The Admirals' Game

by David Donachie

  In the few seconds it was visible, it was like that object of a sailor’s superstitious nightmares: the ship of the dead, crewed by skeletons, once men but now stripped of all flesh, mere skulls instead of faces, sockets instead of eyes, yet ones that once they took your gaze sent you into the arms of Old Nick himself. The vision came and went so quickly that many a common seaman believed it to be a phantasm. Digby reckoned different; sailing without lights on the same course as he, it could only be an enemy.

  ‘Mr Neame,’ he called softly, after a gap of ten minutes. ‘Put us right before the wind. I want a bit of westing prior to first light. Mr Pearce, with as little noise as possible, get the cannon loaded and run out.’

  The next two hours were nerve-racking, for in the blackness many an eye was sure they saw things, and not just the sails of a ship. One loud scream came from a tar who was sure he saw the face of his old mother, long deceased, a scream that ended abruptly when Michael O’Hagan belted the sod round the ear. It was a time for the blue-water credulous to claim a clear sight of mermaids, for one of a more arcane bent to insist he saw the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse thundering across the sky, the noise of their hooves being as imagined as the fancy.

  An occasional break in the cloud cover would throw a sharp beam of moonlight on to the surface of the sea, quickly extinguished, and in that the men of the ship could observe all sorts of visions. But what they could not see, officers and seamen alike, and that included young Harbin sat right on the crosstrees, was any sign of that ghostly vessel, so that as the glass was turned, without the sound of a bell to mark it, the whisperings of the superstitious had half the crew convinced that they were doomed and daylight would never come. It did, of course, to reveal a sea devoid of any other vessel.

  ‘Mr Neame, shape me a course for Tunis. Let us be about what is intended.’

  ‘We did see ship, sir, did we not?’

  ‘It would never do, Mr Neame,’ in a voice that failed to radiate certainty, ‘to doubt the evidence of our own eyes.’

  The North African coast began as a line of bluish haze on the horizon, caused by the heat of the land, and it was a long time before individual features began to manifest themselves, by which time the long promontory of Cape Bon was clear on their larboard quarter, and soon they were abreast of the site of ancient Carthage. The deep bay with Tunis at its base formed a natural harbour of great strength, a dangerous place for an attacking force if the wind was foul, and as the line of the shore began to show clearly, the lookouts on HMS Faron could also observe the masts of numerous ships. The news soon came to the quarterdeck that within a cable’s length of Linzee’s flagship, HMS Alcide, lay a pair of French warships and, so close inshore they were near to being beached, a large convoy of French heavily laden merchant vessels.

  Behind that lay the town itself, inside the stout walls a mass of buildings, white mixed with dun brown, seeming to rise one upon the other so crowded were they, with the tall towers of the minarets rising like spears from within. The smell that came off the land was that of burnt earth tinged with human detritus, and soon, as they approached the point at which the British squadron lay at anchor, firing off a salute to the commodore’s blue pennant, they found themselves sailing though the filth, as well as the odour, of an over occupied port in sore need of a raging storm to carry its muck out to sea.

  The order for Digby to proceed to Alcide was hardly necessary given his mission, and the boat was in the water before his ship had completely lost way, Pearce being left to see to her being anchored. That completed, the premier undertook the next task, which was to keep an eye on the numerous boats which had come alongside. The whole ship’s crew were occupied, as far away from him as possible, buying everything, while calling to alluring female creatures seeking to tempt them into transgression.

  Digby had been quite strict on that score; while some captains turned a blind eye to the smuggling on board of local whores – something inclined to turn the lower deck into a place of riot – he would not stand for it, and any man found to have disobeyed, he had already warned, would be flogged. Pearce, having a jaundiced view of his fellow humans, and in particular of sailors, knew that sanction would not prevent them trying, half suspecting that bearding the captain in that game, getting one over on him, was as important to some of the crew as getting their leg over a female.

  ‘Mr Harbin,’ he called, seeing the crowd at the bows. ‘Please make sure that no women or drink come aboard from those boats.’

