The Admirals' Game E-Book

David Donachie

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Serie: John Pearce
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Seitenzahl: 442

Beschreibung

Since being illegally press-ganged into joining King George's Navy, John Pearce has overcome numerous adversaries, which have secured him a position of command on board HMS Faron. Having successfully overcome the French at the Siege of Toulon, Pearce and his comrades, the Pelicans, now face the on-going, bloody battle to defend the port. Meanwhile, Lieutenant Pearce's continuing conflict with Captain Ralph Barclay, the man responsible for press-ganging Pearce and his companions into the Navy, intensifies as Barclay faces a court martial for his actions. But with Barclay's superiors, Admiral Lord Hood and Admiral Hotham, in dispute over how to deal with Barclay's misgivings and with his wife, Emily, struggling to cope with his barbarous nature, Barclay's future looks uncertain. Pearce's hope for retribution may occur sooner than he anticipated, but would it be to his advantage? As Pearce confronts assaults from both the French and his superiors, it becomes clear that Pearce and his comrades are part of a large and potentially fatal plan, where war becomes a calculated game to be won.

Leseprobe

The Admirals’ Game

DAVID DONACHIE

To Carol Who, if fate had been kinder, would be my much-loved sister-in-law

Contents

Title Page

Dedication

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

About the Author

By David Donachie

Copyright

PROLOGUE

Being towed on a choppy sea made progress very slow, leaving Lieutenant John Pearce to wonder if the two pontoons would ever get into the desired position. Not that he was keen they should do so, it being highly probable that the flimsy platform on which he stood, designed for harbour work, loading livestock and the like on to anchored vessels, would be extremely vulnerable. Adapted for action, towed by boats and mounted with a pair of long-barrelled 24-pounder cannon, the platforms had been diverted to take part in an operation to subdue a newly constructed French artillery position, which had made vulnerable the extreme western section of the inner roads of the port of Toulon, known as the Petite Rade.

At maximum range the longest French gun, a 44-pounder culverin, was able to lay fire upon the main bastions defending the inner harbour, Fort Mulgrave, at the very south of the defensive perimeter, and the central redoubt Fort Malbousquet. Left in peace, this new battery would serve as a stepping stone to push forward yet another artillery position, which would increase the threat to the whole anchorage. In time, such leapfrogging would render the situation of the Allied fleet untenable and the defence of the port depended on those ships. The aim was, if possible, to destroy it; failing that, to so discourage the gunners of the French Revolution that they would think long and hard about any further advance.

In front of the pontoons, hardly visible in the grey morning light, lay the long, low, sandy shore of the bay of La Seyne, with the protective works of the French battery raising the profile of the land by several metres; hastily constructed earth and stone walls with cannon embrasures, and behind them an ancient stone building called la Chapelle de Brégaillon. Even to an untrained eye like that of John Pearce – a naval officer by default rather than proper entitlement – the problem seemed obvious. The pontoon cannon would be firing from sea level at a target not much above that, when what was needed was plunging fire, mortars firing shells high enough to carry the breastworks and impact on the French guns, the men who worked them, as well as the powder stores needed to sustain their fire.

‘Here they come, thank God!’

That heartfelt exclamation came from the man who had command of Pearce’s pontoon, though he refused to talk of it in those terms, as if it were a rated ship. Lieutenant Henry Digby was engaged in a duty and a damned unpleasant one, of the kind that made a serving naval officer wonder who, in King George’s Navy, he had upset. John Pearce, well aware of Digby’s feelings on the matter, had not bothered to enlighten him; he guessed being posted on this undertaking, given from where the orders had originated, was a chastisement aimed squarely at him.

Digby had spotted that the two capital ships designated to lead the attack had weighed and were slowly inching under topsails towards the eastern shore of the huge sweeping outer bay known as the Grande Rade. HMS St George, a line-of-battle ship bearing ninety-eight guns, was the principal in this affair, flying aloft the flag of Rear Admiral Gell. Aurore, a 74-gun French vessel of shallow draught, now manned by British sailors, was in support.

‘Have they shifted any guns, sir?’ asked Pearce.

‘None that I can see. The gun ports look pristine.’

They had discussed the possibility of such an act not long after receiving their orders. Lacking mortars, it made sense for Gell to shift his heavy lower deck cannon to the upper deck, a hard and messy business for sure, which would require the carpenter to fashion some adjustments to the bulwarks, but one that would increase their range and elevate their effect. Digby had concluded that it was unlikely to happen, given it required imagination; he reckoned the higher most men rose in the service, the less given they were to innovation.

‘Time to fix our position, Mr Pearce,’ Digby said.

As always, when John Pearce picked up any instrument of nautical measurement, he felt a knot grip his stomach. The men who shared his rank had served a long apprenticeship of several years as midshipmen; some, indeed, never rose above that station. In that time, they learnt their trade under supervision, in an atmosphere in which allowance was made for trial and error. He had been taken from the rank of midshipman to lieutenant overnight by the personal order of King George, and it was at times like these he felt most keenly his lack of nautical experience, not least because the present requirement, the measurement of triangulation at sea, was damned tricky.

His uncertainty was eased by the lieutenant commanding the other pontoon: over the water came the shouted orders from him to prepare the anchors that would hold his gun platform in position, and since the one on which Pearce stood was to be placed in relation to that, he was able to say with some confidence they should do the same.

