It was not one his son now shared. Age and growing independence, added to what he had seen in Paris in the two and a bit years they had spent there, had cured him. Were the pair on the oars the same kind of canaille who had emerged from the eastern slums of Paris to ruin the Revolution – filthy specimens with brains that could encompass no other thought than greedy violence, the types who had torn down the Bastille stone by stone? And if that was a laudable event, joyously hailed even in Britain as an end to royal tyranny, what followed over the months and years became progressively less so. He had seen the likes of this pair covered from head to bare foot in fresh blood, running under flaming torches through the streets of Paris, bearing heads on pikes that they had hacked off from their dead victims, and screaming of how many more would die.
‘Name, sir?’ demanded the boatman. ‘We’s a-coming under Royal Sovereign’s counter.’
‘Pearce, John Pearce,’ he replied, looking up at the towering three-decker, and the mass of gilded carving that decorated her stern. Then he added a word that still sounded bizarre to his ears: ‘Lieutenant.’
Once alongside, the fellow called over his shoulder to the entry port, a dark hole in the ship’s side, framed by the climbing battens that would be needed to get aboard at sea. Here, they had fitted a long sloping gangway.
‘Lieutenant Pearce seeking permission to come aboard, your honour.’
‘Your honour?’ called a voice from the interior. ‘You ain’t talking to me, that’s fer certain.’ Two sailors emerged, boat-hooks at the ready, one taking the prow of the wherry to haul it in, the other more rigid to steady the approach of the stern. ‘Boat your oars, fellows, for if’n you scrape the paint it’ll be my guts.’
‘One of them’s a woman I reckon, Clem,’ said the other sailor.
‘You don’t say!’ Clem shouted, looking hard at the female in the boat, all wild grey hair and wrinkled skin. ‘Then make sure when I is soused and ashore, mate, that I stay well clear of her, for Old Nick hisself would blanch to be seen coupling with that.’
‘One of these days, husband, I might find a tar with enough to please a woman, but I doubt this be the one.’
‘I make you right there, Susie, my love,’ her husband replied, in the softest and most defensive of voices, making it clear that civility came to them only when they were faced with an external insult.
On what now seemed a steady platform, Pearce stood up, wondering at a life like theirs, in which the next meal had been probably uncertain since birth, but he was soon obliged to think more of his own immediate safety as the wherry was pulled in, nearly knocking him off-balance.
About to step onto the gangway, he stopped dead when the sailor called Clem cried out, ‘Right foot first, sir, where has you put your wits?’
He had to skip to get his right foot on the wooden platform first, and thus he avoided the opprobrium of condemning the whole ship to perdition through the act of ignoring a superstition. Up he went to enter the dim interior, to be greeted by a midshipman who raised his hat. Pearce did likewise, distracted as he glanced along the empty maindeck, then wondered at the look on the boy’s face as he put it back on. Quickly he raised it again, half-turning to salute the unseen quarterdeck, mentally kicking himself to remember the things that an officer was supposed to do on coming aboard.
‘I have come to see Admiral Graves.’
‘Have you indeed, sir,’ replied the boy. ‘Do you have an appointment?’
‘No.’
The boy sighed. ‘Then I fear you are in for a long wait. Best bespeak the officer in charge of the anchor watch and see if he will allow you the use of the wardroom.’
‘Obliged.’
‘Follow me, sir.’
He was led across the gloomy deck to a wide stairway that led up to the quarterdeck. There they found the man presently in charge of the ship, likewise a lieutenant, in an unadorned blue working coat, who, on being introduced, immediately enquired as to the date of his commission. Admitting it to be only days old brought forth a puffed chest and the information that this man was his superior by three years. Only then did he ask his name, and a raised eyebrow went with the reply.
‘Pearce, of the Griffin? The fellow who was spoke of in the local journal only last week?’ Trying to look modest, Pearce nodded. ‘Damn you, Tait,’ the officer barked at the mid, ‘you best learn, you pint-sized blackguard, to execute proper introductions.’
