The Perils of Command (19 page)

‘Have you come to enlist with one of my fellows, sir?’

‘Tempted as I might be, I am on another mission. I need a boat and men to row it. For the favour I will grant you a quartet of prime seamen, ex-smugglers and bloodthirsty sods, who are exactly the kind of hands your fellows need.’

‘Generous.’

‘I cannot tell you how far from the truth that is.’

‘I think I require more of an explanation, Mr Pearce, for the men with whom I trade are not given to kindnesses and with so many naval boats in the harbour, not to mention their warships, it might be a risky thing to venture out on such a day. The navy is not beyond the snatch, even of men with exemptions.’

‘Then I suggest they arm themselves.’

Pearce’s mind was racing and it was the thought of the Pelicans, brought on again by the dimensions of this tavern and the atmosphere engendered, that came to his rescue; how many times had he gone out on a limb to rescue Michael, Charlie and Rufus? And when he spoke it was easy to be convincing, for he was telling the truth, albeit in a partial way.

‘These men were pressed into the navy by my actions and I am determined to get them free. I must employ my rank to bring it about in the hope that no marine will dare challenge an officer going ashore.’

‘Smugglers, you say.’

‘Running from Gravelines into the Kent coast. I suspect I do not have to relate to you how dangerous that can be and the kind of men needed to ensure it is profitable.’

‘On which vessel?’

‘
Britannia
.’ That got a raised eyebrow. ‘It is my aim to remove them as the sun goes down and the traders and entertainers are sent packing, which they will be so that the vessels can get ready to take in their stores. The women will be removed as well, and it is my hope they will scream, which will be good for distraction.’

Senyard pondered for a moment in a very deliberate manner before speaking again. ‘It may be that I can personally oblige you, but I must warn you, sir, that if this is some subterfuge there will be a price to pay and a high one.’

Pearce was wondering what Senyard would want with four seamen, until it dawned on him that such men, prime hands, were as much a commodity as pork in the barrel. He would find for them a captain willing to pay a bounty for their recruitment and no doubt it was he who would provide false exemption certificates.

‘I am not fool enough to think it otherwise.’

‘Then I bid you wait, sir. Will you take some wine while I arrange to meet your needs?’

‘No, but I thank you. This needs a clear head, but if you can oblige me with an unopened bottle I would be grateful.’

As Pearce reached to pay for it, Senyard held up a hand. ‘Allow me to treat you, sir.’

‘I would have the cork removed and jammed back in, if I may.’

That got a look of deep curiosity that Pearce did nothing to satisfy.

Never gifted with much in the way of patience, Pearce was doubly troubled by the time Senyard took to sort out what was needed: the sun was dipping fast at this time of year and there was scant time left to act. Finally he appeared with two strongly built men, with heads that melded into necks with no discernible join, so scarred and brutish in appearance they made Peabody and his lot look like saints. Both were armed with heavy-handled short swords and had a pair of pistols stuck in their belts, though Pearce reckoned them not to be loaded and more for show than use.

The names were proffered but at such a distance and in such a clamour of talk, echoing off the walls and low ceiling of the tavern, Pearce did not catch them; not that he cared, they were sailors by their garb and just what he required. Senyard led them all out of the Golden Hind along one of the quays to where a boat was tied up to the painter of a sleek-looking barque. One of his villains stretched out to haul it in before indicating that Pearce should board, an offer declined given he wanted his rowers in place first. A
shrug met that suggestion and the pair obliged.

‘I think you will observe, Mr Pearce, that my associates are not the type to be trifled with. They are adept at the use of the weapons they carry and ruthless in their execution.’

Pearce, now in the boat, did not reply immediately, removing his borrowed cutlass as well as the holder and placing them at his feet, the bottle he was carrying now clasped between his knees. ‘As you can see, sir, I am now entirely at their mercy.’

That got a wolfish grin from the trader. ‘Not a position I would wish to share.’

‘What have you told them?’

‘The bare bones.’

‘That is enough. I can instruct them in whatever might arise.’

‘That will not be easy, given they have no English, though you might surprise me by saying you have their tongue.’

‘Which is?’

‘Bulgar, though they respond to the argot of the Turk.’

Almost as if he wished to brag of the facility, Senyard addressed them in what Pearce reckoned to be the latter tongue, which got a bit of a grunt in response.

‘And if I wish to direct them?’

‘I suggest you point.’

As soon as they were clear Pearce dipped the tiller and the boat headed out of the harbour into the wide anchorage. He did indeed point but most of the steering was down to him and they headed past the first of the ships of the line, the side of which was a mass of boats of all shapes and sizes, while from out of the gun ports came the sound of much music and merriment.

