A Shot Rolling Ship (26 page)

Not for the first time in his life, Pearce was aware of how much action effectively cleared his brain. He saw things with clarity and was able to parry thrusts aimed at him and return a blow that would wound and discourage his assailants. At the same time he had a clear notion of the problem faced by the men of
Griffin
, as well as those who had come to their aid from
Centurion
. Once the wounded had been taken to safety, matters would come to a dangerous head, that there would be no time when they would be more vulnerable as the point at which they tried to retreat.

Above their heads the small arms gunfire was constant, muskets, swivel guns and few of the remaining cannon as those on both line of battle ships’ decks tried to back up their own side and harm the other, creating between them enough smoke to make Pearce feel he was fighting in a fog, that punctuated by shouts, curses and screams, the occasional discharge of a pistol, with men falling and being dragged back out of the action. None of the lower deck guns on either side could fire for fear of hitting their own, and so had been withdrawn, and that was the means of escape for the defenders – through the gunports. Someone on the lower deck of
Centurion
had a brain, for from the side of each port came a couple of pikes, to jab at the enemy through the mass of defenders, while from above
came a shower of everything from spikes to fallen blocks, as well as small casks thrown at the attackers to hold them at bay, the whole obviously an attempt to create a space, not a very great one, for a safe withdrawal.

‘Griffins, back!’ yelled Pearce, hoping that they would obey, for several seemed to have their blood so high up that they were oblivious to the need to get clear. Charlie and Rufus at least obeyed with alacrity, Rufus slipping through a gunport and Taverner diving after him. Michael got to the port and, back to the hull, turned to renew the fight. All along the deck men were doing as they were bid, either scaling the side of the grappling ropes or using gunports and gaps in the scantlings to get to safety. Yet some of the others seemed oblivious to the danger. Latimer might be old, but it did not seem to interfere with his ability to wield an axe. Blubber stood feet apart, two large hands swinging a short naval hanger like a scythe, and doing so with enough effect to keep clear a space in front of his substantial belly. Sam and Matt had abandoned their turps throwing to take up clubs with which they were belabouring those in front of them. It was the sight of that pair that had Pearce searching for the cask they had been using, and he yelled at them to do his bidding.

‘Sam, Matt, kick over that turpentine, then throw the slowmatch on it.’

Time stood still for Pearce then, because the two could not easily disengage. He had retreated into the space between two pikes so was now only concerned with the men in front of him, Michael occupied the space that
separated him from the next gunport and was going to find it harder to get to safety. Eventually Matt got a boot to the cask, which turned on its side then rolled across the deck, spilling its contents. Sam had ducked down, and only just survived a blow that took off his hat, exposing his bright blond hair, without seeming to do much to the head underneath. The slowmatch tub he just picked up and threw, his attempt to upend it successful so that the burning linstock landed in the spilled turpentine. That took immediately and created a blast of flame on the deck that made the enemy fighters take note, and in doing so they paused for that vital couple of seconds that allowed those opposing them to dive for safety.

Pearce could not go until the last man was clear, and that proved his undoing. Suddenly there was a blue coat in front of him and a fellow with a like sword who wanted a contest, either a lieutenant or a
sous-officier
. It was unwelcome for a man whose sole notion was to escape, especially when he realised that the lines to the grappling irons were being cut, which would allow
Centurion
to drift apart from the
Griffin
and
Valmy
. If he took this fellow on and the delay was great enough he would be stranded on this deck, but he also knew that close as the man was and with the weapon he had, to turn his back on him was to invite a sword thrust that would certainly seriously wound him, and might in fact kill him.

There was no choice but to engage and it was only when the two blades met that Pearce realised how much the level of extraneous noise had fallen. The clash of steel rang out
like a pealing bell, that followed by the clear rasping sound of metal sliding on metal. Pearce had one hand to his back now, in a classic fighting pose to aid his balance, but he knew he had a problem in that he could not drive his opponent back, as to do so would take him forward into danger from a swarm of his fellow countrymen. He had no notion that they would hold back from maiming him out a some sense of chivalry – they would kill him as quick as they could. In the corner of his vision he could see that the two jabbing pikes which had protected his flanks were slowly moving back, evidence that the route to safety was going away from him, that indeed he was trapped. For all he was engaged, for all the thoughts of what was happening behind him, he could still see the irony in the fact that even if he killed the man he was fighting, he would be on his own with dozens more and that could only end in one way; that the most obvious solution was to surrender and become a prisoner.