‘Sorry, sir,’ said the boy, abashed, though clearly he was equally confused.
‘You will be.’ With Pearce, all condescension disappeared. ‘Allow me, sir, to shake your hand, for that was a worthy exploit, and it warms our cockles to look out over the taffrail and see the ship you helped to take. I would be less than honest, sir, if I did not tell you it stirs a little jealousy also, for we would all wish to have such luck.’
A vision of the bloodshed that had attended the capture floated into Pearce’s mind, which sat uneasily with the concept of luck.
‘The Admiral has much to attend to and a queue of supplicants, but I am sure your name will see you well up the list.’ There was a pause them, before the Lieutenant added, ‘But were you not a midshipman, sir?’
‘I was, sir, but the King, at his levee, saw fit to insist that I be promoted, hence the newness of my commission. The commander of HMS Griffin was made a post captain at the same time.’
Pearce did not add that the Earl of Chatham, First Lord of the Admiralty, had objected to his elevation only to be over-ruled by his own younger brother, the King’s absurdly young First Minister. He was later told by the lovely Lady Annabel that William Pitt was more concerned with the state of the monarch’s health and the maintenance of his government than the propriety of promoting a man who lacked any of the qualifications that the post demanded. In a parliament riven with competing ideas and policies, Pitt commanded a tenuous majority, which required constant manoeuvring to sustain. War with France was not universally popular, indeed there were those who would make peace on the morrow if they could just gain power. The ministry of Pitt was based on Tory support, but that was not unanimous, yet the opposition Whigs were no more united, some sections inclining to the government view that the Revolution must be contained, the majority of that faction lining up behind Pitt’s great rival, Charles James Fox, to challenge the government on every issue, from the war itself, to the prosecution of the conflict, egged on by the power-hungry heir to the throne.
Pitt’s party was the one favoured by King George, who could not be other than opposed to a radical polity in Paris which had executed his fellow monarch, King Louis of France, a few months previously. But George III had been declared mad just three years before – which had created a political crisis – and it was feared by all that the affliction which had rendered him unfit to govern would return. The Prince of Wales and his Whig supporters longed for such a thing, for in a declared Regency, with the King’s heir apparent as head of state, they, not Pitt’s Tories, would hold the power. To the King’s First Minister, indulging an unstable king with an inappropriate promotion was obviously a small price to pay for the security of office.
The advancement of Colbourne to the rank of post captain brought forth a gleam of near-avarice in Pearce’s fellow-officer. ‘Then I envy your Mr Colbourne, sir, his promotion, even more than I envy you.’
‘He lost an arm, and I do believe he has to face a court-martial.’
‘A formality, sir, nothing more.’ Clearly, to this fellow, the loss of a limb or a ship counted for less than Colbourne’s new rank. ‘What is that when you are made post? Why, a man on the captain’s list is a man made for life, with a flag on the horizon if the Good Lord spares you. I long for nothing more, sir, as I am sure you do too. Mr Tait, take Lieutenant Pearce to the wardroom as my guest, and tell the Steward that he is to waive the normal contribution we ask of visiting officers to our fund.’
Pearce was about to demure when the lieutenant added, ‘It is the bane of life on a flagship, sir, the law
of hospitality. We are obliged to levy a charge, for we are called upon to feed all and sundry as they wait for their interview, which would devastate our private stores without recompense. But you, sir, are an exception, a worthy guest. Meanwhile, I will tell the Admiral’s clerk who’s come a’calling.’
To enter the wardroom of a vessel this size, a hundred guns or more, was a revelation to John Pearce. It could not be said to be spacious, yet compared to that allotted to the common seamen, or what he had experienced so far, it was luxury indeed, with a long table across the room and small screened-off cabins to either side. Three marine officers and another lieutenant were playing backgammon, while others, close to flickering candles or the five transom casements, read their books or wrote letters.
