The Devil to Pay (John Pearce series)

by David Donachie

  ‘Sir, you cannot resolve this problem without taking out of circulation the man who stands as a threat to you. To act otherwise leaves loose ends, does it not?’

  That was allowed to sink in; there was no need to elaborate on whom constituted the most dangerous loose end.

  ‘Will it work?’ Hotham enquired, like a man who had yet to grasp all the essentials.

  ‘There are still elements I have not yet fathomed. Should you agree to what I am saying, sir, and accept the main conclusion of my argument as correct, there is only one fact that you may find hard to swallow?’

  ‘And what, Toomey would that be?’ came the less than sanguine reply, accompanied by a direct look; the notion of unpleasant swallowing was not one Hotham cared for.

  ‘Lieutenant Pearce must have a court martial?’

  ‘He lost a vessel of His Majesty’s Navy, of course he must, man.’

  Toomey let the irritation pass over him; it mattered not that he had stated the obvious. ‘For the plan I have just outlined to work, sir—’

  ‘Get to the point, Toomey!’

  ‘At his court martial, Lieutenant Pearce must not only be cleared of any wrongdoing, he may have to be praised to the skies for both his bravery and application.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘It is, sir, as I see it, the only way.’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Toby Burns stood on the deck of the transport vessel Tarvit idly surveying the anchorage and the fleet. If he had expected to feel different there was no evidence of it. The arrival of several boats bearing sailors was only of mild interest; they were noisy it was true but only in passing and he would see no more of them, the accommodation for officers being well separated from both the area set aside to function as a hospital and that space allocated to house officers; given he was at present, the only occupant, it was commodious indeed.

  Tarvit had its own blue coats, who also had their own quarters and to Burns these men had a slightly enviable life; transports were much more relaxed than a frigate, ten times more so than a ship of the line. True they had cannon but they were few and the crew they carried were sufficient to defend the ship against anything but an enemy warship. There was none of the bustle and exactness that characterised a man o’ war, which to the likes of him made life fraught with too many possibilities for error while battle was something to be avoided not sought out. Perhaps he should aim for a place on one.

  This reverie was disturbed by a set of floating cries echoing across the bay, this from the lookouts set on every warship as a matter of course – there were none on the transports, their shouts followed by quarterdecks suddenly becoming busy. The thought that it might be an enemy was quickly dismissed as risible; the French capital ships were tucked up safe in Toulon and no lesser vessel would enter the British fleet anchorage unless they were contemplating suicide.

  Time, as ever, stood still which had Toby reflecting on the stupidity of the air of excitement that always attended a sighting, usually dissipated over hours as what could be seen from the tops eventually came in view from the deck and was only very rarely anything other than a let-down. This was no different; indeed he had time to go below and order coffee from the wardroom steward, drink it slowly and think of many other matters before his return to the deck and the sight of a seventy-four beating up on a contrary wind.

  Her name was a mystery to him and would have been even if he had sighted her previously – Burns had little interest in ships – but every other deck would have folk identifying her by the great bosom of the figurehead that decorated her bowsprit, every one of which was singular in design. Besides that every vessel had its distinctive features for if seventy-fours were built to a standard it was in their ability to give battle, not in common construction. Within two cables’ lengths of HMS Britannia the guns began to echo as salutes were exchanged, followed by the signal that even Toby Burns new being raised, telling the captain to repair aboard the flag.

  John Pearce was still waiting for his interview so he joined the rest of the wardroom to witness this new arrival, vaguely aware that he had seen her lines before yet, had anyone enquired of him he would not have been able to provide a name. Since no one else on Britannia could identify her it was assumed she was new, making her an object of envy for men who sailed in vessels with hulls made loose from years of service.

  ‘I know that Admiral Hotham has an expectation of being joined by HMS Semele. Fresh off the stocks as we suspect but I’m damned if I know who has her?’

  That declaration from Captain Holloway caused an unpleasant shiver to run through the Pearce body. If it was HMS Semele and if nothing had changed he had good cause; the notion of Ralph Barclay, as well as some other bodies from past problems, being in the same theatre as he was a very unwelcome one. It would have cheered him a little to know that William Hotham felt the same, at least about Barclay, given the timing of his arrival was not going to be fortuitous.

  Charlie Taverner and Rufus Dommet, stood on the forepeak of Tarvit were close to cursing. The seventy-four was no stranger to them; they had served on her until John Pearce managed to get them off and they had no fond memory of the experience or of the man who had commanded her, while an unwelcome thought could not do other than surface; right now they were hands without a home and the possibility existed that they might find themselves shipped into this new arrival. What they did not know was the nature of the men for whom they had been swapped. Michael O’Hagan, standing with them, had an inkling of possible future problems but felt it best to say nothing.

  It was not cowardice that had Pearce make for the now empty wardroom but the need to think and his conclusion, once he had calmed himself, was that his only real concern lay with Ralph Barclay. The men he had arranged should be swapped for Charlie and Rufus were members of a smuggling gang led by two brothers called Tolland, villains with whom he had inadvertently become involved because they saw him as the man who stole their illegal cargo. He was also the man who, after a failed attempt at murderous retribution, saw a round eight of them pressed into the navy for which they would be even less forgiving.

