An Awkward Commission (6 page)

The faces of his friends came into his mind, as well as the promise he had made them. Pitt had met his obligation, surely he, John Pearce, could do no less and if he was required to pretend to be that which he was not, so be it. He must prepare for every eventuality, but how was he to fund such a thing? The face that replaced those of Michael, Charlie and Rufus was that of the clerk who had handed him Pitt’s letter. The man now thought him superbly well connected, and probably copper-bottomed as far as capital was concerned, with a huge tranche of prize money coming his way. He knew he must play to that, so moving to the door, he rang the levered bell that would summon Didcot, and when the man came, taking care to tip him with a shilling, Pearce had him send out to a series of naval outfitters, requesting that they attend upon him at the hotel, where he would kit himself out for his journey.

Within twenty-four hours he had ordered his two dozen linen shirts, a working hat and coat to go with the dress one
he already owned, and he had chosen a brass edged sea-chest to contain it all with the initials Lt. J. P. to be burnt into it by the local blacksmith, then gilded by a limner. There were three pairs of shoes, one dress with silver-plated buckles, boots for going ashore and an everyday pair of pumps that would not damage the deck planking, breeches and a raft of silk stockings, small clothes, handkerchiefs, a boatcloak, a comforter for his neck, oilskins and a foul weather hat, a medicine box, and a vanity one with combs, a mirror and, last but not least, a proper dress sword, all fitted under the personal supervision of one of the senior outfitting partners, who had no doubt taken care to check with the hotel that this customer could be relied upon to meet his obligations.

‘Your goods to be delivered here, sir?’

‘No, no. Send them and the chest straight down to Portsmouth, with instructions that they are to be taken to the Pig & Whistle Tavern owned by a Mrs Peg Bamber, near Portsmouth Point.’

The quizzical expression on the man’s face spoke volumes, and Pearce had to steel himself to sound languid as he sought to justify such a destination, which was, quite decidedly, not one of the port’s best. The Point at Portsmouth, crowded with drinking dens and hard by the beach on which were drawn up the local boats, was notorious throughout the land for drunken behaviour and licentiousness, but he did not know the name of another establishment and he could hardly ask.

‘I am hoist upon a promise I made some time ago, sir, to a warm-hearted naval widow, never to reside anywhere else should I be in Portsmouth. If you knew the lady, you would also know why it would be an unwise undertaking to break.’

‘I daresay the drovers will know where it is. And the account, sir?’

Pearce could not look the fellow in the eye as he replied.
‘Just send that here. I shall not be leaving London for several weeks.’

Having seen the chest taken away, he made a point of visiting the blacksmith who had burnt-in his lettering, even going to the trouble of delivering it back to the outfitters, and paid him in cash for his work and that of the limner who had gilded it, for he could not, in all conscience, fail to meet his obligations to the two working men. Back at Nerot’s he sat down and wrote two notes, one to Didcot, who could probably read, the other to be handed into the front desk, which simply told them he was vacating the room and that the bill, along with any others due, as well as Lady Annabel’s old, battered chest, should be sent to him
via
the Admiralty. These he left propped on the bureau.

The last thing he did was retrieve from that old chest a small tin, which thanks to a tight seal had not suffered from water penetration when he had been forced to swim from the fight with the
Valmy
. Pearce opened it, smelling once more the earth it contained, taken from a Paris churchyard in which he had watched his father interred. One day he would go back to that place, and see if the request he had made that a headstone be provided had been met. Perhaps, in a time of peace he could have his father’s remains disinterred and taken back to Edinburgh for burial in his native city, and maybe even he would tell the truth about his death; that, a sick man who suspected he was dying, he had put himself in place of another marked for execution.

Until then, this earth would remind him of that which had caused his father’s death, whatever name he chose to expire under. The curse of a French Revolution that had gone from high hopes to chaos would remind him of his aim to see those who had taken it in that direction brought down. There was nothing else he wanted from that chest. The outer garments were those in which he had come ashore
after the battle, cleaned of course, but still shabby.
Second-hand
and ill-fitting when purchased, they also bore the faded marks of that engagement, including the blood of friends and foes, and immersion in the sea water.