  ‘Will there be drink, sir, them hereabouts being Mussulmen?’

  ‘I think you will find, Mr Harbin, that where there is money to be made, religious scruples are soon discarded. Try to confine the men to food and trinkets.’

  After a decent interval he ordered the boats to stand off and instituted a search of the ship, which had nothing to do with his own morality and everything to do with his duty to his captain. Even in such a small vessel he knew that tars were capable of hiding things that to a normal mind bordered on the impossible, and care had to be employed on his exploration to avoid noticing other articles forbidden; one man’s grog saved up for a week in order to get drunk, sets of dice or cards, and personal possessions that smacked of past larceny.

  Again this had nothing to do with his own set of standards; he knew, as did every naval officer, that sailors, when it came to the Articles of War and statutes by which they were ruled, were experts in the article of contravention, just as he knew that to seek to punish every one of those misdeeds was impossible. Certainly the men must be governed, for if they were not mayhem would ensue, and John Pearce was willing to apply sanctions if they were warranted, never mind that it went against his own inclinations.

  The men expected it and he had soon realised they would have no respect for a blue coat that did not apply it: a ship of war was too dangerous a place for laxity. Yet it had to be balanced with good sense: too harsh a discipline would be repaid by sullen observance of orders, too nosy an officer might struggle, in a tight situation, to be supported. Perhaps on larger vessels, with crews in the six to nine hundreds, the Articles of War could be applied in full. To his mind it would be fatal on something the size of HMS Faron, at present carrying a complement of no more than a hundred. A contented crew meant a compact ship that sailed and fought well, thus that very necessary object, the blind eye, was well employed.

  It was therefore unfortunate that the person he found, his back to him, holding up a goatskin of wine, a stream of which must be entering his wide-open mouth, was Michael O’Hagan and, beyond him, the dim outline of a recumbent woman. Crouched below the deck beams of the forepeak, almost doubled over, Pearce watched him for several seconds, hating what he saw and also wondering why Michael had not been warned. There had been enough scuffling and movement ahead of him so far to let him know that men were being alerted to his progress, and either hiding things or getting away from his likely route. Yet his best friend aboard had been left exposed.

  Had Michael been set up to be discovered, set up to find out what he would do? Their close association was no secret and somehow men had made sure that the people who would certainly have given out a warning were not there to do so. For the first time, it seemed to Pearce, there might be some resentment on the ship. He had never used his position to favour his Pelicans, but the appreciation of that lay very much in the eye of the beholder, so it was quite possible envy was present where there was no real cause.

  These thoughts induced in him a sense of gloom; he was well aware that an absolute knowledge of how he stood with the crew was not possible, but he had reckoned himself, if not popular, at least tolerated. What he was seeing now, in the couple of seconds before he spoke, was the truth. To many men he was still an unknown, and perhaps, given the way he had come by his rank, seen as something of an impostor: in short, there were those on the lower deck of this ship who thought of him in the same way as half the officers in Hood’s fleet.

  ‘Belay that, Michael,’ he said softly.
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  The big Irishman spun round, his square face registering the shock of being caught in the act, but Pearce noticed the look that tried to see beyond him and the confusion that engendered. O’Hagan had expected to be told if he was at risk, expected to have plenty of time to hide both his illicit drink and his whore.

  Pearce held out his hand, and took the goatskin off Michael, watching as his face registered a hint of refusal, a moment of bewilderment, and finally an expression of sadness.

  ‘Michael, I need to see this creature off the ship.’

  ‘Sure, I have dropped us in the steep tub, John-boy, have I not?’

  ‘Me more than you, I think.’

  O’Hagan nodded slowly, as what had happened became clear. Michael was not educated, but he was no fool; he knew he had been set up to fall and he knew why.

  ‘Mr Harbin,’ Pearce called loudly, while making a gesture to the woman to get ready to depart. The time which it took for the mid to appear and the woman to be escorted away had clearly given Michael time to think, and he looked at a man he thought of as a friend with eyes full of sadness.

