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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Serie: John Pearce
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014
Faced with a ship in need of repair, enemy attacks and the threat of wily Admiral Hotham, John Pearce is sailing into danger. Meanwhile Ralph Barclay is on his way to the Mediterranean. Thinking his wife still with Pearce and that he can repair his marriage by rescuing her, he sails in pursuit, Hotham half-hoping he suffers the same fate as the admiral has in store for Pearce. Can John Pearce fight to first save himself and his charges from captivity and then to be free from the enemy? It is a battle that will require all of his wits.
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Seitenzahl: 484
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The Devil to Pay
DAVID DONACHIE
To my grandson, Lewis Nelson Donachie, who was born when this novel was in its infancy.
Contents
PROLOGUE
John Pearce found it easy to be irritable in a place like Palermo. The weather, even in early September, was searing hot during the day and scarcely less so at night without a breeze. With a broken arm in splints, held in place by heavy bandaging, the amount of itching it caused was enough to drive him near mad with frustration. Added to this physical discomfort, he was required to deal with the folk who undertook the repair of ships in the harbour, there being no dockyard in the proper sense, while he had in HMS Larcher, after his recent battle, a vessel in need of much restoration before it could be considered fully fit for sea.
The damage to the hull and upper works he could, in the main, leave to his own men, at least those who had survived whole, while much of the ship’s tackle, like blocks and sheaves, if torn from their usual location, were serviceable. Canvas to repair sails too shot through to be of any use was something to be bought in bolts and fashioned by those same hands. Likewise cordage, albeit much time was spent in bargaining for a fair price, a restraint imposed on him by limited funds, much of which was expended on those woodworking tasks beyond the skill of the ship’s carpenter and his mates.
It was in the article of an upper mast and especially the bowsprit that he was struggling to get the armed cutter ready for sea and this in an island not short on timber, though it seemed to lack anything of the required length and shape. He had some suspicion that the wily locals knew very well what was needed, knew as he did not, where to find it – and were holding out for an excessive price – aware he was in a poor position to bargain.
All his rigging had suffered damage and in the case of the long bowsprit the lack of it left Larcher bereft of her major asset when it came to manoeuvrability. In his short and unusual naval career the dockyards in England had figured low to non-existent in Pearce’s experience, though he had heard much through wardroom gossip regarding the practices and speculations of those who both ran and laboured in them, tales of theft and corruption so comprehensively murky that he was left to wonder how the nation ever got a fleet to sea.
Even with such outright chicanery they must be paragons compared to the Sicilians, who seemed to see physical labour as a crime against the person and payment for what amounted to scant effort as rightful reward. The whole process was rendered even more trying due to the slothful behaviour of the man supposed to represent King George in what was the second city of the Kingdom of Naples. His inaction – he rose late, lunched long and biliously in the article of wine, before taking to his bed – was surpassed only by the lack of his willingness to pay the necessary price demanded by the local chandlers.
‘Signor di Stefano, I must have both a mainmast and bowsprit whatever they may cost while you must recognise that any monies you advance to repair a vessel of King George’s Navy will be met and reimbursed in full.’
‘But when, Capitane Pearce?’ came the reply, in dramatically accented English, this before the consul produced from a desk drawer an untidy sheaf of papers. ‘Here are copies of bills I have incurred on behalf of King George, some over two years in age and yet to be satisfied. My credit is not so good that I can run up the level of expense you demand, for in doing so I face ruin.’
Di Stefano was good at theatricality of the outré sort and he did the misery of impending penury well, both in his wretched facial expression and the way his plump body slumped, as if suddenly afflicted by a great weight, to the point where even his knees, giving way slightly, played a part. It was a hard case to argue against, it being no mystery that His Majesty’s Government was notoriously tardy when it came to meeting the expenses incurred by its agents abroad.
‘Sir William Hamilton may undertake to reimburse you.’
Now the mobile di Stefano countenance – puffy from imbibing and dark-skinned from the climate – morphed into an image fitting to the burial of a dear friend; one to which John Pearce had been witness to on the day he and di Stefano interred the ten men he had lost in the recent fight and one which took him back to that desperate battle that had occasioned the damage, which, if it could be counted as an ultimate success, was not much of one.
‘I must question whether the income from Sir William’s estates, which he uses to maintain his own position in Naples, are sufficient to bear as well the cost of my duties.’
John Pearce suspected there was something of a lie in that; Sir William Hamilton was the Ambassador to the Kingdom of Naples and had to be a direct link between Sicily and London, even to the cost of the consul’s duties here on the island. If he thought it, he could not say for certain he was being misled. For all he knew, Sir William, a man he had met on only two brief occasions and a seeming gentleman, might be as sluggish at meeting his obligations as the clerks working under the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs in London.
‘Might I point out, sir,’ Pearce said, in an emollient tone, ‘that costs do not diminish with time. I am running out of ship’s stores and with what I am obliged to buy locally I am low on the funds needed to keep my crew fed—’
‘Added to your other obligations, Capitane,’ di Stefano cut in with an oily tone, unable to keep a sly look off that mobile countenance, unwittingly preventing Pearce from mentioning another expense: the bill for those wounded and still accommodated in the Lazaretto, ‘for you have too the burden of your Bella Signora.’
Was the reference to Emily Barclay’s married state a dig? Pearce could not tell, but he was not going to let any comment on something that had already caused difficulties pass unchallenged and this time his reply was quite brusque.
