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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Serie: John Pearce
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013
Unbeknown to John Pearce, the private letter he is delivering on behalf of the prime minister carries the dismissal of the very man he is sailing to see. Politics intervene in matters of the sea and the need for a government majority to pursue the war with France means John Pearce must step down as Britain's best sailor, regretfully relinquishing the position to the incompetent Admiral Hotham. Hotham is equally less than pleased about John Pearce, as he is the one person who knows the truth about his dishonest and wicked naval career. Pearce knows Hotham will try and destroy him any way he can to keep from being exposed, so he must navigate the dangerous waters whilst trying to return to Emily Barclay, the woman he loves.
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A Divided Command
DAVID DONACHIE
To Laura and Olly who, if not related, feel very like family.
All the best for your coming wedding and for the arrival of your firstborn child, Sol
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
Sleep was fitful at best; there had been little wind for days and even inside the solid stone walls of the fortress of Calvi the high summer heat was oppressive, made more so by the number of men who now shared the limited space. To begin with Midshipman Toby Burns had occupied the cell on his own but in the weeks since his own capture the numbers of prisoners had grown. Officers of the three services, two navy, the rest army, as well as one marine, victims of many failed assaults on the formidable walls, had fallen into enemy hands, till they now numbered two dozen souls. At least as officers they were above ground, not a fate gifted to the common soldiers who shared their captivity; they were in a foetid dungeon.
Added to the stifling humidity were the other things that disturbed them, apart from merely being crowded into too small a space: the active vermin that shared each lumpy straw palliasse as well as the floor on which they were laid, these added to the number of flying and biting insects that seemed determined to feed on any exposed skin. Finally there were the rats, wary in daylight when the cell occupants were awake, bolder in the darkness of the night when the scrabbling of their tiny paws gave a fearful alert to their close presence.
For Toby Burns, when sleep was finally brought on by exhaustion, there was little respite, that being when he was exposed to the terror of his too vivid dreams. The things of which the youngster was frightened were legion and seemed to come to him in a tumbling panorama: shot and shell, naturally, to which he had been exposed too many times in his short naval career; the fear of drowning too, even if that had only nearly occurred once – yet still the memory haunted him. He would be struggling in the lashing waters that pounded the rocky shores of Brittany, sure he was about to die, until a strong adult hand grabbed him and hauled him on to the shore.
Then there would appear the disappointed faces of his parents, siblings and the people of his hometown, eager to castigate him for being less than an admirable representative of both their civic and family honour. How had they discovered he was not their acclaimed and much feted hero, but a liar and a coward?
Worst of all were the remembered faces of those he knew were out to get him maimed, killed or permanently locked up in prison. Admiral Hotham was very much of the former and allied to him was Toby’s uncle by marriage, Captain Ralph Barclay. Even his Aunt Emily, who had married Barclay and was kind in the flesh, became a termagant and an accuser in his heated nocturnal imaginings.
Worst of all was John Pearce, a man with nothing but malice in his heart for a youth who had acted against him, not out of the same emotion but from the pressure applied to him by adults who hated a fellow they feared might be their nemesis.
At times they were naught but voices, soft in their reproval of his actions, but as the sweat ran off his body to soak the straw and his visions became more troubled, these chimeras would begin to shout, turning often into slavering beasts that seemed to want to tear at his naked flesh.
Flight was impossible; try as he might to escape, his legs would not obey the instructions of his mind and soon his whole body would feel as if it was trapped in some huge web of tangled ropes, unable to get away, while those who sought to devour him came ever closer, their voices of contempt rising to a crescendo.
‘For the love of God, Burns, will you stop that damned caterwauling?’
It was not the sound of the complaint that brought Toby back to soaked wakefulness but the boot that kicked him, with scant gentility, in the ribs. Eyes open he had no initial idea where he was; the beamed ceiling could have been his attic bedroom or his old school dormitory, body blows being nothing unusual in the latter. Just then the boom of a cannon came through the barred slit in the wall, which brought him back fully to reality and, with a turn of his head, the glaring face of the naval lieutenant who had so rudely awakened him.
‘Leave the poor lad alone.’
The response to that remonstrance was the harsh growl of an angry man and a dry throat. ‘I cannot abide the noise, damn it.’
‘Yet I do not hear you curse our fellows on the high ground for setting off their cannon.’
Sitting upright, the grey light of dawn was enough to show Toby the two men in dispute, one a naval lieutenant called Watson, the other, the fellow defending him, a major of infantry. This knowledge of identity and rank came from previous contact, for neither man was wearing uniform; indeed, the marine was without even a shirt, his bare and hairy torso gleaming with sweat. The navy man was clothed in his long shirt, a piece of linen that no longer showed the least trace of the white it had once been, so stained was it with perspiration and accumulated filth.
The lieutenant was unrepentant. ‘Gunfire hints at salvation from this hellhole, sir, but the moans and screams of this fellow seem as portents of hell. I felt I was trying to sleep in Bedlam.’
‘Forgive me, sir,’ Toby croaked, ‘for if I do disturb you, I am not aware of my doing so.’
‘Thank the Lord I do not have to share a berth with you, Burns. I feel pity for your fellow mids if you behave in a similar manner aboard ship.’