Ordering a sedan chair to take him to Whitehall and leaving behind him most of the things with which he had arrived, he departed the hotel, sword at his waist, heading for the Admiralty and the swearing of a series of oaths of which, like his father before him, he was deeply sceptical. With no time to waste, he tipped the doormen two shillings, which he soon learnt from the growling acceptance was not much more than the bare minimum they expected, just enough to get him into the building. That was followed by a long wait in a warm and crowded anteroom till the necessary official could be found to administer the pledges of loyalty to crown and religion. That completed and the requisite fees paid, he was given his orders, which were to proceed with all despatch to join the packet preparing to sail from Portsmouth.

His next port of call was again at Downing Street. Directed to the office of the Pitt’s secretary, he was given a thick oilskin pouch with instructions, gravely imparted, that it was to be delivered into the hands of Lord Hood, and him alone. He was then, to his surprise, directed into a government carriage for the journey.

‘Well, O’Hagan, I had you beat there for a moment, indeed I had written off my wagered guineas, but the way you rallied in the last three minutes was magnificent.’

‘Mr Taberly.’

Michael replied to the officer, though not with any clarity, for his lips were swollen and his jaw aching from the numerous punches it had been forced to absorb, and even nodding his head occasioned a degree of pain. He winced as Charlie Taverner pressed an alcohol-soaked piece of tow onto his cheek, a cloth which came away carrying traces of red. Rufus Dommet stood by with a bucket of sea water, said by many to be efficacious in the treatment of flesh wounds, though the squeamish youngster showed a marked reluctance to wash the streaks of blood off his friend back, arms and chest.

The opponent in the fight, a barrel of a fellow called Clipe, had been a very tough customer indeed, a really long-serving naval hard-bargain, immune to the kind of fighting wiles that were Michael’s trademark way of winning a scrap. Clipe was the kind of man who ignored such subterfuge, who stood up rock solid to the heaviest blow, so it had therefore come down to a contest of sheer determination not to give in, a toe-to-toe slugging match. Taberly, the lieutenant in charge of his division, had been the only officer aboard HMS
Leander
to back him – all the
others, commissioned and warrant on the 74-gun ship, had gone for the other man, who had a reputation which made him well worth a wager, thus the odds the lieutenant had managed to extract were showing him a handsome return. With crew it was mostly not money, but grog and tobacco that were used to bet; few of the original crew had any coin after weeks spent at anchor in Spithead, and the Griffins had been fetched aboard without being paid.

‘I will see you are rewarded once I have collected my winnings, O’Hagan. There’s a couple of gold coins coming your way, and I have the power to excuse you from duties for a few days to recover. See the surgeon, if he’s sober and you feel the need, and if the sot seeks to charge you for palliatives and the like, I will pay.’

Taberly probably thought that Michael dropped his head in gratitude, but in fact he had done it so that the officer would not see the anger in his eyes, the desire to do to him what he had done to Clipe, whose partisans were around him trying to revive the poor sod. Charlie, who knew only too well what the Irishman was thinking, for he talked enough about it beforehand, dabbed harder with his piece of spirit-soaked tow than he should, which got him a curse in the Erse tongue. But he had done it for the best, for they had seen the grating rigged from the first day of coming aboard this ship, and Charlie knew that half the floggings witnessed had come from acts of common seamen talking without due respect to their officers.

The fight need never have happened; sure he and Clipe had eyed each other on first acquaintance, as those of a certain ability with their fists always do, but the man was no more of a fool than his Irish counterpart. Michael was big and broad of shoulder and had the air of confidence that went with skill. Clipe could see an opponent that would hurt him, even if he was the victor in a contest, and with
the wisdom of someone with nothing to prove he had been warily friendly. But those denizens of the wardroom, led by the Premier, who seemed to take pleasure in seeing a man flogged, had grown disputatious regarding the abilities of certain crew members. One of the marine lieutenants knew Clipe from a previous commission, and the man had reputation enough to suggest that none could stand against him. It had been Taberly who had demurred, and suggested that there might be another aboard in his very own division who could more than hold his own.

After only fourteen days at sea, and not so much as a sniff of a sail, friend or foe, many of the occupants of the wardroom professed themselves bored, fed up with cards, word games and the tunes played on the marine officer’s flute. A boxing bout, in the absence of dogs, bears or spurred cocks to set against each other, was just what the doctor ordered. Notwithstanding the fact that they were breaking half the rules laid down in the Articles of War, for both fighting and gaming were forbidden, they wanted a chance to engage in a spot of the latter too, as Taberly had explained to his chosen champion, experience a bit of stimulation.