  ‘Well, John-boy, it seems as if matters will just have to go their own road. I have done wrong by the ways of this damned Navy, and no amount of saints will see me off the due reward.’

  ‘I cannot ignore it, Michael.’

  ‘The good of the ship?’

  ‘Who…?’

  ‘Let you find me? That, John-boy, is for me to know, not you.’

  ‘I just hope…’ Pearce could not say the word, could not mention Charlie Taverner. They, as a pair, went back to a time when Pearce did not know them and had a rivalry over that serving wench in the Pelican Tavern. For all he knew they might have clashed since, given they were far from being two peas in a pod. They were different, very much so, as was immature Rufus, but would that extend to such as this?

  ‘It weren’t anyone you or I’d call a friend, never fear.’

  ‘There’s a price to pay, Michael.’

  O’Hagan nodded. ‘And it must be borne.’

  Pearce fingered his blue officer’s coat. ‘I could give this up.’

  ‘Mother of God, don’t even think on it. It’s the only hope we have of salvation.’

  Pearce held out his hand and took the goatskin, feeling it and taking note it was half empty. The wine had probably yet to fully affect Michael, but it surely would and Pearce knew him to be a dangerous drunk, a man who, inebriated, thought of nothing except loud boasting and fisticuffs. It was in that condition he had first met him and had he not ducked his head it would have been knocked off. If the drink did affect him, he would be a dangerous man in the next couple of hours, quite capable, in his anger, of being left exposed to massively compound what was a relatively minor offence.

  ‘Michael, I am going to get Mr Harbin to lock you in the cable tier.’

  ‘Jesus, John-boy, that is harsh.’

  Pearce held up the goatskin. ‘Believe me, friend, I am doing it for your own good. You have had a fair measure of this, and once it takes you over, I fear you might kill someone. And know this, Michael, when the captain returns I cannot plead for you.’

  ‘Jesus, John-boy, if you had as much trouble in your life as I have, you would not let that get you down.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  If Henry Digby was aware of Pearce’s discomfort in the article of punishing Michael O’Hagan, it was well hidden, he being more taken with the results of his interview with the commodore.

  ‘Matters are at a stand, Mr Pearce, and I do not think the man in charge of negotiations knows what to do. He has seen the Bey twice without any progress.’

  ‘You’ve yet to tell me what he is trying to achieve, sir.’

  ‘Is it not obvious? Linzee is seeking to close the North African ports to the French, thus denying them both stores and an anchorage for their warships, as well as convoys such as that currently tied up in the bay.’ Digby’s eyes lit up then, with undisguised greed. ‘From Smyrna, by all accounts, and worth a fortune. Would it not be just the finest thing if we were here when it was seized?’

  ‘Is it about to be?’

  ‘In the balance, as I fear Commodore Linzee lacks the passion for a bold stroke, not that the orders I have delivered, from what I can gather, allow him much latitude. He wants the Bey to make the decision, so he seeks to persuade him it is in his interest to side with England. Naturally, the French press him with the opposite view. Anyway, we are to dine with him today, preparatory to another visit to the old fellow on the morrow.’

  ‘I must take a boat over to Agamemnon, sir, I have letters for Captain Nelson from Sir William and Lady Hamilton.’

  ‘Have you, indeed?’ Digby replied, in a manner that suggested Pearce had just admitted to being the bearer of the plague. ‘I shouldn’t bother, you will be at table with him at three of the clock.’

  ‘And O’Hagan?’

  ‘Can wait till the morrow. I take it the bosun has been told to ready a cat?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Pearce replied, aware that he had forgotten that particular naval custom: each flogging had made for the occasion its own special instrument of punishment.

  ‘I should see to that, Mr Pearce, then it is best bib and tucker for dinner with Linzee. He’s Lord Hood’s brother-in-law, don’t you know.’

  ‘I confess,’ Pearce replied gloomily, ‘that I was unaware of the connection.’

  Digby dropped his voice, not quite to a whisper, but close. ‘Explains why he’s so favoured, Pearce. Not for the wife’s brother to be at anchor off Toulon or manning a battery in some dusty redoubt. No, he gets all the plums.’