‘The lady of whom you speak meets her own obligations, sir!’
‘Then you are doubly blessed,’ the consul sniffed, adding a toss of the eyes that indicated his lack of belief that what was being imparted to him could possibly be the case.
‘It would be better if we stick to the subject at hand, signor, which is how am I to get my ship into a fit state to sail back to join the fleet of which I am a part and on whose behalf you are tasked to lend every effort consistent with your office. I might add that I am required by my station to note every difficulty I experience in my log which will, in time, come to the attention of others, both the Fleet Commander and the Admiralty in London.’
Di Stefano now chose to play the part of a man deeply offended, pouting in an exaggerated fashion as if he were being threatened in a meaningful way, which Pearce, even if he had hinted at the possibility, thought absurd. What harm could a mere lieutenant in the King’s Navy, and one that was less than loved in the places of power that mattered, do to him?
He huffed and puffed a bit, as well as rolling his eyes, and pulled out a large square handkerchief with which to wipe his brow. Pearce was tempted to tell the consul he had missed his true calling; given his comedic abilities he would have had them rolling in the aisles if he had chosen a career on the London stage.
‘I must leave you, sir, to consider which is the lesser of two evils, the crew of my ship begging at your door for sustenance or you meeting the requirements for the necessary repairs.’
Seeing the consul now swell up to a proud puffball, Pearce added quickly and with faux sympathy, for he knew he had been too critical for his purpose; without di Stefano’s aid he might be stuck in Palermo till eternity, a total falsehood designed to take the wind out of his sails.
‘And please be aware I am not in ignorance of the problems this presents to a man of your abilities, commitment to exertion and your sterling reputation.’
Interview over, Pearce left the consul’s house to exit into the heat of the day, which, approaching noon, seemed to be trapped by the narrow confines of the streets through which he walked. It was made ten times worse by the fact that any visit to di Stefano required that he do so in uniform. The heavy blue naval coat he wore was singularly unsuited to any climate other than that of the British Isles and points north, while the sword he wore – but would struggle to employ with a dud right arm – slapped against his thigh as he moved.
His dignity did not allow him to remove it so by the time he reached the pensione where he and Emily Barclay were staying, his shirt was like a dripping rag. Her room at least overlooked the harbour and the wide bay, while the open shutters admitted a bit of a breeze that, once he had his coat and shirt off, allowed him some relief. She, sitting and wearing a single loose garment, was busy sewing for a fully occupied group of tars, repairing clothing suffering from the wear and tear of the work in which they were presently engaged.
‘You do not have the air, John, of someone who has succeeded in his undertaking.’
‘Signor di Stefano has a tight grip on his purse and I doubt he will loosen it. We may have to seek to get to Naples if we are ever to fully refit the ship.’
‘Naples?’ she said, in a soft and uncertain tone, before putting aside her needle and thread to come and join him by the open window.
Pearce turned as she came closer, struck as he ever was by her beauty, and even more taken with the way the breeze from the sea was pressing the thin garment she wore against her skin, revealing every contour of her body: her breasts, the outline of her thighs and the slimness of her waist. If he had troubles aplenty, even if Emily Barclay was another man’s wife, John Pearce was happy to have her as a burden.
‘From there you have more chance of passage home, Emily, so very few British vessels call at Palermo by comparison.’
It was in one such rare vessel she had come here, brought by a captain who, ever grateful for the services John Pearce and the crew of HMS Larcher had rendered in saving his ship from almost certain seizure by pirates, had chosen to continue his voyage without her, refunding the monies Emily had paid for her passage.
The hand that he reached out was taken, Emily allowing herself to be pulled close and into his embrace, her head resting in the crook of his naked shoulder as he kissed the top of her fine auburn hair. Outside the window, what had been a noisy, bustling quayside was winding down as the locals headed to wherever they lived to escape the zenith of the broiling midday sun, to first eat and then sleep until late afternoon.
For two such young and ardent lovers slumber was not the first object of their taking to bed and such was their familiarity with each other that John Pearce’s stiff, splinted arm was no impediment to what followed.
CHAPTER ONE
It was the itching of trapped skin that woke him and, careful not to disturb a still-sleeping companion, Pearce sought with his fingers to get between the splints to gain some relief. Yet if his arm troubled him, his thoughts were equally taxing for he knew that the notion of any more delay was to court a very poor alternative, namely he might be required to leave his ship here and take passage to Naples, where he could make his case to Sir William Hamilton for the funds he needed.
An even more troubling thought surfaced: that he would meet resistance there and would then be required to return to the fleet and explain his actions, hardly attractive given he had no right to be in Palermo at all; his mission had been to take despatches to Ambassador Hamilton and return with, in the navy’s favourite phrase, ‘all despatch’.
Those orders did not mention Emily Barclay who became, as she had been on the voyage out from England, an unofficial passenger, he harbouring the hope that he could find her accommodation, as well as protection with Sir William and Lady Hamilton. The ambassador’s wife, being a lady of an uncertain pedigree and a chequered past, was someone, he was sure, who would be non-censorious regarding her present situation.
The first part of his orders he had fulfilled, delivering not only his despatches but also a private letter to Lady Hamilton from Commodore Horatio Nelson, the latter carried out with a degree of misplaced apprehension – the ambassador was privy to the regard in which his beautiful wife was held and not only by that particular officer. Having dined and spent the night at the Palazzo Sessa and with arrangements made for Emily to stay behind, he set off from Sir William’s home intent on fetching her ashore, only to find she had fled his ship and taken passage in a merchant vessel bound for England.
