‘Starving, sir?’ Sidey demanded, forking a large gobbet of greasy mutton into his mouth. ‘They all claim they are starving, Mr Pearce, but how is we to know when and where it is the truth?’
‘Generally a look at the ribs provides a good indication,’ Pearce replied, pointing to those on the beef, visible where it had been carved. ‘If it has the appearance of those on your table, then it is proof enough.’
Having been in prison, John Pearce had seen the kind of undeserving folk that ended up there, just as he had seen the kind of dregs the human race could well do without, the sort that would steal your eyes given half a chance, then come back for the holes. He and his father had been obliged to take turns at sleeping in their original cell, a space so crowded with humanity there was scarce room to lie down, the straw on the floor full of vermin as well as the filth that overflowed from the communal bucket. Thankfully their stay had been brief: Adam Pearce’s friends, fellow radicals, had got together the funds to procure them a private cell and food to eat, before raising a bond for their release.
He had been brought up by a singular man, a peripatetic widower maybe, but a caring parent and, as he had told Emily Barclay, they were rarely still as Adam Pearce journeyed all over the country preaching his solutions to the evils of the existing system of governance, one in which the rich had too much and the poor too little. John Pearce had been taught to wonder how men and woman of means could walk or ride by people dying in the gutters, without asking themselves if their Christianity obliged them to do something about it.
That had been one of his father’s favourite stump topics, the hypocrisy of religion: Adam Pearce earned his soubriquet of the Edinburgh Ranter on those occasions, as he castigated his audience, churchgoers all, for their indifference to the suffering of others, this while his son, carrying round the hat to collect the funds needed for food and board, kept a weather eye on those who would rob him if they could, too often the offspring of the very people Adam Pearce was demanding his listeners support.
Life had improved in ’89 when the French Revolution sent radical British hearts soaring, more, it turned out, once the dust had settled and the Revolution revealed its true colours, from the fall of the Bourbons than any love of liberty. That bright dawn, as the poet Wordsworth had called it, brought prosperity to Adam Pearce and a degree of fame of the kind he had not previously enjoyed. His opinions had been sought by men of stature, his written pamphlets eagerly purchased and read by folk who thought they would welcome change making life comfortable if not outright wealthy; then a frightened government had reacted a second time to his blasts against privilege, obliging both Adam and his son to flee to France.
‘I see you have a soft heart, Lieutenant,’ said Ault, his cheeks turning bright scarlet as he broke the train of Pearce’s thoughts.
‘Let me say that I would prefer that the needy be taken to somewhere they might prosper than hung up on a gibbet.’
‘From what Captain Phillips has written to me they will not prosper in New South Wales, sir. By all accounts the place is not fertile.’
‘There are parts of it which are, Captain Sidey, for I too, or rather my father, had news of the colony, but they are all in the hands of those who supervise the convicts, not of the convicts themselves.’
‘Do tell them who your father is, Pearce,’ growled Barclay, with a face that matched his tone.
Hitherto silent, Ralph Barclay was suffering from a combination of laudanum and good Italian wine, as well as his proximity to his wife; thus, in his manner and his form of address, he breeched the convention in a naval setting that officers were polite to each other at all times, regardless of personal feelings, for the very simple reason that on voyages that could last for six months or more, not to do so would lead to mayhem and very likely murder.
Pearce’s tone was equally cold. ‘You make it sound, sir, as if I should be ashamed of the connection.’
‘I would if it were me.’
‘But you are not me, Captain Barclay—’
‘Of course not,’ Emily Barclay cut in, a rather forced smile on her face. ‘I am sure you are as proud of your parentage as is my husband.’
‘A toast,’ called Sidey, lifting his goblet high. ‘To our dear mothers and fathers.’
That was not an injunction anyone could gainsay and it was a shrewd ploy by a man who plainly knew when an argument might brew up to ruin any chance of conviviality. Collectively everyone murmured the words and drank deep. It was young Ault, too stupid or inexperienced to see what his superior had stopped, who asked the question.