  ‘Is this a plum, sir?’

  ‘Not the way he described it to me.’ Digby then let out a guffaw, and added, ‘More akin to a plum stone. Do you smoke it, Pearce, plum stone?’

  ‘Droll, sir, very droll,’ Pearce replied, as Digby’s shoulders shook at the acuity of his own wit.

  ‘You can’t say owt, Charlie,’ Latimer insisted, his aged, leathery face intense. ‘Capt’n laid down the rule and Michael broke it.’

  Charlie spoke quietly, sitting in the very same forepeak in which the Irishman had been found, for there were ears nearby he did not want twitching. ‘He could have been forewarned. There were shipmates around to sound off for him.’

  Blubber Booth put a hand on the complainant’s shoulder as Latimer nodded the truth of that point. ‘Michael scares a few folk, Charlie, him being as big as he is. It don’t always serve to make you loved.’

  ‘Christ,’ Rufus protested, ‘he’s as gentle as a lamb.’

  That got the youngster a hard look from Charlie Taverner, who was wondering why Rufus could not recall the Michael O’Hagan who had got drunk nearly every night in the Pelican, and was wont to threaten all and sundry with his ham-like fists for any real or imagined slight.

  ‘A lamb he ain’t, Rufus, if you recall.’

  ‘Has he raised a fist to anybody aboard this ship?’ the youngest Pelican demanded.

  ‘He don’t have to, Rufus,’ Blubber insisted. ‘Certain he is a fountain of good humour, and he’s good mates to us here, but there are those aboard this barky who are a’feart of Michael, even if he has never given them just cause.’

  ‘In the name of the Lord, why?’

  ‘You’re not much more’n a nipper, Rufus,’ Latimer said, but in a kindly way, which deflected the young man’s natural resentment. ‘You sees matters from the age you are, but me and Blubber here has been at sea for a year or two more’n thee, and we has seen enough to be a bit on the up when it comes to seein’ things straight. Fear is a funny thing, mates, and it is made real bad by being right in your face. You two would say that there is not man jack aboard has owt to fear from Michael, but he is a big man with big hands and all aboard have heard what he is like as a bare knuckler. You recall his bouts on Leander and how he won ’em.’

  ‘He did get a feller on Brilliant an’ all,’ said Charlie, ‘as we told you, a right bully boy called Deven
ow who got his comeuppance an’ no error.’

  ‘Word has got round. Michael O’Hagan, for all his good humour, is not a man to cross if you want to stay whole. So there will be men on this barky who laugh at his jokes, funny or no, who get out of his way as he walks to his duty, and for all his cheer, they will not be happy in themselves for their caution. Did he not clip that bugger who says he saw his dead mother? An’ that takes no account of the way we talk to John Pearce, who has never favoured any man that I can see, but that too can be taken amiss. Fear and bein’ jealous of a supposed advantage is a powerful blend.’

  ‘How many?’ asked Rufus

  ‘It only takes a few,’ Blubber Booth replied. ‘The problem is, Michael might know well who they are, and suspect they had a hand in him bein’ had up, so the likes of us have to stay his fists if he wants to get his vengeance.’

  ‘Why?’ demanded a clearly angry Charlie Taverner, who would not admit to having been in fear of Michael himself, and in the way just described. ‘They deserve what’s comin’ to them.’

  ‘They might, but that’s not the point.’ Latimer made to move, coming up from his haunches with his face showing the strain it was having on his old knees. ‘If’n we don’t, our Irish friend will spend every day for a week at the grating, an’ I can tell you the result of that will be an end to any good humour Michael might have natural. I has seen it all afore, a good man turned bad by too much of the lash.’

  John Pearce was, as Digby had described, in his best bib and tucker which, having been so expertly cleaned in the Palazzo Sessa, tended to make his captain’s outfit, being still in much the same state in which it had returned from Villefranche, look a trifle drab. That Digby had noticed he did not doubt, but he said nothing, seemingly in too good cheer from going aboard a flag vessel in the office of a master and commander.