For all the sea state was good, there was still a swell of the kind that sent up a goodly quantity of spray and there had been rain, to guard against which he was presented, despite the warmth of the day, with his boat cloak, this so that his fine broadcloth coat, put on in anticipation of the summons like his best cocked hat, would not be streaked with salt.
The man who proffered this was his good friend and ‘servant’, Michael O’Hagan: friend because of many shared vicissitudes, servant for the very simple reason that the provision of one embarrassed the man being catered to; so much better to have someone see to his needs who was not in the least bit servile.
‘Sure, it’s the lion’s den once more, John-boy,’ Michael whispered, his mouth close to Pearce’s ear, as he placed the garment over his shoulders.
‘At least the early Christians only had to suffer it once.’
‘And were martyred for their pains,’ O’Hagan responded.
The voice, with its strong Irish accent, had taken on a sepulchral tone, for Michael O’Hagan was strong in his Roman faith and much given to crossing himself if he felt threatened. Not that such a thing happened too frequently: he was a veritable giant and a very handy fellow with his ham-like fists, so any fears tended towards the superstitious, not the human.
‘Perhaps there is a pantheon somewhere, Michael, for non-believers.’
‘There is John-boy. It’s called Hell.’
With that O’Hagan stepped away, his manner immediately becoming respectful, which he was always careful to do when others could overhear his words. ‘Will Your Honour be after requiring your sword, which I fetched from the cabin?’
‘Best not, Michael,’ Pearce replied grimly, as he was handed an oilskin pouch containing the letters he had brought from London. ‘The temptation to employ it on Old Sam would be too difficult to resist.’
Before going over the side, Pearce cast an eye over the remaining crew, busy working to secure the vessel for anchoring, which would happen once the captain of the fleet, or the lesser being to whom he delegated the task, had allotted them a spot in the deep and wide bay. If he had become caring of the whole crew of HMS Larcher, none could match the affection he felt for the men he had so recently rescued, by a clever exchange, from the grip and the ship of Captain Ralph Barclay, a man they all hated.
Charlie Taverner and Rufus Dommet, along with him and Michael O’Hagan, went collectively by the soubriquet taken from the tavern, the Pelican, out of which they had at one time been illegally pressed. With Pearce they enjoyed a shared history that surpassed that of the rest of the crew and his glance was rewarded as both men looked up from their labours to throw him a warm smile and a short wave of the kind that on some ships, and under their previous captain, might have seen them stapled to the deck or even flogged.
As was custom the pipe blew as he went over the side, which was merely a single step down, to where he took up his place in the thwarts, HMS Larcher’s cutter being cast off smartly and with what Pearce could only reckon as display, so well-timed was the strike of the oars. His men were showing the away to the whole fleet, full – to their minds – of jumped-up jackanapes who would struggle to control a bumboat.
CHAPTER TWO
More whistling greeted his arrival aboard HMS Victory, commencing as he made his way up the set of steps that led to the entry port. Coming from strong sunlight into darkness meant he could not at first see who was there to greet him, and it came as a surprise to find out it was a fellow called Furness, who, when they had previously met, had been no higher in the hierarchy of the flagship than sixth lieutenant.
That made Pearce bristle, for it implied a deliberate insult; ranked as a master and commander, he being in command of an unrated vessel, he was yet the captain of a King’s ship and deserved to be greeted by someone of higher standing than a sixth. Even if he was not prickly by nature, John Pearce had been the subject of much condescension from other naval officers in his time in the service and was wont to react badly if such a trait seemed to be on display.
Furness laid that to rest immediately: he now named himself and with some pride as the premier, which was more than fitting. He had been told who was approaching by the officer of the watch, Pearce being no stranger on a ship he had been obliged to board more times than he was happy to recall.
