An Ill Wind (10 page)

‘Perhaps my original advice was mistaken. The best thing you can do is get him so drunk he must depart this place. Either that, or get Lord Hood to order him back to his ship.’

It was an irony too far that in the letters home to England from Italy in January of 1794, the incident that most amused or scandalised the correspondents was not the antics of Captain Horatio Nelson and an Italian opera singer, but the tale of a certain Lieutenant John Pearce being caught in flagrante with a Tuscan
contessa
in her bedchamber, not by her husband but by her present, irate lover. This fellow, a minor nobleman of tender years, besotted with the lady, took the precaution of turning up with a trio of his retainers, brutes bearing clubs, forcing an unarmed Pearce to leap from a first-floor window with his breeches in one hand, leaving behind his blue uniform coat and hat.

Needless to say, his arrival back at the hospital
sans
clothing required some explanation, a tale he told of robbery, which was quite blown when the truth was the talk of Livorno the following day, given the
contessa
’s young lover, distantly related it seemed to the grand duke, wanted it known that he intended, once the culprit had been identified, to challenge him to a duel.

‘You will do nothing of the sort,’ said Lord Hood, when Pearce intimated his desire to accept. ‘The last things we need are strained relations with the locals, which we will most certainly have if you skewer some callow love-struck youth who has imperial blood in his veins.’

‘He might do that to me, milord.’

‘Don’t get me excited by the prospect,’ the older man hooted. ‘The letter, Parker.’

‘HMS
Grampus
is bound for home and you are to sail on her,’ Parker said, handing him an oilskin pouch. ‘I suggest it would be best if you repair aboard her at once.’

‘And stay there until she weighs,’ Hood added.

HMS
Grampus
, a two-decker of fifty guns, looked perfectly fine from a distance, but in coming close, John Pearce could see the thickness of the paintwork and the places where it had peeled, which argued that her scantlings were not as sound as they first appeared. In his newly acquired broadcloth coat pocket – the property of an officer who had expired fighting at Toulon – he had the communications handed to him by Admiral Parker, on his head was a replacement hat and his feet rested by his sea chest, while looking at him and trying to conceal their smiles were Michael, Charlie and Rufus Dommet.

He soon discovered that Lord Hood had stripped the vessel of every seaman she could spare, leaving her perilously short of hands should she be required to both work the sails and fight the guns; but his whole fleet was like that, with the men the admiral had originally fetched out from England, as well as suffering from the normal rate of losses, having suffered casualties at Toulon. What remained had to be spread through the captured vessels taken from the French.

The ship did not weigh immediately, leading to a frustrating few days, which saw HMS
Agamemnon
raise her anchor and depart, with Pearce wondering if Madame Carlatti was aboard. Somehow he doubted it: freed from the illusions brought on by too much wine, surely Nelson would see such an idea as what it was, madness. Pearce was not competent to inspect the ship, but even he knew by the smell of rot that she was in
a poor state, and in a conversation with the carpenter he was made well aware of her manifest problems: scantlings that worked enough to let in water in any kind of sea, futtocks so rotten that the man could poke a finger into the wood fibres, masts that were far from proper in their seating, while he was in despair about her hanging knees.

‘She will get us home, I hope?’

The carpenter shrugged, showing that fatalism which was necessary in a wooden ship at sea, the attitude that said any man’s fate was in the lap of the Gods. ‘Got us here, your honour, and she weren’t fit for it when we weighed from the Nore. Barkies like this’un float better than most folk think. Long as we don’t get a true hurricano, I’d say she’ll get us home, even with only half our true complement of hands.’

‘And then?’

‘State she’s in they’ll break her up, I reckon, an’ I shall be on the hunt for a new berth. Wi’ luck I will get a warrant on a seventy-four.’

The sight of Ralph and Mrs Barclay coming aboard, with Devenow and Cornelius Gherson in tow, was not one to cheer John Pearce much, yet there was nothing he could do about it: to protest to Lord Hood would only expose him to ridicule, and besides, when would there be another ship heading home? Heinrich Lutyens came aboard too, having volunteered to replace the surgeon of HMS
Grampus
, who was unwell, causing Michael
O’Hagan to opine, and not entirely without a degree of wicked pleasure, that it was just like old times.

