‘Mr Conway, are you bandaged and fit for duty?’
‘I am, sir.’
‘Then to you falls the task of guarding that path our enemies used to make their escape. I want to know well in advance if any of their fellows are coming to take back this battery. Do you feel able to carry that out?’
The affirmative had Pearce detail two men to go with him, with instructions to pass no forks for fear that if they went too far over the crest of Monte Boroni they would risk losing the route back. Another pair were despatched back down the way they had come, to carry to Mr Grey information of what to expect so he would not be alarmed.
He then set everyone searching for spikes. The French might have them, even if that was unlikely – what gunner keeps with him the means to disable his own weapons? As this was happening, he and his Pelicans sought out the powder store, something never placed too close to the guns for fear of an explosion.
They found it behind that dun-coloured tent, barrels covered in tarred canvas to keep out the rain and ample in quantity. Pearce ordered these to be taken to the rampart while he searched the tent of what had undoubtedly been an officer, the hung-up captain’s uniform coat and good breeches, set above a pair of high-polished boots, turning supposition to fact.
The hurriedly vacated cot was naturally a mess, but the small travelling desk in polished brass-bound oak, set on a trestle, had upon it a quill, ink and papers in a tidy heap. These were folded and stuffed in Pearce’s pocket along with a decent-looking watch. The desk drawer yielded a small purse that jingled with coin, while at the very rear there was a large basket-covered flagon of cognac.
He decided, uplifting as it might be, brandy was an artefact too risky to hand over to a company of tars, men who could never resist a free wet nor control their consumption. It would be unlikely to get back to the ship, and how would his men behave full of drink? He grabbed the uniform, holding the jacket to his own body to note that it was much of a size to his own. Those and the boots were taken out and given over to the care of Rufus Dommet, who jested he would be happy to wear them.
‘Well, you can ply a gun, Rufus,’ Pearce responded, ‘for we have done it together, so happen you would suit being a captain of artillery.’
‘Is that like bein’ a ship’s captain, John?’ he asked, softly enough for the familiarity not to be overheard.
‘Never fear, or I would rip it off you,’ came the laughing response. ‘What, have you giving me orders?’
‘Now that, I will say, would be pleasing.’
‘For you, happen.’
The conversation had got them back to the ramparts, where the powder barrels were now being stacked in a heap directly on top of it. Michael had found some slow match, so now it was a case of getting the barrels of the cannon set over the powder, then running a line of match back to the still-glowing embers of the nearest campfire.
Conway, holding his wounded arm as he ran, along with the men sent with him to watch the path over Monte Boroni, came scudding into the clearing to report the line of torches making their way over the crest and coming their way. To ask such a youngster for an appreciation of the time available was a lot, but it had to be put to him.
‘Not half an hour, sir, and I would reckon that is enough to get us to the boats.’
‘Do I have time to make an appreciation?’
‘You do, sir.’
‘Then come and show what you have observed.’ Pearce turned to Michael O’Hagan. ‘I want all ready to fire before I get back, Michael. Cluster the cannon and pack the barrels round, with one broached.’
‘Sure, I know what to do.’
‘Then I leave you in command.’
‘Will you be wanting this jacket, Michael?’ called Rufus, holding up the officer’s bottle-green artilleryman’s coat. ‘You being elevated, an’ all?’
‘You’ll get an elevation of my boot if you show less care, Rufus,’ Michael replied, but with no real malice.
Pearce heard only the former part of the exchange; he was jogging down the path with shirt-sleeved and bandaged Conway on his heels, the occasional sound of pain from the lad something he had to ignore. It took little time at all to reach a point where the approaching line of torches became visible, nor was it difficult to note the length of the column, the last of them yet to cross the peak and thus formidable in numbers, while to stand still and calculate their pace took several deep breaths.
‘Sir, I have lost all feeling in my right hand.’
‘That is the tourniquet, Mr Conway, best left in place till we are back aboard ship, which I must tell you is becoming a pressing matter. I reckon we have less time than you estimated to make our escape. I will be running, young sir, and you must keep up with me. Pain cannot be allowed to intrude.’
‘I will not fail you, sir.’
‘Never thought you would,’ Pearce replied, already moving, words he hoped would lift Conway’s spirits.
The work he had asked for was not quite complete, with Pearce quick to reckon that half a loaf was the best he could hope for, so he sent everyone but Michael away with orders to move fast for the boats, with the midshipmen to lead.
‘I want them in the water too, Mr Conway. Tell Mr Grey of the numbers coming and that there will likely be no time for musketry.’
As soon as they were gone, Pearce cut the line of slow match in half, which got him a query from Michael O’Hagan, who had a strong belief in his maker, but no desire to meet with him.