Yet the ceremony was not yet complete: a party of half a dozen marines stamped to attention, which obliged Pearce to rate their smartness and issue a compliment to the lieutenant in command, before Furness took him aside for a less formal greeting, which allowed Pearce, with some relief, to divest himself of his heavy cloak.
The premier was keen that he should dine in the wardroom if no other duty interfered, for this particular officer, if he was something of a thorn to the admiral, as well as a lieutenant of dubious provenance, was also a fellow with tales to tell of successful naval actions, this in a circle where the reprising of gallant deeds was the very stuff of conversation.
Then there was his luck, which was seen by many as boundless and enviable, for no man could prosper in the King’s Navy without opportunity. By both accident and design Pearce had been given a great deal of both; the members of the wardroom would wish for some of that lustre to rub off on them.
Pearce was sure there would be others in that same body that resented him, perhaps even some who harboured both emotions simultaneously, given the way he had come about his rank and the favour he had enjoyed since. Yet such was the level of good manners in a naval mess, necessary for men who spent months and sometimes years at sea in each other’s company, he would not be made aware of it.
Furness brought Pearce up to date on the progress of the campaign in the Mediterranean since the debacle at Toulon, filling in with more detail than Pearce already knew the successful subjugation of Bastia, including the fact, delivered with something of a sneer, that it had been a naval expedition; the army had been dead against it, only turning up when it was obvious Corsica’s main commercial port was about to fall.
Lord Hood had accepted the surrender before returning north, where, off the coast of Provence, he had encountered and chased the French fleet, forcing the enemy capital ships to seek safety in a Languedoc bay called Golfe Juan. There they relied on the narrow access created by a promontory and a set of offshore islands to prevent an attack.
Not so easily deterred and seeing them at single anchor, which meant deep water on their beam, Hood had attempted to sail in and get behind them on their landward side. This ploy had failed due to an alert French admiral, who had spotted the risk and moved his ships into shallower water where there was no channel at either end of his line for an enemy to sail through. They were still there, under the watchful eye of a couple of British frigates; should they emerge, Hood would immediately up anchor and seek to intercept them as they made for their home port of Toulon.
‘What of Calvi?’ Pearce enquired, for he had been told at Gibraltar of that operation.
‘Still under siege, Mr Pearce. Captain Nelson is in command of artillery, which has been provided and manned by tars. They have, I am told, loosed off some twenty thousand balls into the fortress and town. When they make a breach, General Stuart sends forward the assault troops, though Nelson makes sure his officers have the chance to take part in any endeavours.’
‘And, no doubt, he is to the fore himself.’
‘You know Nelson?’
‘Well enough to be sure that if there be shot and shell flying, that is where you will find him.’
The man’s voice, as he agreed to that opinion, failed to hide his own gloom of being at a distance from the action: every officer in the navy craved a chance to excel in battle – and if that was on land it mattered not – this to gain the kind of glory that enhanced their chances of advancement. Even for a man so well placed for eventual good fortune as Furness – flagship officers got the fastest promotion and he must be in line for the next unrated ship – it was no different.
If it was a pleasant interlude,
Pearce could not linger and he made his way to the tiny office set outside the great cabin, home to Lord Hood’s senior clerk. There was no doubting the manner in which he was viewed in that quarter; as supercilious as every admiral’s factotum tended to be, the clerk treated him with a level of disdain which no doubt reflected that of his master, swift to report that His Lordship was busy and it might be some time before he was called into the magisterial presence.
‘You may not have observed it, fellow,’ Pearce snapped, in a tone that got him a glare for this diminutive form of address, ‘but someone else will. I am sailing under an Admiralty pennant, which means the despatches I am carrying are of a superior importance to that which is normal, and, I would add, they come from William Pitt himself.’
A momentary pause was taken to allow that name to sink in.
‘If Lord Hood would not keep the King’s First Minister waiting, it would ill behove him to do that to his chosen messenger. So, if Sam Almighty does not know who is here, please be so good as to tell him and also to pass on what I carry and from whom.’
