Authors: David Donachie
Ahead of him the deck was alive with men working, some bringing stores up from below while the Pelicans were working out of sight: all was being done that could be, for what was a desperate throw. It was Polly, straightening his back from his labours, who froze, looking over the bowsprit. He waited for a moment before shouting.
‘Ship over the bow, dead ahead, though Christ knows what it is.’
‘Polly, take the wheel.’
Pearce raced aloft, glass tucked in his waistband once more, to sit on the crosstrees and aim it forward. What he saw was a ship all right, but nothing like one he had ever seen before. It had a decent hull, but stumps instead of masts and the most God-awful rig of sails in creation. Yet at the top of the fore stump flew a red pennant, indicating even to Pearce that it was under the command of a vice admiral of the Red Squadron and that told him the vessel was British. It was also the case that it was coming round to close, for Polly had seen the stern while he could see it broadside on. Even at a distance and taking into account his inexperience, he had never seen the like, so sluggish and ungainly was the manoeuvre.
That was when the taffrail was reduced to splinters and Pearce, looking down then, knew the next salvo, as carefully aimed as all the others had been, would come over that mess of timber and sweep along the deck. Yet there before him was a warship, a strange bugger for sure, but clearly armed. What to do, how quick were they closing?
‘On deck, there, get below! Polly, lash off the wheel and do likewise and don’t one of you dare dispute with me, that is a direct order.’
‘I will hold my place, Mr Pearce,’ Parrat replied, as everyone else rushed to obey. ‘I got a bit of poop to mind my back.’
Pearce had his glass back on the chase, this time on the topmast. Did they have a man up there as a lookout? Had they seen what they were sailing towards and would they up their helm when they did? His answer came as the chase yawed round to present a broadside, every gun on its larboard deck, some seven in all, firing off as it bore, the balls smashing into the ship and taking lumps out of her bulwarks. If they hit anything vital, main, mizzen or wheel, maybe an important yard hard enough to dislodge a sail, they would take the ship, and it was no consolation being in possession of such knowledge when you could do nothing to prevent it. Yet some hope lay ahead, for the distance between that strange warship and
Guiscard
was now closing fast.
The chase had resumed its course, loading the bow chasers during that yaw so they spoke immediately. Pearce watched in fascination as the black balls arced through the air to land on the deck, one skipping by the foot of the mainmast to ram into the bulwarks, where it began to roll around. He had to just sit there, reckoning that another broadside was coming and it would be more dangerous than the last, for he was as safe up here as he was on the deck. That was until he recalled the Lascar they had buried from the deck of HMS
Grampus
, causing that feeling to evaporate.
The sound of more gunfire was not accompanied by smoke from the bow chasers, so he turned to see two great plumes of water a cable’s length from the bowsprit. Who was the fellow aiming at? Pearce had no idea of
the nationality of either ship before him, leaving him with the horrible possibility that he might be caught between two fires before anything was resolved. Then it occurred to him: the chase had no idea if the ship ahead was an enemy or a friend – the pennant he had recognised was stranger to them.
Time, if you discounted the now regular boom of those bow chasers and the more occasional broadside, stood still, as the three ships closed into an increasingly confined part of the ocean. Polly had used his brain and got everyone in the bows waving frantically to the ship ahead, which was all they could do in the absence of a flag, and it seemed to have some effect because when she fired her bow chasers again the shot was aimed well clear, clearly a warning to the chase, now so close he could see that there was a furious argument taking place on the quarterdeck, and it was the unmistakable sight of Rafin waving his arms that told him he was disputing with the captain about what to do.
That the man in command won was obvious: Pearce could see the hands on that pursuing deck lashing off their guns and rushing to the falls. Within minutes the sails had been let fly, the wheel was being spun and the bowsprit was spinning away. Ahead the captain of that warship had altered course to give him a clear shot of a ship flying a French revolutionary pennant and now it was his turn to yaw, albeit like a soaked log, and deliver a broadside.