‘Make it so, Mr Pearce.’

A shouted command to the towing boats had them ship their oars, then dip them again to hold the tow steady once what little way they had was moderated. Pearce watched the action of their consort closely, mirroring each act as it was executed; the four small anchors got ready, then the two rearmost dropped as the boats, under experienced coxswains working shoreside, once more took up the tow. When those had grounded, one boat held them in place while the second came close to take on one anchor at a time, the rope paying out as they rowed the required distance. Then it was dropped into the water, and after allowing time for it to sink to the seabed the cable was attached to a small windlass and hauled in till it found firm ground and was taut.

Once all four anchors were in position, each was adjusted to swing the pontoon into the required position vis à vis the enemy battery. Then the guns, lashed down to prevent them rolling around on the swell, were released, loaded, and hauled up upon their hastily constructed restraining tackles, a series of thick ropes threaded through heavy ringbolts fixed in the decking. Once the gunner had fitted the flints, their weapons were ready to fire. By that time the capital ships were also in position, the sun was up and shining into the faces of their opponents, with both pontoon commanders eying the mainmast halyards on St George for the flags that would give the signal to open fire. At their own masthead a stanchion, set amidships for the purpose, flew the plain red pennant that told Admiral Gell they were ready to oblige.

Standing next to the cannon he would aim and control, Pearce was very close to men he saw as his closest companions, Michael O’Hagan, Charlie Taverner and Rufus Dommet, three of the eight men needed to serve the 24-pounder. Added to those friends were a couple of hands who had served with him before, had known him as both a common seaman and midshipman, and since they were out of earshot of Digby, or those manning the other cannon, it was possible to talk quietly and without the usual rigorous attendance to strict naval discipline.

‘Our friends on yonder shore seemed in no hurry to disturb us,’ said Latimer, a sailor old for his occupation, with a well-lined, dark-skinned and leathery face to prove it. Long in the tooth, he had seen a great deal of sea service, and was generally held, not least by John Pearce, to be a wise old owl, worth listening to. ‘Might have been worth a ball or two while we was fussing to get into place.’

‘Why alarm us when we are a better target anchored?’

‘Happen you have the right of it, Mr Pearce, but mark my words, I look on it to get warm afore long.’

‘Would that be smoke I see, John-boy?’ asked Michael O’Hagan.

Even squatting, the Irishman was tall and muscular enough to dwarf those around him, including men strangers to both he and John Pearce, one or two of whom looked at Michael askance, that being no way for an ordinary tar to address an officer. They did not, of course, know the history, did not know that Michael, Charlie, Rufus, and John Pearce along with them, had been brutally pressed into the king’s service in an act of blatant illegality by a certain Captain Ralph Barclay. Pearce had coined the term Pelicans to cover them, for that was the Thames-side tavern in which they had first met, and through such an association they had a bond that transcended rank.

It was Charlie who responded to the question. ‘It might just be our friends cooking their breakfast, Michael.’

‘Happen if we send a boat in they’ll spare us some,’ said Blubber Booth who, as his nickname implied, was a man fond of his grub.

‘All mates together, eh! Sharing our victuals an’ tall tales?’

Charlie Taverner’s response was rendered unfunny by the sharpness with which he said the words, but that was in the nature of the man. Charlie liked to think of himself as a light-hearted cove, yet he was anything but when life was not going as he thought it should. Rufus, the youngest of the trio, employed his habitual silly grin to break up his freckles. He never saw the vinegar in Charlie’s comments, only the humour.

‘I’ll take one of the boats in and ask. I’m thinking I can smell chitterlings.’

‘Sure,’ O’Hagan hooted, ‘you’re daft enough, Rufus. But I doubt you’d like what they served you, for it will not be parts of fowl. That smoke’ll be a fire for heating round shot.’

‘I doubt they’ll waste it on us,’ Pearce said, more in hope than certainty. ‘The ships are bigger targets.’

‘Why bother?’ Charlie added, his voice rising. ‘One decent aim with common shot will smash this thing to bits.’

‘Belay that, Charlie,’ Pearce insisted, seeing the worried frowns on other faces, men who had obviously harboured the same thought. ‘The task is bad enough.’

‘If we ain’t in the frying pan when you’se with us, John Pearce, we’s in the fire,’ cawed Latimer. ‘Can’t quite work out if you seek trouble, or it finds you.’

There were thirty-odd sailors aboard this pontoon, drawn from several ships in the fleet, probably being the souls least loved by the premier or their captain, and Pearce had to feel for them. There was no glory in this assignment, only danger, and no prospect of a prize and some coin to make the notion of risk worthwhile. As well as that, what they were about bore no relation to that for which they had been trained to varying degrees of ability: rapid fire at point-blank range. Engaging a shore battery required slow and measured gunnery, with slight changes in elevation, increases and decreases in powder charges, and subtle movements on the anchors, which made the gunner the most important man aboard.

Nothing happened for what seemed an age; no doubt there was much discussion taking place aboard HMS St George, which allowed Pearce to look about him at a landscape still parched in late autumn. Various forts were set around the shores of the Grande Rade, while others covered the narrower fortified entrance to the Petite Rade, making the most of what was a fortress designed by nature. There was no fleet in the world big enough to crowd the outer anchorage, and with two promontories to protect it from the vagaries of both sea and weather, the inner roads provided a secure space for the largest warships, while right inshore lay a protected harbour, containing slips for shipbuilding, massive timber stores and a fully functioning dockyard and arsenal.