The fact that Barclay glared at him when he espied him did not bother John Pearce, except that the prospect of spending several weeks in close proximity did not appeal; that, and the fact soon made plain that Barclay and Captain Daws of the
Grampus
were old shipmates, boded ill. But Emily Barclay would not catch his eye and that was wounding; clearly she had heard of his nocturnal, carnal exploits and she was no doubt shocked by his behaviour. The crew were not, and neither were his Pelicans. It was obvious everyone had heard the tale: Pearce could not walk the deck without the men nudging each other and grinning.

The morning came when their number was raised at the masthead of HMS
Victory
and the signal gun spoke out to ensure the order was observed. Under a sky as grey as that with which he had arrived in Livorno, HMS
Grampus
weighed anchor with all the usual stamping on the capstan, as it was used to haul in the great anchor cable, the nippers running hard to attach lines as the wet slimy rope was taken to the bitts, to be laid end on end.

Pearce was on deck when the anchor, with
Grampus
running over it, was plucked free to be fished in and catted, watching, with interest, the topmen letting go of the sails as ordered by the ship’s master, seeing them sheeted home by the men on deck. It all went very smoothly, as it should under the eye of several admirals,
a whole host of foreigners looking out from the shore, and on a ship which, having been in service for months, was well worked up.

Ominously there was another sound: that of the pumps already fully operational to keep the bilges clear of water even before they had cleared inshore waters.

The Mediterranean could be trouble at any time of year, surrounded as it was by the various land masses that produced hot, cold and disturbed air leading to violent storms as bad as anything that could be produced by the Atlantic Ocean, and HMS
Grampus
sailed straight into one. Fortunately, in both Captain Daws and the master, Mr Ludon, they had experienced seamen who knew the beast in which they were about to be caught.

The first intimation of the approach for John Pearce was the way the ship was being prepared: hatches battened down, oiled canvas covers being spread over the companionways, the deck coops being struck below along with anything movable, such as the cabin and wardroom furniture, while extra lashings were put upon the ship’s cannon and the boats sitting above the waist. Instructions had also been sent from the deck to secure
the cots of the wounded and transfer to hammocks those who could rest in them.

On deck, although the sky was a brassy hue, there was little to see. The water was certainly choppy, a vicious cross sea which made the ship shudder and groan, but it had been like that since the previous day and when he approached Captain Daws it was to find a man anxiously searching the horizon, the master behind doing likewise. They had spoken little previously, he not seeming the sociable type, but Pearce had taken the precaution of telling him, once Barclay came aboard, that there was bad blood between them and should he be tempted to bring them together it would be best to avoid that.

He did not interrupt a discussion about the amount of sea room the ship had, listening as the two men discussed the various options, depending on the direction of wind, the strength of the tempest, the distance between their present position and Corsica, as well as some outcrop called Gorgona that was, apparently, a speck of an island, the tip of an extinct volcano, that stuck up out of the ocean in the deep part of the Gulf of Genoa.

‘You anticipate a blow, sir?’ he asked as the master disappeared into his hutch and his charts.

‘I do, Mr Pearce, and I would advise you it will be an unpleasant one. Look at the sky and feel the heaviness in the air.’

‘From where will it come?’

‘Too early to tell: the wind, you will have noticed, though slight, keeps shifting.’

It was in conversations like these that John Pearce felt most acutely his lack of knowledge: people like the naval officer had been at sea for more than three decades and had seen all there was to see, as well as benefiting from the shared knowledge of the profession. The navy was its own academy in which education was part experience and part instruction, and that was an institution in which he was an outsider; for all that, Pearce was a naturally curious fellow and not one to ignore the acquisition of free knowledge.

‘Whatever, Mr Pearce, when it comes I suspect it will do so suddenly and be upon us with some speed.’

‘Hence the preparations?’

‘Yes, and before you ask if I might be wrong, that possibility does exist, but it is not wise, as I’m sure you agree, to tempt providence.’

As if ordered, the sky to the north was suddenly suffused with lightning, no forks, just a flash of brighter light that raced across the clouded sky. Pearce noticed Daws counting off the seconds on his fingers, waiting for the rumble of thunder, which came, deep and long, after about twenty of those.

‘Now, Mr Pearce, we at least know from where we are threatened and we await the next sign.’ On deck, all activity had ceased: the captain was not the only one wishing to measure the speed of the approaching tempest and they did not have long to wait. The next
flash of lightning was mush brighter and the thunder came in half the time, which had the master moving forward, speaking trumpet in hand.

‘I would advise, sir, we go down to close reefed topsails immediately.’