The frigate, for Pearce now recognised the hull as
such, let fly with everything she had, and given they were bigger cannon and their range was greater, the slowly turning chase found itself surrounded by a mass of boiling seawater. If anything was enough to redouble their efforts then that broadside was it. Soon they were round, showing her stern lights, the sails were sheeted home again, with the yards braced right round as they needed to be to sail into the wind.
The shout came through a speaking trumpet, which obscured the face of the man doing the asking, a blue coat surrounded by many others, as well as a number in red.
‘Ahoy there, who are you?’
For the first time in his life the reply, delivered through cupped hands, was one he was happy to give. ‘Lieutenant Pearce, of His Britannic Majesty’s Navy, in command of the French vessel
Guiscard
.’
‘You have charge of a strange vessel, sir, is she a prize?’
This thought had not occurred to Pearce and it was a pleasing one. ‘I have the makings of a strange tale, sir, which I will happily relate to you if I may come aboard.’
‘By all means do so.’
‘Might I also ask your name, sir?’
‘Captain John Warren, of HMS
Fury
.’
‘Let’s get that cutter in the water, lads.’
There was also pleasure in hearing the man called Weary reply, ‘Aye, aye, sir.’
Twenty minutes later Pearce was on the deck of HMS
Fury
, with its stumps in place of proper masts, shaking the hand of the captain and being introduced to his officers. That was followed by a salute to a Major General Sir David Rose, returning to England from having commanded the troops of the East India Company fighting the French around Pondicherry. The general, a rosy-cheeked, square-faced fellow, in contrast to the nut-brown naval officers, listened with interest to John Pearce’s tale and added, before Warren could comment, ‘Dammit, that demands a toast, if not several, the first to your surviving an inferno, the second to your timely finding of a ship and the third to such an amazing rescue.’
Looking into that face, somewhat too close in colour to his red coat, with the mischievous blue eyes and the smiling, slight overbite, Pearce wondered if the sentiment was celebratory or prompted by a love of the mere idea of a drink. It mattered not: he was in the mood to partake himself and just as happy, tankard in hand, to hear the fate of HMS
Fury
, a ship that had departed Lisbon days before HMS
Grampus
.
She had run into the storm of which they had seen evidence, losing first her foremast, then her main and mizzen, each having to be cut free with men still clinging to them, for fear they would drag down the ship; that Lascar they had buried was one, as were many of the crew,
Fury
having been in the east for several years.
‘We were promised a refit by the Company in their
Calcutta dockyard, but delay followed delay and we were ordered home before it could be carried out.
‘Slack folk, the Company wallahs,’ said General Rose, then, seeing Pearce enquire he explained it as an Indian expression. ‘More port, Mr Pearce?’
‘Thank you no, sir, I have had enough.’
‘Nonsense,’ he barked, filling the tankards of himself and the others, without recourse to any servants. ‘Don’t do a man good to stint himself. Best thing in the world to keep the quacks at bay, what!’
‘You have no idea what service in the east does to men and ships,’ said Warren, leaving Pearce to wonder, by his expression, if he was including the general. ‘But our timbers were worse than anything old Granny had to bear, and the seating on our masts, well, I reckon that poor man you had to bury tells you all you need to know.’
‘It does occur to me, Captain Warren, that but for that hurricane, and the damage you sustained, you would not have been so slowed in your voyage as to be able to rescue us.’
‘By damn,’ boomed Rose, ‘this young fella has the right of the matter. It’s an ill wind which does no man any good.’ The decanter was in his hand again, and Pearce’s tankard was filled to the brim before he could say a word, as were all the others, the general standing for the toast, which forced them all to do likewise before emptying their drinking vessels.
‘To an ill wind.’
It was ironic that Captain Daws and his party were the first to put their feet on English soil: Captain Edward Pellew and HMS
Nymphe
, along with their consorts of the Inshore Squadron, pleased at the turn the weather had taken, were required to resume their station off the Pointe du Raz to cover the approaches to the port of Brest, the main station of the French Atlantic fleet. Ralph Barclay was obliged to wait ten days, gnawing and irascible at the delay, waiting until the sloop carrying despatches came from Pellew’s commander, Admiral Lord Howe.
