of Christ are you headed, sir?’

  ‘Ashore man, to take my pleasures. And I would ask you to attend to your manners and belay the blasphemy. Whom am I addressing?’

  ‘Corporal Needham, sir, off St George.’

  ‘I come from Illustrious.’

  ‘Then how come you are dining aboard, sir?’

  They were getting close and Pearce had to hiss to the smugglers to slow the oarsmen. ‘I suspect an unsteady hand on the tiller, Corporal, and can blame no one other than myself.’

  ‘I would be obliged, sir, if you would come to where I can see you.’

  ‘Certainly, my man, and if I come close enough you may take a drop from this very fine bottle of wine I have. It saddens me there will scarce be enough for you all. How many men do you command?’

&n
bsp; ‘Eight plus myself, sir.’

  ‘Not a pleasant duty, what?’

  ‘Necessary, sir, as you will know.’

  Pearce had been holding the tiller and crouching. Now he stood so that was held by his shins and raised the bottle, wondering if his coat and the flagon could be seen for they were on the very edge of the pool of light. The corporal was in plain view under the held-up lantern and Pearce released the breath he found himself holding as the man got into a confused state. He was obliged to pass the lantern, thus lowering it, so he could put a hand to his tricorne hat in a form of salute. He had seen Pearce’s blue coat and white breeches but that lowered lantern put the rest of the party out of sight.

  That was when Pearce appeared to fall over, a howl of pain emerging to be followed by a stream of curses aimed at the crew of the boat, the next words threats of dire punishment for their inability to hold the boat steady.

  ‘Haul away, damn you, and row proper or I’ll have your hides.’ The bottle was raised high again and Pearce shouted out. ‘I bid you good evening, Corporal.’

  ‘Sir, I—’

  He never got the words out. Pearce issued a loud and repeated order to row and put your backs into it, there being a fine filly waiting for him in the nearest bawdy house. Would Needham insist he stop? That was the risk, and despite the differing ranks Pearce would be obliged to obey him for his task was one with authority. His next shout was to confuse the man.

  ‘You have done your duty, Corporal, and I will make it my business to let your captain know the next time I dine in his company. And may God grant that you get your just reward for your Spanish captures.’

  The hope was that such a thought would be enough to distract him and his men. He hoped to turn their thoughts to the rewards that would come their way once the value of the Spanish plate ship captured by St George two years previously was granted, as every sailor thought it should be.

  The navy was adamant that Admiral Gell, his flag captain and crew, were due the prize money and that the Spanish captures were not Droits of the Crown, as claimed by a greedy government. Said to be worth close to a million pounds in specie, it had been the talk of every wardroom ever since the news came of the capture, eyes going glossy at the prospect of such a windfall.

  Pearce was back on the tiller, making sure the boat stayed on the very edge of the circle of light, holding his breath again as they passed the stern of the marine cutter. He was now signing with as much gusto as he could muster, this from a throat so dry he could feel the rasp and that had to be maintained until they were well clear and he could set the tiller for the lights he knew to be those around the privateer’s harbour.

  Out of easy earshot he took his cutlass in his hand and there was now a bit of moon and enough starlight to allow the waved blade to flash. He intended to talk and the only thing to ease his throat was the remainder of the wine, the bottle laid back by his feet as soon as it was finished, for that too was a potential weapon.

  ‘I am now going to tell you a tale.’

  ‘Spare us, Pearce, and don’t think that cutlass will stand against four, for we have cause to take our due for what you stole out of Gravelines.’

  ‘And so say we all,’ another voice concurred.

  ‘Well said, Cephas,’ Peabody retorted.

  The response was delivered with a jauntiness Pearce did not feel. ‘I always had me down to be skewered when this was done but I reckon I could see to a pair of you afore you got close, so who is it going to be?’

  That was greeted with silence. ‘What is certain is that in this boat you would be pressed to come more than one at a time, so I am going to talk and you are going to have to listen.’

  He was as good as his word, going back to that theft and how it had come about as well as the outcome for him and his friends. He did not expect to be believed but it was the truth and one day it might come to be seen as that. It was a precaution: if these four wanted revenge they were not alone and he feared another coincidence that would put him in harm’s way in the future, not least with the men who used to employ them.

  ‘Let’s get onto dry land, for the sake of Christ,’ said the one called Cephas. ‘That’s a tale for a feeble mind.’

  ‘Even if I am minded to do you a favour?’

  ‘What favour could we want or take from you?’

  ‘We are headed to the port used by the Leghorn privateers. You may have heard tell of them, as well as the fact that many of them are English.’

  Silence again; perhaps they were ignorant of the fact just imparted.

  ‘I have no notion if licensed piracy is more or less profitable than smuggling but it will serve you better than being pressed men.’

