An Awkward Commission (25 page)

‘Mr Pearce, I think we must test the defences if Neame’s efforts are to be of any use. Please take us inshore a trifle.’

Sails trimmed and rudder down, the ship swung in towards the midpoint of the entrance to the bay, where the darker hue of the water indicated increased depth, though a leadsman was casting in the chains to ensure that they did not ground. HMS
Weazel
began to lose some of her way as the wind, on the beam, was eased by the high hills and it was not long before a pair of the shore-based cannon essayed the range, sending great plumes of water shooting up well ahead of the bowsprit. It was only luck that had Pearce looking deeper into the bay, where he saw a buoy with a rope attached, and what seemed like a set of flags at intervals halfway to the shore, the furthest of which they were inside. There was, as well, a pennant-carrying cutter, the cloth streaming out to show the strength of the wind. Could those flags indicate a range less than the maximum, working on the principle that even the best trained eye had difficulty with distance at sea?

‘Would they fire short to draw us in, sir?’ Pearce asked, then added, when Benton glared at him. ‘May I draw your attention to that buoy, sir, and that cutter.’

Benton obliged, and the sight had him dropping his telescope. ‘Bring us about!’

‘All hands to wear ship!’ Pearce shouted.

The proof of the notion was proved as soon as the men ran to the falls, to bring the ship back onto a reverse course. They too were being observed through telescopes, and by gunners who knew to the inch their range. The ramparts
of the citadel were wreathed in smoke as the entire battery fired, and they could see a dozen huge black balls arcing through the air, to straddle the ship, sending up enough water to windward to soak everyone on deck.

‘Mr Pearce,’ cried Neame, pointedly ignoring his captain, ‘let us use the wind.’

He did not understand and he was acutely aware of the fact, but neither it seemed did Benton. Fortunately, Neame did not wait for orders; he had the hands sheet home as soon as the northerly breeze would give them better forward motion. Pearce now comprehended the calculation, that any movement was better than the static position of coming right round to sail out of the bay, this proved by the shot that he was sure landed in the waters they had just vacated. They were now sailing towards that flag-holding buoy.

‘Permission to sink that cutter, sir?’ he asked Benton. The nod in reply was slow in coming, or at least it seemed so, even if it was only a couple of seconds, till he could shout, ‘Man the starboard cannon.’

The guns were run out all right, with flintlocks fixed on, and the sight of their muzzles was enough to send off as fast as they could row the men oaring the boat. But they did not fire because the gunner had no charges filled, and by the time he did and the powder monkeys had got them to the gun captains, it was too late, the only positive being that the artillerymen from Calvi had ceased to waste powder and shot, as they were now beyond their reach heading for the eastern part of the bay.

‘Bring us about again, Mr Pearce,’ said Benton, ‘but out of range this time.’

The way it was said seemed to imply that going closer inshore had been his fault. He half thought of protesting, but reckoned it not to be worth the effort.

Was it Benton’s fault that there were no cartridges ready to fire the guns? Pearce did not know, but he was determined it would not happen again. Another, more forceful conversation with the gunner, reinforced the notion of how much he loved his cannon, but created a distinct impression that he loved them too much to see them discharged and was the type to see the proper place for powder as in the barrel, where it could be easily accounted for. He moaned that fixing the flintlocks had scratched the blacking, and asked that his gunner’s mates could be put to making them pristine again; so much, Pearce thought for getting close and blasting away.

‘But surely we must be ready at any time for a fight? What if that Corvette in Calvi was properly rigged and had decided to pursue us?’

‘We is as ready as we need be,’ he replied, bending his crooked face to one side. ‘Stands to reason, sir, that if we see an enemy, we has time to do the necessary well afore they close.’

‘Mr Digby approved of this?’

‘Mr Digby never enquired about cartridges, seeing we was with the fleet, what would be the point?’