It was that thought, and his own determination not to accept it, that fired his swordplay. Damning the consequences he began to use his blade with more aggression, his lead foot jabbing forward to take his blade with it, the look on his opponent’s face leaving him in no doubt that this sudden assault came as a surprise. There was another thing in the fellow’s eyes, something John Pearce had seen before, when fencing; the move from the certainty of victory to the possibility of defeat. It was the moment for a swordsman to strike, that spilt second when doubt first surfaced, for that weakened both the arm and the resolve. The swift
circle he made with his sword brought forth a desperate lunge for the Frenchman that exposed him. Pearce parried his thrust, flicked his blade to one side, and sliced down immediately, the tip of his sword cutting through uniform and flesh. The shock of that was all he needed for the kill, and those behind his blue-coated enemy knew that. Had he followed through then he too would have died. Instead he leapt back, reversed the sword and threw it like a spear, before jumping onto the bulwark and diving into the sea. Only those on
Centurion
, already twenty feet distant, saw the narrow margin by which he escaped thrusting pikes, thrown knives and discharged pistols. Pearce did not; he was under water swimming to deep security.

When he surfaced, shook the water from his head and eyes and began to swim properly, it was to a rousing cheer from the decks of the
Centurion
, and to an Irish hand held out of a gunport, that of a man strong enough to bodily lift him clear of the water. He was hauled onto a dark, red-painted deck that yet showed many a streak of blood, to be faced by a black-faced lieutenant who took him by the hand and hauled it heartily up and down, creating, as the water ran off Pearce, an impression of a man working a pump.

‘Give you joy, sir, that was prodigious.’ Then the hat was off his head. ‘I lift my scrapper in your honour, sir, and ask the crew to give you three times three.’

Dripping wet and being cheered were, or Pearce thought ought to be, two mutually exclusive affairs.

‘Now, sir, join me on deck, and let us see what we can do.’

‘You are?’

‘Lieutenant Slattery, First Lieutenant, at your service.’

‘Midshipman Pearce. Captain Marchand?’

Slattery took his arm and hauled him towards the companionway. ‘Is in the cockpit, sir, being attended to by the surgeon.’

‘He…?’

‘Will survive, sir, I am sure. You are a mid, sir, not commissioned?’

‘No.’

‘Then that raises your actions to an even greater degree of wonder, sir.’

They came up on to a deck that looked as if it had been swept by some mighty and furious giant. Guns were dismounted, though men were working to get them back in place. Ignorance of rigging did not prevent Pearce from seeing just how comprehensively it had been damaged. There was blood everywhere, though those who had shed it had been removed, and no doubt there had been bodies blown or thrown over the side.

‘Now Mr Pearce, let us see what our French dog is about.’

‘Running for home, I hope.’

Slattery nearly whooped. ‘He would be, sir, if you had not shot away his rudder. As it is, once we get some canvas aloft and steer down on the swine, he is at our mercy. I expect him to strike as soon as we get across his stern.’

‘Strike?’ asked Pearce, who only wanted to get away from any more thought of battle.

‘Certainly, sir. Thanks to you he cannot manoeuvre. I will take him under tow, and pull him into Spithead, where we will not only be fêted as heroes, but line our pockets with a pretty penny.’

Pearce had been about to protest, to say enough was enough, but then he saw the eyes of his shipmates, Pelicans and Griffins, and he knew that they would never forgive him if he did so.

‘So be it.’

‘You would do me the honour, sir, of demanding he strike, that is if he understands English.’

‘There’s no need, Lieutenant Slattery. I speak French.’

‘Damn me, sir, if you ain’t a paragon.’

Hyperbolic in expression the Premier might be, but he was right. A jury rig that would allow them to steer was up within half an hour and they bore down on the struggling
Valmy
. Having tried and failed to steer using
Griffin
’s rudder, he had cut her loose to slowly sink, and she was down to her scuppers as
Centurion
swept by. There was a trading of shot, but the French captain did not wait to see his maindeck swept from stem to stern with shot. As soon as the British Man o’ War got across his stern, he struck his tricolour to avoid the carnage which was bound to follow. By that time, the armed cutter HMS
Griffin
was gone.