‘Forgive me, Mr Pearce, while I inform the Premier of your presence.’
Going to rear the boy rapped on a wooden door. There was another on the opposite side, a private space of proper cabins for the two most senior officers under the Captain. The disinterest with which he had been greeted on entering the wardroom, for visitors were so commonplace, evaporated as the First Lieutenant emerged from his quarters, a beaming smile on his face and a shout on his lips.
‘Steward, fetch the best claret, we have a fellow on board deserving of a toast.’
Named, they gathered round him, trying to feed him cup after cup of wine, but Pearce, obliged by the welcome to relate every detail of the recent action, stayed as abstemious as was possible, knowing that he needed a clear head for what was to come. More troubling was the technicality of the questions he was asked about courses, wind strength, gun calibres and the effect of various weights of shot on the lighter scantlings of a French ship, all of which he struggled to answer out of sheer ignorance.
He wanted to tell them that his entire time at sea would not amount to much more than five months – that he had read his books but not enough. Yet he knew that such disclosure would be unwelcome, so he tried his best to satisfy their curiosity, drawing the elements of the action on the wardroom table with a finger dipped in his wine. It was with some relief that he was finally dragged off to see the Admiral, with an invitation from the First Lieutenant to be their guest that afternoon at dinner. Young Tait was again obliged to guide him, this time past two marine sentries who stood at the door to the anteroom of the Admiral’s quarters, and once inside that, to introduce him to an officious-looking civilian at a desk.
‘Your business, sir?’
The voice was bored and dismissive, but that was as nothing to the look of utter disbelief on the fellow’s pasty face as Pearce replied. His voice had all the arrogance of the jobsworth, and when he spoke, it was icy. ‘You have come all this way to importune the effective commander of His Majesty’s Channel Fleet on the fate of a trio of ordinary seamen, indeed landsmen, who are, I must tell you, now sailing to be part of a fleet that will be commanded by another admiral, Lord Hood?’
‘They are not ordinary to me, sir. They are my closest friends.’
‘Then I wonder at your connections, sir, for it is uncommon for an officer to so term a sailor.’
‘Perhaps more of that would make the Navy a happier occupation! Lord Howe specifically alluded to their case, sir, in the most positive manner, and were he here I am sure he would oblige me by fulfilling the promise he made. I have no doubt that Admiral Graves would be only too keen to carry out the expressed wishes of the actual commanding officer.’
The look that got, as the clerk stood up to reveal a body shaped like a pear, no shoulders and a fat behind, was tantamount to a denial; in fact it implied that pigs might fly. ‘Wait here. I will ask Admiral Graves if he will see you.’
Half a minute passed before the man returned. ‘I am to show you through, though it is only your name that gains you an interview. Do not hold out any hope that the Admiral will oblige you.’
‘Then there is no purpose in going in,’ snapped Pearce, who, though restrained in his consumption of the wardroom claret, had drunk too much to suffer any hint of condescension.
‘None, except that it is in the shape of an order that you do so, one which the marines behind you would insist you obey.’
The Admiral sat at a round table, a slim man of some height, with a white wig over a long, greying face and a firm, jutting-out jaw. The table was covered in books and papers, all of them, from what Pearce could observe, official. He looked up at the man before him, standing to attention with his hat under his arm, with the quizzical expression of a less-than-pleased adult faced with a recalcitrant child.
‘I wanted to look you over for a second time, Pearce, for I was at the reception when you first came ashore.’
‘I’m sorry, sir, I do not recall. There were so many senior officers present.’
‘I was happy to praise you then, but not now. I am here to tell you that your elevation to your present rank is nothing short of a disgrace. There cannot be a serving officer who knows the truth of your promotion who is not incensed by it. Six years’ sea time is six years, sir, and the position you hold demands it, as well as the knowledge a man gains in that period, something you ain’t got under your belt.’