Pearce had to struggle to control his impatience, and he suspected, even with his lack of experience, that the man he was temporarily replacing would have been just as upset. Hate Ralph Barclay he might, but his example was the one to follow; regular exercise with the odd discharge so that his gunners knew their tasks.

‘Please have powder ready for the guns at all times. Who knows, we might wake up one morning to find that an enemy has got close enough to sink us.’

‘The captain?’

‘I will deal with him.’

‘What weight of charge, your honour?’

Unable to say what or why, Pearce just answered, ‘The maximum!’

He left the gunner mumbling about muzzles being blown asunder, as he made his way back on deck and lifted himself onto the bulwark, hanging on to a backstay. Beneath him the sea was blue and clean, and he wondered if they would ever anchor so he could have a swim. Off the starboard beam lay the green-brown island, rocky promontories now mixed with long, blonde and sandy beaches, backed by rising ridges of crag-topped mountains, with a faint smell of myrtle and pines to mix with the tang of salt on the wind, just as Boswell had described it to a young and impressionable boy.

He longed to go ashore and see if he could find anyone who knew or could remember James Boswell. According to the man himself, Dr Johnson’s biographer was something of a idol on Corsica – he had become an intimate of the local leader, Pasquali Paoli, and helped him in his attempt to eject the French from the island. But then Adam Pearce had always described Boswell as a man who cast himself in a good light. He also insisted that Samuel Johnson, whom Adam had met many times, had never said half the things Boswell attributed to him.

‘Mr Pearce.’ He looked down to Mr Neame. ‘I was wondering, sir, if you was going to put the hands through practise with boarding weapons. It is the day for it according to Mr Digby’s list.’

Pearce smiled. ‘Am I allowed to join in?’

‘Well, I ain’t never heard of an officer doin’ so, but I don’t reckon it would be a cause for mutiny if he did.’

‘So be it, Mr Neame. And let’s have the mids on deck and I will teach them how to properly use a sword.’

That passed a pleasant hour, as they passed an empty bay with a town called Porto at its base, and because the forecastle was small, instruction had to be given in relays,
which had the effect of bringing him into close contact with the crew, his only stricture to stop them indulging too heavily in the use of their weapons; pikes, cudgels, dummy tomahawks and cutlasses made of wood, but still enough in weight to cause harm. With the mids, he showed caution with a sword in his hand, for he had been taught by experts, his prowess acknowledged by those with whom he crossed wooden blades. Not that he overwhelmed an opponent; the object was to point out to them their lack of proficiency, not to show off.

‘I am curious, Mr Pearce, where you learnt your skill,’ Neame said, as they ate their dinner.

He could have said anything, but the truth would be best. ‘There is an army barracks in Paris called Les Invalides. I went there for instruction in swordsmanship, shooting and riding.’

‘Paris?’ declared the purser, through a mouthful of salted beef and sauerkraut, as though it was some kind of mortal sin.

‘Yes, Mr Ottershaw. I spent more than two years there, until the beginning of this year and the start of the present war.’

There was a temptation to go on, to tell them all, even how pleasant the French capital had been if you ignored the smells that were the affliction of every city, still full of elegant and interesting people. To tell what it was like to a young man growing up surrounded by that, his entry to salon society guaranteed because of the esteem in which his father was held as a radical and honest man. But then he would also have to describe how it changed; how the spiral of decline began that led to the present mayhem, and to the consequences his father suffered for being as truthful with those who took power. That was not a place John Pearce wanted to go, so he changed the subject.

‘I believe the next harbour we raise will be Ajaccio.’

Ajaccio looked a dull and uninteresting place, with a small fort in a sorry state of repair and no shipping bar fishing boats off the beaches, so they headed on south. Putting up their helm, they sailed through the Bouches de Bonifacio, but on a wind that was now dead foul and reinforced by the tunnel effect of the narrow straits between Corsica and Sardinia, dominated by forbidding rocky escarpments and a fortress similar in design to that of Calvi. That changed as they cleared the east of the islands, sailing inshore of Les Iles Lavezzi. Judging by the number of boats, good fishing ground lay between the islands and the high southern cliffs, and sick of salted beef and pork, Pearce sent Harbin off in a boat to purchase some fish from the tiny smacks that seemed reluctant to come close to a strange warship.