The infantry major, a Scotsman who went by the name of Buchanan, was not listening; he had stepped over the still recumbent Toby to look out of a slot in the stonework that had once facilitated the firing of arrows, talking over his shoulder.
‘Are you so fixated on your annoyance, sir, that you cannot register the fact that our French friends have not responded – in short, they have not returned fire as they normally do?’
‘Perhaps,’ Watson spat, ‘they are allowed a better level of rest than that which is afforded to us – in short, they are still asleep.’
The next sound was not of a single cannon, but a salvo coming from a whole multitude of muzzles, as the whole of the besieging batteries opened up as one. That was followed by the combined whistles of their flight, then the various sounds as they struck home; sharp cracks on immoveable stone, dull repeated thuds if they bounced along the hard ground, the breaking of timbers and tiles if something less solid than fortress walls stood in their path, that whole cacophony followed by silence, which brought forth a whisper from Major Buchanan.
‘And still the French are idle.’ He turned to look at Toby, a wide smile on an unshaved face made bright red by heat. ‘It would seem to me we are approaching a crisis in the action, young sir. Happen it will not be long before you do get to test your dreams again in that ship’s berth.’
The rattle of keys brought all the occupants of the cell, Toby included, to their feet as the door swung open to reveal a sergeant bearing a pail. If the food they were about to receive was of poor quality, it was still sustenance and there was no other, even if payment was proffered. Yet more welcome was the fellow who came next with the water bucket and ladle, who cursed away in French as he sought to get the prisoners to form an orderly queue for a much needed drink.
There was another bucket in the room, the one that was used throughout the day, as well as the hours of darkness, for the prisoners to relieve themselves, and given their numbers it was near to overflowing with piss, while several turds floated alarmingly close to the lip. The French sergeant, once he had dished out his gruel, looked at it meaningfully, for that which was needed did not constitute a duty that fell to a gaoler.
‘When you are done eating, Burns, empty the slops,’ Watson ordered.
Buchanan raised his head from the wooden plate from which he was trying to scrape the last morsels of too little food. ‘Have I not suggested it should be a duty shared? It is not the turn of Mr Burns, who was obliged, I recall, to carry it out yesterday.’
‘He’s the lowest in rank, sir, and so it should fall to him by right. This is not some Jacobin Republic.’
As Toby Burns made to move and obey his naval superior, Buchanan snapped at him to stay still.
‘I do believe I have the seniority here and if I cannot get my way by agreement then I must insist on an imposition of authority. We are all equally prisoners and thus we will all take turns at emptying the slops.’ He looked directly at Watson. ‘And you, sir, will take the duty this day.’
There was a moment when Watson looked set to challenge the instruction, for no naval officer took readily to being ordered about by a bullock, whatever his rank. Making sure his reluctance was obvious, Watson picked up the slops bucket, and to drive home that his servility was not misconstrued, he made sure, as he passed Buchanan, that a small amount of the yellow liquid spilt onto the major’s scuffed shoes.
‘Splendid,’ Buchanan cried, his broad face now alight; he was obviously determined not to be put out by such a deliberate and calculated insult. ‘The Romans used piss for the purpose of cleaning, so how can I object to being obliged to employ the same when I have no boot black to hand! No doubt it is as much a naval tradition to wallow in piss as it was to the ancients.’
What followed Watson out of the cell door was laughter, not the silent approval he had clearly hoped for from a group of mainly redcoats, he and Toby Burns being the only sailors.
‘Do you really think we are approaching a crisis, sir?’ asked Toby.
‘The French still do not respond, young fellow, which leads me to suspect they are short of both powder and shot. If they are low on that, it is safe, I think, to assume they will be short on other essentials, food especially, for they have the population of the town to feed as well as the garrison. If that is the case, then they have no choice but to parley for an honourable conclusion or face starvation.’
‘I do so hope you are correct, sir, for I have spent more time cooped up here than anyone.’
‘True,’ Buchanan replied; he had only arrived two days previously, having become isolated following an assault that had carried one of the major French outworks. ‘And I have to say I have found your nocturnal screams a bore, making me wonder what it is that so troubles you when you close your eyes?’
That had Toby floundering; he could hardly allude to his fear of death or mutilation in battle, that would never do, and nor did he want to mention anyone from his own family as the stuff of his nightmares. To allude to Admiral Hotham or even his Uncle Ralph, a full post captain well above three years in seniority, was to open a tub of worms best left sealed. So the name he mumbled was the only one that he could safely think to use.
‘There is a fellow called John Pearce, sir, he comes to me in the night and never fails to induce terror.’
‘He must be something of a monster, lad, to affect you so?’
‘Oh, he is that, sir,’ Toby replied with real venom, quite overlooking the fact that Pearce owned the hand that had once saved him from drowning. ‘A true Gorgon.’
The vessels of the Mediterranean Fleet stood at single anchor in the Bay of San Fiorenzo, proof of the sound nature of the sheltered haven as well as the depth of water beneath and surrounding their keels; they could swing 360 degrees on the tide without fear of grounding. From first rates to frigates they were well lit by the blazing sunshine and, after a sudden downpour that had left the air clean and dropped the temperature several degrees, they provided, at a distance, a stirring and impressive sight, even to one as jaundiced about such things as Lieutenant John Pearce.