‘Make it so, Mr Ludon, and I would suggest that you, like me, send for your oilskins.’

The sky to the north-east, where it met the sea, was turning from brassy grey to black and for the first time the lighting forked into the sea, a bright flash that made Pearce blink. Like most people, weather fascinated him and he had seen many storms in his time, from the shore, from the top of hills, and had them come upon him when far from any shelter. Even he knew this one was exceptional.

‘Can I be of any service, sir?’

‘I would imagine, Mr Pearce, that the pumps will require every available pair of hands. If you do not mind supervising that, I would be grateful, as my officers, I think, will likely be otherwise engaged.’

‘Sir, I shall shed my coat and pump myself.’

That shocked Daws, who was putting on his foul-weather gear. ‘I would hope, sir, you would remember your dignity as an officer.’

There was no point in saying he had none of that. He moved out of the way as the topmen were called aloft to take in the courses and double-reef the topsails. Other men were rigging extra lines, manropes along the bulwarks, hawsers to the masts, fore and backstays to
take the strain that was bound to be put on them, and he was vaguely aware that the ship was turning slowly away from the oncoming storm: when it struck, Daws clearly intended to run before it.

He went below, calling on his friends as well as Devenow, leading them to where the pumps were already manned; they never ceased to work on this vessel as the timbers moved and leaked, but they would have to be employed at a harder rate if they were going to ship water over the deck: no amount of precautions could keep a goodly amount of that from making its way down through the decks to the bilges where, if it became too deep, it would affect the ability of the ship to manoeuvre, given it would sit lower in the water than hitherto.

A carpenter’s mate was already there, measuring the water in the well, which as time passed would tell them if their efforts were holding it steady or, more worryingly, whether the depth of the bilge was rising, while on both sides of the dome pump casing men were working the crank handles in a desultory fashion, something which Pearce wanted changed right away on the very sound principle it was better to be ahead of the game than merely level.

‘You don’t want to go too hard at it,’ said the carpenter’s mate. ‘There be all manner of muck down there and if the pump picks it up and gets jammed it will not do us no good. We’s at three feet in the well now, and that we can live with.’ Here he was again, faced
with superior knowledge and being told something he should have known. ‘Time to start goin’ hard at it, your honour, is when it begins to rise an’ not afore.’

‘You have ridden out heavy seas and storms already, yes?’

‘We have, sir.’

‘How bad has it been before?’

‘Bad,’ the man replied. ‘You’d best get teams of men ready, ’cause if this is like what is bein’ said there will be hands expiring from effort.’

The crack of thunder was loud enough to penetrate the overhead deck planking, and above their heads Captain Daws was watching the bolts of lighting strike the sea all around the ship, none of which was visible to Pearce, given the gun ports were tightly shut and secured. But he did notice the timbers were creaking more noisily and felt the increased motion of the ship as the stern lifted higher than hitherto, causing Heinrich Lutyens, who had been walking towards them, carrying the case with his surgical instruments, to break into a sudden scurry that John Pearce halted with an outstretched hand. Behind him, Emily Barclay, dressed in an apron, was hanging on to an upright.

‘The captain has said we must set up in the cockpit to treat injuries,’ Lutyens said.

‘It will be splints you’ll need, Heinrich, for broken bones,’ Pearce said, moving towards Emily Barclay, where, upon reaching her, he held out his hand. ‘Let me assist you.’

‘No, thank you, I would rather manage on my own.’

It was more the face and the way it was slightly turned away from him, nose in the air, that told John Pearce why she was being aloof: clearly she had heard of his nocturnal escapades – who had not? – and was offended to be offered aid from such a tainted source. If he had known how her husband had exploited that to make her feel uncomfortable, he would have been made angry instead of amused: on more than one occasion she had stood up to him on behalf of John Pearce and now that was being thrown back in her face at every opportunity.

‘You may take it, Mrs Barclay, that I am cleansed of my adventures.’

‘I do not know, sir, how anyone can merely wash away such disgrace.’

‘What you term disgrace, madam, I would name as pleasure.’ In receipt of a loud sniff, Pearce added, ‘You should not allow the fact that such a thing has been denied to you to cloud your opinions.’

The look that got, aimed at him as she staggered on to follow Lutyens, was icy indeed, something Michael O’Hagan, working without too much effort at the crank handle of the pump, could not fail to notice, and since he was close enough to talk softly, in any event the creaking of the ship covering his words, he did so in a friendly voice.

