Authors: David Donachie
He had relied on them to a man 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, he knew not how.
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 it 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 happen 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 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 off 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.’
‘Happen 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 and 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 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 breath. 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 certain it is that it will be disappearing up your arse if you do.’
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 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, 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 bent on that was a good third short of the height it should be. What Dorling had contrived for a makeshift bowsprit did nothing to enhance 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 way 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 on to 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 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 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 the 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 of 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 polled 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 with its boats 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 up 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.