That returned, carrying the squadron’s logs as well as any intelligence, to Torbay where Howe’s capital ships were anchored, ready to sail, given notice to do that for which their deployment was designed: to meet the French in the Channel and dominate that vital and strategic
stretch of water. Ralph Barclay, along with Gherson and Devenow, was thus faced with an uncomfortable two-day journey from the West Country to London in a coach, which he swore was without a single working spring; thankfully he had secured enough laudanum to dull his constant pain.
Emily Barclay went straight back to Frome, a much shorter journey, ostensibly to prepare for his homecoming, in reality to be apart from the strain of being in his company; she, unlike her husband, had no reason to travel to London. Greeted first with joy, then with alarm at her adventures, most of her female relatives – her husband’s sisters included – feeling it necessary to have a fit of the vapours when told the tales of battles, nursing the wounded, imprisonment and shipwreck.
HMS
Fury
limped up the Channel under her stumpy, jury-rigged masts, making slow progress, which was a situation that kept busy every officer on board, so hard was it to keep her on course. Captain Warren was grateful for the addition of those not required to sail the
Guiscard
: the notion that she should proceed independently had foundered on Warren’s desire to have her in company in a dangerous stretch of water like the English Channel, just in case his frigate, wallowing, jibbing and taking in water, needed to be abandoned. But, and to John Pearce’s relief, he had put one of his midshipmen in command of her and invited Pearce to share the frigate’s wardroom, given what he had been through.
The slow progress frustrated John Pearce as much as his own delay had angered Barclay. He also had the added load, though in truth it was not a terribly onerous one, passed on by a captain too busy to undertake it himself, of keeping entertained General Sir David Rose, Knight of the Bath and a trencherman who, had his wine been poured into that large receptacle, would have drained it with pleasure, he being a man who appreciated his grub as much as he loved what was necessary to wash it down. Right now he was enjoying a dish of freshly netted sprats, fished for by his servants over the ship’s side, alert enough to see them being pursued by a shoal of mackerel.
‘God, I have missed these fish,’ he exclaimed. ‘They have nothing like them in the waters off India. There are some blessings to a vessel not sailing at speed.’
Surprisingly, the general, returning home with a nabob’s fortune, turned out to be a man of radical opinions, who, while prepared to vehemently denounce the present barbarity of the French Revolution, was wholly in favour of the things which had brought it about. He also spoke kindly of Adam Pearce, whose writings he had read avidly in the Eighties, though he had never heard him speak. He was very like those people Pearce had met with his father and in whose houses they had stayed: folk who had all the benefits of a comfortable life but an acute awareness that it was tenuously held; in short, that all was not as well as it should be in the politics of the nation.
‘You met Farmer George, you say, young fella?’
‘I did, sir, it was he who granted me my commission with many a what, what.’
‘Man’s a fool, of course, as all royals are inclined to be. Ain’t their fault, mind, they are surrounded by folk who tell them they are always right – kiss their bare arse given half the chance, the courtiers – though, I must say, the king’s offspring show a stupidity remarkable even by the standards of the Hanoverians. It’s a blessing monarchs have given up soldiering otherwise the lives of folk like me would be made a misery. Course, the Jack tars were burdened with that idiot William, who should never have been given charge of a bumboat, never mind a warship, the booby. Duke of Clarence, my foot, more like the damned Lord of Misrule. Burial in a butt of Malmsey, like his one-time namesake, would be a fitting reward.’
‘You do not mind serving them, these Hanoverians?’
Rose laughed, swallowed a sprat and took a deep drink to wash it down. ‘You won’t catch me so easy, young ’un. I’m a soldier and an English one and, for all we has our faults as a nation, and for all things should be altered with rotten boroughs and the like, I know we are better off than many of Creation’s other children. Remember, I have just come back from India. If you want to see injustice, sir, that is the place to go.’
