With only a patrolling naval presence at the port it was the army who provided a contestant, easy to arrange because soldiers, bored stiff on garrison duty, were so easy to bait, as well as being boastful coves who would never allow that the Navy might have a champion to outshine their own. And, as men who had their commissions through purchase, they generally had the means as well as the inclination to wager high, which suited a confident Leander wardroom. Michael O’Hagan had been excused duty in anticipation of Lisbon; on the journey to Gibraltar that had continued, his sole task to train with Clipe, and to hone what were rough skills into those that would tell. They were at it again now, in the waist, again clear of boats, in the space where the first bout had taken place.
‘The pity, O’Hagan,’ Taberly said, ‘is that it will have to take place on our quarterdeck, for we dare not let the crew ashore for fear they will try to run, and there would be a damn near mutiny if we denied them a sight of your victory.’
Michael was looking at the rock, wondering where, on such a small outcrop, they could desert to. ‘I might lose.’
Taberly’s face was bland, the voice emotionless, but it was just as threatening, perhaps more so, than if he had barked his response. ‘You would be best not even thinking in those terms. There will be a great deal of money riding on you, and I doubt that those set above you would take kindly to losing it. You might find that punishment in that quarter would be greater than any you could receive from a fellow boxer.’
‘So,’ Michael said, once Taberly walked away, ‘it is a win or the grating every time I so much as fart.’
Clipe, his previous opponent, patted him with a heavily bandaged and padded hand. ‘The army man will be big, Michael, they tend that way do bullocks, but that does not mean he will have skill.’
‘Do you know, Clipe, I am gentle as a lamb, sober.’
‘But I,’ added Charlie, taking a wardroom donated towel to wipe him down, ‘have seen you in drink, Michael.’
‘Sure, I did my ditch digging by day, Charlie, and took my pleasure when the sun went down.’
There was a slightly sour note in Charlie Taverner’s response. They might have both been pressed from the same tavern, but they had not been friends in the Pelican. Charlie, being a fly sort, a man who had once made his way in the world by fleecing the unwary, had more than once tried to do the same to Michael O’Hagan. Then there had been a small matter of rivalry over the ‘affections’ of one of the serving girls.
‘I recall where your pleasure was directed.’
Michael brightened, then, lifting the gloom that filled him at the prospect of the coming fight. ‘Ah the sweet Rosie, as plump as a Wicklow cow, an’ twice as willing.’
‘For those that could pay,’ moaned Rufus, which brought a bitter nod of approval from his friend Charlie.
Michael hit the boy gently with one of his own padded hands. ‘You could have had all the coin in the land, Rufus, but I doubt you would have satisfied Rosie. There’s not enough of you.’
‘I got what it takes,’ Rufus protested, his face reddening in a deep blush. ‘You mark my words.’
‘What’s important,’ interrupted Clipe, ‘is whether Michael here has what it takes to beat the army, for if he ain’t, them bastards in the wardroom won’t confine their fury to him.’
‘Boats comin’ off,’ shouted a voice from the gangway. ‘Dozens of the buggers, full o’ red coats and blue.’
Taberly appeared again, this time with Gherson in tow, though he hung back. ‘There’s not a man aboard who has not been to the purser for a loan, O’Hagan. The whole ship is riding on you.’
He passed some of those men on his way up to the deck, Leanders and well as the Griffins who, like the Pelicans had been shifted aboard without so much as a by your leave. First to encourage was Latimer, an elderly sailor with a wrinkled, walnut complexion who had proved, aboard HMS Griffin, to be a wise old cove.
‘We beat the French, Michael. Be a pity to lose to the bullocks.’
‘Well said, Lats,’ called Blubber, another Griffin, fat and sweating in the heat. ‘We’s got money coming from the Valmy, Michael, and it’s all on you.’
‘You’se got money comin’ should you ever set foot ashore and free, Blubber,’ added Latimer, before patting his champion and pushing him on. ‘Do your best, an’ I for one will rest content.’
The decks were for visiting dignitaries, and there was no shortage of those. Army officers came aboard in their regimentals, Navy in their best blue coats and snowy breeches. The word had gone out amongst the traders and officials on the Rock, and they were there in numbers too, happy to chuck coins into a half barrel carried round by a midshipman, this to cover the cost of entertaining them with food and wine. The crew were given the shrouds and yards from which to observe the contest and they were now as crowded as the deck, and since the approval of the admiral had been sought and given, as being a welcome diversion on a tedious posting, there would be cheering as well. The most senior officers of both services, along with the Leander’s wardroom, sat on the poop.
The army man, Raef Braddock, was huge, giving a good three inches on Michael, with plenty of muscle as well as a face that looked as though it had taken enough punishment to last a lifetime; a flat nose where the bone had been too crushed to repair, heavy eyebrows that did nothing to disguise the thick scar tissue underneath, wooden teeth, which were removed to show pink gums framed by lips that had evidence of half a dozen poorly healed splits.