As he set off in pursuit and, angry as he was, Pearce could comprehend her motives: to be a married woman at large in Italy with an acknowledged lover was to court much condemnation and even downright hostility, as had been proved by a brief stay in Leghorn, the base from which the Mediterranean Fleet drew its stores. Emily’s husband was a serving post captain, known personally to a number of the officers come to the port to re-victual and by reputation to almost everyone else, and that rendered her innate discomfort doubly difficult to bear.
That many did not love Ralph Barclay, he being a man of little humour and a lot of barely disguised resentments, made little difference; the collective of the navy would, Emily surmised, feel the implied insult of his cuckoldry, making it impossible for her to remain in Leghorn and that was before such problems had been confounded by John Pearce’s own difficulties.
Cruel coincidence had seen an old problem resurface, one which could only be laid to rest by a duel, one in which, in his darker moments, he wondered if what he had done to win the contest could be counted as honourable. Certainly the military officers who had supported his opponent did not think so, which had seen Emily in receipt of vocally expressed insults that went beyond anything that could be considered tolerable. It had also left her lover troubled by his inability to do anything about it. Those same officers, when challenged for their behaviour, had refused to give him satisfaction.
Staring out at the sparkling Mediterranean, the jumbled thoughts induced a complex set of feelings. How had he come to be here in Palermo, indeed how had he come to be entitled to the blue coat he owned and the command he enjoyed? Ralph Barclay was the prime cause and there was some lifting of the gloom at the thought, indeed the beginnings of a quiet smile, that such a dark-hearted bastard as he might, in moments of like introspection, damn himself for his own actions.
It took little to lift Pearce’s spirit and the sweet, melodious singing of a young girl, passing underneath his window, was enough to shift his mood to a happier plane; too many times in his life, when matters had looked desperate, the ultimate upshot had been of benefit. For all the turmoil of his being a one-time pressed seaman, how could he complain of how his life had turned out? By the personal order of King George, he was Lieutenant John Pearce and he had enjoyed in that role a degree of independence denied to most naval officers, while still sleeping in the bed behind him was a woman he would never have met had her husband not sought to press hands for his undermanned frigate.
Inevitably his mind returned to the main difficulty and the consideration of a possible solution: surely to get HMS Larcher to Naples was not impossible, the distance being, even in far from perfect weather, not much more than two days’ sailing on a fully functioning vessel. Right now he was looking out at a benign sea state and a wind that, if it could be felt on his skin, carried no great force.
Could his master rig enough sail to undertake the journey? Larcher would take longer but that was not a problem if the weather held. Naples had a proper dockyard well supplied with masts and timber, was a strong ally with Britain in its fight against the French Revolution, so would surely advance him any aid he needed.
The more Pearce thought on it the more attractive the idea became, yet it was not without risk: the climate in this part of the world could be fickle, with winds that could spring up in the turn of a glass to change a benevolent sunlit day into a nightmare of gales and raging seas. The route was also a potential hunting ground for pirates and it was in fighting a pair of Barbary brigantines, in company with the merchantman on which Emily had taken passage, which had brought on his present dilemma.
They too had suffered in the encounter and would no doubt, like him, be seeking to repair the damage. Any place a Mussulman could do so had to be well away from the shores of Catholic Sicily, so he had nothing to fear from them, though there could of course be others, even French Privateers. Risk and reward lay at the very core of the life of any man in command of a vessel of war and, small as she was, HMS Larcher was that. John Pearce had the choice to leave his ship and crew to rot in Palermo or take a chance that good fortune would favour his attempt to get her away.
His daily duty took him to HMS Larcher twice; he cheerfully ignored the Standing Order that a captain must sleep aboard his ship. Firstly, to the cock’s crow to ensure all was shipshape and hear a report on what work would be undertaken that day, then again in the evening to see delivered those fresh foodstuffs he had bought in the market. For, on such a small vessel, Pearce was not only Master and Commander but his own purser, with all the problems and paperwork such a position entailed. Accounts which had to be, like his own captain’s log, filled in by Emily if they were to be legible.
It was no good sitting here by this open window, enjoying the cooling breeze on his skin and waiting till the appointed hour. He needed to get back aboard the ship to come to an informed decision, so quietly Pearce donned a fresh shirt and his breeches then, carrying his shoes and his hat, he tiptoed out of the room.
There was no more activity aboard HMS Larcher than on the rest of the quay, a place so deserted Pearce could hear the crack of his own heels on the cobblestones. If he was not hot as he had been earlier in his broadcloth coat, it was still a damp-shirted individual who came aboard to no ceremony whatsoever; there was no whistling pipes or eager-to-oblige faces as there would have been once the heat went out of the sun.
The lack of respect to his rank he cared for not a jot, what upset him was that he could get onto the deck and do as he wished without anyone noticing; in short it could be pilfered at will in a country where the light-fingered locals were particularly adept at thievery.
‘Where in the name of Lucifer is everyone!’
A young hand who went by the nickname Todger, in response to that shout, sprung up from what amounted to the only shade available, a bolt of canvas slung over two of the ship’s cannon, where prior to this somnolence he had been in the process of cutting and stitching to turn it into a sail.