That impression faded somewhat the closer he came to a proper view, for proximity showed that the loose sails now flapping and drying in the wind were far from the pristine canvas they had once been, no longer a smooth cream in colour, instead a dun and much stained brown, more than one showing evidence of repair, so that even to his untrained eye the wear caused by endless exposure to the elements was obvious.
The myriad miles of ropes and cables necessary to make up the rigging, despite the layers of tar used to protect them, would be likewise degraded, and closer still the scantlings of the warships showed where endless layers of black paint had been applied, only to crack and split from the effect of sun, wind and rain, leaving a pattern on their chequered hulls that reminded Pearce of the bark of a diseased tree. It was impossible not to wonder at what that paint, badly in need of being scraped off, was hiding.
‘I don’t think I ever realised, Mr Dorling, what people meant when they bemoaned the lack of a proper dockyard.’
The sailing master of HMS Larcher, for all he was young, managed to reply with all the mordant gloom of those of his elders who saw no joy anywhere when rating the state for sailing of any vessel in King George’s Navy: in doing so he replicated his captain’s ruminations.
‘What you can see won’t be the half of it, Capt’n. Don’t take much to imagine that there’s a rate of rotten timber in them scantlings and the hulls will be in a bad way too, after a year in the Med, copper-bottomed or no. Stands to reason, weed in warm water is a mite more apt to grow than it does close to home shores.’
‘Flag’s made our pennant, Your Honour,’ came the cry from the masthead. ‘Captain to repair aboard.’
That made the recipient smile: had Pearce observed the same message, run up on the halyards of HMS Victory, he would have, just to be sure there was no mistake and aware of the gaps in his own nautical knowledge, consulted the signal book. Not so the able seaman aloft, who was certainly no more advanced in years than he. No doubt the fellow had been at sea since he was a boy and that was a flag message he had observed fluttering too many times to have any doubts.
‘Acknowledge and prepare the signal gun, if you please.’
Addressed to no one in particular these instructions were obeyed without fuss or noise. These men knew their duties and had been a well-worked-up crew long before John Pearce took temporary command of the ship. If the lieutenant he replaced had imposed his will by a form of low-level brutality that made him disliked, he had commanded better seamen than he knew.
John Pearce, with his more benign manner, albeit he would not be played upon, was certain he had brought out the best in men who were willing and very capable, which was just as well, given he was a commander who often had to think hard before issuing any orders. It was moot how many times their skill had silently mitigated his ignorance, a subject about which the dignity of his position forbade him to enquire.
‘Anchor astern of the flag, Capt’n?’ Dorling asked.
‘Make it so,’ Pearce replied. ‘But come to it by sailing alongside – the quarterdeck will want to cast an eye over the state of our decks and the orderliness of our rigging and no doubt scoff.’
‘Admiral might be lookin’ hisself, sir,’ Dorling replied, though there was a rasp in his tone that dared anyone to say a bad word about an armed cutter for which he had, as did the whole crew, a very proprietorial feeling.
Pearce nodded, yet he doubted that such an elevated person as Lord Hood, even if he were placed to observe, would spare such a minnow of a ship so much as a passing glance.
‘Old Sam goes by the name of a tartar, I am told, sir.’
The temptation to reply as he wished had to be suppressed. Admiral Lord Hood, the C-in-C Mediterranean was, to John Pearce, a crusty despot as well as a devious and untrustworthy old bugger, who had no scruples whatsoever when it came to the abuse of his inferiors, which made it doubly galling that Old Sam, as he was affectionately known throughout the fleet, was much loved by the lower decks as well as a goodly number of his officers.
The notion that all did not share such warmth had Pearce looking towards HMS Britannia, rocking gently on the swell not far off, another first rate of 100 guns and home to Hood’s second in command, Admiral Sir William Hotham. There was no affection for Old Sam there; the pair loathed each other at a distance and it was far from cordial even in public, while those captains who saw Hotham as their patron took the side of the man they looked to for advancement. That their feelings were exacerbated by the way Hood favoured his own client officers when it came to profitable cruising only rubbed salt into an already open wound.
Behind him Dorling was quietly issuing the orders that would bring HMS Larcher to the required station, this interspersed with the ritual, which Pearce saw as wasteful nonsense in terms of time and powder – not to mention the act of supplication itself – of firing off the small brass cannon that acted as a signal gun, the requisite number of times that were needed to remind a commanding vice admiral of that which was his due.
As soon as the armed cutter backed its topsails and the way came off the ship, the boat that would take John Pearce aboard the flagship hit the water, the men needed to row it, wearing their best rig, swift to take their stations, each oar set upright at a perfect angle once they were seated.
So close to the C-in-C and such a famous ship of the line, his crew were determined to display their smartness and efficiency. It was sad to reflect that, even if Hood was looking their way and even if they did make a good impression, it would be shattered as soon as the admiral saw who was in command; he and John Pearce were not and never had been on easy terms.
For all the sea state was good, there was still a swell of the kind that sent up a goodly quantity of spray and there had been rain, to guard against which he was presented, despite the warmth of the day, with his boat cloak, this so that his fine broadcloth coat, put on in anticipation of the summons like his best cocked hat, would not be streaked with salt.