‘When that goes up, John-boy, there’s going to be a rate of metal and wood in the air.’
Pearce had used the tongs for heated shot to fetch a smoking log from the fire and was standing over the newly cut end. ‘If we leave the whole length, those coming at a run will get here before it blows.’
Michael crossed himself again. ‘Then best set that burning wood to it and get on our way.’
Pearce dropped the wood, and the slow match, highly flammable, began to fizz immediately. He and O’Hagan were by that time running as fast as their legs would carry them. It helped they were heading downhill and, since they were out of sight, they did not see the first of the pursuit gingerly making their way into the clearing. Nor did they see the fellow to the fore spotting the hissing slow match and making a move to extinguish it, one that did not last the distance. He realised he was going to fail and turned, ran and yelled for those who had been to his rear to do likewise.
Pearce and Michael O’Hagan were some two hundred yards distant when those twenty barrels of powder went up, sending a huge orange ball into the night sky, with it a mass of splinters from the rampart, the wheels of the guns, as well as all the metal parts that held everything in place, the cannon being thrown forward by the blast to roll downwards towards the seashore, the wooden rampart to restrain them no longer whole.
The blast hit both running men in the back to send them tumbling onto their faces, sliding along the dry ground until they came to halt with heads covered, this as debris rained all around. There they stayed until it stopped.
‘Are you whole, Michael?’ Pearce called, hauling himself to his feet and feeling pain in various places.
‘Damn the Devil, I will not know that until I can stop and check.’
‘Blasphemy,’ Pearce panted, ‘you must be in one piece.’
They recommenced their flight, unaware of the lack of need. Being either close to the explosion or on a higher elevation, surrounded by trees smashed into splinters, those in pursuit had been more a victim of the blast and the subsequent debris than the men who had set it to blow.
When they got to the beach they found the boats afloat but Grey and his marines still on the sand, for which Pearce could be nothing but grateful. It was not long before all were aboard and they could haul off. Sat in the thwarts, he realised the sky to the east, above the low-lying eastern arm of the bay, was beginning to show a glim of daylight. Digby’s orders could go hang; there was no time left to carry them out.
‘Steer for HMS Flirt, if
you please, Mr Conway, where I daresay after our exploits we may well be justified in demanding an extra tot of rum.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
What had occurred on the slopes of Monte Boroni was no mystery aboard HMS Flirt. It had been visible out at sea; initially only those on deck but soon the whole crew, many woken by the sound of the huge blast, were there to observe. If they had failed to see the actual explosion, there was enough evidence in the burning wood of the rampart and the surrounding forest creating an orange glow that stood as testimony – to what?
Speculation was, of course, rife, but few of the men who had sailed for so long with John Pearce doubted his hand was in it up to the elbow, talk that ceased when Henry Digby appeared on deck. He stood looking towards the shore for a whole minute before he spoke in a voice utterly lacking in passion.
‘Mr Dorling, I require the ship’s lanterns to be uncovered. Once we have set a course to close with the Bay of Villafranca the deck is to be cleared of this gawping. The men not now on watch are to be sent below to their hammocks.’
‘Sir,’ Dorling replied, noting that while everyone else was still looking towards the shore, Henry Digby had ceased to.
‘Once the shore party is back on board, shape a course for Vado Bay.’
The order rang out to trim the sails as the man on the wheel spun the rudder, bringing the brig round till the prow seemed to be aimed at the heart of the blaze. That complete, Digby returned to his cabin, well aware that his injunction that those off watch should sleep had little chance of being complied with. After all, his order to his premier had obviously not been obeyed, so why should anyone else bother?
To sit and stare at his desk solved nothing, but he had little inclination to do otherwise as he ruminated, and not for the first time, on his relationship with John Pearce. The words the man had used to castigate him as HMS Flirt lay anchored in San Fiorenzo Bay, to condemn him as both an ingrate and a hypocrite, were all too easy to recall, and since Pearce had elected to come back aboard, despite his declaration he would not, his presence had been a constant reminder of the nature of the dispute.
Digby had been in a weakened state when he promised to support Pearce against Sir William Hotham and Ralph Barclay. Recovery and reflection on the consequences had altered his thinking. Why could Pearce not see that any attempt to bring down a vice admiral and a serving fleet commander was doomed to failure? The Admiralty would move heaven and earth to protect Hotham in order to keep pure the reputation of the navy. And who were they but a pair of lowly lieutenants.
It was just another example of the lack of understanding Pearce had about the arm in which he served, all, no doubt, due to the way he had entered the service and the unwarranted and far too early elevation in rank he had enjoyed. Added to that, of course, was his background as the son of a radical orator and pamphleteer. If he was not quite as rabid as his sire, some of the old man’s views must have rubbed off to make him contentious by nature.
