An Ill Wind (11 page)

Mid morning saw a clearer sky, but off the larboard quarter lay land and, quite soon, the sight of heavy seas breaking on rocks. It was that damned outcrop of Gorgona, the peak of the tree-covered island rising over seven hundred feet in the air, doubly dangerous as a lee shore for having high cliffs and deep water all around, with few places where dropping an anchor would find holding ground. Tired as the men on board were, they had to be summoned on deck, the topmen to go aloft and get some more way on the ship, for to keep just running before the wind was to founder by being driven on to the faces of those cliffs.

That took men off the pumps, meaning those
remaining had to work harder, and if the alternative had not been to drown, John Pearce was unsure he could have continued. But he must, and now it was necessary to try to keep the level of water in the well, now near to flooding the lower deck, at bay, for a ship sluggish to steer was a danger, not an asset. The course Daws needed to steer did not need to alter by much to avoid an island a mile and a half wide. Still it was touch and go, for to hoist more sail was to strain masts he knew to be far from secure, and if one of them went by the board the ship would be doomed.

If anything, it was the precautions he had taken which made possible the change of course: those extra hawsers attached to the fore and mainmast which held them, creaking and protesting as well as moving alarmingly, as the wind pressed on the loosened topsails, now sheeted home and taut. They passed so close to Gorgona they could hear the waves breaking, but once clear of that, and with ample sea room, Daws could ease the strain and let the ship run on the swell.

Finally, even that subsided enough to make pumping the most strenuous and necessary task, with every man on board taking his turn as those who had laboured through the night lay either asleep or wondering how muscles could ache so much: arms, thighs and backs. Pearce dragged himself back on deck, to find a quarterdeck full of men with red-rimmed eyes and strained faces who looked in need of much rest, but as yet could not risk it. But the time came when things
eased enough to allow some respite and HMS
Grampus
, still dipping and swaying on the falling swell, could begin to put to rights all that had gone wrong and call a muster to find out who was missing.

The ship was a sorry sight, with various loose ropes and blocks swinging in the wind, including some of those hawsers rigged as extra preventer stays, sails that had blown out, one of the yards having parted from its slings, and in many places cleats that had been ripped off the shrouds. John Pearce was reminded of two things: that if a wooden sailing ship was a construct of shaped timbers, much of it only functioned because it was held together or operated by ropes, many of which he as yet did not the know the names of, or, if he did, struggled with the complexity of recalling which was which.

‘Mr Pearce, I would be grateful if you would take charge of the party on the bowsprit and spiritsail yards,’ shouted Captain Daws. ‘You will not be aware, but two of my lieutenants are among the injured. Mr Lutyens is attending to one collarbone and my premier has a badly broken ankle.’

There was no option but to say yes, but it was an operation very much undertaken using the knowledge of the hands he had under his command, the men aboard rated able: rigging had to be cut away and replaced, and that meant intricate knots and rope work that was way beyond his competence. What was not parted had to be checked for damage that might weaken it in the future and that included the myriad lines of the running rigging
which ran back to various points on the foremast, the hull and the knightheads. For men already weary it was hard going, but there was no room for complaint, every man jack aboard
Grampus
was suffering likewise.

Sails had been taken out of the locker and were being prepared for hoisting aloft as replacements for those damaged, and that meant work on the capstan to get the heavy canvas raised and toil for the worn-out topmen on the yards – men who had already had to replace slings and rigging – this while the ship dipped and swayed on the swell.

But more cheerful was the fact that the cook had got his coppers lit and there was not only hot water for the surgeon but men employed bringing up the casks of pork and beef that would provide a hot meal for officers and men alike. Then one watch could go to their hammocks and sleep, that followed by the next. Within twenty-four hours it was, if you could forgive the even noisier creaks of the working timbers, as though the storm through which they had just laboured was no more than a bad dream.