‘I was given to understand if a man wanted to become filthy rich, that is the place to go.’
‘That, young man, borders on damn cheek,’ Rose
replied, though he was grinning as he said it. ‘While I have been told the way to riches is to be a naval officer and become not more than a licensed pirate. Have a sprat.’
‘If you don’t mind, sir, I’ll decline. They are not a fish of which I have ever been very fond.’
‘But they’re delicious,’ Rose exclaimed, biting into another, a look of deep pleasure on his ruddy face.
‘General Rose, Mr Pearce, sirs,’ said a midshipman, his head round the door. ‘Captain’s compliments, and we have raised the Needles.’
‘Epic voyage, my foot,’ Ralph Barclay exclaimed, flapping hard with a copy of the
Morning Post,
property of Brown’s Hotel where he had taken up residence. It was full of praise for Captain Daws and the way he had brought home his two boats, as well as all his crew, to safety. ‘It’s not like Bligh in the Pacific, slung off his ship with short commons and thousands of miles to traverse. All Daws had to do was aim his prow at Polaris and wait till his keel touched bottom.’
‘The nation needs heroes, sir,’ said Cornelius Gherson, ‘and Captain Daws will serve, when there is a lack of others more deserving of praise.’
‘You read his letter?’
‘I did.’
‘And?’
‘I see no purpose, sir, in you attending his court martial, quite apart from the fact that it is likely to be a formality. No captain can be in difficulty for a ship
that caught fire, lest he can be shown to be personally liable. He was not and you have no knowledge of how the blaze began or what caused it.’
Devenow, standing a few feet away waiting for the coach that had been ordered, merely twitched his shoulders, grateful for the sight of the conveyance finally arriving, a chaise, which was to take them out of town to Hertfordshire and the county residence of the Duke of Portland. His memory of events was vague, yet that would not have fazed him: his ability to forgive himself for his transgressions outweighed any possibility of guilt or confession.
Ralph Barclay was helped into the chaise and covered with a blanket to ward off the chill, Gherson with him, while Devenow was obliged to take place on the postillion board at the back, pleased that he had armed himself with some gin to ward off the cold.
The captain’s wife was sat in her marital home, listening to – in truth ignoring – the twittering voices of her husband’s trio of silly sisters. To them, their brother was the finest man alive, a paragon of every proper virtue, a wit and a sage, who had, they would admit, made a fine marriage, though they were wont to wonder at some of their sister-in-law’s more outré connections, hers being a branch of the family with members who raised questions in the article of indebtedness and being in trade: fortunately, in the main, the relationship was distant enough not to imply damaging consanguinity. To
question their opinion of their brother would be fruitless and ongoing, so it was best left: all she could do was avoid joining in the paeans of praise, using a simple tight smile to pretend agreement.
Emily had never thought she would miss being at sea, but she did now and the option of constant visits to her own family home fell foul of the way they were inclined, indeed eager, to take every opportunity to praise Toby Burns. Her father spoke of his nephew as if his famous bravery was personally connected: had he not done more to raise the boy than his blood father? Her mother, the actual blood relative, would quietly simper in the pool of reflected glory, this while her daughter seethed, she alone being aware that his supposed heroics were a myth, one she was unable to puncture for the very simple reason no one would believe her.
Finally John Pearce was able to observe the frigate on which he sailed anchor at Spithead, before being warped into the quayside of the naval dockyard, the
Guiscard
having been passed over to the agent of the Portsmouth Prize Court for adjudication as to the legitimacy of its capture and an assessment of its value; for him and the men he led it would bring a tidy sum of money. The priests and nuns were taken in by the local vicar, so it was time to find out from Captain John Warren what would happen next and the effect it would have on his friends.
‘The crew will be paid off from HMS
Fury
, Mr Pearce and, while the standing officers will stay with her as she
enters the dockyard for repairs, only those I trust absolutely to rejoin when called back will be allowed to go home. They are my people, after all, and I would not want to lose them to another captain. The rest will be spread throughout the fleet and that will, of course, apply to those men from HMS
Grampus
, though if there are any Captain Daws values they will no doubt get a scribe to write to him so they can seek service on his next commission.’