‘So, Mr Pearce, is your father someone famous?’
‘Infamous, more like,’ snapped Barclay.
‘Does your wound pain you much?’ said Sidey quickly, seeking an abrupt change of subject, while glaring at his premier. ‘I have often wondered at how one would feel after an amputation.’
‘I have observed, Captain Sidey,’ said Emily, speaking before her husband could respond, ‘that not only does it give great pain but the memory clouds the loss. You will observe, if your manners allow you the curiosity, that my husband constantly reaches for his knife as well as his fork only to be cruelly reminded that he cannot simultaneously lift both.’
‘I am sure, Mrs Barclay, that with you to care for him, your husband has much to comfort him and a striking compensation for his loss.’
Well intentioned, it was precisely the wrong thing to say, which Captain Sidey realised as he saw the thunderous look which crossed Ralph Barclay’s face. Yet his fears that an outburst of foul temper was imminent were groundless: there was no way this particular guest was going to air his marital difficulties in public. Indeed, had Sidey been present more often at Toulon, and mixed with his fellow captains, he would have known to say nothing: the fact that Emily Barclay had moved from her husband’s cabin to the hospital had been a subject of gossip, just as those who had seen them together in public, for instance at a ball they both attended when it looked as if the allies could hold the port, had observed that it was a less than amicable relationship.
The problem for Sidey and his dinner was that Ralph Barclay had to take his rising anger out on someone, and that had to be John Pearce, the last person to respect his rank or his opinions, and to do so he chose to assuage Mr Ault’s curiosity.
‘His father, young man, is a certain Adam Pearce, who some would name as traitor to his king and country.’
It was instructive to look at the faces around the table: to see who knew the name and who, like Driffield, were ignorant; not that such an obvious lack of knowledge prevented him from then looking aggrieved. If a post captain implied something was deplorable, a lowly marine lieutenant would see it as advantageous to take his part.
‘Was, Captain Barclay,’ Pearce said, in a calm voice. ‘My father is dead, and as for his loyalty, it was to his fellow humans, and in that he never wavered.’
The whole table fell silent, no one looking in Pearce’s direction except Ralph Barclay; it was hard to know who was blushing most, the young premier, or his wife, now looking at her hands, but eventually it was Lutyens who spoke.
‘My father is the pastor of the Lutheran Church in London.’
‘And very well connected, I believe,’ exclaimed Emily, quickly.
‘Oh yes, Queen Caroline often comes there to worship and brings both the king and the princes to do likewise. She does like her masses said and sung in German.’
‘You have been to court yourself, Mr Lutyens?’ asked the jaw-damaged army officer.
‘I have.’
‘Then, sir, you must describe it to us, for it is not a privilege given to many.’
That intervention had everyone sitting forward and saved the dinner, as the conversation moved around Lutyens’s descriptions of Windsor and Buckingham House, as he fielded questions about protocol, the questionable behaviour of the various princes, King George’s health after his bout of madness many years previously; would the Prince of Wales gain the Regency he
so badly desired, bringing his Whig friends into power and deposing William Pitt? The only two people who did not take part were John Pearce and Ralph Barclay.
Below decks things had started out jolly enough: Captain Sidey had issued an extra tot of rum to each man and the fresh mutton was a welcome change to the unrelieved diet of salted pork and beef, leavened with slush and peas. But it soon emerged there were tensions, not amongst the crew but between the Pelicans and Sam Devenow, this emerging as the bruiser, with his scarred face and beetle brow, began to show signs of being drunk. From laughter and good cheer, the atmosphere slowly turned guarded.
As usual he had been hoarding his grog and, unbeknown to the rest of the crew, for those affected did not want to admit it, he had been up to his old tricks in the article of persuasion, which amounted to a close-up sight of his great fist and a request that the victim should forgo his ration and hand it over, something he had once tried on John Pearce. As the rum began to take hold, Devenow’s eye fixed on Michael O’Hagan, a man he had fought and lost to in a bare-knuckle bout; typically, he had since then seen some hidden advantage the Irishman had enjoyed, in short his defeat had been a fluke.