‘Come sir,’ called Slattery. ‘I invite you to come aboard, and help me take the captain’s sword. Dammit, if they don’t make me post for this, I swear I’ll eat my best hat. As for you, sir, the world is your oyster.’

It was a happy if well damaged HMS
Centurion
that sailed up the Solent towards Spithead, with
Valmy
in tow, cheered from every beach they shaved, for news of the victory had preceded them, brought ashore by swifter sailing vessels eager to be the one to deliver the news. The mere fact of a battle won so early in the war was enough to bring cheer to the crew, but to that was added the calculations being made about prize money. If there was one thing more pleasing than taking a merchant vessel, it was, in addition to the glory, the capture of an enemy warship, especially one on which the damage, though severe, was well worth the cost of repair. The only thing more valuable was the capture of a Spanish plate ship, which might set a man up for life, but a French 74 ought to be good for two whole years’ wages to the lowest landsman. There was, of course, the vexed question of the capture being a joint one, which
would keep the Prize Agents and the lawyers busy for a while, but there was many a discount house ashore that would be happy to buy the tickets of the crews so they could spend their money before it was actually paid out.

Such joy was not, however, universal. Quite apart from the severity of his wound, which had seen him lose his arm, the question of Colbourne’s actual rank had been raised by Captain Marchand. He insisted that Colbourne was not, in the true sense of the word, a captain, and therefore had no entitlement to the full share of his two eighths – he wanted to downgrade him to the sum set for the
sea-lieutenants
. This would mean HMS
Griffin
’s commander sharing an eighth with a half a dozen others; all the surviving lieutenants from
Centurion
, added to her marine captain, the master and the surgeon who had lopped off his shattered limb. Naturally Colbourne, who saw it as an attempt to rob him, even in constant pain and sometimes quite feverish, had disputed this. He had already written the letter that would be delivered to his Commodore at Lymington. That officer could be relied on to get involved, and likewise dispute with Marchand’s admiral at Spithead about a division of the spoils due to superior officers.

Pearce tried not to think about it, for he was in the fourth class for distribution, which meant the gunners and carpenters of both vessels would get more; he was lumped in with the
Centurion
’s mids and the surgeon’s mates. Whatever it was, and it would be no fortune, was good enough; he was heading for shore, where he was sure the crew of the armed cutter would be put ashore. With luck,
he and his trio of Pelicans could get clear of the seaport and away from the Navy. What he would do then, his promise fulfilled, would have to wait. Meanwhile, having been accommodated in the midshipman’s berth, he had to put up with a level of discomfort as bad as the lower deck of
Griffin
. Worse, there was a twenty-year old senior midshipman called Burkett who got on his nerves so much that he wished Short would leave the sick bay, where he was comfortable, and relieve him of some of the burden of dealing with the man.

‘I have no idea what sort of thing passes for proper behaviour aboard an armed cutter, Mr Pearce, but on a ship like
Centurion
it is not done to fraternise too closely with ordinary seamen.’

Pearce looked up from the dirty pewter plate that had been set before him by the scruffy servant, aware that the man who had said those words was referring to the way he talked to the men who had just fought alongside him. That was bad enough in Burkett’s eyes, but the intimacy he showed towards Michael, Charlie and Rufus really got under his skin, the whole compounded by the way Pearce ensured that the Griffins were not subsumed into the
Centurion
’s muster and put to work as ordinary crew members.

What he saw pleased him even less than what he heard, for Burkett had a high colour, a flaring nose and thin lips over a pinched and unsmiling mouth; the man reeked of disapproval in all he did and said, made worse by his tone of voice, which he used to force home the fact that he was
well born. The rest of the table, the surviving mids, four youths of varying ages – for two had been killed – were looking at their own plates. Being scared stiff of Burkett, they were not about to tell John Pearce if they agreed with that statement or not.

‘I shall take care not to have any contact with ordinary folk, Mr Burkett, but the men from
Griffin
are anything but that, I’m sure you would agree.’