Toulon had been home to the French Mediterranean Fleet since the time of Louis the Sun King and the masts of that Navy filled the port, all flying the pavillon royal, the French king’s ensign of fleur de lys, not the tricolour of the France of 1789. Behind the town and the Vauban-designed fortress that formed the heart of the defence, the hills rose in steep steps to the wooded crest of Mont Faron – an observation point that made the place invulnerable to a surprise assault from the sea – the flatter sections dotted with more redoubts, both those of the defenders as well as the enemy.

British marines and sailors, as well as Neapolitan, Piedmontese and Spanish troops, manned these positions. There was a unit of French royalists, but not of the number there should be, a worry given the population of Toulon. Too many of the locals were waiting to see which way the wind blew; the rest in the crowded town were refugees from the terror, and its mistress the guillotine, which had been unleashed on the southern coast of France by the revolutionary armies, not least in the great port of Marseilles, where the blood price for insurrection against the madmen of Paris was said to run into the thousands.

‘Flag signalling, your honour,’ shouted the man detailed to watch.

‘As soon as the flagship fires, let us test the range,’ called Digby.

CHAPTER ONE

Admiral Lord Hood sat at his table in the great cabin of HMS Victory, dealing with a mound of papers, which listed all the matters pertaining to his overall command of the Allied forces. That, since the British and Spanish fleets had taken over the defence of Toulon, was more than just keeping his own ships and men effective; he had to deal with French naval officers who had forsworn the Revolution, a difficult Spanish ally on land as well as at sea, soldiers of foreign armies demanding provisions and orders, the civilian authorities in Toulon, every ruler of every state in the Mediterranean, and last, and very much not least, the confused attitude of his own government in London.

Given sufficient numbers Toulon was, as a place, easy to defend, ringed by high hills, with narrow points of entry to east and west which channelled the efforts of anyone seeking to subdue the port through its landward approaches. The best place to stop an assault from the most vulnerable point, to the east, was just beyond a village called Ollioules, especially to contain an enemy approaching from Marseilles. That had been narrowly lost early on, throwing the defenders back to an inner perimeter in which every inch of ground must be contested, hence the profusion of hillside redoubts.

That still made the port a very tough nut to crack, yet it could not be held without the quantity of soldiers required to both fully man those redoubts and provide a mobile defensive reserve and he did not have them. Hood’s enemies outnumbered his forces, were being reinforced continuously, and also had access to all the heavy armaments in the country behind, allowing them to gather a formidable amount of siege-calibre cannon. With such an advantage they had begun to push forward their artillery and he lacked the means to stop them, namely a dozen regiments of redcoats or equivalents. His request that such men be sent out from England had received a cool response, barring a detachment promised from the garrison at Gibraltar.

The latest dispatches from home also contained an unpleasant communication, which could be read as a rebuke; Sam Hood had been obliged to rid Toulon of some five thousand rebellious French sailors from the Atlantic ports and there had been only one sensible way to settle such a problem. He could not just let them go to reinforce the armies besieging Toulon, nor could he find any neutral nation willing to take them. To keep five thousand radicals incarcerated in Toulon, given the trouble they could cause, was out of the question, so he had been forced to send them back from whence they came.

This he had done using four French 74-gun ships stripped of their cannon. The problem identified by London was one of which he had been well aware; once in their home ports, the French Navy would merely have to re-gun those vessels to return them to service, and instead of being a distant threat in the Mediterranean, they were now in some proximity to the English Channel, not an outcome likely to please an Admiralty or a nation for whom the security of that stretch of water was the primary strategic concern.

Nearly as unwelcome were the private dispatches from the king’s first minister, William Pitt. If Sam Hood was a successful admiral with an impressive record, he was also a political animal who had been, prior to taking up his command, the Senior Naval Lord on the Board of Admiralty and a strong supporter of Pitt’s Tory government. These private letters constantly urged him to treat his second-in-command, Admiral Sir William Hotham, with some consideration, not easy since he had no time for the man in question either as an admiral or as a political opponent.

The Duke of Portland, a leading Whig politician, had split his party to form a supportive coalition government with William Pitt. Both men were committed to fighting the French Revolution, but that did not mean politics failed to intrude into what was an uneasy alliance. Portland sought increased ministerial positions for his adherents, Pitt sought to minimise the power he gave away. Admiral Sir William Hotham was a staunch supporter of Portland, and the latter, in consequence, had already received several missives from Hotham questioning Hood’s actions, both in taking over the port of Toulon and the manner of his agreement with the French naval authorities – he had agreed to hold the port and fleet in trust instead of accepting a surrender – along with a great deal of what had happened since.

‘Damn me, Parker,’ Hood moaned, ‘they ask a great deal. Treat Hotham with kid gloves? I’d like to chuck the bugger in the cable tier.’

The person so vehemently addressed, Rear Admiral Hyde Parker, in his capacity as Hood’s Captain of the Fleet, acted as the executor of his superior’s wishes. If the fleet was run on standards set by Hood, it was Parker who implemented them. He was therefore, of necessity, both a friend and ally of his commanding officer, as well as the sounding board against which Hood could let off steam.