‘You can never trust a Paddy, shipmates, for he allas do something underhand.’
Though not quite shouted, Devenow made his claim in a carrying voice, taking no notice of the fact that there were several Irishmen in the Hinslip’s crew. The men who sat at his mess table adopted various ploys to avoid complicity in the statement, either looking hard at the table or, if they were really fearful, fixing the speaker with a blank and non-committal look they hoped would pass for agreement.
‘It’s in their blood, see, and if they are papists it is worse, for they are stupid too.’
‘Sure, it’s a pity,’ Michael said, ‘that jaw of his ever got mending.’
The mess tables, at which they sat, on the gloomy main deck, were not so far apart, the result being that, even over a quiet babble of conversation, the remark was overheard.
‘They say they has luck, mind,’ Devenow responded. ‘But I reckon they cheat.’
Michael was about to respond, hands on the table ready to raise himself, when another voice spoke, one of the ship’s crew, an older fellow and no Paddy. ‘We have a way with trouble aboard this barky, don’t we mates, an’ I ain’t never met the man that will keep his feet on the deck one dark night when half the crew are intent on chucking him into the briny.’
That was a warning even Devenow was not daft enough to ignore: he was being told to hold his tongue or face being chucked overboard, the fate of many a bully that had gone too far aboard ship.
‘An’ I would say, when it comes to grog, a man should be satisfied with his ration.’
The deck was crowded, but there was no doubt who was isolated.
‘Well said, that man,’ called Michael.
That was not the only dispute that took place on HMS Hinslip that day. Once the dinner was complete and the cabins put back in place, Ralph Barclay had a chance to berate his wife.
‘You took his part, madam, against me, your own husband. How am I to hold my head up in such a circumstance?’
The voice was slurred due to that combination of liquid opium and wine, and his jaw seemed uncommonly slack as he fixed his wife with a look best described as hangdog.
‘I did not, husband, I merely tried to prevent you from making a fool of yourself.’
‘A fool, damn you?’
‘Moderate your language, sir,’ Emily hissed, ‘as well as the sound of your voice. There is but a thin wooden bulkhead between us and Captain Sidey’s cabin.’
‘Moderate, you say. Am I to be that when you do nothing but traduce me?’
‘You are allowing your imagination to run as fast as your tongue.’
It was with bleary eyes that Ralph Barclay gazed at his young wife, once so obedient, once so in awe of him that she would scarce raise her voice, wondering where it had all gone wrong.
‘You need rest, Captain Barclay,’ Emily insisted. ‘You have overtired yourself.’
‘Damn it, if I only had two arms I’d make that swine pay for the way he insulted me.’
‘Of course you would,’ Emily replied, easing off, with great gentility, his heavy uniform coat, before helping him get into his cot so that he did not trouble his wound. This was no time to remind him that John Pearce had challenged him once already to a duel, and he had used the excuse of his superior rank and a forbidding royal ordinance to avoid it.
‘You must stand by my side, Mrs Barclay,’ he said softly but vehemently, ‘It is nothing but your duty. Love, honour and obey, madam, that is the vow you took.’
‘Rest now.’
Ralph Barclay closed his eyes; he was indeed weary and with his wife watching he quickly fell into a slumber, his face relaxing as he did so, making him look less the stern naval captain and more like a benign uncle. Gazing at him, Emily wondered at what would become of them, for she knew that the way she had behaved in Toulon was challenging in the extreme to the social order of which she was a part. The wound might take him home, her also, and she knew that to do the same in England would damn her in the eyes of everyone in polite society, and that probably would include her own parents. Her now sleeping husband was right about those marriage vows she had taken: they were held to be sacrosanct and to be obeyed.
‘Mr Pearce, I am sorry to call you onto the deck to have this conversation, but I wish it to be a discreet one.’