‘Weren’t asleep, your honour,’ Todger barked, knuckling his forehead, his young face deeply troubled.
Pearce knew it to be a lie and the necessary rebuke was just about to be delivered when he recalled that he too had recently been abed and asleep. Todger, unlucky to be left on watch, was a man to whom he owed a slight obligation, a fellow who had been the first to feel his wrath on this commission. The offence in question had to do with the presence of Emily Barclay on a ship too small to properly accommodate her needs.
Todger had regaled his mates with a scabrous tale about the certain ability of a Portsmouth trollop called Black Cath to perform a less than salubrious act, which involved a certain bodily function added to the distance it could be projected. This was overheard by Emily, indeed on such a small deck it could be heard by everyone, and clearly Todger had forgotten there was a lady present within earshot.
Pearce had reacted badly on her behalf only to be reminded by the person who ought to be offended that she had no right to be aboard in the first place and then she had insisted he withdraw the punishment he had imposed. The memory of the incident and his own reaction still left his commander troubled and because of that he decided Todger was due some leeway.
‘Then you should have challenged me when I came up the gangplank.’
‘Didn’t see the need, Capt’n,’ the youngster replied, with palpable relief, ‘you bein’ who you is.’
Not for the first time since his elevation, John Pearce was left thinking command was not easy; maybe it was for a tyrant like Ralph Barclay but not for him. He wanted an efficient ship as much as the next man but he could not abide the thought of an unhappy one, which had been the case on Barclay’s frigate. Mind, half the crew on Brilliant had been pressed men and disgruntled with it; Larcher was different, being manned by volunteers.
There was balance to be struck here; Pearce did not want Todger crowing about getting away with being asleep or the way he had managed to lie his way out of trouble. For the offence of which he was guilty, dereliction of duty, a flogging, according to the Articles of War by which naval life was governed, was the appropriate punishment. It was also one John Pearce knew he lacked the will to impose. On the last occasion he had stopped Todger’s grog.
‘Then damn you, Todger, you better learn to use a bosun’s pipe and some way to greet an officer coming aboard that meets the bill.’
The glance over his shoulder told Pearce that the rest of the men had come up from below, roused out by his yelling, and he turned to face them. At the same time Dorling, the ship’s master, came striding up the gangplank, looking sheepish and slightly flushed, which had Pearce glancing towards the nearby buildings and wondering within which particular one he had been enjoying himself, given it must have been close enough to hear his angry demand.
Had Dorling been bedding a local doxie or had he formed a more permanent attachment in the preceding three weeks? Not difficult when tied up at the quayside and the man in charge rarely aboard. Again Pearce felt a stab of inadequacy; he was in command so he should know. It was irritation at his own lack of knowledge that had him speak more harshly and with more confidence than was merited, while also singularly failing to outline what had driven him to the conclusion he proposed.
‘Mr Dorling, it is my opinion we have rested here too long and that we have reached a point of diminishing returns. The natives are playing ducks and drakes with us and will, I suspect, happily do so while we decay. It is my notion that we should have those repairs we still require carried out in Naples.’
Matthew Dorling was a young man, as befitted his position in such a small vessel, but he was also competent and would, Pearce was sure, rise one day to become master of a ship of the line. He was also the fellow who had saved his captain from more than one folly in the time they had spent together, having been at sea since he was a nipper, and was thus the vastly more experienced seaman even before he studied to attain his present position. Pearce should have been asking his opinion not making his statement sound like a decision already arrived at.
‘She will sail like a tub. Anything in the nature of a blow and we’ll be clinging to what’s left as wreckage.’
The doubt in the master’s voice was as obvious as the gentle murmur that came from a crew who could overhear every word. With his slung arm itching like the devil, his shirt soaked with sweat and his face red from the sheer heat of the day, John Pearce, who could now envisage no alternative, was not in the mood to have his aims thwarted by excessive caution.
‘The hull is sound?’ That got a nod. ‘Can we rig a suit of canvas to give us enough to steer by?’
‘With respect, Captain,’ Dorling responded, in a measured tone and with a direct look, ‘it is not a course I would adopt.’
‘Yet is it not one we are obliged to, Mr Dorling?’
‘This is a judgement that falls to you.’
In the silence that followed, brief as it was, there was enough time to reflect on that reply, which stood in sharp contrast when set against the attitude Dorling had displayed in the past. Since taking over command, Pearce had enjoyed a relationship not only with the master but also the rest of the crew which was as close to friendly as such an association could be – based on the fact that he made no attempt to hide his lack of deep knowledge that went with a lifetime of naval service.
Initially he had been given HMS Larcher as a temporary command, the fellow he had replaced being too ill to carry out his duties, while he was required to undertake a mission to the Vendée on behalf of Henry Dundas, presently Minister for War and William Pitt’s right-hand man. From what he could read and deduce, his predecessor had been a miserly sod that often, in the added role of ship’s purser, cheated his crew of pennies when supplying their needs as well as being an officer, though not a flogger, only too willing to punish for minor infractions. Pearce surmised that he must have come as something of a relief, for which he had been rewarded.
He had relied on them and they had not let him down, having sailed into danger more than once before the recent battle. Pearce had, since their first voyage together and the fading of the natural caution extended to a stranger, felt the crew to be fully with him. It was not like that now and such was apparent in the faces of the men behind Dorling.