‘Tread carefully they say,’ Hood added, ‘without even acknowledging that the man is a trial.’

Hood was the master of a good scowl, having the craggy visage, the prominent nose and the bushy eyebrows to give it effect. Parker was smoother by far; indeed there was a touch of excess in the flesh of his body, replicated in his smooth and rosy-cheeked countenance. While Hood had an air of activity and impatience about him, with a tongue to match, Parker seemed to reek of passive contentment, which was as it should be; two irascible souls seeking to work in tandem to control a fleet could be a recipe for trouble.

‘I was looking over the papers on Captain Barclay’s court martial,’ Parker said.

‘A travesty,’ Hood growled, wondering at the abrupt change of subject. ‘He gets no more than a reprimand, which is like a slap on the wrist, when the man is fit to be drummed out of the service.’

Hood had little time for Captain Ralph Barclay of the frigate HMS Brilliant, and that had applied prior to the recent court martial, the charge being one of illegal impressment. He and Hood had clashed in London the previous year, before either man sailed for the Mediterranean. Barclay, ordered to weigh from Sheerness, complained that he lacked the hands necessary to man his frigate. Despite a verbal warning from Hood to have a care in how he resolved that dilemma, Barclay had led out a press gang. That in itself was not a worry; it was the chosen location which caused the problem, a section of the Thames riverside known as the Liberties of the Savoy. Seeking to press men for sea service within the boundaries of the Liberties was an act forbidden by ancient statute.

Pushed to institute a court martial by John Pearce, one of the victims of that press gang, he had handed the matter over to Hotham as a quid pro quo for his support in the issue of removing those French sailors to the Atlantic ports. His second-in-command had rigged matters in the most shameless way to get the result he wanted, for an officer to whom he had recently become a patron. Not only had he sent away any hostile witnesses, John Pearce included, but by choosing the captains to sit in judgement, as well as a useless prosecutor, he had made sure Barclay received the right verdict.

Given these terse communications from London, Hood also had good grounds to think that Hotham had reneged on the agreement by writing to Portland to question the action to which he had agreed, which had him add, with a sigh, ‘I am, Parker, obliged to confirm the verdict.’

‘Are you so obligated, sir?’

Hood looked hard at his Fleet Captain, who did not flinch from the glare. ‘I did give Hotham my word.’

‘It strikes me, sir,’ Parker insisted, ‘that Admiral Hotham has broken his word, indeed has taken greater advantage of your indulgence than is strictly warranted. In fact, I would say his chicanery in this matter, both in his arrangements for Barclay’s court martial and writing to London in a manner designed to undermine you, is so blatant as to constitute an insult to your flag.’

Hood raised his eyes to the deck beams, as though he could see through the planking and the captain’s cabin above his head to the flag that flew at the masthead, which designated his command as that of a vice admiral of the White Squadron.

‘I doubt he has much respect for my flag.’

Parker, who had been sitting back at his ease, pushed himself forward, hands on his ample, straddled thighs. ‘If I can reprise what he has done, sir…’

‘Go on,’ Hood interrupted, giving his Captain of the Fleet a penetrating look designed to warn him not to waste his time.

‘He took, or rather you gave to him, responsibility for the matter of investigating Captain Barclay’s supposed illegalities.’

‘I rather think the illegalities are a fact, not a supposition.’

‘Which makes it doubly galling that Admiral Hotham saw fit to so rig the court to guarantee Barclay a mere reprimand. Not only did he ensure that the witness statements his secretary took were not introduced to the court, he sent away on that mission to the Atlantic ports not only those who made them, but anyone who had evidence to damn Barclay, and in particular his chief accuser.’

‘He went that far?’

‘I have good grounds to believe so, sir, and I have a list of those who were affected.’

‘You’ve been busy.’

‘On your behalf, sir.’

‘What a fine set of blackguards they are, Parker,’ Hood growled. ‘To me, John Pearce and Sir William Hotham are of a piece, though I would hazard that Pearce is the more truthful of the pair.’

‘Then you will be interested to know, sir, that Lieutenant Pearce is threatening to bring a case of perjury against Barclay.’

‘Is he, by damn!’ Hood exclaimed, before his eyes narrowed and fixed on his junior admiral. ‘And how, Parker, do you know this?’

‘Is it not my job, sir, to know what is going on in your command, and so be in a position to advise you?’

Hood barked at him then. ‘And sometimes on occasion, Parker, to thwart me with your opinions.’

The reply was as nonchalant as the man who made it. ‘I would be remiss if I was a’feart to do that, sir.’

‘Perjury?’

‘Reading the transcripts of the given evidence, the case against Barclay is weakened by his not giving much in the way of personal testimony. It seems he declined to explain his actions, merely referring to that which had already been sworn by other witnesses. However, he did accept the prior evidence given as being true, and allowed the court to do the same. These I suspect to be lies he had engineered from those people he allowed to be called, which smacks of a conspiracy, an offence worse than mere perjury.’

‘You seem damn sure he did that, Parker.’

‘I have good reason.’

‘If you say the case is weak…’ Hood waved a hand, as if to the say the matter was not one worth the pursuit, which elicited from his executive officer a wolfish grin.

‘It seems one of those so suborned by Barclay, and perhaps the one most likely to be perjured, is his wife’s nephew, a certain midshipman called Toby Burns. From what I have gleaned the lad is not one to stand up to pressure. Get him in the same court as his uncle, with any form of decent prosecution, and Barclay would be doomed.’

