The Admirals' Game

by David Donachie

  Emily read Parker’s note with increasing gloom; it was one thing to pass on verbally what she had witnessed at her husband’s court martial, quite another to put pen to paper and list the lies spoken. He had, of course, reminded her that she could not testify against her husband, so the written words were for information only. Yet that being true, what purpose were they designed to serve? A man as senior as Parker must have a reason, but if he had, there was no mention of what it might be in his wording.

  For a moment, she deeply regretted being too open with him, and had the same feeling about the way she had previously gone to John Pearce and, in the presence of Heinrich Lutyens, told them both what had happened. Meant only for information, matters had spiralled out of control; the thought of a trial for perjury had never entered her head until Pearce proclaimed it as his intention. And that growling voice in the jolly boat, telling Martin Dent to shut up, what did that mean? Keeping secrets on board ship, she had soon discovered, was a near impossibility, so her fractured relationship with her husband would be no mystery. Added to that, every man jack aboard would know the court martial evidence to be a tissue of lies. Not that they would say so, for if tars were endemically curious, they were also very tight-lipped and protective of their ship.

  Taking up her quill, she penned a quick reply to Admiral Parker, declining his invitation to commit anything to paper. Sanded, folded and sealed, she was contemplating the notion of Shenton delivering it when she made an abrupt decision. Her husband’s steward could not be trusted, neither could Gherson! It would set tongues wagging no end, but she went out on to the deck and asked if Martin Dent was free to come to the main cabin. In the five minutes which passed before he arrived she nearly changed her mind and tore up the reply, and when he came in, the look on the boy’s face was not one to reassure her; he was not the cheeky scamp now, indeed he looked, as he whipped off his cap, very worried.

  ‘Martin,’ she said, ‘I am allowed to call you that, I think?’

  He touched his forelock. ‘You are, ma’am.’

  ‘Could I ask you to come a little closer?’

  On the other side of the door Cornelius Gherson was shocked; surely she was not going to debauch the boy? That only lasted a second before he recovered himself, and castigated his own habit of seeing something sensational in what had to be innocuous. It was galling, though, that he could no longer clearly hear what was being said.

  ‘I wish you to carry out an errand for me, Martin,’ Emily murmured into an ear now no more than a foot from her mouth. ‘I want you to take a note to the flagship of Lord Hood and give it into the hand of Admiral Hyde Parker. There are boats going to and from Victory all the time and you will surely have little trouble getting transport in one.’

  ‘That would mean me going off the ship, ma’am, an’ for that I’d need the permission of the captain.’

  If Martin saw how that notion flustered her he did not react. ‘Could not Mr Glaister give you that in my husband’s absence?’

  ‘He could, ma’am, but I would be a’feart to propose it to him.’

  ‘No doubt he would oblige, if I asked.’

  ‘Reckon he would, ma’am,’ the youngster replied, after a significant pause.

  ‘Wait here, Martin,’ Emily said, sweeping past him and going out of the door. As her footsteps receded they were replaced with the head of Cornelius Gherson, skipping back from the hutch into which he had hurriedly retreated, his straw blond hair flopping forward and his girlish face bearing a genial look.

  ‘Why Martin Dent, how do you fare?’

  Martin did not like Gherson, indeed he thought there were few souls born who did, he being what was termed a treacherous sod. He had been pressed into the frigate at the same time as Pearce and his mates, though no man could be said to differ more. Martin had hated Pearce to start with, for his ill-formed nose was a direct result of a punch from that source, yet the man had turned out to be a gem of a fellow, unlike the bugger now grinning at him.

  ‘I’s all right, Corny, and how are you?’

  The face closed up; Gherson hated that nickname, but he fought to look pleasant again. ‘What’s afoot with the captain’s lady?’

  ‘Nowt.’

  ‘Must be something, Martin, you being called to the cabin. First time you’ve been in here, I would guess.’

  ‘Happen,’ Martin replied, using the back of his hand to wipe his nose.