Personal feelings of dignity required a decent pause before the injunction was acceded to, just to show that it was a considered response, not a reaction to an instruction. ‘I will tell His Lordship you are waiting.’
‘Thank you, my man,’ Pearce replied, happy to see that the words and the haughty way they were imparted made the clerk actually wince.
‘What damned sewer is it, Pearce, that throws you up with such regularity? I cannot but believe a bad penny would be disgraced in your presence.’
‘As I recall it, Milord, the sewer you mention is the one much troubled by rats festooned in gold braid.’
Rear-Admiral Sir William Parker, the captain of the fleet and Hood’s executive officer, standing at his superior’s seated shoulder, had been brought to a grin at Lord Hood’s welcoming words. The response Pearce gave soon wiped that away and he countered with a bark.
‘I see that absence has not taught you respect!’
‘I think I have pointed out, Admiral Parker, in this cabin and more than once, that respect is not something I am inclined to grant automatically merely to ingratiate myself with someone of rank.’
‘Pearce,’ Hood sighed, ‘you have no idea how I long for the powers of an ancient tyrant, for it would give me great pleasure to still that loose tongue of yours by dragging it from your mouth with hot pincers.’
A hand came out to take the oilskin pouch, one with prominent bones and several large brown spots on the back. ‘Now, what is it you have for me, given I long to see your back?’
‘It is a letter I am instructed to say is for your eyes only.’
That made Hood visibly stiffen: it took no genius to work out that if it was not a normal set of instructions and was highly personal it was unlikely to be welcome in its contents. Hood stood and took the pouch over to the line of casements that made up the rear of his cabin, where the light was strongest. Still with his back to both Pearce and Parker he extracted Pitt’s letter and broke the seal, speaking as he did so.
‘You will oblige me, Lieutenant, by passing on to your crew, most particularly those who handled your cutter, my appreciation of their conduct. The vessel was anchored in fine style and the rowers were smart and efficient. I can only assume you have aboard your vessel someone who knows how to train a crew and sail a ship.’
‘I would not claim to take credit for their level of ability,’ Pearce replied, seeking to keep the surprise out of his voice; had the old sod really been watching and rating the men he led?
The fact that Hood was reading imposed silence by the mere act and looking at him, silhouetted against the sunlight streaming through the casements, Pearce was aware that he seemed somewhat shrunken from the man he recalled, or was it just that he had stooped to read, whereas he was normally studiously erect.
Still reading Hood turned and made his way slowly to the table from which he had risen, to resume his seat, and that allowed Pearce to look at him closely without being observed, which led him to conclude Old Sam was far from well. There was no doubt that his facial features, always sharp and with such a prominent nose and penetrating eyes, naturally commanding, were less fleshy than he recalled.
The cheeks were hollow now instead of full, and even his bushy eyebrows, another outstanding feature, seemed straggly, yet given his responsibilities that should not come as a surprise. Even if he had never spent an extended time at sea, it was no mystery to Pearce that commanding a fleet on a distant station had to be a debilitating experience, quite apart from the sheer exhaustion of being constantly aboard ship.
Sam Hood had been afloat for more than year without the respite of going ashore for more than one day at a time. His old legs had been obliged to cope throughout with a floor that was never still and sometimes, even on such a leviathan as HMS Victory, might rise and fall through twenty or more feet in stormy conditions, and that took no account of the permanent cant in the deck. Added to the sheer physical burden of such a life on a man of his seventy years, there were the responsibilities he bore to wear him down even further.
An admiral on station lived on a knife-edge of employment, where one move seen as false could engineer a swift downfall; that Pearce found Hood something of a bully did not in any way detract from the fact that he had a sneaking admiration for Old Sam’s manifest abilities as a commander, he being a man who had a deft touch when it came to handling allies, as well as the various potentates that had to be dealt with and kept neutral.