Even more to the point was the most pertinent fact: the master, having proffered his opinion, wanted no part in deciding how they should proceed. Would Dorling note in his log that it was Pearce who had advanced the notion of sailing to Naples, so that if matters went awry he would not share any opprobrium? He might even write in plain words his objections to such a plan.
It was then, in what had become a brief locking of eyes, that John Pearce was assailed by the feeling that he had forfeited something very important since coming to Palermo and that led him to wonder at how it had come about. He had, of course, been groggy himself by the time they tied up at the quay, not only nursing his arm but a sore head, having been knocked out before the battle was finished.
It had been several days before he became fully aware of the damage HMS Larcher had suffered, which was extensive and so were the casualties; she had only made harbour by being lashed to the Sandown Castle, the merchant vessel they had come across, the very ship carrying Emily Barclay, and the one threatened by those Barbary brigantines.
Right at this moment he felt he was being challenged; leaving him to wonder later if it was a stubbornness to which he knew himself to be prone that had him issue the orders necessary to get the armed cutter ready to set sail, these delivered to a man who was the only person on board with the skill to make it so.
Dorling kept his face expressionless as he said. ‘Aye, aye, sir.’
‘Meanwhile,’ Pearce continued, in a confident voice loud enough to carry to all, ‘I will visit those still wounded and make sure they are fit enough to be accommodated back on board. It would be unfair that they should be left here.’
As something designed to encourage it fell visibly flat; there were no smiles or nods of agreement, which had him look to the one face that, due to the height of the owner, stood out clearly and one in which he might be able to read a positive reaction. Michael O’Hagan towered over all those around him and in girth was as wide as any pair combined; he was also a man John Pearce held to be a friend.
On his face, in some contrast to the rest, was a look that could only be described as quizzically amused. A swift look to either side of the Irishman picked out Charlie Taverner and Rufus Dommet, two others who had been pressed by Ralph Barclay at the same time as he and O’Hagan, and if not as close to him as Michael, still fellows he felt he could rely on. Asked to describe their expression Pearce would have plumped for embarrassed.
‘O’Hagan, I wish you to accompany me.’
‘Capt’n,’ came the reply, with Pearce wondering if the rest would smoke his motives. He then added, in a deliberately cool tone. ‘Meanwhile, Mr Dorling, I need some indication of how long you feel you will need to get the ship ready for sea?’
‘Given there’s not much we can rig, we should be able, wind permitting, to cast off tomorrow morning if you are sure that is what you want, sir.’
The way that ‘sir’ was delivered smacked of dissent, which rankled. ‘Then it is best you start work now.’
Walking down the gangplank and back along the quay, even with the bulk of Michael O’Hagan at his rear, Pearce was sure he could physically feel the glares emanating from the deck; that last order had been delivered in a tone never before used. He was obliged to wait until he was sure he was out of earshot before he spoke and even then it was an over the shoulder hiss.
‘What in the name of creation is going on, Michael?’
‘Sure, John-boy, asking me won’t get you far.’ Pearce had turned into a shaded alleyway that cut him off from sight of Larcher so he was able to stop and face O’Hagan. ‘The boyos know we are close and go back a way together, same goes for Charlie and Rufus, so they don’t talk open when we are hard by.’
‘Talk about what, for all love?’
‘That we might be accursed.’
‘And how long has that been going on?’
‘It’s been strong since we tied up here, or it happened after the burials.’
‘Michael, you are nobody’s fool.’
O’Hagan paused, as if he was reluctant to speak, which was in itself unusual. In the time they had known each other, which included many an up and down for both, they had formed a bond that transcended mere friendship. Michael was rated as his servant, a task for which he was both physically and temperamentally unsuited. It was a position fitting for them both, given Pearce disliked the idea of one in the first place while Michael, though observing in public all the proper respect, was adept at making any point he thought needed airing.
‘Ten men dead, John-boy, and more wounded, in a fight that many think you brought on for your own reasons …’
In truth Pearce did not need Michael to spell out what was the cause; he had deep down sensed the reason that it was so while talking to Dorling, even if he had been reluctant to let it surface. Uncomfortable with the look on O’Hagan’s face he walked on, in his mind once more ranging over the event that had brought on such deaths. If he had not set off after the woman he loved, HMS Larcher would not have come anywhere near those Barbary pirates, there would have been no fight, no damage to ship and, most important, no casualties.
The burials had been a sombre affair – how could they be anything else – ten of his own men and another pair from Sandown Castle; a priest there to say the correct words over a trio of papists, while he provided the necessary words over the others. If Michael was right he had been so wrapped up in his own thoughts and his duties to notice anything amiss, which was to his mind reprehensible.
‘If I was in the area for Emily, Michael, I was still obliged to intervene once I saw Sandown Castle under threat from those pirates. A British merchant vessel in trouble would expect aid.’
‘That’s not how some see it.’
‘Not all?’
‘It don’t take all, John-boy, just one or two jigging signs to set minds a’ fretting.’
There was a nagging question in that and one John Pearce had avoided asking himself. The odds had been against Larcher from the very first sight of the enemy, they being better armed and faster sailing vessels than the armed cutter. Added to that the navy was quite clear about what a captain’s options were in a situation where the odds were so clearly stacked against him. He could accept or decline battle and the Admiralty would back such a decision if he chose the latter, given they hated to lose ships, especially by officers in search of glory.