  ‘So, are you going to enlighten an old shipmate?’

  ‘You ain’t no shipmate o’ mine, Corny, wi’ yer fancy togs and airs, an’ in truth I don’t think you ever was.’

  Cornelius Gherson’s face went from pretty to downright spiteful. ‘While you turned out to be Pearce’s little playmate.’

  Martin Dent spat back at him. ‘Watch your tongue, bastard, or you’ll get a clout wi’ a marlinspike one dark night.’

  ‘I’m shaking in my shoes.’

  The head disappeared; obviously, by the crash of the marine sentry’s boots, he had heard the imminent return of Emily Barclay, for she appeared moments later, approaching close again and speaking softly. ‘Martin, Mr Glaister has agreed that you may leave the ship.’

  ‘Ma’am.’

  ‘He may enquire of you what you were asked to do. It would be doing me a service if that was kept to yourself.’

  ‘I dunno as I can do that if the premier demands to know.’

  Emily was thinking hard; she could mention John Pearce, for she had the impression that young Martin would do anything for him, but that would open up a can of worms, so she decided to take the same line as she had with Glaister.

  ‘The matter relates to something the admiral wants to do for my husband.’

  Hang the bugger, thought Martin, for what had happened at the court martial was common gossip.

  ‘He wants it to be a surprise, which is why I asked for you. To request that either Shenton or Gherson carry out this task would put them in an invidious position.’

  ‘Invi what, ma’am?’

  ‘Sorry, false is a better word.’

  Martin had another thought then, that it was a good word to apply to that pair. Emily put up her hand and asked him to be still, while she went into one of the side cabins, a sleeping place Martin saw through the open door, with a swinging cot and a sea chest. With her back to him he did not see her extract a coin from her chest, but it was clutched in her hand when she returned.

  ‘Martin, I want you to take this as reward.’

  Their hands met and he looked down to see gold, half a guinea, and he knew without being told that this was no reward for the errand, but the price of his silence. He also knew questions would be asked about what was afoot, and not only by the likes of Gherson; every one of his shipmates would be at him. Emily was watching him closely and could see in his face the confusion as he held out the coin to her.

  ‘Best I don’t take this, ma’am, though it is kindly meant, I’s sure.’

  ‘Why, Martin?’ she asked softly.

  ‘Not a soul aboard will trouble me for an answer in just doin’ such an errand,’ he lied. ‘But if’n they sniff I was paid a reward, they will be at me for a reason like hounds after a hare.’

  ‘Surely they will only know if you tell them.’

  Martin grinned, and that lifted Emily’s heart for it was more like the cheerful lad she knew, the one who never stopped talking as he worked his oar. ‘You don’t know much about tars, ma’am, they’s got eyes in the back of their heads, and as like as not gold would be spotted before I could get it into my dunnage. And if’n I get set to spend this, an’ there be little point in owning it other, I will get no end of enquiry, leastways till they forget all about this day.’

  ‘Then, Martin, would you permit me to keep it for you, to claim whenever you like?’

  Martin Dent liked Emily Barclay, and was much given to speculate, like everyone else aboard HMS Brilliant, what she was doing wed to a sourpuss old goat like Ralph Barclay. He also guessed she had a soft spot fo
r John Pearce, which she had made plain when he was up to be punished. Anybody who had a good opinion of him was all right as far as Martin Dent was concerned. Christ, the man had saved his life, and even although Martin had done his best to see the bugger off at the very start of this commission, by trying to drop a heavy block on his head, he had found himself easily forgiven.

  ‘It be like a bit o’ saving, then?’

  ‘Just that, Martin.’

  ‘Ain’t never had nowt saved afore, allas spent whatever I had, first chance.’

  Emily put the note in his hand. ‘For the admiral personally.’

  ‘Don’t you fret, ma’am, I’ll see to it, and…’ He put his finger to the side of his broken nose. ‘…not a soul will get out of me anything, I promise.’

  She wanted to kiss his cheek then, but that would be going too far.