The man who proffered this was his good friend and ‘servant’, Michael O’Hagan: friend because of many shared vicissitudes, servant for the very simple reason that the provision of one embarrassed the man being catered to; so much better to have someone see to his needs who was not in the least bit servile.
‘Sure, it’s the lion’s den once more, John-boy,’ Michael whispered, his mouth close to Pearce’s ear, as he placed the garment over his shoulders.
‘At least the early Christians only had to suffer it once.’
‘And were martyred for their pains,’ O’Hagan responded.
The voice, with its strong Irish accent, had taken on a sepulchral tone, for Michael O’Hagan was strong in his Roman faith and much given to crossing himself if he felt threatened. Not that such a thing happened too frequently: he was a veritable giant and a very handy fellow with his ham-like fists, so any fears tended towards the superstitious, not the human.
‘Perhaps there is a pantheon somewhere, Michael, for non-believers.’
‘There is John-boy. It’s called Hell.’
With that O’Hagan stepped away, his manner immediately becoming respectful, which he was always careful to do when others could overhear his words. ‘Will Your Honour be after requiring your sword, which I fetched from the cabin?’
‘Best not, Michael,’ Pearce replied grimly, as he was handed an oilskin pouch containing the letters he had brought from London. ‘The temptation to employ it on Old Sam would be too difficult to resist.’
Before going over the side, Pearce cast an eye over the remaining crew, busy working to secure the vessel for anchoring, which would happen once the captain of the fleet, or the lesser being to whom he delegated the task, had allotted them a spot in the deep and wide bay. If he had become caring of the whole crew of HMS Larcher, none could match the affection he felt for the men he had so recently rescued, by a clever exchange, from the grip and the ship of Captain Ralph Barclay, a man they all hated.
Charlie Taverner and Rufus Dommet, along with him and Michael O’Hagan, went collectively by the soubriquet taken from the tavern, the Pelican, out of which they had at one time been illegally pressed. With Pearce they enjoyed a shared history that surpassed that of the rest of the crew and his glance was rewarded as both men looked up from their labours to throw him a warm smile and a short wave of the kind that on some ships, and under their previous captain, might have seen them stapled to the deck or even flogged.
As was custom the pipe blew as he went over the side, which was merely a single step down, to where he took up his place in the thwarts, HMS Larcher’s cutter being cast off smartly and with what Pearce could only reckon as display, so well-timed was the strike of the oars. His men were showing the away to the whole fleet, full – to their minds – of jumped-up jackanapes who would struggle to control a bumboat.
CHAPTER TWO
More whistling greeted his arrival aboard HMS Victory, commencing as he made his way up the set of steps that led to the entry port. Coming from strong sunlight into darkness meant he could not at first see who was there to greet him, and it came as a surprise to find out it was a fellow called Furness, who, when they had previously met, had been no higher in the hierarchy of the flagship than sixth lieutenant.
That made Pearce bristle, for it implied a deliberate insult; ranked as a master and commander, he being in command of an unrated vessel, he was yet the captain of a King’s ship and deserved to be greeted by someone of higher standing than a sixth. Even if he was not prickly by nature, John Pearce had been the subject of much condescension from other naval officers in his time in the service and was wont to react badly if such a trait seemed to be on display.
Furness laid that to rest immediately: he now named himself and with some pride as the premier, which was more than fitting. He had been told who was approaching by the officer of the watch, Pearce being no stranger on a ship he had been obliged to board more times than he was happy to recall.
Yet the ceremony was not yet complete: a party of half a dozen marines stamped to attention, which obliged Pearce to rate their smartness and issue a compliment to the lieutenant in command, before Furness took him aside for a less formal greeting, which allowed Pearce, with some relief, to divest himself of his heavy cloak.
The premier was keen that he should dine in the wardroom if no other duty interfered, for this particular officer, if he was something of a thorn to the admiral, as well as a lieutenant of dubious provenance, was also a fellow with tales to tell of successful naval actions, this in a circle where the reprising of gallant deeds was the very stuff of conversation.
Then there was his luck, which was seen by many as boundless and enviable, for no man could prosper in the King’s Navy without opportunity. By both accident and design Pearce had been given a great deal of both; the members of the wardroom would wish for some of that lustre to rub off on them.
Pearce was sure there would be others in that same body that resented him, perhaps even some who harboured both emotions simultaneously, given the way he had come about his rank and the favour he had enjoyed since. Yet such was the level of good manners in a naval mess, necessary for men who spent months and sometimes years at sea in each other’s company, he would not be made aware of it.
Furness brought Pearce up to date on the progress of the campaign in the Mediterranean since the debacle at Toulon, filling in with more detail than Pearce already knew the successful subjugation of Bastia, including the fact, delivered with something of a sneer, that it had been a naval expedition; the army had been dead against it, only turning up when it was obvious Corsica’s main commercial port was about to fall.
Lord Hood had accepted the surrender before returning north, where, off the coast of Provence, he had encountered and chased the French fleet, forcing the enemy capital ships to seek safety in a Languedoc bay called Golfe Juan. There they relied on the narrow access created by a promontory and a set of offshore islands to prevent an attack.