Hood was growling again, clearly dissatisfied. ‘I am wondering, Parker, how it is that you seem to be in possession of information which is not, from my previous reading of the case papers, very obvious.’

‘I made a few discreet enquiries, sir, and found out that which I am now passing on to you.’

‘Am I to be told with whom you spoke?’

‘I would decline to do that, sir. It would not aid your situation to be seen as actively engaged in undermining Admiral Hotham. Better that, in a tight situation where some of this may come to light, you can justifiably plead innocence.’

‘Where is all this leading, Parker?’

‘Let us accept Ralph Barclay illegally pressed Pearce and those other fellows out of that Thameside tavern.’ Hood nodded. ‘Then let us also accept that Admiral Hotham, in order to protect an officer who has attached himself to his flag, has allowed, indeed connived in allowing a blatant miscarriage of justice to be perpetrated, one in which he could be shown to be complicit.’

‘It would need to be proved, but for the sake of your point we will allow it.’

‘It therefore stands to reason that Pearce and his proposed action for perjury represents a threat to both Captain Barclay and Admiral Hotham.’

‘Only if it comes to court and we both know how difficult that is.’

‘It is, however, like a sword of Damocles over both men, which is why I believe that Hotham, should he hear about Pearce’s proposed course of action, will do everything in his power to ensure it does not come to court. What concerns me is the means he will use to achieve that end.’

‘Which are?’

‘Right now, Lieutenant Pearce and the fellows he wants released from the Navy, the men he insists were illegally pressed with him, are aboard the pontoons ranged against the French battery, which I believe they have named Sans Culottes.’

‘Them and their damn silly names. Without breeches, indeed!’

It was like a signal; the rolling sound of cannon fire filled the air, then the casements of the spacious cabin rattled slightly at the displacement of atmosphere, even although it was over a mile away.

‘Gell has begun the action, Parker, I need to see this.’

Parker hauled himself to his feet as Hood did likewise. Hats were handed over by a steward as they made their way out on to the long maindeck of the flagship, with Hood acknowledging the knuckled forehead salutes of those who resided there. Sprightly for a man of his sixty-nine years he skipped up the companionway, which brought everyone on Victory’s quarterdeck to attention, the watch officers raising their hats as one.

‘A telescope,’ Hood demanded, and the long glass was immediately pressed into his hand, a second being provided for Parker.

HMS St George and Aurore were both wreathed in the smoke from their own cannon, the two pontoons likewise. Hood followed the course of the second salvo to see it land on the sandy shore, throwing up a great plume of earth short of the actual target. It took several minutes to reload and adjust the charges before the next salvo followed.

‘He’s not achieving much, Parker. All he is doing is shifting the shoreline.’

‘If he edged in closer…?’

‘The French have equal range and heated shot, he’ll risk the ship if he does.’

‘And that damned culverin.’

‘They won’t waste that on a ship. Barrel must be fairly old so they will keep it for the forts.’ A long silence followed before Hood asked, quietly, ‘So, what are you suggesting I do about this perjury thing, Parker?’

‘I am suggesting, sir,’ Parker replied in a like manner, there being a clutch of eavesdroppers nearby, ‘that keeping John Pearce alive would be to your advantage.’

‘The duty he is about is not guaranteed to kill him.’

‘No, but Admiral Hotham, should he get wind of what Pearce intends, has it in his power, thanks to you placing him under his direct command, to put him in danger at any time he chooses. The most exposed battery on shore, perhaps, or taking the lead in an attack that carries great risk. If I was to put odds on Pearce’s survival under those circumstances, I would not rate them as very high.’

‘You think I need to protect him?’

‘In doing so you may well protect yourself, sir.’

The ramifications of that did not need to be enumerated; it was as plain as the prominent nose on Hood’s face. Protect Pearce, and he would have a counter to Hotham’s baleful influence in London. The implied threat of a case brought against Ralph Barclay by John Pearce, which must of necessity drag in Hotham, would curtail his writing home to his political supporters in a way that undermined this command.

‘You cannot, of course, aid Pearce in bringing his case for perjury. Once he has done that he ceases to be a viable threat.’

‘God, Parker, you’re worse than a Whig, or a Jacobin for that matter. Give me an enemy to fight that I can see plain.’

‘I think we need a decision, milord.’

‘Get Pearce off that damned pontoon.’

‘I would say it was too late for that, sir. But, for the sake of your security, we should fetch off from under Hotham’s command not only Pearce, but also the men for whom he is fighting, whom he romantically refers to as his Pelicans.’

‘So it is not just the French who indulge in silly names?’

‘No, sir.’

‘And I think it would be unfortunate if Admiral Hotham failed to hear of the threat he faces,’ Parker added.

‘A hint to keep him honest?’

Parker responded with a wolfish grin, and a voice larded with insincerity. ‘We admirals must stick together, sir. And I reckon the sooner Admiral Hotham is apprised of it the better. I would be inclined to send him a note at once.’

‘Make it so, Parker,’ Hood replied. His telescope was concentrated on the smoke-wreathed pontoon on which those named were serving. ‘Mind, your shenanigans could be a waste of time. That fellow Pearce is such a contrary bugger, he will likely find a way to get his head blown off this very day.’