Taberly had done his homework, for he was no fool, and Michael knew that his opponent was a soldier always in trouble with his superiors, a drinker and brawler who was regularly given several dozen lashes at the wagon wheel, this proved when he removed the cloak he was wearing to reveal a back so criss-crossed with scars even the hardest of the sailors gasped. The fellow was used to pain, and he and Clipe had opined that the wiles that had failed in the previous fight might be the best avenue in this one, for given this fellow’s reputation, he lacked in brains what he had in sheer bulk. Just hitting him around the body and head might not suffice; Michael had to draw him out so that he could strike in places where a well-delivered blow would down him.
It was odd to O’Hagan, how sensitive to the mood of the crowd he had become. The air of confidence that their champion would triumph took a dent as soon as the soldier appeared, and fell further when he revealed his muscled torso and his lacerated back, so there was a flurry of late betting as some tried to cover themselves both ways. Behind him stood Clipe, Charlie and Rufus, the first to advise, the other two to wipe away blood and sweat. An army major checked his hands to ensure nothing was contained in them, like a piece of lead, while Taberly did the same to Braddock, then both men where brought forward to their marks, just far enough apart for them to beat each other. There the rules were read out; toe to the line, pull back for more than a count of three and the bout was forfeit.
Close to Braddock, and looking into eyes hooded by scarred brows, Michael, reckoned that Clipe had the right of it; he did not reckon he was facing a fellow who would back off from the line. The man would stand his ground and take whatever he was given, his aim to wear down his opponent to the point where he could deliver a killer blow. And looking at the hands, which were huge even to a man who had big mitts of his own, and the thick arms to back them up, he reckoned that the blow could be fatal.
‘Ride his punches at first, Michael,’ Clipe whispered, as if he had not said it a dozen times already. ‘Sway back and see what he’s about before you weigh in total.’
‘Gentlemen,’ said Taberly, holding up a handkerchief, ‘are you ready.’
Both fighters nodded, and the handkerchief dropped, an act which killed off the murmuring that had been rippling through the crowd as the spectators waited for the first blows to be struck. It was Braddock who obliged, catching Michael in the upper rib-cage with a telling right-handed blow that hurt even as he rode it, which brought forth an encouraging yell from his support. The soldier tried
to follow that up, with a left, only to find it parried, with Michael feinting to hit him and force him to back off. Braddock did no such thing, he stood rock like, so Michael hit him hard just to let him know he had a fight on his hands. That produced a gummy grin.
Those blows had set the crowd off, with both sets of partisans yelling encouragement as the fighters began to exchange. Braddock seemed content to keep hitting the same spots over and over again, there was no science in his assault, unlike Michael who tried to vary what he did, striking different parts of the body. All the while Clipe was shouting in his ear, ‘Ride it out, ride it out.’ That followed by, ‘Find the spot, Michael, find the spot.’
The man he was coaching thought that easier said than done. Hit the Braddock’s nose hard and it did not bleed, it was too smashed already for anything to break; strike his head and all he did was shake it and swing back a killer blow. Punches to the body seemed useless, the man did not even move at the heaviest delivery, so Michael decided to use time. No man could fight without using up his puff; he must conserve his, and let Braddock squander his own. Then he would get a chance to aim at the target that might bring a result, the point of Braddock’s jaw.
Michael had experienced before that strange clarity which comes when fighting; the heightened awareness of everything around you as well as that immediately in front. He never took his own gaze off Braddock’s eyes, for in shifting they began to tell him with increasing accuracy where the next blow would fall. He was aware too of his own balance, and how by adjusting it he could weather the storm of the man’s aggression. More tellingly, he could almost feel the mood of the watching crowd, tell that the soldiers were exulting while his own supporters and backers were more muted. There was also the contemplation of losing deliberately, just to infuriate Taberly and his ilk, not to mention that gobshite Gherson, but that had to be put aside; too many of his shipmates had borrowed money riding on his success.
So he took more punches than he gave, which were painful though never hitting anything vital, dropping his head to blunt blows to that part of his body so that it now ached, as did his upper arms and shoulders, where by swaying aside he could deflect Braddock’s intent. And he did strike back, mostly to parry what might be coming, but giving his opponent cause often enough to blink in surprise when he landed a real power punch. Time lost any meaning as thud followed thud, and sometimes the crowd were near silent long enough to allow the sound of bone on flesh to be paramount, for the longer it went on the less sure both sets of supporters were about the outcome.
O’Hagan was not, for in his fierce concentration he knew that Braddock was not only tiring physically, but he was also running out of ideas and that was sapping his will to continue. On more than one occasion Michael could have stepped forward and hit him hard enough to knock him back from his toe line yet he did not do so, and Braddock, who might be as thick as a first-rate’s scantlings, was enough of a bruiser to sense that he was being played with and that added anger to the other dearth he had, of ideas. If the spectators were confused, Clipe was not; he knew enough, and had seen enough in his own fighting, to read the way matters were going.
‘You will have him soon, Michael. Hold to your method.’