Not so easily deterred and seeing them at single anchor, which meant deep water on their beam, Hood had attempted to sail in and get behind them on their landward side. This ploy had failed due to an alert French admiral, who had spotted the risk and moved his ships into shallower water where there was no channel at either end of his line for an enemy to sail through. They were still there, under the watchful eye of a couple of British frigates; should they emerge, Hood would immediately up anchor and seek to intercept them as they made for their home port of Toulon.
‘What of Calvi?’ Pearce enquired, for he had been told at Gibraltar of that operation.
‘Still under siege, Mr Pearce. Captain Nelson is in command of artillery, which has been provided and manned by tars. They have, I am told, loosed off some twenty thousand balls into the fortress and town. When they make a breach, General Stuart sends forward the assault troops, though Nelson makes sure his officers have the chance to take part in any endeavours.’
‘And, no doubt, he is to the fore himself.’
‘You know Nelson?’
‘Well enough to be sure that if there be shot and shell flying, that is where you will find him.’
The man’s voice, as he agreed to that opinion, failed to hide his own gloom of being at a distance from the action: every officer in the navy craved a chance to excel in battle – and if that was on land it mattered not – this to gain the kind of glory that enhanced their chances of advancement. Even for a man so well placed for eventual good fortune as Furness – flagship officers got the fastest promotion and he must be in line for the next unrated ship – it was no different.
If it was a pleasant interlude, Pearce could not linger and he made his way to the tiny office set outside the great cabin, home to Lord Hood’s senior clerk. There was no doubting the manner in which he was viewed in that quarter; as supercilious as every admiral’s factotum tended to be, the clerk treated him with a level of disdain which no doubt reflected that of his master, swift to report that His Lordship was busy and it might be some time before he was called into the magisterial presence.
‘You may not have observed it, fellow,’ Pearce snapped, in a tone that got him a glare for this diminutive form of address, ‘but someone else will. I am sailing under an Admiralty pennant, which means the despatches I am carrying are of a superior importance to that which is normal, and, I would add, they come from William Pitt himself.’
A momentary pause was taken to allow that name to sink in.
‘If Lord Hood would not keep the King’s First Minister waiting, it would ill behove him to do that to his chosen messenger. So, if Sam Almighty does not know who is here, please be so good as to tell him and also to pass on what I carry and from whom.’
Personal feelings of dignity required a decent pause before the injunction was acceded to, just to show that it was a considered response, not a reaction to an instruction. ‘I will tell His Lordship you are waiting.’
‘Thank you, my man,’ Pearce replied, happy to see that the words and the haughty way they were imparted made the clerk actually wince.
‘What damned sewer is it, Pearce, that throws you up with such regularity? I cannot but believe a bad penny would be disgraced in your presence.’
‘As I recall it, Milord, the sewer you mention is the one much troubled by rats festooned in gold braid.’
Rear-Admiral Sir William Parker, the captain of the fleet and Hood’s executive officer, standing at his superior’s seated shoulder, had been brought to a grin at Lord Hood’s welcoming words. The response Pearce gave soon wiped that away and he countered with a bark.
‘I see that absence has not taught you respect!’
‘I think I have pointed out, Admiral Parker, in this cabin and more than once, that respect is not something I am inclined to grant automatically merely to ingratiate myself with someone of rank.’
‘Pearce,’ Hood sighed, ‘you have no idea how I long for the powers of an ancient tyrant, for it would give me great pleasure to still that loose tongue of yours by dragging it from your mouth with hot pincers.’
A hand came out to take the oilskin pouch, one with prominent bones and several large brown spots on the back. ‘Now, what is it you have for me, given I long to see your back?’
‘It is a letter I am instructed to say is for your eyes only.’
That made Hood visibly stiffen: it took no genius to work out that if it was not a normal set of instructions and was highly personal it was unlikely to be welcome in its contents. Hood stood and took the pouch over to the line of casements that made up the rear of his cabin, where the light was strongest. Still with his back to both Pearce and Parker he extracted Pitt’s letter and broke the seal, speaking as he did so.
‘You will oblige me, Lieutenant, by passing on to your crew, most particularly those who handled your cutter, my appreciation of their conduct. The vessel was anchored in fine style and the rowers were smart and efficient. I can only assume you have aboard your vessel someone who knows how to train a crew and sail a ship.’
‘I would not claim to take credit for their level of ability,’ Pearce replied, seeking to keep the surprise out of his voice; had the old sod really been watching and rating the men he led?
The fact that Hood was reading imposed silence by the mere act and looking at him, silhouetted against the sunlight streaming through the casements, Pearce was aware that he seemed somewhat shrunken from the man he recalled, or was it just that he had stooped to read, whereas he was normally studiously erect.
Still reading Hood turned and made his way slowly to the table from which he had risen, to resume his seat, and that allowed Pearce to look at him closely without being observed, which led him to conclude Old Sam was far from well. There was no doubt that his facial features, always sharp and with such a prominent nose and penetrating eyes, naturally commanding, were less fleshy than he recalled.
The cheeks were hollow now instead of full, and even his bushy eyebrows, another outstanding feature, seemed straggly, yet given his responsibilities that should not come as a surprise. Even if he had never spent an extended time at sea, it was no mystery to Pearce that commanding a fleet on a distant station had to be a debilitating experience, quite apart from the sheer exhaustion of being constantly aboard ship.