The truth was plain to him: he could not have stood back and let the merchantman take care of itself in a battle it could not win and that had nothing to do with Emily Barclay. He would have intervened anyway and as to losing respect with his crew, how much of that might he have forfeited for refusing to protect their fellow countrymen? As he strode along, Pearce could feel himself getting angry, given he was being damned both ways.
‘They are a tight bunch on Larcher, closer than most.’
‘Which, Michael, was an advantage.’
‘You should wheedle out the ones stirring matters up.’
‘How?’
‘Best ask Charlie that, John-boy, when it comes to eavesdropping there’s none better.’
That got a grunt as well as creating an unspoken question: Pearce had a feeling Michael was holding something back. As for Charlie Taverner, he was London-born, a one-time sharp who had worked the Strand as well as Covent Garden and, according to his own telling, a master of his craft, able to dun the wise out of their purse as well as the innocent. Pearce had good reason to doubt the truth of that; had he not first met Charlie in a place where he was hiding from the law?
‘How many would we be talking about?’
‘At a guess, half a dozen, but you will have seen more are affected.’
‘Say he names the culprits, Michael, what then?’
‘You’d have to punish them, and hard.’
Pearce stopped once more, to look up at the Irishman. ‘I cannot do that, Michael. When we sail we do so as one. If I have lost something I need to regain then it must be done at sea.’
‘And will being at sea include your good lady?’
‘I cannot leave her behind.’
‘Sure, I’m bound to enquire if that is “can’t” or “won’t”?’
‘Both,’ Pearce snapped, ‘and maybe when we get to Naples the crew of Larcher will be shot of the both of us.’
O’Hagan laid a gentle hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘I never thought you would go without her.’
‘Do the crew resent her as much as they now seem to resent me?’
Michael looked away as he responded to that, once more giving an impression of being evasive. ‘She’s not a snot-nosed blue coat like you are.’
‘Thank you for that,’ Pearce replied gloomily, as they entered the Lazaretto, their noses twitching at the strong smell of the vinegar used to keep the place clean. ‘Spoken like a true friend!’
Michael’s laughter at the discomfort he had created echoed off the bare walls; Pearce knew that joshing him was a game the Irishman enjoyed, though his merriment seemed loudly excessive for such a minor jest, the noise of it getting many a stern look from the nuns they passed. When they came to the room where the last four injured men were still accommodated, Michael suppressed his mirth so they would not witness it. He was punctilious when it came to never embarrassing, either in the presence of superiors or fellow tars, the man he was engaged to serve.
‘Gentlemen, do not stand,’ Pearce commanded as each rose at the sight of him, ‘you will be going back to the ship today, but be assured you will be accommodated in as much comfort as you enjoy here.’
Which was bending the truth somewhat; the mere motion of a ship could, he thought, in at least one case cause a relapse, for the fellow was recovering from a wound to the chest that was manifested in wheezing breaths. Had he been allowed to stand he would have struggled to do so, but the other three were ambulant and should be fine, albeit one required the use of a stick.
‘Thank the Lord fer that, your honour,’ said one who had his arm, like that of his commander, in a sling, ‘the vittels here is not fit for any decent man.’
There was a temptation to reply with a rebuke but there was little point; the food, since they had come to Palermo, had been fresh and of good quality, as well as abundant, especially in the article of lemons, fish and corn. But it was typical of British tar to deride anything foreign, nourishment being the most particular followed by the need to drink wine instead of small beer. Nothing but beef and pork long in the barrel, as well as peas and duff, would fit their needs.
‘I must go and see the Mother Superior and settle any outstanding expenses, but that done Michael here will escort you back to the quay.’
Once Pearce had left, another of the wounded, leaning on his stick, he looked at O’Hagan, clearly bent on asking a question, his voice low as it was posed. ‘Does he know yet it were you that clouted him?’
‘No, he does not,’ Michael growled; he had knocked John Pearce out on the deck of Sandown Castle to stop him from trying to keep fighting with his sword arm broken, which could have seen him cut down and probably killed. ‘And you’d best not be overheard talking of it, or you’ll feel the same fist.’
‘It were a nice punch, mate.’
‘Never,’ came the scoffed reply as a ham-like and much-scarred set of knuckles were raised. ‘Sure, it were only half of one.’
‘I heard one or two of our shipmates who came to call would pay well for a repeat.’
‘Best grease that stick of yours afore you ever say that again, mate,’ Michael hissed, ‘for it will be disappearing up your arse if you do.’
CHAPTER TWO
The ease with which Emily acquiesced in the decision came as a relief; Pearce had been expecting innumerable objections but she packed her chest with seeming calm. This left him to wonder how much of her attitude had been brought on by the refusal of Captain Fleming, with whom she had come to Palermo, to take her any further, he having found out that she was a married woman as well as her connection to John Pearce.
In booking her passage Emily had used her maiden name of Raynesford, but that had not held after Fleming got into conversation with the crew of Larcher. Pearce had not been present when the merchant captain informed her of his decision, but he had gone to visit a man he felt owed him much when it was imparted to him, this despite the fact that Fleming’s attitude suited him.
He had no desire that Emily should return to England; it was the implied insult that irritated him. The man was full of apologies but not willing to budge: the owners of Sandown Castle were High Church Anglican and would not stand for any scandal being attached to their vessel or their trading house; to take Emily might place his own employment in jeopardy and he had a wife and children to support.