‘I find I cannot, sir. A common seaman is a common seaman.’

‘Then I can only assume that you have less than perfect eyesight.’ He saw Burkett swell to protest, but added before he could speak. ‘And no discernment either, and that means you will probably lack the qualities necessary to make a good officer.’

‘Damn you, sir, how dare you.’

Pearce was furious, for this was not the first time Burkett had sought to chastise him, so he took matters to the limit. ‘I may dare to repeat it, sir, in public and off this ship, and leave you to decide how to seek redress.’

‘Captain’s compliments, Mr Pearce, and he would like you to join him in his cabin.’

Pearce thanked the steward who had popped his head in and stood up, waiting for a second to allow Burkett to accept his challenge. The moment passed; he took his leave and as soon as he was out of sight, cursed himself. Why allow a nobody like that to rile him so? In the captain’s cabin, he found a pale Lieutenant Colbourne, and a
florid-faced
Captain Marchand, who seemed to him like an older
version of Burkett, a well-connected buffoon.

He had been to dinner in this cabin several times, while Colbourne was convalescing. Marchand, with his arm in a sling, did not impress him at all. He made great play of his need to have his food cut up for him, continually making the same joke about “It being damned hard to think of fishing”, one that his own officers, led by Slattery, laughed at uproariously regardless of how often they heard it repeated, their open sycophancy quite sickening. Naturally the captain and officers of the
Valmy
were guests, and Pearce suspected his presence, well below the salt, had more to do with his facility in French than any desire to elevate him above his station. The enemy sailors had no English, and conversation was dull and stilted, good manners preventing any mention of the recent action; it would never do to discuss that in the presence of those who had suffered defeat, even if they were in the eyes of their hosts men who had a dubious claim to their rank, having only achieved it because better men had fled. Pearce did nothing to help; he was not about to tell the enemy either how he had learned their language, or anything about what had happened in Paris, and he made no secret of the fact that he despised them.

‘We will moor the ship within the hour, Pearce,’ said Marchand, patting the thick and sealed despatches on his desk, one of which Pearce had written at Colbourne’s dictation. ‘Then these have to go to Lord Howe.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘He has already sent a boat, and the officer on board that assured me we would receive a warm welcome.’ There
was a pause, when he looked questioningly across the table, but since his other visitor did not speak, he added. ‘And I have prevailed upon Lieutenant Colbourne that you should accompany us ashore.’

Pearce looked at Colbourne, who refused to meet his eye, which made him wonder at his previous distant behaviour. Visiting him in the sick bay, writing that despatch, he had put that down to the pain of his wound and the uncertainty he might have about his future. Perhaps it was more than that; perhaps with some glory in the offing the last thing he wanted, knowing that he had been unconscious for most of the time, was the presence of the man who had actually secured it.

‘Before that, sir, I have a favour to ask.’

Marchand fixed him with bulbous eyes. ‘Which is?’

‘There are certain men aboard the ship, sir, who were Illegally pressed into the Navy.’ He wondered whether to add “as I was myself”, but decided against it.

‘Is this your tedious Pelicans, Pearce?’ snapped Colbourne.

‘It is, sir,’ he replied, still looking at a mystified Marchand. ‘I would want them released.’

‘Can they prove their impressment was Illegal?’

‘I can swear to it, sir.’

‘Then I daresay you can take it up ashore.’ Then the captain beamed at him. ‘I doubt you will be denied anything for which you ask.’

The only sound of that was Colbourne sucking hard on his teeth.

‘A damn fine show, sir. You are a credit to the service,’ said Lord Howe, commanding admiral of the Channel Fleet, repeating himself for the umpteenth time.

‘Hear him, hear him.’

Pearce was standing in a room full of admirals and captains when the King’s Messenger arrived – the place was awash with glittering gold epaulettes. The numerous ships in the Spithead anchorage had emptied so that all the senior officers could be ashore to greet the returning heroes. Led by Howe there was a veritable plethora of Lords and Knights. Marchand was basking in their admiration, Colbourne in their commiserations at his condition, this while they were all at pains to assure him that his unfortunate wound in no way diminished the role he had played; he commanded the
Griffin
and it was to his credit that he had taken aboard as a volunteer a young man of such a stripe as Midshipman Pearce. Under the deluge of such praise, the Lieutenant had mellowed somewhat.