Sam Hood had been afloat for more than year without the respite of going ashore for more than one day at a time. His old legs had been obliged to cope throughout with a floor that was never still and sometimes, even on such a leviathan as HMS Victory, might rise and fall through twenty or more feet in stormy conditions, and that took no account of the permanent cant in the deck. Added to the sheer physical burden of such a life on a man of his seventy years, there were the responsibilities he bore to wear him down even further.
An admiral on station lived on a knife-edge of employment, where one move seen as false could engineer a swift downfall; that Pearce found Hood something of a bully did not in any way detract from the fact that he had a sneaking admiration for Old Sam’s manifest abilities as a commander, he being a man who had a deft touch when it came to handling allies, as well as the various potentates that had to be dealt with and kept neutral.
To all extents and purposes the C-in-C Mediterranean was the British Government in the inland sea. There was no time, when decisions had to be made, to refer back to his political masters; events had to be dealt with by the man on the spot, well aware that whatever he did could so easily be seen as folly by London. Even his present moves might be questioned and seen as far from correct by the politicians who rarely, if ever, had any real knowledge of conditions in the fighting arena.
Pearce was aware from previous contact with Old Sam that his actions in Corsica had been engendered by two pressing demands: the first being for a safe anchorage from which he could intercept the French Fleet should it emerge from Toulon – a worth already proven – the second to secure for King George possession of an island that had voluntarily sought the protection of the British Crown. Hence, since the Corsicans held the interior, the need to take the two most important and garrisoned coastal towns.
The latest assault had lasted for a month now, yet there had been little surprise, given the memory he had of the place, that Calvi was taking time to subdue. The town was set in a yawning and inviting inlet he had once, under the command of a less than adroit captain, sailed into, their sloop very nearly coming a cropper from the well-aimed cannon of the French defenders. The ship found itself under fire from heavy ordnance to which it was impossible, in a lightly armed vessel, to reply.
Not that a hundred gunner would have fared any better than a sloop; the bay commanded by those guns lacked the kind of deep water that would allow bombardment from the sea by the capital ships, depth of keel being confined to a narrow channel right by the inland cliffs. It was blessed with a very strong citadel sat on a high promontory above the fortified city, with only one flat avenue of approach by land, and thus had to be a hard nut to crack.
From what Furness had told him, the siege was entirely land based, with several batteries of naval cannon being hauled ashore and set up to pound the walls from the surrounding heights, which had humbugged the defenders, who thought such a thing impossible. The premier was of the opinion that if it was progressing slowly, given the amount of shot expended, matters there should be approaching the point of some conclusion.
Finished reading, Hood put the letter on the table, sunk down and sat back in his padded captain’s chair, his face rigid and thoughtful. ‘Do you know the contents of this communication, Pearce?’
‘No, sir, I do not.’
‘D’ye hear that, Parker, the fellow gave me the courtesy of a “sir”.’
‘Not before time, milord.’
‘You’d best peruse this, Parker, given it will likely affect you as well.’
‘My instructions were quite specific, milord, in terms of who was to read it.’
‘Never mind, Pearce, I will tell Billy Pitt that you allowed me to disobey them.’ The admiral took a deep breath, which coincided with a frown from Parker as he began to read. ‘Was anyone else present when you took possession of that?’
‘Henry Dundas was there.’
‘Ah yes, the arch manipulator himself. Minister of War be damned, he’s minister of wherever he chooses to poke his finger into. I wonder, Parker, how much of what that implies stems from that damned Scotsman, may God strike down them all?’
Pearce stiffened involuntarily; if not a rabid Scot he was enough of one to see offence in any insult to the entire race. About to check the admiral he bit his tongue; to speak would increase the level of insults, not diminish them, and that was when he was sure he saw a twinkle in the old sod’s eyes. This was a man who knew his antecedents only too well.
‘There is no more than a recommendation in this, milord,’ Parker said, vigorously waving the letter.
‘I believe you will know the expression “a nod is as good as a wink”.’
‘If you have no further need for me, milord, I would wish to be on my way.’
‘On your way, Pearce! To where?’
‘Back to England, of course.’
‘I do not think so.’
‘I am sailing under an Admiralty pennant, milord, and I hardly need to explain to someone of your rank what that means. No one can give me orders once I am at sea.’
‘If you were to read that letter, Pearce, which you will not be privileged to do, you would see a superscription at the bottom, I suspect in Dundas’s own hand since it does not match the rest, which tells me quite plainly that once it is delivered your mission is over. As soon as you are back aboard that armed cutter you must strike that blue flag and hoist the one under which you will serve, namely mine – at least, that is, for the moment.’
‘If I cannot read the letter I cannot be expected to suspect anything other than malice in such an interpretation.’
Hood responded with a scornful laugh. ‘You are as a flea on an elephant’s arse, Pearce, and not worthy of an ounce of my malice, even if you have brought me what amounts to a dismissal from my command.’
That got a loud cough from Parker, to which Hood responded with a growl.