If the Mediterranean could be cruel, it could also delightfully surprise, on a mid-January day, with sunshine aided by a warm southerly breeze coming off the North African coast that made for a pleasant interlude. Pearce was on the deck, pacing back and forth, having attended Divine Service, really just a homily produced by the ship’s captain. Several of the recovering wounded, now including those who had suffered in the recent storm, had either come or been brought up to enjoy the air and, given they were sailing easy on that breeze, the crew were occupied in making, mending and prettying themselves for a hoped-for run ashore in Gibraltar.

Michael, Rufus and Charlie were with some of the
Hinslip
’s crew, jawing away while they tended to each others’ pigtails, the sight of which, even if they had become familiar on the heads of his fellow Pelicans, made
Pearce stop and think. He could not recall their growing to the length they had: these standard accoutrements of the British tar had just seemed to appear naturally, but it did force upon him an unwanted thought – what in the name of the devil were they all going to do once they got back to England?

Michael could go back to his old life of digging ditches and foundations for the spate of speculative building which afflicted the capital city. What about Rufus and Charlie, who would certainly still have warrants out for their arrest? They would not have lapsed, though their absence might have seen others replace them in the minds of the tipstaffs, whose job it was to apprehend felons, and the kind of low culls looking for a bounty. Yet looking at them now, they were every inch the sailor; and him, what had he become?

While still fully aware of the level of his ignorance he also knew that in merely being aboard a ship he had absorbed a great deal: from barely knowing the bow from the stern of a naval vessel he was now conversant with many aspects of the way a ship was built, rigged and how it was run. He had also to admit that he had found leadership in tight situations something to savour, and Michael O’Hagan had more than once referred to his seeming love of danger. Was he just a thrill-seeker or did he actually enjoy combat?

There were also the things he did not enjoy: deference to authority, the loss of freedom inherent in a hierarchical service. Yet that same service had fed his
need for independence as often as it had obliged him to act on the instructions of others, and had given him an insight into his own character, not always a view that presented unmitigated pleasure. Could he return to a life without adventure? Could he, with the few obvious skills he had, find an occupation that would afford him that which he had experienced since being pressed?

Sustained, as he had been, by the need to fulfil a promise to his friends, they were now on their way to liberty, the freedom to decide for themselves what they would do and where they would go, and it was very possible that, gifted that, they would each proceed in their own direction never to meet again; there would be no more Pelicans.

Certainly he had to deliver Hood’s letters and then seek to bring a case against Ralph Barclay, something which may take years, but he also had to live, and without some kind of paid occupation that would be difficult. Looking at his companions again, he so much wanted to just go up and ask them if they had a plan, but that was not possible. Much as he saw them as his friends, there was a gulf between them now caused by his rank, a thing they might ignore privately, but also something they must publicly acknowledge. To ask them now would be to discomfit them.

Turning away he was presented with the sight of Barclay coming on deck, the ever-faithful Devenow at his heels, one hand always ready to steady his captain, though the man was becoming more accustomed now
to not having his left arm. He was not cured, that would take a lot more time, months not weeks, but his face looked more settled, less lined with pain, evidence that the thing was on the mend. The eyes moved in his direction, but just as swiftly Barclay looked away again, this as Cornelius Gherson came on deck as well, he too taking care to avoid any eye contact.

It was not just he and Barclay who avoided meeting his eye: in the last weeks Emily Barclay continued to avoid him and that was less easy to accept. Though he knew her parochial upbringing was to blame for her being standoffish he was far from suffering any feelings of guilt, and besides, anyone who had agreed to marry a scrub like Ralph Barclay, albeit she was young and naive, showed a startling want of judgement.

Though there was not much in years between them he knew he was very different, and nothing underlined that more than his attitude to dalliance. Ever since he had come to manhood, John Pearce had been forward with women, too much so, probably, for English mores, but then he had come into the bloom of ardent youth as a tall, fine-looking youth in Paris, and at a time when the famous laxity of the French towards fidelity had eased even more thanks to the overthrow of absolute monarchical power. He had been seduced by women of experience, then gone on to enjoy the favours of a beautiful mistress without in any way troubling her wealthy husband: he too had his liaisons.