‘And see what they know of matters on the island, Harbin.’

‘What do they speak, sir, the locals?’

‘According to an old friend of my father’s, no language known to man. The island has been Greek, Carthaginian, Roman, Genoese, and finally it was bought by the French, who are not much loved by the original Corsicans. Try a jabbing finger.’

The eight-oared cutter was obviously less of a threat and, after a long hard pull, and what seemed like a lot of talking and arm waving, the boy returned with enough
fish for both the wardroom, the gunroom and Benton’s dinner. But Harbin brought more than just food; without any knowledge of the Corsican tongue, he had managed to extract some startling news.

‘Sir, they convinced me that a French warship is moored in a bay to the north, which I think they called Porto Vecchio, though the tongue was so barbarous I cannot be sure. It seems that she is not manned. The fishermen indicated that the crew are ashore.’

‘There is an anchorage by that name, Mr Pearce,’ said Neame, who had been studying the charts of the east coast.
‘Golfo di Porto Vecchio
in the Italian, a deep bay and a port that goes back to ancient times, though not, I suspect, of much use now.’

‘How did they manage to convince you of this?’

Harbin’s explanation, related with an excited air, took nearly as long as the original telling. The fishermen had drawn the coastline with wetted fingers, pointed north with much simulation of banging guns and waving of their small anchor, and repeated the name over and over again. Pearce could see the way Harbin’s mind was working; the boy saw adventure, saw himself leaping over enemy bulwarks sword in hand, but it was not his decision to believe or disbelieve what he had been told, or that of his temporary premier.

‘This is information, Mr Harbin, that has to be reported to the captain.’

Which it duly was, to a man who seemed burdened by the information. Harbin was dismissed, leaving Pearce alone with Benton. ‘If this is true, and there is an unmanned French warship there, what are we to do?’

‘It is up to you, sir, to decide the best course of action.’

‘I would value your opinion, Mr Pearce.’

Why did he feel he was being asked to take, or at the very least share, responsibility? Was it something in Benton’s
orders, which he had been very reluctant up till now to fully communicate?

‘I think, sir, that no opinion can be advanced until we have seen what is and what is not accurate. With a trio of tongues to choose from, young Mr Harbin might have got the whole thing wrong.’

Benton stared at his temporary second-in-command for a long time, his bloated face expressionless. ‘Please ask Mr Neame to give us an estimate of how long that will be.’

‘On this wind, Mr Pearce, a true Levanter, I reckon we will raise Porto Vecchio well before last light.’

His calculation was close, but with the sun having dipped behind the central Corsican mountains throwing the whole eastern coastline into shadow, it was too near twilight to be fully certain of what they observed. But there was a ship, a sloop slightly larger than their own, of fourteen guns, moored in a small, hill-enclosed bay to the north of the main approach to Porto Vecchio, and no sign of activity could be seen, either on her decks, or between ship and shore.

‘Would it be a good idea to send in a boat, sir?’ asked Pearce.

For once Benton spoke as a normal human being; no growl, no disdain, and Pearce realised that he appeared to be completely sober. ‘That would only serve to alert anyone either on the ship or ashore. No, Mr Pearce, we must make our decisions based on what we can now perceive.’

They stayed, hove to, telescopes trained on the silent and still ship and the sloping hills that surrounded the bay, until the light faded completely, and twinkling lanterns could be seen from the town itself, at the deepest part of the gulf, a good mile away. At this point, Benton, having seen his own ship’s lanterns ignited, invited Pearce to join him in his cabin, that after issuing an order to the master.

‘Mr Neame, set us back on our previous course, I would wish anyone watching to see us sailing away northwards.’