‘Oh, it is couched in polite language, Parker, and it is only hinted at by the excuse that with my years and time at sea I must be in need of some leave. But there is no doubting what has brought it on and to whose benefit it is directed—’
‘Milord!’ Parker exclaimed, in order to interrupt his superior. ‘It is not a fitting subject for discussion with an officer of the lieutenant’s rank.’
‘Don’t you think the messenger should know the stench of politics that he carried all this way?’
The older man did not wait for a reply and nor did he seek to hide his anger as he sat forward and barked at Pearce.
‘In order to appease the Duke of Portland and his damned parcel of Whigs, and to secure their support for the continuation of the war, so feeble is the parliament of which I am a member, that I must surrender the command of my fleet to that dolt Hotham!’
Pearce was not really listening; instead he was ruminating, and not happily, on how Hood’s blast was going to affect his ability to get back to Leghorn, where he had left the lady with whom he was deeply enamoured. If that was bad enough, the name Hood blurted out did little to help matters if he was not going home; if there was one admiral he was less keen to serve under than Old Sam it was Sir William Hotham.
‘My Lord, I must protest.’
‘Protest away, Pearce,’ Hood said, suddenly looking deflated. ‘Your protest will do you as much good as to do so would accomplish for me.’
That required a touch of quick thinking. ‘Then, milord, I request permission to sail for Leghorn to make good my lack of stores.’
‘That,’ Parker insisted, ‘will only take place once I know what are your present levels, Pearce. So if you will fetch your logbooks aboard I will let you know once my clerks have examined them.’
‘Sir, I—’
‘Don’t tell me,’ Hood responded acerbically, cutting right across Pearce. ‘You protest, which seems to me to be a permanent state.’
‘With good cause, sir.’
‘There he goes again, Parker, there’s a bit of politesse under that haughty Caledonian exterior.’
As Pearce bristled under the slur, Parker moved quickly to lean over Hood and whisper in his ear, which, after a few seconds, had Old Sam slowly nodding, his mouth compressing and his lower lip becoming prominent, it being fairly clear he was not enjoying what he was hearing. As Parker moved away he fixed Pearce with a glare.
‘It has been pointed out to me, Pearce, that in my indiscreet outbursts I have obliged you with information to which you should not be privy, namely the contents of the letter you fetched from London, something I would not wish to be bandied about the fleet.’
‘And I would point out to you, milord,’ Pearce snapped, ‘that I take it very amiss that you doubt my ability to be discreet, which I will be, however shabbily I feel I am being treated.’
‘Yet,’ Parker interjected, somewhat relieved by what Pearce had just said, ‘it would be best if you were absent for a short while. I still require that you present your logs to be examined, but once they are I will issue orders to proceed to Leghorn to make up your stores.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Pearce ran into a waiting Furness as he exited the great cabin; the premier was not going to let him go, especially since it was very close to the time for the wardroom dinner. With the door closed and Furness speaking he could not hear what was said inside.
‘Do you think we can trust him, milord?’
‘Absolutely, Parker.’ Seeing a questioning look, Hood added, ‘I know my man – indeed, if he wasn’t such a touchy sod I could get to quite like him, for whatever else Pearce is, there’s not a craven bone in his body. He’s his father’s son, man, and even if Adam Pearce was pestilential in his rantings about equality and the like, he was no coward. King George might not have all his marbles, but he did not do a disservice to the navy when he promoted old Adam’s son.’
‘And this?’ Parker asked, waving the letter.
That produced a particular look in Hood’s eye, one Parker had seen many times and one that implied a great deal of thought was being processed by a very acute mind.
‘Portland may propose, but it is Billy Pitt that will dispose. When I have his ear it will be to tell him that he is mistaken in giving way.’ The voice rose discernibly and added to that was a rasping growl. ‘I am not ready for the knacker’s yard yet.’
CHAPTER THREE
The party that marched out of Calvi under a truce flag had taken great care to look elegant: the French general, as if to underline that he had been a soldier in pre-Revolutionary times, wore a freshly powdered wig under his tricorn hat, while his junior officers, several of them naval, looked fit for a sovereign’s parade. The party that moved forward and down from the Royal Louis battery could not match them either in dress or carriage, General Stuart particularly looking positively ill, while Captain Nelson had a bandage under his hat that covered one of his eyes. The third member wore no recognisable garb that could be called a uniform.
If the British officers and their lone Corsican could not match the French in dress they were quick to equal them in determination: the garrison must surrender forthwith, while the requests for the sailors to be allowed to take their own ships back to the mainland, with the soldiers as passengers, was quickly squashed. One of the vessels sheltering in the deep-water channel under the fortress guns was a very fine frigate named Melpomene; Nelson was determined it should be forfeit.
In the end it was agreed that the garrison of Calvi, having put up a good fight and in a way that left no taste of bitterness, could march out with their arms. A cartel, a British transport vessel, would be put at their disposal to take them back to their homeland. In the meantime no guns were to be spiked and nothing was to be done to the naval vessels that would diminish their immediate usefulness as they came under the Union Flag and a British crew.
‘Though I am damned if I know where we are going to find the hands to man them.’
Nelson said this as he, General Stuart and the Corsican representative, made their way back to the Allied lines to prepare for the forthcoming act of formal surrender. If he had expected a cheerful and reassuring response from the red-coated bullock he was left disappointed, not that such came as much of a surprise.