  Four he knew would be in Semele including one of the Tolland brothers, for he had arranged that they be swapped from a receiving hulk for his two Pelicans. Being innocent of the primary charge they held against him meant little but so too did their possible presence; as pressed seamen they would be confined to the vessel, even in port, and there was no chance at all of his being invited aboard Ralph Barclay’s ship. Even if they sighted him and that was unlikely, they could scarce harm him, though he had no doubt should the occasion arise they would seek to do so.

  There and then he decided to avoid Barclay too, not from fear of a man who had already declined his invitation to meet over any weapon he chose, but just to maintain the peace. He was in enough trouble for the loss of Larcher without adding to it by becoming a pariah with every officer on the fleet for his private affairs, some of whom would make up the judges in his court martial. Barclay would hear of his presence, there was no avoiding that and should they come face to face John Pearce was not the man to duck such an encounter. Yet for the sake of Emily it was best they stayed apart.

  The arrival of Barclay aboard the flagship reverberated through the wardroom bulkhead, as whistles blew and marines stamped their boots. Holloway would be there to greet a man well ahead on the captain’s list, as would be most of his officers. They had no reason to mention his presence so he began to feel more relaxed; that was until the realisation dawned that Hotham could, without consultation with anyone, make Barclay the man who would head his panel of judges. If that happened he might as well resign his commission and forgo the pay that went with it.

  The noise died away and the wardroom refilled as the men off duty who had been curious filtered back into their communal space, full of talk, much of it about Barclay, known from past service to several, not least from Toulon where he had lost his arm in what was seen as an action to admire. He had also taken sever
al prizes since the outbreak of war and that was an occasion for barely disguised envy. Though each speaker had a care how he expressed an opinion, that being the naval way, it was not hard to detect that Barclay was not much loved, with the word ‘taut’ being employed more than once, added to allusions to his temper being one that carried a short fuse.

  It was telling to Pearce that no one asked him: if he was a guest of the flagship wardroom, he was not a wholly esteemed one. The men who berthed here knew of his name and reputation too, knew of the fluke – as they would no doubt term it – by which he had achieved his present rank as well as the opportunities Pearce had previously been afforded by Lord Hood, missions that, given everyone was highly ambitious, could only cause professional jealousy.

  The behaviour here was in stark contrast to the attitude he had encountered in the wardroom of HMS Victory. There initial reserve had melted in the face of a need to be appraised of the Pearce good fortune, though it was a tenet that any such berth took its cue from the attitude of the resident premier. Aboard Victory that particular officer had held no grudge against him and his inferiors had followed his outlook; here the man was polite but rigidly so.

  It might be to do with his father. Anyone who knew of his antecedents would be quick to alert the rest that they were hosting a dangerous radical, not a species much loved in a naval mess. Yet they would never openly allude to it: mutual politeness was an essential component of wardroom life in which some commissions lasted years, few were less than several months.

  Obliged to live hugger mugger with men you did not like and others whose habits – flute playing or constant singing, indifferent manners, loud opinions combined with very obvious personal faults – could drive another fellow mad with irritation. But that must never be allowed to surface if any kind of harmony was to be maintained. Again the resident premier set the tone and enforced the standards, his rule of the wardroom absolute.

  Pearce decided to beard the present holder, knocking on the door of his tiny cabin, which if it contained a hefty cannon, at least had its own access to light as well as a private privy. On entry Pearce was greeted with a sour look, which obliged him to apologise for the disturbance.

  ‘Given the arrival of this Captain Barclay, sir, and his presence in the great cabin, I wonder if the admiral will find time to see me today?’

  ‘It is possible he will not, Mr Pearce.’

  ‘I am concerned to ensure that my men are being well cared for.’

  The look on the premier’s face then was telling; it indicated that he thought that an exaggeration if not downright false. But good manners obliged him to meet what was a reasonable request from a fellow officer. It had to be dealt with however low he was held in personal esteem.

  ‘You may send a wardroom steward to enquire of Mr Toomey, if he is available.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘I assume,’ the premier said as Pearce made to depart, ‘that should you be answered in the affirmative you will depart for Tarvit.’

  There was a terrible temptation then to say no, just to annoy the sod but it was not worth it.

  Toomey was in his usual place, his tiny workplace just outside the great cabin, examining the logs of HMS Semele and wondering what this sudden and to his mind unwelcome arrival was going to do to the plan he had begun to hatch, for Barclay was not going to take kindly to any apparent favour being advanced to John Pearce. Behind the bulkhead Sir William Hotham, who had emitted a whole stream of damnations on being told what vessel was in the offing, was also somewhat ill at ease, hardly surprising given the knowledge he had regarding the man’s errant wife.

  He had welcomed Barclay, as he must with apparent enthusiasm, as a fine addition to his command and shared with him, albeit in circumspect language over a glass of claret, some a mutual condemnation of Sam Hood and his tenure of command, really a low opinion of his actions regarding the Royalist French takeover of Toulon and his support for it. At much at a loss as his clerk on what this appearance portended Hotham was saved from having to think too hard on it by Barclay’s account of his part in the Battle of the Glorious First of June as well as his troubles with the commanding admiral in the Channel, Lord Howe.