CHAPTER TWO

Digby’s first salvo had landed well short in the shallows, sending up great cascades of water mixed with sand, but doing no damage whatsoever to the enemy, given there was not even an onshore breeze to soak them with spray. It was some relief that the great guns of both capital ships had also misjudged the range. In fact, given the smaller calibre of their upper-deck cannon and the low elevation of their heavy armament, they had landed in deeper water. That lack of a wind also meant both pontoons and line-of-battle ships were wreathed in black acrid smoke, which took time to clear, this while Digby entered into careful discussion with the gunner. A worried individual called Jenkins, he agreed the charges needed to be increased, though he was loath to go too far in that direction, for fear of blasting apart the barrels.

‘If’n this don’t do the trick, your honour, we must move a tadge inshore,’ Jenkins insisted, in his lilting Welsh accent. He was sat in a gimcrack temporary booth made of slatted timber covered in soaked canvas as protection against a spark that might ignite his store of powder, with Digby having to lean over to talk to him in the gap through which he passed his loaded cartridges. ‘These be French guns, an’ I don’t know what they will bear in terms of powder. I would not be one to be trusting any works carried out by John Crapaud.’

‘They will likely be as well made as any of our own cannon, Jenkins.’

Officer or no, Digby got a look that told him in no uncertain terms he was wrong. He turned to find John Pearce by his side, looking worried.

‘Did you see the effect of that salvo on our anchor cables, sir?’

‘No I did not.’

‘I fear for the strain on them. I was wondering if we could fire one cannon at a time to ease it.’

‘Let me observe the effect, Mr Pearce, and make a judgement. The two firing together do have a greater impact.’ He pointed to the second pontoon. ‘In fact if we could time our action to the other fellow, landing four shots simultaneously, it might be much more valuable.’

Pearce nodded and, without being asked, hailed one of their boats, instructing the coxswain to pass on the thought to the other officer in command, this while the cannon on his own pontoon were reloaded with the heavier charge. Clearly the capital ships had undertaken the same measure, for they fired off another salvo that at least cleared the shoreline, though it still fell short of the redoubt.

‘Gun captains,’ Digby called, ‘we must try to fire on what little uproll we have from the swell.’

That acknowledged, they waited until a slight wave lifted the rear of the pontoon, pulling their lanyards to fire the flints as it ran underneath them, the balls emerging just as it raised slightly the shore-facing edge. Digby was watching the fall of shot, Pearce the strain on the forward anchor cables as the cannon recoiled. Brought up on their relieving tackles, what force the weight of the cannon created was transferred through the ringbolts to the planking below, sending the pontoon back to strain the anchors.

‘Mr Pearce,’ Digby called, and he waited until his second-in-command joined him. ‘I fear that old worrier of a gunner is right about the barrels, but even if he is wrong I am obliged to take on board what he says. We must decrease the range.’

The solution was simple and copied by their consort; they paid out the sea anchors and hauled in on the shoreside, and this time it was their consort copying them. Likewise Admiral Gell was backing and filling to get further inshore.

‘Our friends yonder have yet to return fire.’

‘They still have the sun in their eyes, Mr Pearce, and I reckon, once that is high enough, they will oblige us with a response. Besides, they will be under the command of an artillery officer, and probably he will have a better understanding of range. Once they know we are far enough inshore to be a real threat, we will be well served.’

Given it was fire at will, the other officer opened up first from the new position, which sent up two great piles of earth and sand right at the front of the newly erected French revetments. Digby was in the process of acknowledging the improvement when one of the second pontoon’s anchor cables snapped from the strain. The broken rope whistled at head height across the deck, sending men diving to avoid it while, one corner released, the platform swung away from its fixed position. As it did so the French cannon finally spoke, sending two visible black objects arcing towards their target, balls which straddled the swinging pontoon; indeed it seemed that the misfortune of the severed cable might have been of some salvation.

Digby had little time to express his concern, as another pair of cannon fired on him, though they overshot to land in the sea a hundred yards behind–a worry, since even if he moved his pontoon back to the original anchor point, they would still be in danger. Yet it was immediately obvious they were not the main target; the remainder of the battery opened up, a dozen cannon, all firing at HMS St George. Some hit water and made spouts, but a couple struck timber, and the sound of rending wood rumbled across the bay. On a sturdy 98-gunner, the damage was not in any way terminal, but it did indicate that Gell’s flagship was vulnerable.

Digby shouted, alluding to the parted rope. ‘On the flint lanyards, one cannon at a time, the cables will not bear the recoil.’

All the advantage lay with the shore batteries, firing as they were from fixed positions on solid ground. At sea, though it was not running strong, they were at the mercy of even the slightest movement, snubbing on the cables as the currents moved them one way or the other, always firing from a slightly different elevation due to the effect of the swell, for it was impossible to correctly time the best point of discharge. So it was a measure of the luck of the pontoons that the first salvos aimed at them looked to be the most dangerous, given that what followed came nowhere near.

‘Powder’s no use,’ said Jenkins, when a crouching Digby asked his opinion as to the failure of their opponents to strike home. ‘Rotten French muck.’