Malady was not the only thing that made Stuart a less than endearing fighting companion in this siege; his manner had been abrupt throughout and he was wont to treat any sailor, however successful, as a burden with which he was unfortunately saddled. It was generally held by those on the receiving end that his pique was caused by his discomfort at being dependent on the tars to both get him ashore and to provide and man the guns necessary to subdue the place.
None of what had occurred could be observed from the cell shared by the prisoners, but their spirits were raised by the lack of gunfire, something that had been a constant for a whole month now. Then the French army bugles blew and Buchanan knew enough to identify the calls as signals for the garrison to stand down, donning his shirt and dust-streaked red coat as the sounds faded away.
Silence promised freedom and that was borne out within the hour by the arrival of their sergeant gaoler, who roughly told them, more by gestures than in his halting and very bad English, to gather their possessions and be prepared to leave. Not that what they owned amounted to much, no more than the garments with which they had arrived. Buchanan immediately enquired about the prisoners in the dungeon, to be told that they would be released at the same time.
Toby Burns had not worn his blue midshipman’s coat for weeks and, despite what he had said to Buchanan about longing to be out of this cell, when he put it on now – service dignity demanding that he do so – it was with reluctance, not only for the fact that it was too hot for such an article, but for the way it underlined to him that he was back in the navy, his hat, once donned, highlighting a fact that made him miserable.
Buchanan, full of good cheer, displayed the same level of kindness he had shown since he had crossed swords with Watson over the slops pail, singling him out for an honour. ‘Since you were first to occupy this damned cell, Mr Burns, I think it fitting that it should fall to you to lead us to freedom.’
The glowering face of Lieutenant Watson gave the lie to the word ‘freedom’, making it hard to respond with the appropriate animation; Toby Burns now realised that this cell had represented liberty; outside these stout walls was where he was really a prisoner for here he had been safe from harm – and not only from the risk of death in fighting the French. The malevolence, which he knew animated Admiral Hotham, would once again be in play.
Added to that there was the mad insistence, from the same person, that Burns should sit for promotion to lieutenant, an inquisition he was bound to fail. There was some hope that such an examination, to which a goodly number of senior midshipmen would have been invited, had already taken place; they would not wait upon him, but laying that minor worry to potential rest did not induce any feeling of ease.
Hotham would volunteer him for some new and dangerous duty, just as he had already done at Toulon and twice at Bastia, once with an army column and secondly with that madcap and fearless fool Nelson, who saw nothing stupid in manning posts that were well within enemy range. He had found himself ashore here at Calvi under the command of the same fellow, who was responsible for the very action that had not only put him in mortal danger but had led to his incarceration. What would the old goat, Hotham, come up with next?
Added to that was the situation regarding his uncle’s flawed court martial, or to be more accurate a fellow called Lucknor, an attorney employed, he assumed by John Pearce, to probe Burns about his actions in lying under oath. He claimed to have been present at the illegal impressment of Pearce and his friends from the Pelican Tavern when, in fact, he had been aboard HMS Brilliant, his uncle’s frigate, berthed at Sheerness on the night in question.
That lie was compounded by another more serious act, taking upon himself responsibility for a navigation error that had landed the press gang and his uncle at the wrong location on the River Thames, putting them ashore in the Liberties of the Savoy, a place in which the navy was forbidden by law to operate, when the intention had been to land by Blackfriars Bridge.
If it sounded false to his ears as he had said it, the statement had been enough to ensure the censure of Ralph Barclay was no more than a wrist slap for an act that, had it been laid at the door of the man responsible, which would have proved it to be deliberate, could have seen his uncle in serious trouble.
Such false testimony had only been possible because there was no one present to refute the lies being peddled, and again Hotham was the villain of the piece. He had staffed the trial with compliant officers, men who looked to him for advancement and opportunity, as well as sending away on an extended mission to the Bay of Biscay anyone, John Pearce in particular, able to tell the truth.
All these worries, easily diminished in captivity, were resurfacing to haunt him again. The letter he had sent in reply to Lucknor’s enquiries, seeking to exculpate his sin, seemed feeble in recollection, hardly enough to lay the blame where it squarely lay, with his Uncle Ralph. Composed weeks before, it would surely have arrived in Gray’s Inn by now. Would the attorney believe his excuses, that if he had perjured himself, it had been done under the duress applied by those who had coached him on how to respond to questions? And even if he did, what would happen next?
‘How in the name of the devil can you look so gloomy, young sir?’ Buchanan demanded.
Toby Burns, when he felt threatened, had one trait that never failed him and that was the ability to produce quick and easy-to-believe excuses, often ones that expressed worthwhile sentiments utterly at odds with his true feelings. Out on the battlements now he made a point of looking at the town of Calvi, which lay below the fortress, destroyed by endless bombardment so that hardly a single building stood and none intact; given that aspect he could conjure up words to cover his apparent misery.
‘How many died or were maimed for this place, sir, and was it worth it?’
‘Worthy lad, very worthy,’ Buchanan replied, gravely. ‘Does you proud to think that way. But that is war and there is no gainsaying that folk, innocent and guilty alike, suffer in any conflict.’
‘How right you are, sir,’ Toby replied, not thinking of Calvi but himself.