That had been a golden time, when the whole city
had seemed permanently
en fête
, the time before the purists, opportunists and demagogues of the Revolution had turned it into the bloodbath it had become, when the leaders of the National Assembly had been men of wit and intelligence, instead of purveyors of dogma and spite. His reputation having preceded him, his polemics against monarchy and privilege translated from the English, Adam Pearce had been welcomed like a long-lost brother, lauded for his views, his stand and his imprisonment. That changed when the power shifted to men who were no more prepared to be termed as wrong-headed than any crowned king.

He had known for a long time that his upbringing had fitted him for nothing and he certainly had no desire to follow in his father’s footsteps: much as he loved him, much as there had been a time when he quite naturally agreed with everything Adam Pearce believed, such blind faith had not survived his coming of age. Long before the flight to Paris he had begun to question the tenets by which he had been raised, and his experiences there had done much to increase his doubts.

A short stay in Fleet Prison had exposed him to the dregs of humanity as well as society’s victims, that in itself enough to cause any scales to fall from his eyes. In Paris he had seen a rampaging mob, egged on by firebrand orators of the likes of Marat, hack to death people whose only crime was to have been born into privilege; the question of whether they were good people
or bad was not posed. And finally, he had visited the Conciergerie, where his ailing father was a prisoner, had seen how those who had once had much were reduced to beggary by a vindictive Revolution, had witnessed his own father die at the hands of that same body of odious extremists.

John Pearce shook his head sharply then: these were not thoughts on which he wished to dwell and he sought instead to take pleasure from the bright sky and blue sea. His promenading had brought him near to the quarterdeck, so to keep his mind free of memories, and seeing Captain Daws had come on deck, a man with whom, given he was messing in the wardroom, he had exchanged few words since coming aboard, he moved closer to attempt some naval conversation.

‘Do you think, sir, this wind will be enough to get us into Gibraltar?’ The response was a cold look, as if to address him so was extreme temerity. ‘I ask only out of curiosity, sir, given I know, with the strong tidal flow from the Atlantic, it is not an easy approach from the east.’

‘Time will tell.’ No courtesy, no ‘Mr Pearce’ or ‘sir’ and in essence no answer, which was damned rude and not something John Pearce was inclined to accept.

‘I’m sorry if my enquiry offends you, sir.’

‘Offends? I wonder if you know the meaning of the word. I had the pleasure of Captain Barclay’s company at dinner last night, given he is now well enough to be a guest, and he was most informative regarding your background.’

‘There are, sir, two sides to every tale.’

‘Are you suggesting I mistrust the word of a man I have known for years and, indeed, shared a wardroom with in the early years of the American War, not to mention an officer who has given an arm for his country? Where I once saw your escapade in Livorno as amusing I now know it is indicative of your character.’

‘I am sure his arm will heal in time,’ Pearce said, guessing at the nature of the conversation. ‘I doubt, however, his malice will.’

‘Might I remind you that you are talking about a superior officer.’

‘If not a superior person, Captain Daws!’ Pearce snapped. ‘Might I ask, was his wife with him?’

The reply was equally sharp. ‘I don’t see that as any of your affair, sir.’

‘Then I take it she was not, though I also do not doubt you invited her. Perhaps when Captain Barclay is maligning me the next time you should have her present and see if his story is altered.’

‘You presume to tell me who I should have at my table?’

‘I presume to tell you, Captain Daws, once more, that there are two sides to every tale…’ Pearce had to stop himself then: to blurt out about the notion of perjury would be unwise. Besides, given the look on the face of the ship’s captain it would not have altered his opinion one iota.