Looking at the pair as they dipped the oars he observed eyes that had a dead quality. That lack of expression applied to the broad faces too, and did not alter as he tried a smile. He had a sudden feeling that he might have jumped out of a frying pan into the fire, given he hardly knew Senyard and the man might, despite his protestations and explanations, suspect him of seeking to play a trick regardless of the outcome.

To make a point he reached down and raised his cutlass, examining the blade for sharpness before replacing it, adding the bottle, which he jammed under the thwart, to then reconnect with his eyes and a steady stare: there was still no expression in response that would hint at feelings.

The sun was not yet where it needed to be so a hand waved up and down slowed the pace as Pearce pondered on what he had to accomplish. The time window was tight; in the Mediterranean it went from dusk to full nightfall very quickly and he had no desire to be within easy sight of the flagship before making his approach, albeit he could see her clearly.

At single anchor
Britannia
had swung on the falling tide, small as that was, so that the route to get Peabody and his lot out and into a boat was going to be near invisible to the marine piquet cutter. That was rowing back and forth between the flagship and the quayside, so he employed the tiller to give it a wide berth. Another factor with timing was the fear that the smugglers would think he had not fulfilled his promise and they might resort to murder out of frustration.

Watching the sun dip into the west he waved furiously as the rim hit the horizon and was rewarded with a pleasing reaction as the rate of rowing really picked up, for these two brutes were
well muscled. With tiller and pointing hand he was approaching the side of
Britannia
at a lick, counting the larboard gun ports so that he could come alongside the right one.

That was a hope made difficult for, as he had anticipated, the traders, singers, fiddlers and whores were being chucked off the ship, their boats crowding the side as well as the waters in between, which meant Pearce had to gesticulate much and work the tiller hard to avoid a collision for he dare not shout too loud, even if there seemed to be plenty of noise to cover it. Drawing attention to himself was not a good idea.

Peabody was half leaning out of his gun port, which effectively precluded it being used by anyone else, and even at fifty yards Pearce could see the anxious expression on his face, one that was swift to evaporate. He took a risk and lifted and waved his hat high in the air to draw the ex-smuggler’s attention, a clenched fist in response assuring him it had been seen. Then Peabody disappeared.

In a babble of noisy Italian, or whatever local dialect the Tuscans spoke, Pearce had his Bulgars get alongside. Their oars having been shipped, he was obliged to use his hands on the rough planking to edge the boat along till he could himself lean through the right port. There he saw the quartet hastily donning various gaudy pieces of cloth, none of which went to a full garment.

As he had hoped and expected, the women were being removed – and that was being carried out forcibly, with much yelling, cursing and the odd high-pitched scream. The marines being now fully occupied in that task it would be possible to get his party out unobserved, but no one was going anywhere until he knew that nipper was safe and he told them so.

‘You’se in no position to make demands, Pearce,’ Peabody spat.

‘And you are going nowhere until I see him alive.’

It was one of his companions that urged Peabody to comply, indeed he did not wait for a response but directed the other two to haul off the canvas and fetch the lad out. Pearce ducked back and used his hat to cover the lower half of his face, not very visible anyway, he suspected, as it was now getting dark outside.

The still terrified youngster was on his feet now, the gag and the knots binding him being undone. Faintly he could hear Peabody issuing dire threats of retribution should he speak of his ordeal, those repeated by his companions until the lad was finally released to run as fast as he could away from his tormentors. If he blabbed, and he might, it was hoped they would be well clear before anyone reacted.

The smugglers did not delay, yet Pearce was still barking at them to move, for the wailing of the trollops was diminishing, a sound they would cease to utter once they were in a boat and it was pointless. Pearce had to hold the boat steady to the side of the warship to allow it to be boarded, without the pressure creating a dangerous gap. With panic-driven swiftness and any number of curses at the scrapes endured, he soon had the smugglers aboard and was able to signal to the Bulgars to fend off and row.

The problem now was from above; as they came out of the protection of the ship’s tumblehome anyone on deck would be able to look down and see them and as yet it was not dark enough to make them invisible. Sat with his back to
Britannia
, Pearce hunched his shoulders having a real feeling of eyes boring into his back, for if it went awry
now one cutlass was going to be of scant use.

Slowly, for he signalled his oarsmen to row steady, the boat pulled away from the ship, Pearce using the tiller to get in amongst the locals’ bumboats and barges wherein he would be hard to spot. Now his problem was that marine cutter, which had a man standing upright to direct the local boats to pass close to him so he could see who was aboard, this being a good time for desertion.

Pearce steered a sideways course, he having no desire to encounter the man who might be an officer from the flagship and who could know his face from wardroom intimacy. More importantly, he would be well aware that he was not on the flagship’s muster. His act on the tiller got a suspicious comment from Peabody.

‘It is time you shut up, man,’ came the sharp reply. ‘I am carrying out my part of your devilish bargain and I would remind you that without my being in this boat it will be stopped by the first piquet cutter we approach.’