‘Then you will be glad to know, sir, that I have no intention of applying for a place aboard a ship.’ That came out without thinking, and was acceptable, as well as being true. Had Pearce left it there he might have held some sway with the Admiral, but the devil was in him as it often was when faced with authority, and what sympathy he might have elicited went right out the casement windows as he added, ‘Nothing would induce me to serve in such a body. Your Navy, sir, is riddled with tyranny and open corruption and I can only suppose that those with the power to chastise the men who run the institution are afflicted with a kind of blindness. The trio I have alluded to were, like me, illegally pressed into the Navy by a blackguard called Barclay—’
‘Ralph Barclay?’
‘The very same.’
‘I know of Captain Barclay.’
‘Then you will know, sir, that he is not fit for the rank he holds. The man is a martinet of the worst kind and a liar to boot—’
He was interrupted by a snarl. ‘You will withdraw that remark, sir, for you are taking liberties with the name of a respected officer in the King’s Navy.’
‘If he, sir, is respected, it says little for those he serves with, or under.’
‘Get out.’
‘I demand you accede to the wishes of Lord Howe and do something to get those men back.’
‘You can demand all you like, Pearce, and I must warn you if you do not do as I say you will be demanding from the cable tier, and you will be in chains while you do so. Your friends can serve for a decade for all I care. I repeat my words: get out!’
As Pearce turned to go, the Admiral added his final insult. ‘And get off my flagship with the utmost speed, for you presence defiles the deck.’ Then he shouted, ‘Marines, escort this blackguard to the entry port.’
CHAPTER TWO
‘Mr Glaister’s compliments, sir. He believes we have a sight of the French coast, and judging by the skyline, despite the recent blow, he feels we will make a perfect landfall.’
‘Please inform Mr Glaister I will be on deck presently. And request him to signal HMS Firefly, although I daresay Captain Gould already knows.’
Crouched over the muster book of HMS Brilliant, Captain Barclay did not deign to look up at Midshipman Farmiloe, who, having delivered what he thought was a dramatic message deserving of attention, was obliged to turn about and leave the Captain’s cabin in a rather crestfallen manner, though he did elicit a nod and a smile from the Captain’s pretty young wife, busy at a piece of embroidery in which the name of the frigate was already completed. Several cushions with similar covers lay along the bench seats, giving, if not a feminine touch to the place, at least an atmosphere more gentle than that one would associate with such an austere commander as Ralph Barclay.
From above their heads came the sound of repairs, as they had, in the last twent
y-four hours, come through a vicious and sudden squall of the type that plagued ships in the Mediterranean, the kind that threw vessels on their beam ends with scant warning, so forceful and unexpected was the wind. Ralph Barclay was now listing the damage, as well as the materials – timber, cordage and canvas – that was needed to make matters right, employing a small percentage of exaggeration that any examining clerk at the Navy Board would have to be eagle-eyed to spot. Given that he was personally responsible for everything of that nature on the ship, and could be obliged to pay from his own pocket for unjustified wastage, he was, in time-honoured fashion, taking the opportunity to create a handy excess.
Next came the muster book where he listed, alongside all the other things that pertained to the existence of his crew, the fact that two of them had broken limbs, and one a dislocation of the shoulder. The surgeon’s report lay by his hand, which told him one break was clean, the other not, and an estimate of how long each would be under medical care. It was a tedious duty that should have fallen to a clerk, but the then impecunious Captain Barclay had sailed from England without one, keeping for himself a proportion of the pay for the office. Running his finger down the list, of tobacco bought, clothing items deducted from pay, and the cost of treating their venereal afflictions, he came to the pencilled name of Ben Walker, lost overboard two weeks before. The time had come to use ink, and to discharge that sailor as D.D., dead in the execution of his duties, with the storm as an excuse. Keeping him on the muster for a few extra days made up for some of the depredations of the rats that infested the lower reaches below decks.
An Awkward Commission Page 2