‘You will not presume on my quarterdeck, which you will oblige me by vacating.’

‘I will do so willingly, since I am beginning to think that being elevated to post rank deprives a man of judgement when it ought to aid him.’

Daws actually sneered. ‘The kind of judgement that sees a fellow running through the streets in his flapping shirt, perhaps?’

‘Better that, sir, than take the common route to naval gratification which is through the whorehouse or the mids’ berth.’

Daws puffed up to blast him, but Pearce was already gone, making for the waist, running into Heinrich Lutyens, who had been close enough to overhear the conversation, as had half the people on the ship, given it had started normally but moved on to become noisily acrimonious.

‘Such a talent for making enemies, John, I have never seen or heard the like.’

‘When one is surrounded by fools—’

‘You are angry that Captain Barclay has damned you to a stranger?’

‘I care nothing for what he says of me.’

‘Which flies in the face of what you have just done, brother. You care deeply and so you should, but neither should you be surprised.’

‘Just let me get to London with the evidence I have and we will see Ralph Barclay in no position to blacken anyone, me included, lest it be the gaoler who holds the key to the perjuring bastard’s cell.’

It was only because Cornelius Gherson stopped that
John Pearce spotted him: the deck was, after all, quite busy with people moving about and it was clear by the look on his face he had overheard the words just used, a stare that was part a question as to what was meant. Then he looked away and walked past Pearce and Lutyens before disappearing down a companionway with Lutyens’ eyes on his back.

‘I take it you mean your intention to see Captain Barclay arraigned for perjury?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then I would advise you not to speak of it, even to me. I have never known a place like a ship where it is so difficult to keep a secret.’

Going below to the wardroom, Pearce knew as soon as he entered that the atmosphere had changed: not one of those present would look at him, which included the lieutenant with his arm in a sling, and the premier, whose bandaged and splinted leg was resting on a chair. Hitherto things had been easy, he had been ribbed about his exploits in the bedchamber, not without a hint of jealousy for his good fortune, and it had, in all respects, been like any other wardroom where, even if there was dislike, it was well hidden by good manners.

Not now, obviously, and such a change could only have come from the captain. What had Barclay said about him? Was it just the truth of his distaste, supported by malevolence, or had he invented some tale to further blacken his name? The one thing which was certain was that he could not enquire, but he was damned if he was
going to be discomfited by these fellows, so supine in their attitude to their superior that they eschewed any independence of mind.

‘I am looking forward to Gibraltar, as I am sure you are too,’ he said gaily. ‘We must all take a run ashore together, we being such boon companions.’

The response was a series of coughs and splutters.

Cornelius Gherson was sitting on a sea chest, in a screened-off cabin, lit only by a tallow wad guttering in a lantern, wondering at the import of what he had overheard. Having been a witness at Ralph Barclay’s court martial, as well as partaking in the discussions that had preceded it, he knew very well what a charade it had been, nothing more than a pretence set up and designed to exonerate him. Of all the witnesses who had spoken he had told the fewest lies, or if he had mouthed untruths, they had been of a nature difficult to challenge, either then or in the future, being impressions or recollections of one-to-one conversations.

But he knew to what degree others had perjured themselves. Barclay himself had been wise enough to decline to say anything other than to accept his responsibilities as the captain of HMS
Brilliant:
whatever others had done, mistakenly or not, his commission meant the blame lay with him. It had been a telling defence, more likely prompted by the fear that his wife, being present, might blurt out that he was a liar, though there was some risk in his acceptance that
the testimony of others had been truthful.

The real danger to Barclay’s position did not lie with either of them but with the other witnesses, yet the only one journeying back to England with them was Devenow and he would cut out his tongue rather than let down a man he seemed to venerate. Toby Burns, the true weak spot, the one who could sink them all, and would do so were he ever put in a witness box, was still in Leghorn, as was the only other witness, a rat-faced one-time bosun’s mate called Kemp.