It was already dark, so Captain Sidey’s square and ruddy face, in the light from the binnacle, had an ethereal quality. John Pearce had a very good idea what was coming and he was not sure how to react.
‘As you know, Captain Barclay holds post rank,’ Sidey said. ‘He is, in short, my superior officer.’
‘And mine,’ Pearce responded, just to add to his thinking time.
‘Of course, as my superior, I am in no position to check him.’
‘I would not say that, Captain Sidey. If a man displays a lack of manners at the dinner table I think any other guest is well within their rights to haul him up with a round turn. Rank bestows many privileges, the freedom to insult is not one of them.’
Even in the faint glowing light, Pearce could see the look of disbelief on the captain’s face: he was employed in a service where rank gave his superiors the right to be as rude as they liked, one they frequently exercised.
‘Perhaps it would help, sir, if I afforded you a little history.’
The affirmative reply lacked conviction: Sidey did not want to be drawn into what smacked of complicity, yet having broached the matter he could hardly refuse this man an explanation. He listened, chin on chest, as Pearce told him the background to his dispute with Ralph Barclay, but not about the case he intended to bring against him: he did not trust him not to speak of it.
‘So you see, Captain Sidey, my position, the method of my recruitment, plus my lack of a desire to advance myself in this profession, gives me the grounds to speak as I find, one I have exercised on men of higher station than our wounded post captain.’
‘Surely you must make allowance for his wound?’
‘You, sir, do not know him and so ascribe his manners to his affliction. I can assure you I do know him and the loss of his arm and the consequent pain have nothing to do with his behaviour. That is how he is.’
‘Then think of my position, sir,’ Sidey insisted, moving his head further into the light to make his point. His voice had in it a hint of desperation; elderly he might be, but there was still a flicker of ambition in the man, the hope common to all naval officers that by some stroke of good fortune or chance meeting with someone of influence, he might make that great leap from his present rank to the post captain’s list.
‘The best way to avoid compromising that, sir, is never to have us both at the same board again.’ Sidey was relieved, he could see that: Pearce was giving him a way out, but there was a sting in the tail. ‘Mind you, sir, I would be most put out if I discover
ed that I was the only one whose attention this problem was drawn to. I fully expect you to ask Captain Barclay to mind his conduct. After all, we are bound to meet in places other than your cabin: on this deck, for instance.’
‘I had intended to speak with him, of course,’ Sidey said.
‘Good,’ Pearce snapped, for he did not believe him. ‘I daresay when we are both taking the air on deck, the fact that you have done so will be plain for all to see.’
‘We will be in Leghorn soon,’ Sidey said, with an air that told Pearce he would be glad to see the back of both of them.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Tuscan port of Livorno had been a base for English sailors for half a century. Why it had been translated into being called Leghorn by those same mariners was lost in the mists of time; John Pearce asked but received no answer that satisfied his curiosity. Built on marshy ground the ancient port was a mass of canals, to rival Venice, running around the fortified walls of the city, the harbour itself dominated by an old red-stone fortress falling into disrepair, with the main defensive bastion long since moved inland, making it less vulnerable to cannon fire from seaborne attackers.
Lord Hood had chosen it as the place to land his refugees simply because it was an Austrian fief: the Grand Duke of Tuscany was the brother of the present Holy Roman Emperor. It was one of the three main trading ports of Italy along with Genoa and Naples, and had, for decades, in times of war, been used as a base for British privateers, ships and crews granted letters of marque from the Crown to prey on the trading vessels of the enemy.
Naturally, at this time there was a strong, if less than upright colony of fellow countrymen waiting to greet the British elements of the arriving armada, not with much joy since, when it came to taking prizes, the two elements of British sea power, being in direct competition, loathed each other. The privateers’ captains also knew the risks they ran by having so many king’s ships and men close by, even if their crews had protections that saved them from being pressed: those that did not see it as prudent to get quickly to sea would stay out of harm’s way in their own part of the port.
An Ill Wind Page 7