Reluctance on behalf of the principal meant little; the Premier ran the ship, for Captain Tucker was an indolent, if compliant, commander who might stir for an enemy warship or an admiral’s flag but not for much less. He kept to his cabin, his books, and his collection of rare butterflies and appeared on deck for no more than a quarter of an hour, twice a day. So when the First Lieutenant let it be known that a fight was required, the whole ship was pressed into the goading of the pair, for the crew, landsmen to top rating, were as fond of a bout and a bet as their superiors. So the following Sunday was chosen, and luckily the sea state was, for the waters off Cape Ortegal at the northern tip of Spain, relatively benign. With the boats over the side and towed astern, and replacement
spars shifted, a space in the waist was chalked off for the contest, and it being a make and mend day, when after Divine Service and dinner the crew had few duties, most of them were free to line the gangways as spectators.

It was, in every respect, just like a boxing match ashore, except that no cheering could be permitted lest it bring the Captain out of his quarters for a look. Not that he could be in entire ignorance of the event, but it would not do to force from him a decision he would be obliged to make. It was the old blind eye; what he did not see, did not happen. The Chaplain had a watch to time the contest, and so a very good place from which to observe, while the ship’s boys earned themselves a few pennies or favours by relaying the state of matters to those who could not be spared their duties, the Officer of the Watch and his two midshipmen assistants, the Quartermaster and his mates, conning the ship, the marine sentries on duty at the various fixed posts and the lookouts aloft who had to remain in place in case a Frenchman, coming in or out of the Gironde Estuary, crested the horizon.

‘Well now,’ Taberly concluded, rubbing his prominent chin. ‘There will be no one aboard
Leander
willing to stand against you after that display, but I daresay when we join the fleet in a few days there will be others who fancy a bout. They, like the crew here, would not know of your skill, and it will be in our interest not to let on. Hell’s teeth, it is only by chance that I myself did. An inter-ship contest could be formal and sanctioned, could even be fought ashore. Who knows, perhaps the admirals may take to such a spectacle, which will mean rich pickings for us if we triumph, for it would not surprise others that we back our own man.’

‘Us,’ hissed Rufus, as Taberly turned and moved away. ‘What does the sod mean by us?’

‘Pearce should see this,’ said Charlie, as the lieutenant
appeared to crow as he began to collect his winnings from those of his wardroom companions, the glum-looking lot who had backed Clipe. ‘If he had got us off, like he said he would…’

‘Enough,’ snapped Michael, ignoring the pain in his jaw. ‘You have a way of blaming John-boy for all our ills, Charlie, without ever being sure that he is at fault. Sure, he could not have known what was going to happen any more than we did ourselves. We were given one hour to shift and no more.’

Charlie Taverner stood to his full height, the tricorn hat he had hung onto since being pressed set back at a tilt showing his fair hair. His normal good looks were spoiled by the petulant cast of his features. ‘He’s deserted us before, and surely he should have got back to save us from this.’

‘But he did come back the first time,’ said Rufus Dommet, his face bearing his usual look of innocence.

‘If you look across the deck, Charlie,’ hissed Michael, ‘I think you will see where the blame for this lies.’

Turning, Charlie followed Michael’s angry glare. Cornelius Gherson, a man pressed on the same night as them, though not from the
Pelican
, had been a pest ever since they had first made his acquaintance. He was standing on his own, the crowd having cleared, a hand held out in which he tossed several gleaming coins, evidence that some aboard had not beggared themselves with whores and illicit drink. The look on his absurdly handsome, babyish face was enough to inform the trio from where Taberly had got his information about Michael’s prowess, for Gherson had seen him fight. It would have been he that saw the chance to make money, which seemed to be his abiding concern in life; he, the practised sneak, who would have hinted to Taberly that O’Hagan and Clipe would be a good match. Only a notion perhaps, for the sod would never admit to it, but just then the lieutenant moved toward Gherson and patted him
on the back with a clear air of gratitude. The look and the sneer aimed at Michael then was like saying that the thought of his culpability was as true as Holy Writ.

‘We should have let that bastard drown,’ growled Charlie.

Michael slowly raised himself off the stool, easing each pain as he did so. ‘Jesus, I don’t recall havin’ a hand in the saving of him then, but I reckon we all regret the saving of him later. As the Blessed Virgin is my guide, the devil is in him.’

‘Perhaps we should teach him a lesson, Michael, have him learn that those fists of yours are not there for his profit?’