‘And we knows you can dish us, too.’

‘If I thought I could easily explain what I am about I would be tempted. But what is keeping you safe now is no threat of yours. It is another bargain I have had to make and one that it would be foolish of me to ignore.’

It was close to dark by the time he waved to his Bulgars and employed the tiller and oars to set the boat on course for the shore, and given the time that took they were now separated from any other craft. Pearce issued a demand that the smugglers sing, though what emerged was so feeble one of the Bulgars grinned, showing the gaps in his teeth, which brought from Pearce a furious demand that Peabody and his ilk act as if they were drunk. He nagged them until they were
bellowing out their song, a raucous and bawdy sea shanty.

He grabbed the bottle from under the thwart and hauled out the cork with his teeth, tipping it over the side so that half the contents spilt. He then put it to his lips and allowed enough of a trickle to enter his throat to make him smell of having consumed. This was in case they got so close to the marines he was required to breathe on them. That done he began to sing too and deliberately well off key.

‘Ahoy there, who goes?’

The last of the dusk required a lantern be held aloft, while underneath that light was the scarlet coat and white waistcoat of a marine. Pearce paid close attention to the details and was able to see that this was no officer – it was not a duty such men relished. He surmised instead a corporal or sergeant and that was to the good. The next positive was that in coming from a different direction it would be a piquet from a vessel other than
Britannia
.

‘Lieutenant Barclay,’ he yelled, seeking to sound very inebriated, ‘off Old Ironsides, don’t ye know.’ Then he growled for the noise had diminished. ‘Keep singing, damn you.’

‘Ironsides? Where in the name of Christ are you headed, sir?’

‘Ashore man, to take my pleasures. And I would ask you to attend to your manners and belay the blasphemy. Whom am I addressing?’

‘Corporal Needham, sir, off
St George
.’

‘I come from
Illustrious
.’

‘Then how come you are dining aboard, sir?’

They were getting close and Pearce had to hiss to the smugglers to slow the oarsmen. ‘I suspect an unsteady hand
on the tiller, Corporal, and can blame no one other than myself.’

‘I would be obliged, sir, if you would come to where I can see you.’

‘Certainly, my man, and if I come close enough you may take a drop from this very fine bottle of wine I have. It saddens me there will scarce be enough for you all. How many men do you command?’

‘Eight plus myself, sir.’

‘Not a pleasant duty, what?’

‘Necessary, sir, as you will know.’

Pearce had been holding the tiller and crouching. Now he stood so that was held by his shins and raised the bottle, wondering if his coat and the flagon could be seen for they were on the very edge of the pool of light. The corporal was in plain view under the held-up lantern and Pearce released the breath he found himself holding as the man got into a confused state. He was obliged to pass the lantern, thus lowering it, so he could put a hand to his tricorne hat in a form of salute. He had seen Pearce’s blue coat and white breeches but that lowered lantern put the rest of the party out of sight.

That was when Pearce appeared to fall over, a howl of pain emerging to be followed by a stream of curses aimed at the crew of the boat, the next words threats of dire punishment for their inability to hold the boat steady.

‘Haul away, damn you, and row proper or I’ll have your hides.’ The bottle was raised high again and Pearce shouted out. ‘I bid you good evening, Corporal.’

‘Sir, I—’

He never got the words out. Pearce issued a loud and
repeated order to row and put your backs into it, there being a fine filly waiting for him in the nearest bawdy house. Would Needham insist he stop? That was the risk, and despite the differing ranks Pearce would be obliged to obey him for his task was one with authority. His next shout was to confuse the man.

‘You have done your duty, Corporal, and I will make it my business to let your captain know the next time I dine in his company. And may God grant that you get your just reward for your Spanish captures.’

The hope was that such a thought would be enough to distract him and his men. He hoped to turn their thoughts to the rewards that would come their way once the value of the Spanish plate ship captured by
St
George
two years previously was granted, as every sailor thought it should be.

The navy was adamant that Admiral Gell, his flag captain and crew, were due the prize money and that the Spanish captures were not Droits of the Crown, as claimed by a greedy government. Said to be worth close to a million pounds in specie, it had been the talk of every wardroom ever since the news came of the capture, eyes going glossy at the prospect of such a windfall.

Pearce was back on the tiller, making sure the boat stayed on the very edge of the circle of light, holding his breath again as they passed the stern of the marine cutter. He was now signing with as much gusto as he could muster, this from a throat so dry he could feel the rasp and that had to be maintained until they were well clear and he could set the tiller for the lights he knew to be those around the privateer’s harbour.

Out of easy earshot he took his cutlass in his hand and
there was now a bit of moon and enough starlight to allow the waved blade to flash. He intended to talk and the only thing to ease his throat was the remainder of the wine, the bottle laid back by his feet as soon as it was finished, for that too was a potential weapon.