With both bruisers wheezing like prize bulls such whispered encouragement was hard to hear, but Michael was encouraged by the sentiment, even if he ignored it. He did not hold fast, he upped his pace and the power of his response, hitting harder and more often, making the man think, for he reckoned he knew better than Clipe how to play Braddock. If the man lacked brains then the notion was to confuse what few he possessed, to do what was not expected. His tempo was reflected in the power of his support, who were now screaming with blood lust, not sated by the amount already spilt, for around both men’s feet what had been spots had merged by increase, foot movement and sweat into a mess that seeped into the deck.
The blow that finished matters came suddenly, but it was planned. Michael had lined up Braddock to protect one side of his body with a series of hard left-handed blows, for several minutes following that with mere feints to the right, that quickly followed by a renewed assault on the spot between rib cage and breeches that was now black with bruising, and which with each assault became increasingly painful. Three blows there, one parried, one successful, were followed by what Braddock again surmised was a feint. It was not, it was that all-out blow to the point of the jaw that O’Hagan had had in his mind from the very outset of the contest, that punch which sent a message to the top of the man’s head that was lethal in its effect. And Michael got right that most necessary thing to deliver, his balance.
Tough Braddock might be, big and larded with muscle, but on the receipt of that punch he dropped like a stone.
CHAPTER SEVEN
With the shoreline in view, no great feat of navigation was required to bring HMS Brilliant to a rendezvous with Glaister and Farmiloe and the fishing boat they had taken in to look over the enemy, the sight of which brought everyone on deck. However, the news he brought, that a large element of the Toulon fleet was ready to weigh, did nothing for the comfort of the captain. Ralph Barclay, as he paced up and down the windward side of the quarterdeck, was torn between two alternatives. He could up his helm and head east hoping to intercept and alert his admiral – he had to assume Hotham was now on his way; or he could stay on station and keep the French in view, for the very obvious reason that, if they were to put to sea, there was no telling in which direction they would sail and that was something his commanding officer would want to know.
The latter required him to make immediate if long-range contact, and to maintain it in the face of any escorting frigates, and no doubt sloops and corvettes, which would definitely try to head him off. He would have to close at night to have any chance of maintaining his vigil, with the concomitant risk that at first light he might find that he had either lost them, or that they were close enough, both frigates and ships-of-the-line, to overwhelm him. Duty was one thing, risk to reputation another and it was that which decided him on the latter course, despite its attendant dangers. No one would condemn him for shadowing the enemy, or, should the worst happen, being taken by a superior force in an attempt to do so, and he would fight them before he would strike his colours. But if he ran east and missed Hotham, leaving him blind with an enemy fleet at sea, he would very likely face censure, for it was only a meeting of capital ships that could resolve the issue of who controlled the Mediterranean.
Challenged, he would have vehemently denied that his own personal standing in the Navy had anything to do with his choice – that he craved to be known as a bold and aggressive commander, yearned to be lauded for carrying off some stroke that would make him famous – like victory in a single ship action – the acme of achievement in his chosen profession. Nor that the previous act of running from his enemies still rankled, and was still, he was sure, to be seen in the attitude of his inferior officers. It was one of the benefits of captaincy; the decision was his, and no one on his deck had the right to question it.
He turned to face a quarterdeck full of people pretending not to keep him in the corner of their vision. The only man actually looking at him directly was the surgeon, Lutyens, but he had become so accustomed to scrutiny from that quarter that he hardly noticed. As he began to issue his instructions, it was to others that Lutyens turned, whipping out one of his little notebooks, eager to record their reactions to the news that they were to sail into an area which even to a lubber like him was clearly one of danger.
‘Mr Collins, set me a course to close Toulon once more, though as far south as is consistent with the need to be able to spot their topsails once they have cleared inshore waters. Mr Glaister, I want as many bulkheads as we do not absolutely require out of the way, as well as all unnecessary furniture struck below. Make sure the gunner has enough cartridges filled for a running fight and that the small arms are ready for use with everything sharpened. I want every moment used to practise clearing for action and getting the
guns run out. The time that takes has to be shaved if we are to have any chance should it come to a contest.’
The dirt on the man’s face, streaked as it was, heightened the look in his pale blue eyes, one of eager anticipation at the prospect of action. Looking around Lutyens could see that expression was present in nearly every countenance, from common seaman to officer. He had seen it before, that keen anticipation of a contest, which seemed quite capable of ignoring the fact that it was of necessity bloody, and that in such an encounter men could die.
‘The manger, sir?’
That, after weeks at sea and a number of Emily’s dinners, was not as full as it had been. ‘It will have to stay were it is for now, but if we face action what we have left must go overboard. We cannot risk the ship for a pig and a couple of goats.’
Barclay paused for a moment, to consider the next step. ‘Mr Farmiloe, prepare the pinnace. Step a mast, and take aboard men to sail her, as well as stores and a water barrel which will hold enough for a week. That you will have to take ashore and fill as soon as the light begins to go. I leave it to you how you accomplish that. Once you have water aboard you are to hold to this station and keep a lookout for either the fleet or any ship sent ahead with despatches and orders.’
There was gloom in the boy’s positive reply, for if there was a successful action, he would miss out, and perhaps on the rewards or any glory that would accrue.
An Awkward Commission Page 9