‘I will however, Captain Pearce, since I have no passengers, take back home those of your men who will no longer be fit to serve, even should they fully recover from their wounds and at no cost to you or the navy.’
That had knocked Pearce off his high horse, for that too had been a worry; he had lost enough men already to be comfortable with any dying from their wounds. To be at sea in a tightly packed man o’ war was no place for a man bearing the kind of injuries that would render them unfit to stay in the service. They would be invalided home certainly, but only when HMS Larcher was back with the fleet and probably in a returning and crowded transport. In a spacious merchantman they would not only enjoy more comfort, but they might also live to collect a small pension, their due from the Chatham Chest.
‘He is a good man,’ had been Emily’s response to that offer when it was relayed to her.
This did much more to drive home her predicament than any form of continued complaint at Fleming’s behaviour. In short, she understood his thinking only too well, given it had formed the reason for her flight. Tempted to once more reassure her that things would be better in Naples, Pearce held his tongue, well aware that by speaking of such things he risked her taking up a position from which, experience told him, she would be unlikely to withdraw.
He had felt it best to go out on an errand he needed to fulfil anyway; it would be his last visit to the Palermo market to buy fresh produce for the voyage, which included several live and noisy chickens.
To say that HMS Larcher looked odd in the early morning light was an understatement, with her stunned mainmast now rigged with a jury yard, made to look no better by a triced-up square sail which was a good third short of the height it should be. What Dorling had contrived for a makeshift bowsprit did nothing to enhance it either, two spars gammoned together, with stays and the rigging for a jib that even John Pearce knew would not take much in the way of strain.
Any attempt to tack or wear would have to be carried out with great care or the whole assemblage might come adrift, which had Pearce harbouring more than a tinge of doubt about attempting the voyage. Against that he hated the idea of withdrawal and why would he when the weather had held. It was still sunny and warm, even at this early hour and the breeze, though not strong off the land, seemed favourable to both get them out to sea and provide steerage once there.
The deck was alive with men working as he and Emily approached, a pair of locals at their heels with their chests as well as his logs and purser’s accounts. Ropes were still being reeved through blocks so that the makeshift yard could be controlled. Scraps of canvas were being bent onto the jib lines, the deck itself tidied to the standard required within the service, all of which seemed to pause for a split second as they were sighted. If it was imperceptible to Emily it was to John Pearce very obvious and, given the lack of smiles, it did not bode well.
Word had been passed to the bosun, Mr Bird, for unlike the day before he was on hand to pipe his fully attired captain aboard with proper ceremony, all toil being suspended until that was complete and Pearce had raised his hat with his one good hand to what was laughingly called the quarterdeck. Given he was present, it was necessary for Pearce to order Dorling to ‘carry on’ before he could make for his tiny cabin. A space small to start with, it was even less so given the presence of Michael O’Hagan.
‘Michael,’ Emily said, with genuine warmth.
‘Ma’am,’ came a formal reply that sat oddly with his grin.
Her smile disappeared to be replaced by a slightly quizzical look as she spotted the way Michael and her man then exchanged a brief glance. Emily knew better than anyone how close these two were. It was not too much to say neither would be alive without the other for, in what was an acquaintance of not much more than two years, they had been through and survived a good number of risky adventures – and those were only the ones Emily knew about. They shared many secrets to which she was not privy.
‘All’s as shipshape as I can make it, John-boy, and I have had Bellam boil up some water for coffee, which will be with you in a trice.’
Michael said this in a very soft voice; with not much between him and the deck, a thin bulkhead, it was necessary to be discreet in his manner of address. Pearce nodded, but still Emily thought with a look that did not match his acceptance.
‘Is there something troubling Michael?’ Emily whispered as the Irishman departed.
‘What made you think that?’
The reply came from a man now deliberately looking away so as not to catch her eye, making himself busy by arranging his logs and account books on what passed for a desk, his own sea chest.
‘John,’ she said in a firm tone, albeit still softly, ‘you know as well as I do that a woman can cause trouble on any vessel and have I not done so, with all innocence, in the past?’
Pearce tried to bluff, tried to pretend he was unsure at what was she was driving at for it could be many things and he mentioned more than one; the way she had reacted to her husband’s treatment of him aboard HMS Brilliant, for, against all the rules of the service, Barclay too had taken her to sea with him. Then there was the incident on the voyage out from England with young Todger; she would have none of it, forcing him into a quiet confession.
‘But my unpopularity has nothing to do with you, Emily, it is entirely down to my behaviour.’
‘In pursuit of me?’
The conversation was halted by a knock at the cabin door, followed by Michael appearing with the aforementioned coffee. He proved to be as sensitive to a strained atmosphere as Emily, seeking to get the tray down and depart with haste.
‘Michael.’
This time the ‘Ma’am’ was larded with caution.
‘You will be aware that at all times John seeks to protect me from any unpleasantness.’
‘Is that not right and proper?’
‘It may be so in certain circumstances but not now. I require you, as a good friend, to tell me if I in any way have acted to upset the men who serve this vessel outside the mere fact of my presence. Will you promise me you will do that?’
O’Hagan looked first at Pearce then back at Emily in a space between them so confined as to leave little chance of artifice; they were so close the warmth of each breath could be felt on another’s face.
‘I have told her what you told me, Michael.’
‘Then,’ the Irishman replied, looking at Emily and speaking, for him, very formally, ‘you should know that the regard in which I hold you has not suffered at all, Charlie and Rufus likewise.’