To all extents and purposes the C-in-C Mediterranean was the British Government in the inland sea. There was no time, when decisions had to be made, to refer back to his political masters; events had to be dealt with by the man on the spot, well aware that whatever he did could so easily be seen as folly by London. Even his present moves might be questioned and seen as far from correct by the politicians who rarely, if ever, had any real knowledge of conditions in the fighting arena.
Pearce was aware from previous contact with Old Sam that his actions in Corsica had been engendered by two pressing demands: the first being for a safe anchorage from which he could intercept the French Fleet should it emerge from Toulon – a worth already proven – the second to secure for King George possession of an island that had voluntarily sought the protection of the British Crown. Hence, since the Corsicans held the interior, the need to take the two most important and garrisoned coastal towns.
The latest assault had lasted for a month now, yet there had been little surprise, given the memory he had of the place, that Calvi was taking time to subdue. The town was set in a yawning and inviting inlet he had once, under the command of a less than adroit captain, sailed into, their sloop very nearly coming a cropper from the well-aimed cannon of the French defenders. The ship found itself under fire from heavy ordnance to which it was impossible, in a lightly armed vessel, to reply.
Not that a hundred gunner would have fared any better than a sloop; the bay commanded by those guns lacked the kind of deep water that would allow bombardment from the sea by the capital ships, depth of keel being confined to a narrow channel right by the inland cliffs. It was blessed with a very strong citadel sat on a high promontory above the fortified city, with only one flat avenue of approach by land, and thus had to be a hard nut to crack.
From what Furness had told him, the siege was entirely land based, with several batteries of naval cannon being hauled ashore and set up to pound the walls from the surrounding heights, which had humbugged the defenders, who thought such a thing impossible. The premier was of the opinion that if it was progressing slowly, given the amount of shot expended, matters there should be approaching the point of some conclusion.
Finished reading, Hood put the letter on the table, sunk down and sat back in his padded captain’s chair, his face rigid and thoughtful. ‘Do you know the contents of this communication, Pearce?’
‘No, sir, I do not.’
‘D’ye hear that, Parker, the fellow gave me
the courtesy of a “sir”.’
‘Not before time, milord.’
‘You’d best peruse this, Parker, given it will likely affect you as well.’
‘My instructions were quite specific, milord, in terms of who was to read it.’
‘Never mind, Pearce, I will tell Billy Pitt that you allowed me to disobey them.’ The admiral took a deep breath, which coincided with a frown from Parker as he began to read. ‘Was anyone else present when you took possession of that?’
‘Henry Dundas was there.’
‘Ah yes, the arch manipulator himself. Minister of War be damned, he’s minister of wherever he chooses to poke his finger into. I wonder, Parker, how much of what that implies stems from that damned Scotsman, may God strike down them all?’
Pearce stiffened involuntarily; if not a rabid Scot he was enough of one to see offence in any insult to the entire race. About to check the admiral he bit his tongue; to speak would increase the level of insults, not diminish them, and that was when he was sure he saw a twinkle in the old sod’s eyes. This was a man who knew his antecedents only too well.
‘There is no more than a recommendation in this, milord,’ Parker said, vigorously waving the letter.
‘I believe you will know the expression “a nod is as good as a wink”.’
‘If you have no further need for me, milord, I would wish to be on my way.’
‘On your way, Pearce! To where?’
‘Back to England, of course.’
‘I do not think so.’
‘I am sailing under an Admiralty pennant, milord, and I hardly need to explain to someone of your rank what that means. No one can give me orders once I am at sea.’
‘If you were to read that letter, Pearce, which you will not be privileged to do, you would see a superscription at the bottom, I suspect in Dundas’s own hand since it does not match the rest, which tells me quite plainly that once it is delivered your mission is over. As soon as you are back aboard that armed cutter you must strike that blue flag and hoist the one under which you will serve, namely mine – at least, that is, for the moment.’
A Divided Command Page 2