  As Martin passed the canvas screen that shielded Gherson’s hutch, he saw through the gap that the clerk was in deep conversation with Shenton, the captain’s steward bent over a piece of paper both men were studying. Barefoot, they would not have heard him on the deck planking, so he stopped to listen. They were speaking so quietly it was hard to make out anything but the odd word, but he did hear clearly, ‘cable, canvas and powder’, along with some reference to a contact at the arsenal.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ‘Ain’t natural,’ insisted Rufus Dommet, as he watched John Pearce energetically stroke his way through the seawater, before he took a deep breath and went under. ‘If’n God had intended man to swim, he would have favoured him wi’ gills.’

  ‘I wish I had a shilling piece for every time you’ve said that, Rufus.’

  Rufus looked at Charlie Taverner with something approaching surprise, for he was sure he had never said anything of the like before, but he did not argue; Charlie had a habit of being right, and an even more annoying one of being convincing even when he was in the wrong. Pearce’s head came up right beside the boat, lashed to the side of HMS Faron, and with one heave he lifted himself clear of the sea and threw a leg over the gunwale, balancing there until Charlie grabbed him and helped him over the rest.

  ‘Obliged, Charlie,’ Pearce gasped, shaking his head and covering his helper in water.

  ‘Well I see I has no need to go a’dipping. All I has to do is wait till you comes back inboard.’

  ‘The tribulations of being a servant, Charlie.’

  ‘I reckon I is supposed to be thankful, an’ all.’

  Taking a towel off Rufus, he grinned at Charlie, who was looking a damn sight more querulous than he truly was. ‘At least, with me as your master, you can curse me at will.’

  Michael O’Hagan’s head came over the ship’s side. ‘Mr Harbin has sent to say dinner is about to be served, and since the captain is invited you might like to shift.’

  ‘Ask him for time to change my breeches. I can hardly sit down to eat soaking wet.’

  ‘Then move, John-boy, for sure I am as sharp set as ever I was, an’ thanks to me partaking of this servantin’ lark, my dinner is awaiting also.’

  Pearce was mock-serious as his head came level with that of the Irishman. ‘One of these days I must experiment with flogging to see if I can gain a little respect.’

  ‘How many lashes would a “bugger off” earn?’

  ‘Round the fleet, Michael, at least.’

  Looking past O’Hagan as he was helped over the bulwark, Pearce saw Henry Digby pacing the tiny quarterdeck, clearly in range of that exchange, but studiously looking at some distant object. On a small deck it was hard to be out of earshot and often necessary to pretend otherwise.

  ‘Digby’s behind you,’ Pearce whispered.

  Michael winked, and responded in an overly solicitous tone. ‘Ease yourself over, your honour, and mind your jewels. We would not want you unmanned by a splinter, now would we?’

  Henry Digby tried, but his shoulders began to shake; he knew well the close relationship Pearce had with these men and the depth of it had been made plain on the journey to the Bay of Biscay and back. When it came to risk and danger – and there had been enough for any man in La Rochelle – Pearce was like a magnet, yet he had these men loyal enough to follow him anywhere.

  Discipline was one thing, and they all had a care to pretend it was as formal as it was supposed to be when he was nearby, but O’Hagan was larding the solicitations, and it was too amusing not to react.

  ‘Forgive me, sir,’ Pearce called to him. ‘I spent too much time in the sea.’

  ‘Accepted, Mr Pearce, but I should be more worried about Mr Harbin’s approbation than mine.’

  ‘Now you be after comin’ along, your honour,’ said Michael, still in that unctuous and lilting Irish voice, while leading a laughing John Pearce aft. ‘An’ me and your other boyos will see you dressed and fit for decent company in a trice.’

  To call the cramped space in which they were eating a wardroom was to gild matters. HMS Faron, so recently captured from the French, was not a large vessel, and if there was any comfort aboard, it was for the captain to enjoy. Having originally brought the prize into Toulon, Pearce had occupied a similar cabin aboard the ship which had captured the one he now served on, and sitting here now he was reminded how much he missed the luxury of space and solitude.