O’Hagan slowly shook his head. ‘He’s kissed Taberly’s arse, Charlie, and lined his purse. If we touch him we would have to silence the bugger, else we’d be the ones to suffer, for he would not still his tongue.’

A sailor approached Gherson as Taberly moved away and asked him something, which elicited a nod and a hand out demand for payment. A wad of tobacco was proffered, Gherson’s fee for letter writing, something of which he had let the crew know he was adept. On a make and mend day, those with family or a true wife would pass up part of their ration to get a letter penned to go on the next British vessel heading for home.

The notion that HMS
Leander
would join the fleet, as well as Taberly’s hopes of a profitable contest, was dashed as soon as they opened up the Lisbon roadstead, for it was bereft of anything other than Portuguese warships, and Captain Tucker was bluntly informed by the naval resident that having replenished both wood and water, HMS
Leander
was to proceed with all despatch to join Lord Hood, who, in company with the Spanish Admiral Langara and his Cadiz squadron, was taking his fleet into the Mediterranean.

Lieutenant Henry Digby, aboard the 12-gun sloop, HMS
Weazel
, could not help but admire what he saw over the stern, even if it had been the same for several days. Under a warm sun and a cloudless sky, the two fleets of Britain and Spain ploughed their way across the deep blue Mediterranean. Leading the main column of 74’s was HMS
Victory
, flagship of the commanding admiral, Lord Hood, courses, topsails and jibs stretched taut, with each ship taking station upon her at a strictly defined distance of a cables’ length. Over to the south lay the second column, just as rigidly fixed on the flagship of the second-in-command, Admiral Hotham, and God help any vessel which strayed, for its number would be up the masthead of
Victory
in a flash, the instructions from the Captain of the Fleet to keep station, reinforced with a gun.

That the Dons were less rigid in their dispositions, less inclined to properly hold their station on their flagship, was only to be expected; they lacked the sea-going ability and discipline of their British allies. Digby knew if he climbed to the tops with a telescope, there to join the lookouts, he would see all around the fleet a screen of frigates and sloops like his own, set at distance enough to warn should an enemy warship be sighted on the horizon. The other task they performed was just as vital, to bespeak every passing fishing boat or neutral trading vessel, to glean information on what was happening to the north, on the great landmass that was France.

Thus they had learnt throughout the fleet that Provence and the Rhône Valley were in turmoil, from the boats that plied daily between fleet and flagship that the port city of Marseilles had declared against the Jacobins and sent packing, not without bloodshed, those who supported the revolutionary government in Paris. Like many others, Digby had speculated that Lord Hood might make for that place to
support the rebels, only to realise when the course remained steady that their C-in-C had his eye firmly fixed on finding and beating the enemy fleet. That achieved, all things would be possible.

Somewhere ahead, off Toulon, would be HMS
Brilliant
, the vessel on which he had originally set sail from England. The thought of the frigate and her complement brought to him a slew of different emotions; the fact that service under Ralph Barclay ha a cloudless sky, the two fleets of Britain and Spain ploughed their way across the deep blue Mediterranean. Leading the main column of 74’s was HMS
Victory
, flagship of the commanding admiral, Lord Hood, courses, topsails and jibs stretched taut, with each ship taking station upon her at a strictly defined distance of a cables’ length. Over to the south lay the second column, just as rigidly fixed on the admiral who was now heading towards a rendezvous off Toulon. It was a double irony that he had been shifted a second time, to the sloop HMS
Weazel
, though recalling the lack of warmth in wardroom of HMS
Britannia
towards him as a new officer, the very obvious fact that he had been treated as some kind of interloper, it was hardly surprising.

Never having been in a flagship wardroom before Digby had nothing with which to make a comparison, but it had been made plain to him on his arrival that he had cut across the hawse of the Premier, who had been manoeuvring to have a relative of his own appointed to the first vacant place, that of a lieutenant called Glaister who had been shifted to
Brilliant
. The rest of those present; naval and marine officers, the purser and the master, had taken their cue from the man who led their mess, and, while staying within the narrowest band of politeness, had done nothing to make him feel a true part of things; no invitations to play cards or backgammon, little in the way of enquiry about his career to date or the possibility of mutual acquaintances. It had actually come as a relief when he was told he was being moved to this sloop,
presumably because the Premier, a powerful figure aboard any vessel, had preyed upon his captain, who in turn had persuaded Admiral Hotham that Henry Digby, even if he proved disgruntled, was an officer who had little in the way of influence, and one who could safely be ignored.