‘I am pleased to hear it, but it does imply, Michael, that a problem exists with the rest of the crew.’
Yet another knock at the door stopped that exchange, too, as Dorling appeared to inform his captain that if they wanted to make the best of the tide and the shore breeze, it was time to cast off. This required that Pearce go on deck to issue the necessary orders and he stood, hands behind his back, as the cables were lifted from their quayside bollards and HMS Larcher was pulled clear, running an acute eye over everyone working on deck.
Should he order the sweeps to be employed, heavy toil in any circumstances, doubly so in a morning in which the heat was already palpable and getting stronger by the minute? The great oars would get them clear of the mole more quickly than their gimcrack sails, for the breeze was still slight but he was disinclined to issue the necessary orders; time was not of the essence.
‘Mr Dorling, I leave it to you to decide what canvas we can safely employ, for this so-called tide will not get us clear and into open water in less than a turn of the glass.’
There was truth in that; the Mediterranean was not really tidal, the sea only rising and falling a matter of feet, and while it would carry the armed cutter out it would do so at no great pace. Dorling acknowledged the order and began to issue instructions of his own. Ropes were hauled as canvas began to appear, some of it new, most heavily patched, with Pearce wondering if the men doing the pulling were happy at least to be on their way. It was an indication of his status as captain that he could not ask.
As they sailed slowly out they passed the night fishermen, who, having landed their catch were now drying and checking their nets, tasks which they put aside to watch this very odd-looking vessel as it made its way towards the harbour entrance. Its boats were being towed behind, one containing the chickens Pearce had bought, who in their cackling seemed to mock the whole endeavour. There was some laughter at the sight, but more shaking of heads in wonderment and even one or two who crossed themselves, which was not a ringing endorsement of the enterprise.
Pearce looked aloft at the limp flags that identified HMS Larcher as a vessel of the King’s Navy, serving under the command of a vice admiral of the Red Squadron, who happened to be that irascible old sod Sam Hood. He felt that the lack of any vitality in those pennants was akin to his own, for being on his way had brought back to his mind misgivings he had too conveniently buried.
Would he have to face Lord Hood on rejoining the fleet to explain his actions, or had the old man gone home to be replaced by the even less inspiring prospect of reporting to that slimy article and his second-in-command, Admiral Sir William Hotham? On previous occasions what was happening now, putting to sea, had induced a feeling of pleasure: now it was one of dejection.
‘You have shaped a course, Mr Dorling?’ Pearce asked in a loud voice, posing a question that had more to do with personal distraction than need. ‘Once we are clear?’
‘Sir, a few points off due north.’
‘Well let us hope that we can easily hold it and that we will be in Naples in good time, to have the ship restored to its former state. It will be a pleasure to rejoin the fleet in what looks like a proper vessel.’
No smiles greeted that either; no nods of agreement as of old, so feeling useless Pearce nodded to no one in particular and went to partake of his rapidly cooling coffee.
It was not necessary to be on deck to be aware that the ship was struggling to make headway; every dip and rise of the sea was exaggerated, every fluke of a different wind as well as every little alteration in the run of the sea, currents that Larcher would have previously been untroubled by, affected her progress and made her yaw off course, sometimes to the point where sails had to be struck and reset. Added to that the level of creaking timber, an ever-present sound at sea, seemed to be ten times more audible and prevalent, as the temporary rig made known the strain it was enduring.
The day went by without incident, falling into night in which the most telling thing was the lack of gathering on the deck, which had been a previous commonplace in any benign climate. The hands would come up to take the clean air – to talk and joke, to sing and to dance – often to be joined by their captain and his lady after a supper of toasted cheese. Emily had a sweet, melodious voice to add to their masculine timbres and sang of the land and green pastures as opposed to the sea and the lives of the men who sailed it. Odd how what had worked to make her popular was now being used to damn her as a siren.
There was no singing now but quiet talk that was prone to an unwelcome interpretation from a pair who needed to get out of a stuffy cabin just as much as the crew wanted to vacate the stifling t’ween decks. Having on this occasion eaten a good dinner made of fresh produce, prepared by Bellam the cook and delivered to them by an unusually uncommunicative Michael O’Hagan, they stayed well aft when it came to taking some air.
HMS Larcher ploughed on throughout the night, making at best three knots but often two or even less, the hands roused out before first light with John Pearce on deck soon after, as was required by all naval captains, to ensure that no threat had crept upon them in the hours of darkness, as if they could under a carpet of bright stars. He was there again once the planking had been swabbed and dried to inspect their work, no great hardship in these waters, before the whole ship took breakfast and their captain washed and shaved.
Pearce was called when any other sail was sighted to establish what vessel it was and to be sure it presented no threat, a duty only he could undertake – given any subsequent orders fell to him. He was there to see the bells rung, the glass turned and especially when it came to the change of watch, ordering the decks to be wetted in the heat, given the pitch sealing the joints in the planking, the devil in naval parlance, was prone to melting. Likewise the boats stayed in the water to protect their seams.
Seven bells on the forenoon watch required that he be on desk with his sextant, in the company of the master, to shoot the noonday zenith by which they could establish their position in what was now nothing but an empty seascape. On each occasion, he sought also to discern any level of obvious dissatisfaction in each crew member, not he later had to admit, to much avail. The only smiles he got, and they were given with some discretion, came from the trio he knew as his fellow Pelicans.