‘There you go now, John-boy, upsetting yet another lady.’

Pearce grinned. ‘What makes you think I upset the
contessa
, Michael?’

‘Sure, you’ll be telling me next you left her smiling.’

‘Laughing, Michael, not smiling.’

‘Jesus, were you that poor? Mind, if the sight of you leaping through a window in your smalls did not make a body laugh, they would be a miserable soul.’

The stern lifted even higher as a larger wave swept under the counter. ‘A bit more effort on the pumps, Michael.’

That got him a huge grin. ‘I could say the same to you, John-boy, an’ if you’d be after some instruction I would be willing to show you—’

That was not finished, because the ship suddenly lifted and listed as it was hit by a screaming wind, sending anyone not with a secure hold tumbling. Pearce only stayed upright because Michael took one hand off the crank to grab him, his arm fully extended before he was brought to a halt. Then the water started to pour down the companionways – not the full amount, that was held back by the covers, but enough to be visible – more squeezing its way, driven by the wind, through the gap where the gun ports sat against the hull.

From then on it was like slowly riding a bucking horse, and one that was capable of moving in surprising directions to catch the unwary off guard. HMS
Grampus
lifted, dropped, swayed, listed for an age before righting itself, and all the while the amount of seawater she
was making increased, and this with the pumps now working flat out, the carpenter’s mate, when he could steady himself enough to take a reading, letting Pearce know the water in the well was rising by the foot.

On deck the captain and the master, peering through spume-blasted eyes, gave shouted instructions to the quartermaster and his mates who were lashed to the wheel, seeking to keep the bowsprit, which kept trying to sweep right or left, pointing dead away from the screaming wind, a task made harder as the rudder was being continually lifted free of the water. There was no sky above their heads, just pounding rain sheeting forward to meet the sea shipping over the bulwarks, as
Grampus
was driven under by the head, and by now they were propelled by nothing but a main storm staysail, with men aloft seeking to gather in the reefed topsails and lash them tight to the yards.

The storm was still raging as night fell – not that they had enjoyed much daylight while the sun was still above the heavy clouds – and darkness was added to the nightmare of an existence confined to less than the hand in front of your face. Below there were now ten men working the pumps, Pearce amongst them, while another party of the same number sought to recover from their exertions before being called back to duty on the crank handles, and still the water rose in the well, which, if it endangered them long-term, acted as a form of extra ballast to steady the ship, making it lower in the water.

If the wind eventually moderated the sea did not, a scudding swell that tossed HMS
Grampus
around like a sodden cork. Men, including one of Daws’ youngest midshipmen, had been washed overboard into a sea from which rescue was impossible: if they could be heard screaming it was not for long and they could not be seen. In the cockpit Heinrich Lutyens and Emily Barclay treated a steady stream of deep cuts and bruises, as well as broken bones caused by falls and men being thrown against hard wood despite their best efforts to hang on to ropes or netting.

Pearce, working flat out, was vaguely aware of the seams opening up in the main deck planking, before closing again, and a peculiar deep groan as the ship sailed atop a wave before plunging back down again, the whole weight of the vessel thrown on to the central section of the hull, leaving both bow and stern in the air as deadweight. Daws was aware of it too, but in no position to do anything about it. Ships had fallen apart at sea before, he was sure; in some cases there had been survivors to tell the tale of a broken-backed hull. If his command were going to do that it would not cease for his silent prayers.

The night was hell: endless darkness, movement, noise and toil, till it felt as though the attempt to stay afloat and whole could founder on sheer exhaustion. John Pearce, struggling to keep up, could only admire Michael O’Hagan and Devenow, the two most stalwart men on those crank handles, keeping going while others
fell into a state of collapse around them, needing to be dragged clear so another, still trying to recover from his last bout, was drawn in as a replacement. Rufus Dommet was lying in a crumpled heap, utterly done, while Charlie tried gamely to take his turn, proving that whatever else he had gained from being pressed, he was a stronger creature now than he had been on the banks of the Thames.

Ralph Barclay lay in his cot, hanging from triangular ropes from the overhead beam, still while the ship swung around him, listening, for that was all he could do, to the sounds around him – the timbers creaking then cracking as the strain became too great – and that included the panic-stricken cries of his clerk, which, over time, had changed to low moaning. There was nothing to be done: if it was time to meet his maker, so be it.