  Traducing one admiral to another was fairly safe territory given their endemic rivalry. Post captains were not so very different, indeed it was said that if you sought to roast one of either rank on a spit there would be no trouble in finding another to do the turning. Hotham nodded sagely as his visitor outlined the way he suspected Howe had been humbugged by his French counterpart, drawn into a battle with the capital ships instead of doing what was demanded by the situation; stopping a convoy full of American grain getting to the shores of a France close to starvation. If it gained him glory and a great deal of money it had turned out to be a strategic error.

  ‘It is not a ploy for which you would have fallen, Sir William.’ That piece of inaccurate flattery was greeted with full and ponderous agreement. ‘I have no doubt you would have seen it for what it was.’

  ‘Fellow’s too old, of course. I’m told he has to have a chair on the quarterdeck these days.’

  ‘And not all there in the head, sir, as well as a man to see chimeras, Lord Howe had the damned temerity to accuse myself and a quartet of other fine officers of being tardy in our reaction to his orders.’ Barclay allowed that to sink in before adding. ‘It was, of course, Curtis who was the cause, he who sought to do us down.’

  ‘Yet here you are, Barclay?’ Hotham responded, clearly curious and somewhat suspicious.

  Hotham knew very well how the Admiralty worked; if Sir Roger Curtis, a Rear Admiral and the Captain of the Channel Fleet, had put this man under a cloud he would not have done so without the cognisance of Lord Howe. There was man with a great deal of influence both at court and in the corridors of Whitehall, he being the King’s favourite admiral and a rumoured blood relative, albeit on the wrong side of the blanket. How come Barclay had been sent out to serve under him again in what was, by any standard, an area of operations were the chances of success were high? Up against Black Dick Howe he was lucky not to be on the beach.

  ‘I had the means, sir, to prove them both wrong and such was the information I held on the causes of the battle that my request for the Mediterranean was met with swift approval.’

  Hotham mulled over the explanation before responding, followed by a moment when both men looked at each other enquiringly, the admiral letting Barclay know when he did speak that his appreciation of the workings of authority was acute; Hotham was a politico as much as a sailor.

  ‘To avoid embarrassment, perhaps?’

  ‘Precisely, sir.’

  ‘Two admirals outmanoeuvred, Barclay,’ his host said after a lengthy silence. ‘I hope you have not come to pull the same trick on a third?’

  That threw Ralph Barclay. He was committed to Hotham’s flag, his future depended on it. Why had the sod said something like that? He could not know, and was not about to be enlightened, that it had to do with the plan he and Toomey had for John Pearce, a pitch that Barclay could queer even if his action was inadvertent. Right now Sir William Hotham was thinking of how to deal with such an eventuality.

  ‘You are a lucky officer, Captain Barclay.’

  The reply was guarded. ‘I have been fortunate yes, sir.’

  The admiral, who was thinking the man was quite the opposite when it came to marriage, smiled as he stood up, a sure sign the Barclay visit was at an end yet it was not an expression full of warmth.

  ‘Then I see it as my duty to ensure that such good fortune continues. You will of course dine with me this afternoon and I will invite several of those who are of like mind to us. They will be eager to hear of the Glorious First.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. If I may I will return to my ship.’

  ‘Then I would take it as an honour if you allow me to accompany you to the entry port.’

  Barclay swelled then; whatever questions had been raised by Hotham’s strange remark evapor
ated; the man who would do that did not lack for esteem for his visitor. Everyone stood to attention and to one side as they made their way to the entry port and Barclay was sent down the gangplank to his barge with a wave. On the way back Hotham signalled to Toomey to come into the cabin where he was informed of Pearce’s request, to which the clerk had declined to accede.

  ‘At present Mr Burns is accommodated there. I cannot see it as advantageous that they should meet.’

  ‘A word to Captain Holloway. No mention of Pearce by anyone.’

  ‘Captain Barclay is off the ship, sir.’

  ‘But he is coming back, man. How could I not invite him to dine with me and so must Holloway?’ Toomey nodded, knowing both to be a common courtesy ‘The question is what are we to do with him following on from today?’

  ‘A cruise would get him out of the way?’

  ‘And how would that play with other captains who have been loyal to me when Hood was in command and have been here for near a year? A new fellow turns up, flush with prize money already and is immediately favoured?’

  ‘Then there is only one other way to deal with the problem, sir, and that is to take Captain Barclay into our confidence.’

  ‘And give him more by which to sink me!’ Hotham spat. ‘Had you been present earlier and heard what he had to say about certain of my fellow flag officers you might suspect, as I do, that Captain Barclay will, in any situation in which he feels threatened, become a most slippery article.’

  ‘He is committed to you, Sir William, and at greater jeopardy than you could ever be should any inconvenient facts come to light. He cannot be a threat to you but he may act as an ally.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I would need to ponder on that, sir, and I will do so. But recall that he hates Pearce with a passion and given the information I gleaned from Leghorn it is not only in the article of illegal impressments. What about his wife?’