‘I had hoped that three of my fellows could stay aboard, Captain Warren, until I can get them properly executed protections.’
‘You have the order of release from Lord Hood.’
‘Do you think it will hold if they are taken up by the press or some crimp?’
The smile was grim. ‘No, Mr Pearce, but nor can I leave them aboard a vessel which will, in days, be crawling with dockyard mateys, who, I would not be surprised to find, would sell them for a pot of ale.’
‘General’s going ashore, sir.’
Warren grinned. ‘I can almost feel my liver rejoice. I swear I would be cursed with gout had we had him aboard much longer.’
‘So you risked my liver instead,’ Pearce responded, with wry humour.
‘You had him for a short while, Mr Pearce, we had him all the way from Calcutta, and I can tell you the consumption of wine was measured in pipes.’
‘With your permission, I would like to say my farewells too.’
‘You got on with the old rogue?’ Warren asked, adding when Pearce nodded, ‘We all did, you know. He was damn good company.’
There were two carriages and a dray on the quay, a Berlin for the general, the dray for his extensive possessions and an enclosed square conveyance surrounded by broad-shouldered fellows, come to carry the Lisbon bullion to London. The goodbyes were as warm-hearted as Warren had said, the crew lining the rigging to cheer Sir David onto his home soil, for quite apart from his good nature, he had left a goodly sum of money for the hands to share. The old man became quite emotional as he shook each hand, extending an invitation to stay with him as a guest should the occasion of need ever arrive.
‘Right, my friends,’ Pearce said to the Pelicans, once all three carriages had departed. ‘It is the public coach for us, and you are to stay within sight of me at all times. You will not be happy with this when you hear me tell people you are my servants…’
‘Sure,’ Michael whooped, ‘they will not be cheered by the way we address you, John-boy.’
Pearce knew they understood, but he said the words anyway. ‘Behave as if you are servants, for there will be people at each post house eyeing you. They are a favourite hunting ground for crimps, on the road from here to London. Wander and they might just nab you and hope for the best.
Bulstrode Park was a Jacobean pile with later additions, extensive gardens and stretching lawns leading to a fine lake. As they travelled up the drive, passing half a dozen toiling gardeners, Ralph Barclay could not help but imagine himself in possession of such an estate. This was no new dream but a common one amongst his breed: all it needed was a Spanish Plate ship or a great fleet action, followed by the gratitude of the nation, and any naval officer could live like this. Expecting to be received with courtesy, the brusque enquiry as to his business from the liveried, senior footman who manned the entrance put his teeth on edge and made him growl.
‘I have a personal communication for His Grace from Admiral Sir William Hotham.’
The superior sniff that received was enough to imply that Hotham might as well be a midshipman. ‘And your name again?’
‘My name again, sir!’ he barked, to no appreciable effect. ‘Captain Ralph Barclay.’
‘I will inform His Grace’s secretary that you are here.’
‘Please ensure His Grace is informed personally, my man!’
‘That I cannot do, sir, given the duke is not to be troubled by every Tom, Dick or Harry who has a letter.’
‘God, how I miss my arm,’ Barclay whispered to Gherson. ‘Given both I’d box his ears.’
‘Your right would do,’ Gherson responded, trying,
and not entirely succeeding, in keeping the mirth out of his tone.
‘Wait here.’
The footman issued this command as he departed, the two men looking at his back and the gold lacing on his fine livery, in itself expensive enough to keep a normal fellow in food and drink for a month. It was an hour, and a frustrating one at that, before another fellow, just as supercilious but at least not uniformed, came to see them and asked for the letter.
‘I was requested, nay ordered, by Admiral Hotham, to deliver it into His Grace’s hand.’ Seeing the countenance prepare a refusal, Ralph Barclay added vociferously. ‘And I will wait here till doomsday if necessary.’