Sat either side of his desk, Benton did not speak for a full minute, and when he did his voice was low and muted. ‘My orders were quite specific, Mr Pearce, and I am going to share them with you. I am not to indulge in any action which threatens the ship, or to chase after anything I might see as a potential prize. I am to reconnoitre the island, look out for suitable fleet anchorages, and report back to Admiral Hotham.’

‘Which presents an awkward dilemma.’

‘Precisely. Yet here we have before us what seems like a tempting prospect, an enemy vessel seemingly unmanned. Would I be forgiven for passing up such an opportunity?’ Since Pearce declined to answer, Benton went on. ‘I think not.’

‘I doubt your orders anticipated such a possibility, sir.’

‘That is true.’ Another long silence followed, until Benton said. ‘Do you not find it strange that a warship is so moored and without a crew?’

‘I think what has happened in Toulon, sir, tells us that these are strange times. There could be any number of reasons for the lack of a crew in a climate in which loyalties are uncertain. They may have deserted.’

‘I dare not take
Weazel
right into the bay, Mr Pearce, for fear that, without charts, I might run her aground, but I have the added complication of having no marines on board, which is a limiting factor in a cutting-out expedition.’

Benton looked really glum, a man damned if he did and damned if he did not, but Pearce was also damned if he was going to say so, for it seemed clear that was what the captain was looking for, words that would make up his mind, but also words that could be quoted in his defence if he faced censure. Pearce knew that Benton would have to
cut out that ship; advancement in King George’s Navy did not come from sailing on reconnaissance and disobedience was always a second cousin to success with a nation that loved their Wooden Walls. Take that sloop and he would be hailed throughout the fleet; leave it and heads would shake in wonderment, perhaps even the powdered wigs of senior admirals.

‘I must put myself in Admiral Hotham’s place,’ said Benton.

‘Admiral Hood’s, as well,’ Pearce replied.

He had said that without giving the notion much thought, but it had an electrifying effect on Benton, who slapped a decisive hand on the table. ‘Hood would not hesitate, would he?’

The implication that Hotham might was telling, but best left unsaid. Suddenly Benton was all animation, a man from whom a burden had been completely lifted by the mere thought of approval from the Commander-in-Chief.

‘Mr Pearce, I want us off the bay at first light, with the boats ready and over the side. We will come upon them, stern lanterns out and hope they suppose us gone. You will take the jolly boat and Mr Harbin, and carry out an assault over the stern, I will take the cutter and come aboard over the bows. Mr Neame and the other two mids can have charge of our ship.’

There was a temptation to dampen Benton’s sudden enthusiasm with an observation that it was not a captain’s job to lead such an assault, but then, if Benton did not, Pearce would have to, and he felt that, with his lack of experience, that was probably a bad idea. It was only much later, when it was too late to say anything that would not sound like an expression of cowardice, that John Pearce realised he should have declined to have anything to do with the affair. What was he doing putting his person at risk?

The crew, from mids, through warrants to seamen had been waiting with bated breath for a decision, and when it came it was clear they were pleased, for a ship like that fourteen-gun sloop, taken whole, was certain to be bought into the service, so there was money to be made. The hours of darkness were spent sharpening knives and cutlasses, in sorting out who would go over the bows with Pearce and who would assault their quarry over the stern, but it was reckoned that muskets would be a bad idea – an encumbrance to men unused to them – though pistols would be allowed. The activity stopped Pearce from dwelling on what might happen, for as the premier he was kept busy organising everything, from the issue of weapons to the sailing of the ship.

Ghosting along, yards braced right round, Neame kept their speed in check so as to arrive at their destination just before dawn. It was a clear night with a half moon in the sky, which at sea tended to look like full daylight, but it was hoped that any lookout posted on the rocky hills surrounding the bay would be too tired to pay proper attention in the last hour before dawn. They sailed slowly into the bay under topsails, backing them to slow progress. The tide, only a few feet in the Mediterranean, was still rising so the master could let her drift in slowly, and moor when action had been joined. This way they would avoid attracting attention either by the noise, or the phosphorescent splash that a dropping anchor would create.