The lieutenant forbore to point out to the Welshman that the powder he was using to fill his charges came from the arsenal of Toulon, and was thus also French muck. In reality, because the commander of that shore battery was concentrating on the capital ships, they were in receipt of very little counter fire. Michael O’Hagan’s prediction of heated shot came to pass in short order, though again not aimed at them. Very visible in clear morning air, the red-hot metal left a trail of smoke, which did not immediately increase on contact. In the sea it landed with a steam-inducing hiss, but if it hit wood it could embed itself and thus begin a conflagration, which might well, if it got out of hand, completely destroy the ship.

Their consort, now rigged to a spare anchor, was able to come back into the action, and that was the point at which both John Pearce and Digby realised why they were being so lightly treated. They had possessed only half their maximum firepower, but once that was remedied, a quartet of cannon was assigned to deal with them. Safety, if it existed at all, came from being a small target on a large expanse of seawater, so the French gunners would have to be precise, and that required luck. The concomitant of that was less rosy; the longer the action continued, the more chance they had of success – in short, luck for the target tended to be a diminishing asset.

After an hour, John Pearce was black from head to foot, covered in the soot released by the powder, and more than once he had been obliged to smack out something singeing his coat and breeches, scraps of wad from a discharge still burning but unspent. Likewise the gun crews, who were also sweating copiously, straining mightily to swab, worm and load, carrying both powder and the heavy cannonballs, then hauling the huge cannon across the deck to its firing position. They had a butt of clean water from which to assuage their thirst, though Digby, knowing they might have to stay on this station till twilight, had put a steady hand to control the use of the ladle.

It was plain to the naked eye that the line-of-battle ships were not winning the contest. Columns of smoke, where red-hot shot had struck, rose from several parts of St George and Aurore. It was also clear their bulwarks were taking severe damage from common round shot, and every time a ball struck home the wrenching sound of torn wood filled their ears. They, being too distant, were spared the screams of those affected by the splinters such a mauling must produce.

The sound of cannonballs hitting the water all around the pontoons had almost assumed a rhythm of endless waterspouts, each greeted with a jeering response from the British tars. That was shattered, as was the deck of their consort, when finally the French gunners scored a hit. Luckily the ball landed between the two cannon, but it gouged out great splinters of wood, which speared in all directions, so although the guns remained unscathed that could not be said of the crews. Worse was the manner in which it bounced on, taking out the gimcrack hutch that housed their gunner. That just disintegrated with slats being thrust into the sea and, judging by the spurts of blood and gore, he went with them, leaving everyone standing rock still waiting to see if the powder exploded, which could be fatal for them all.

The screams of those wounded came across the strip of intervening water, dragging every eye to observe what they could of the carnage; Digby had to shout to his men that they should attend to their duties. Yet it was with one eye on the order and another on the damaged deck that they complied, witnessing the wounded being dragged to a place away from the cannon, but certainly not safety. There was no below decks to retire to, just an area of planking at as much risk as any other. The Gods smiled then, for, no doubt due to a very slight change in the powder measure, the next salvo hit the sea a few feet to the rear of the pontoon, missing everyone standing as it flew across the damaged deck, just before it struck the water. At its lowest it could not have been much above waist height.

‘Mr Pearce, we must assist our consort with some of our powder.’

‘They have called in a boat to take off the wounded, sir. I will employ that.’

Such casualties as had been sustained might have been bearable if they had been inflicting the same on the enemy, but from what could be seen, and that was extremely limited, the whole attacking force was doing not much more than shifting earth. The mounds thrown up to defend the position, being loose, also served to absorb and nullify the force of any round shot that had the right range. Once in receipt of a supply of filled cartridges, both pontoons were soon back in action.

‘Can’t be long till our turn, your honour,’ said Latimer, in between loading and ducking every time the enemy replied. ‘And if it hits us a’foreship, we’ll be matchwood.’

John Pearce had a duty then to tell Latimer, much as he respected the old fellow, to shut up; they were here and there was not a lot they could do about it. No retirement was possible without an express order from Admiral Gell, so they just had to lump it. But the words had him looking to the boats that had towed them, now out of range, rocking peacefully on the swell, oars at rest. He also tried to calculate the distance to the nearest part of the shore not occupied by the French, and reckoned, in the warm Mediterranean water, he would have little trouble in swimming to safety should the pontoon seem set to sink.

Yet that certainly did not apply to many others; if there was one mystery John Pearce could never fathom it was the fact that so few sailors could swim. It seemed to him like an absolute necessity of the occupation, yet all he had ever heard was that when in danger of drowning, tars had only one aim; to find enough drink to ensure that when they did succumb to lungs full of water, they would do so in a state of inebriated oblivion.

‘I wonder, sir, if we might ask the boats to move in closer?’ he said, joining Digby.

‘They would be endangered by that, Mr Pearce.’

‘If I may say so, sir, the men aboard this pontoon are endangered by the distance they are sitting off from us. If we are struck in any serious fashion this deck will not serve to keep many alive.’

‘A risk we must take, Mr Pearce.’

Both were forced to duck then as a ball whistled over their heads to land in the sea. Pearce knew there was no point in asking Digby if he could swim; nothing would alter his need to do his duty, that being a subject on which he and his superior had crossed swords before. Digby had only his naval career to give him any hope of advancement. John Pearce had no desire to prosper in the service; his sole aim, indeed his entire presence on this station, was exclusively to do with the need to fulfil a promise made to his Pelicans to get them free from the bonds of false impressment. He also had a deep desire to see in the dock at the Old Bailey the man who had brought them to this.