  ‘Happen the navy will come fer us.’

  ‘There are people there who will forge for you certificates of exemption.’

  ‘Why you doin’ this, Pearce?’ That was Peabody’s voice.

  ‘Maybe because I was once a pressed seaman myself.’

  ‘Don’t believe it.’

  ‘I am going to hand you over to those who will employ you and it is my fond wish that the first time you are engaged in a capture you get your gullet slit. Before I came ashore I told the officer of the watch, Lieutenant Dinsdale – a particular friend of mine by the way – to look into a certain place if I did not return and he got my drift.’

  The curses were soft but obvious, which was to the good; they had taken the point.

  ‘Harm me and there will be King’s sailors by the hundred raiding this part of the port. I have also made sure the possibility is known to those with whom you will serve and the consequences of any action you take. I can assure you that if Admiral Hotham takes the opportunity to close down what he considers a nest of vipers, you will wish for your gullets to be cut so your end is quick.’

  ‘The devil resides in you,’ Peabody spat.

  ‘The devil does not exist but I do, and know this. I will be fully armed if I am ever in Leghorn again and should I see one of your faces it will be the death of you.’

  ‘You ain’t got the guts.’

  ‘To see you swing for desertion, I think I have. All I have to do is call out your name for you to be taken up and once you are back aboard Britannia, whoever has command of you will swear to your true status.’

  The boat was close to the privateer’s quay now and Pearce was on his feet to tell them so.

  ‘Make your minds up now.’ Their lack of any response was all he needed. ‘I will get off the boat first and depart. There is a tavern yonder called the Golden Hind. Go to it and ask for Mr Senyard and may it be my fate never to clap eyes on any of you ever again.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Michael O’Hagan did not go looking for Charlie Taverner and Rufus Dommet; they would return to the bathing house once their carousals were over and besides, what could they do that he could not? Instead he called at the Palazzo Sessa only to discover that the ambassador and his wife were attending another house and were not expected to return till late. Already familiar with the kitchens he went there to sit and wait and that was where Mrs Cadogan found him.

  ‘Best sleep,’ was her opinion, once the tale had been related to her, ‘there’s not much that can be done afore first light and I suspect little then.’

  It was a truth Michael was reluctant to accept and quick compliance was not required. The lady might be titled the housekeeper but she was Emma’s mother and was thus able to offer Michael a drink to ease his mind, not that he was to be allowed to consume that alone; Mrs Cadogan filled two goblets, not one.

  Naturally they talked for there was nothing standoffish about the lady, so she heard of a rural upbringing in Ireland with too many mouths to feed off poor soil – which drove Michael to seek his future elsewhere – and of roads travelled and much earth shovelled to turn them from potholed winter mud tracks full of ruts into profitable turnpikes laid with Mr McAdam’s black bitumen. In time such roads brought him to London.

  ‘The Great Wen,’ Mrs Cado
gan sighed. ‘All roads lead to there and not just for the Irish.’

  ‘Would I be seen as probing if I enquired from where you hail, lady?’

  ‘Lady, is it,’ she said with a soft laugh. ‘Not many have termed me that for long years past. I hailed from a village near Chester, which if you do not know it—’

  ‘Forgive me, I do not.’

  ‘Sufficient to say it is a long way from London, Michael.’

  ‘Sure, it pleases me you know my name.’

  ‘Have you not smoked that I am one to know what goes on around me? If I did not, the Chevalier would be a poorer man by many a dubloon.’

  ‘I dug ditches for the foundations of houses for the rich, Mrs Cadogan. I doubt you came to London for the same purpose.’

  ‘You would be right there. You have seen my daughter and I am sure noted her beauty. Would it surprise you to know that I was once considered as one such too?’

  It would have been easy to say yes; the skin was heavily wrinkled and if there had been beauty there it had long faded; easy, but not polite.

  ‘You have not lost the trace.’

  ‘You manage untruths easily, do you not?’

  There was no rancour in her tone, more amusement but then her face clouded and she began to speak of a life where a woman had little more than her charms by which to make her way. Michael knew that she was talking about her daughter as much as herself. That changed when she returned to the subject of Emily Barclay and how John Pearce would act when he heard what had happened.

  ‘Holy Mary, he will kill for her.’

  ‘Then he will hang for her too. Some rise to a better life, Michael, and some sink further by far than I have. I would say to Mr Pearce’s lady to forget him and make what life she can, for I sense Captain Barclay is not a poor man and love does not fill a belly.’

  ‘She is carrying John-boy’s child.’

  ‘I know,’ came the reply, delivered with an air that implied superior knowledge of the ways of the world than her Irish acquaintance, only to soften immediately. ‘A bairn fills a belly, that is sure, but is it right to let that child rule your life, eh?’