The crew clambered into the boats as the eastern sky began to show the first trace of a clear dawn, with many a command to keep silent. Benton was sober too, apparently not having touched a drink since the previous day, and Pearce had to admit a degree of excitement and wondered at it. The boats formed up and headed in towards the land, rowing slowly and quietly. As the light increased they saw the outline of the mast tops emerging in the gloom to form a
silhouette above the dark backdrop of the surrounding hills. No lights appeared, no shout announced their approach and it looked as though the information Harbin had gathered was correct.

Benton’s arm waved and the boats split up, he going to the bow, Pearce to the stern. Still no shout came to warn of their approach, and Pearce, who had been tense, began to relax. He heard the faint scrape of Benton’s boat as it touched and in the increasing light he could see the sailors swarming aboard, and soon he too was leading his men over the taffrail, seemingly without anyone aware of their presence.

The sun hit the horizon, a gold-sliver that turned into a fiery orb, spreading a golden glow as he and Harbin walked across to join Benton. The captain turned to him, his eyes glowing in the increasing light.

‘The ship is deserted. Not even an anchor watch. They must all be sleeping ashore. I have never heard of such luck. Let’s cut the cable and get some men aloft.’

Pearce was never quite sure which came first, the crack of the shot, or the way the side of Benton’s face seemed to explode. He was aware, as the captain was whacked over, of the musket balls around him, whistling through the morning air. He heard voices shouting for the cable to be cut, and he felt the rush of men as they made for the ratlines to run aloft and let go the sails, but he did not move, because, in shock, his feet seemed stuck to the deck. Moments passed, as he saw the boats pulling back to their mother ship in panic, and another volley cracked in his ear, which dragged his gaze away from Benton’s shattered head, the body crumpled on the deck, one good eye staring straight ahead in death.

Turning, he saw the hillsides surrounding the ship dotted with the puffs of smoke from dozens of muskets, and then a cannon boomed, creating a much greater cloud of billowing
black and the yards were swept with grapeshot. Men who had been climbing to let fall the sails were swept from the yards and plunged screaming either onto the deck or into the water alongside. The rest froze, trying to use what they could to shield themselves from another salvo.

It was a trap. They had been waiting for them, allowing them to come aboard before opening fire, and while he and Harbin had been targets, as they stood there, very obvious in their blue coats, most of the execution had taken place aloft as well as with a party trying to cut the forward anchor cable. Pearce came alive, and shouted for everyone to get themselves and any wounded down behind the inshore bulwark, with one fellow close to a hatch diving below. He then crawled along the side of the ship, past the bowsed cannons and the cowering men, to the bows. Two were dead, lying with their axes in their hands, but Pearce could see that they had done good service before being shot; the cable was nearly through and he shouted at the remaining pair.

‘We’ve got to cut that through!’

That got a knowing look at the two dead bodies, one that silently imparted the notion that, it being suicide, if he wanted the cable cut he had better stand up and get on with it. Yet it was the obvious solution; they had deliberately come in on the top of the tide and it was about to turn. If they could cut that cable and the one securing the stern, they might drift out of the bay, slowly certainly, but if they kept their heads down, perhaps they would survive. Aware that whatever happened had to be co-ordinated, he crawled back along the deck to the stern. Harbin sat below the bulwark and Pearce looked into his face, recognising in the boy’s expression a wish to be told what to do from the man who was now in command. That knowledge partly explained the sweat Pearce felt on his brow, the other being more prosaic; the sun was now fully up and it was beginning to get warm.

The muskets were trying to pick off the remaining sailors in the rigging, while their only thought was to get down to the safety of the deck. Every time they moved the muskets banged and another volley swept over their heads. It seemed to him when one weapon fired they all did, that there was no one in control, and that gave Pearce his idea, though he knew that it took no cognisance of that damned
grapeshot-firing
cannon, which made him hesitate, but since there was no alternative he could think of, it had to be risked.