  As living and sleeping quarters the wardroom was shared between Pearce, Midshipman Harbin and the elderly master, Mr Neame, and so small that it required their sea chests to be moved out to accommodate a board large enough for four to be seated. The oil lamps were too close, making the whole space excessively warm on a balmy night, and naval convention did not allow for the removal of their heavy broadcloth coats, leaving John Pearce to contemplate another cooling dip in the sea.

  Harbin found it difficult to relax, his young face throughout the meal creased in worry, for he had been given the task of overseeing the ingredients and preparation, how the courses would be served, and what wines would accompany them – a trial to a youngster given the responsibility for the first time – albeit he was spared any personal expense. Digby had taken it upon himself, while he was in temporary command of both this vessel and the mid, to ensure the youngster learnt not only proper manners, but also how to act as a host. When the cloth was drawn and the port decanter produced, happily for him, Harbin’s guests pronounced themselves well satisfied.

  As was normal after any dinner, the adults fell to discussion, the shared memory of all being the recent voyage to and from the Bay of Biscay, and they commonly wondered at the fate of those five thousand French sailors they had returned to near their home ports, but particularly the officers Pearce had saved from the guillotine. Had they made it home? Did they still have their heads on their shoulders?

  ‘A toast to them all,’ boomed Neame, who was much given to downing bumpers in such a fashion; the red in his countenance was not all from the warmth of the cabin.

  ‘And damnation,’ Pearce added, ‘to the curs who sent me away so they could rig their court.’

  Digby frowned at that, a clear indication he regretted mention of the subject, even if he was obliged to respond, being of the opinion Pearce was ramming his head against a brick wall. He would struggle to bring a case, never mind win it: the Navy would close ranks to protect its own. Disapproval notwithstanding, Pearce was not to be deflected when Digby outlined the all too obvious problems.

  ‘But I must try. I don’t think you understand the depth of my attachment to these men. If it is a brick wall, I must see it demolished. By taking them on as servants, I have, at least, made it hard for those who see me as trouble to send them where they like.’

  ‘I hardly need remind you, Mr Pearce,’ Digby responded, ‘of the temporary nature of my command. There are any number of officers ahead of me on the lieutenant’s list serving ashore, and I suspect they eye our ship with envy coupled with hope. I expect to be shifted any day and should we all be ordered to transfer to other vessels, it could well include the break up of the crew. You might struggle to hold on to th
em.’

  ‘I won’t if Ralph Barclay has his way.’

  ‘It is not a sound notion to let your hatred of that man consume you,’ said Neame.

  ‘I am allowed a word, sir?’ asked Harbin.

  ‘Speak up, young fellow,’ cried Digby. ‘Are we not obliged to educate you in all things, including the art of conversation?’

  ‘Well, I had words with Farmiloe…’

  Harbin stopped then, because the look in John Pearce’s eye was not one to encourage him to continue. Midshipman Farmiloe, seconded from HMS Brilliant, had been one of a number of souls who had sailed with them to the Bay of Biscay, shifted out of the way because, as in his case, they had either been present the night the Pelicans had been pressed, or were too likely to speak the truth if called to testify.

  ‘Go on, Mr Harbin,’ Pearce insisted, curious as to what the lad had been told.

  ‘He did say you put up a hell of a fight, sir.’

  Pearce smiled at the recollection, though nothing of that cold and windy winter night could truly be said to have been amusing. Whatever was known about him, he doubted that many were aware he was on the run when he entered the Pelican, Michael O’Hagan being the only one he had trusted with the whole truth. He could see the Pelican in his mind’s eye now: the fug of pipe smoke, the heat of blazing fires and the crowds of people taking their ease in a place they thought free from the fear of intrusion. What had these people known of Adam Pearce, or of radical thinkers in general, of King’s Bench Warrants, writs for seditious libel of the kind from which he and his father had been forced to flee? Those he was sitting with now were no different.