‘I feel the men would be happier if they thought the risk a shared one, sir.’

Digby did not look at him, but there was a tense note in his voice. ‘You are not telling me, I hope, that they would refuse their duty.’

The reply from Pearce was not tense, it was terse; nothing got his ire more than a blind sense of obligation to orders, however idiotic. ‘No sir, but I am saying it would be a pleasing thought that if the worst happens the men manning the guns might, instead of drowning, survive to fight another day.’

He heard Digby take in a deep breath, and he guessed that in being so tactless he had probably dented any chance of his superior relenting. Happenstance came to his aid as another ball flew in, this time striking his pontoon on the very furthest edge, removing a sizeable chunk of timber, but bouncing off to ricochet harmlessly into the sea. The sound was worse than the effect as both men stared at the gap torn in the timbers. Obviously, if that same shot had hit further in, the platform on which they stood might have been so damaged as to be unable to remain afloat.

A new sound from the flagship echoed across the bay, a booming reverberation that was not from a fired cannon, but one much louder, which had Digby searching for the cause through his telescope. He could observe little, but there seemed to be a sense of confusion on the quarterdeck, which he had to assume meant the vessel had been hit hard.

‘Flag signalling, your honour,’ called the lookout unnecessarily.

Digby shifted his telescope to the mainmast, but, with the advent of an offshore breeze, the message could be seen with the naked eye. Admiral Gell was breaking off the action and HMS St George swung round, followed by Aurore, presenting to the pontoons the side of the ships that had faced the enemy, allowing those manning them to see the extensive damage they had sustained, with only the lookouts in the tops having any real notion of whether they had replied enough in kind. Just as troubling as the smashed bulwarks and blown-in scantlings, was the signal at the masthead of the flagship, which Digby read out.

‘Engage the enemy more closely?’

There was disbelief in his voice, and John Pearce shared that when he heard it. If a ship mounting a dozen 32-pounders on one side of her lower deck could not sustain the action, what chance did they have, for once the line-of-battle ships were out of range they would be the only target left.

‘He surely cannot be asking us to move closer inshore?’

‘We have hauled up as much as we dare on our shoreside anchors,’ Pearce said. ‘To move in further would mean…’

‘I know what it would mean, Mr Pearce.’

The boats would have to come in, manoeuvre the pontoons to pluck the anchors from the seabed, execute various tows in different directions to get the platforms set again, and all the while they would be at the mercy of that battery – more so than they were now – without even the ability to return fire, for nothing could be done with the cannon being secured.

‘I think that is an instruction you can easily ignore, sir.’

‘Yet our friend yonder is calling in his boats.’

‘He’s a fool.’

‘He is a naval officer, Mr Pearce, doing what is required of him.’

‘Sir, we have been lucky so far. That would hardly last in our present position, let alone closer inshore.’

‘Nevertheless, Mr Pearce, you must call in our boats.’ Pearce hesitated, until Digby added, ‘I think, that having served together these last weeks, and knowing how I backed you off La Rochelle, I can count on your support.’

John Pearce had no choice but to comply; he did owe him for that, having indulged in an extremely risky venture to rescue some French officers in danger of being guillotined. On that voyage to the Bay of Biscay and back, acting as escort to the returning French sailors, he had come to know his commanding officer well. He liked Henry Digby, even if he thought him to have a parochial mind, blinkered religious views, and limited experience of the world. That had consisted of a rural life until he was aged thirteen, with some schooling thrown in, followed by the cloistered world of a midshipman’s berth in the Royal Navy, and finally his examination and elevation to his present rank.

The fellow seeking to dissuade him had experienced much variation in his life and, in possession of a wider understanding of the world, he had an independence of mind not granted to someone like Digby. Not for John Pearce a normal childhood: he had followed his father around the country as his parent sought to spread his message by pen and speech that the world in which his countrymen lived was a corrupt entity suited to those with wealth, while being inimical to the well-being of those without. Adam Pearce, the so-called Edinburgh Ranter, had a strong sense of his own virtue, a wide range of knowledge and trenchant opinions, plus the benefit of that most precious asset for a man of slender means, a Scottish education, first from the Kirk school, followed by a deep reading of the classics at Edinburgh University, much of which he had passed on to his son.

In consequence John Pearce had a familiarity with much not vouchsafed to a naval officer, or many other people for that matter. He had met famous men, visited endless towns, stayed in great houses and leaky barns, slept under the summer stars, walked the edge of crowds listening to his father speak, collecting in his cap the means they needed to eat if they were in thrall to the message, looking for the means of swift departure if they were hostile. He had sat close to his father as he conversed among people with opinions of interest, though rarely of wholehearted agreement, suffered with him a spell in the Fleet prison and, forced to flee a King’s Bench warrant for sedition, reached his manhood in the hothouse of a Paris newly liberated from the stultifying grip of absolute monarchy.

Yet Pearce also knew Henry Digby to be trapped: decline the order and he would be branded a coward – he could certainly be finished in the service. Obey and he might well perish. To a man in his position there was no alternative, and he was worthy of support so, picking up the speaking trumpet, Pearce called in their boats, this while Digby ordered the cannon to be secured, though left loaded for immediate reuse. As these orders were being issued the French artillerymen were giving the line-of-battle ships a send off to remember.