‘Well,’ said Lord Howe, to whom the message had been given. ‘You are required at the palace. This is an order for you, all three, to attend upon His Majesty at tomorrow’s levee.’

‘Then I suggest,’ said another admiral, ‘that they best shift.’

Howe looked at Colbourne and Pearce, his rheumy, old man’s blue eyes not happy. ‘They must make a visit to the tailor first. We can’t have them going into the presence of the King looking like tramps.’ Suddenly the old man became solicitous. ‘Mr Colbourne, are you up to such a journey?’

Pearce had to stop himself then, for he nearly burst out laughing, sure that Colbourne would crawl over broken glass rather than miss such an opportunity. But then did he want such a thing? Given his history, what was he doing even contemplating walking into the presence of royalty. Then he had an idea; it was a golden opportunity to tell Farmer George the result of that warrant, which had placed both him and his father in jeopardy, to tell the King that he had, ultimately, been responsible for the beheading of a man merely for expressing his opinions.

But prior to that he had a request for Lord Howe, one that he delivered out of earshot of any of the others present. The old man listened and replied.

‘Leave their names with my aide, and I will see to it.’

If it had been a glittering array of senior officers at Portsmouth it was as nothing to Windsor. The King’s audience chamber was crowded with generals as well as admirals, politicians in silks, lords in satins, ladies of all ages, of beauty and aged ugliness, in gowns and turbans of a cost to keep a poor man for life, all trying to look as though the chill from the stone walls of Windsor Castle, and the lack of a fire to warm them, had no effect. John Pearce, dressed from head to foot in new clothing, stood well apart, rehearsing what he was going to say to George of Hanover. Head down, concentrating on that, he was unaware that he had been approached until the smell of expensive perfume filed his nostrils. Suddenly, mentally, he was back in Paris, in a salon a lot warmer than this, surrounded by beauty and brains.

‘And who, might I ask, are you?’

Pearce looked up into the face of a very beautiful woman, and automatically gave her a slight bow. ‘John Pearce, Midshipman.’

‘Ah, the hero of the hour.’ It was false he knew; this lady had known who he was before she came close. ‘The midshipman who not only saved one warship, but helped to capture another.’

‘I was not alone.’

‘How delightfully modest.’

‘May I ask to whom I am speaking.’

It was Marchand who provided the answer, coming towards the pair. ‘Lady Annabel, I see you have met our hero.’

‘I have Captain Marchand.’ Then she looked Pearce up and down in a way that no lady had done since Paris, the final look leaving no doubt that she was pleased with what she saw. John Pearce felt his blood begin to race as she continued. ‘As you know, Captain Marchand, I am having a little dinner tonight, a celebration of your victory. I would be most disappointed if you did not fetch along our young Lysander.’

How old was she? It was hard to tell, but even under a fair degree of finery he could discern a very pleasing figure, and her bosom, half covered with a jewelled necklace, was very inviting. His plan, once this levee was over – and if he avoided being thrown into a cell for insulting the King – had been to make haste back to Portsmouth, to get his friends off the
Centurion
. But one day would make no difference.

‘I would not only be delighted to accept, Milady, but I would consider it an honour.’

‘My,’ she replied, in an arch but amused way. ‘Not only brave, but with graceful manners.’

She was gone, with Marchand speaking softly into his ear. ‘Best watch yourself there, lad, Lady Annabel Fitzherbert is one to eat up such as you. There’s a bit of blue blood in those veins, though on the wrong side of the blanket.’

Pearce was thinking how pleasant that would be – to be eaten up – especially for a man who had been deprived as long as he. The last woman to affect him in this way had been Barclay’s wife, Emily. He was rolling her name and the image of her beauty around in his mind when the entrance of the King was announced. It took an age for the monarch to get round to his part of the room, and before that he had seen fit to rail loudly at his sons for their manifest failings, but finally, having spoken to all the courtiers that required a word, he turned to his sailors. He was shorter than Pearce had expected, rather plump, with that Hanoverian nose dominating his ruddy face.