How different his own life had been. Digby had entered as a midshipman aged twelve and had risen to his present position through dint of hard work, application and, he was forced to admit, a bit of luck to be serving in a theatre where the shortage of everything, officers included, was acute. It had taken him sixteen years to get to his present position and in that time he had become steeped in the traditions of the service and that extended to how you dealt with superiors.
He had experienced the usual victimisation meted out to new arrivals in a midshipman’s berth, had his possessions stolen from his sea chest, been the butt of practical jokes, some humorous, many not, and had survived bullying until he rose high enough in the gunroom hierarchy to be the one who could mete it out, not that he was that way inclined.
Passed for lieutenant, he found himself serving on HMS Brilliant under Ralph Barclay, a far from pleasant captain, and if John Pearce had been a rather distant figure on the frigate, a mere pressed and common seaman who was struggling to learn the ropes of life in the navy, it seemed to Digby his life had intertwined with the man ever since. The Bay of Biscay, the Gulf of Ambracia had both been successes, yet what might have been a blessing had turned into a curse.
Pearce was as much taken by the exploits of his raiding party as anyone on the ship to which he was seeking to return. Increasing daylight slowly muted the orange glow on the slopes behind them; now it was billowing black clouds of smoke that poured skywards with the redness of the fires barely visible at the base. At this time of year, before the autumn rains, which were now overdue, the forest timbers were bone dry so the explosion had started a conflagration that would be hard to extinguish and one that might well consume a great deal of the forest covering the mountain. On an east wind, if one were to spring up strongly enough, it might threaten Nice.
He wondered then about all those Frenchmen who had been on their way to reverse his capture of the battery; were they caught up in it or had they managed to run away to escape the flames? The lack of wind might save them, a true forest fire requiring a robust blow to be really deadly. He found himself, somewhat hypocritically, hoping for their safety.
‘HMS Flirt closing fast, your honour.’
Pearce spun round to look out to sea and the dun-coloured canvas of the brig’s sails, wondering how Digby would take what had been achieved. Would he be fool enough to insist that his orders should have been obeyed to the letter in the face of what was before his eyes? However he reacted, Pearce was ready to dispute with him, for it would be a poltroon indeed who observed such a result and quibbled.
The men in the boat had filthy faces and dust-covered clothing, while Conway – still in only a shirt, with the bloodied sleeve and his hair awry, his midshipman’s short coat, with the cut-open sleeve across his lap – looked as if he had been dragged through a hedge backwards. This had Pearce examine his own coat, an old working garment, seeing it was streaked enough to make him wonder at his whole appearance, while the breeches were black at the knees. Would the captain allow him to wash and change prior to making his report? Could he have a dip in the sea, something he had not been able to enjoy for many a week, given Digby disapproved?
‘Damn him!’ Pearce exclaimed, and seeing they were close to the brig, he began to strip, kicking off his shoes and throwing his clothing to Michael O’Hagan until he was down to the buff.
‘Not much there to trouble his lady,’ was the comment of one sailor, but not until John Pearce had dived over the side.
‘His lady is the trouble,’ commented another, proof that his affairs were common knowledge. ‘Too damn pretty, that’s what, an’ the size of his tackle matters not when she is so sweet on ’im.’
‘It does not please me to hear you talk of her or Mr Pearce in that fashion.’
No one chose to catch Michael O’Hagan’s eye then; the Irishman was no bully, but they knew how he would act in the face of anything he saw as an insult to the man he served, that multiplied by ten if Emily Barclay was slighted.
‘Belay that talking,’ Conway croaked, which was obeyed, more as a way to ease the atmosphere than any acknowledgement of authority.
Pearce was swimming alongside, just out of the arc of the dipping oars – those plied easy as he had ordered, there being no rush to get back aboard – feeling refreshed by the immersion and the chill of the offshore waters. He lay back, arms outstretched as the boats came alongside the brig, his men greeted with so many questions about their exploits it was doubtful if anyone got a satisfactory answer.
Michael, carrying the discarded garments, got aboard quickly and went below to fetch a towel, this flapped over the side to indicate that Pearce could come aboard. The man he was waiting to dry was taken by the fact that Digby was not on deck, which was a clear affront about which he could do nothing. He swam to the side and, grabbing the man ropes, hauled himself aboard, dripping seawater, until Michael covered his nakedness.
‘Mr Conway, to Mr Bellam immediately and get that arm looked at. It requires to be bathed in hot water and the
cook will have that in his coppers. He is also a dab hand with needle and thread if it requires to be stitched. On reflection, you may wish to take a swim, for seawater is said to be efficacious for wounds.’
The midshipman looked at him with horror; he, like many of his ilk, saw water of any kind, fresh or salty, as mortal to his health.
‘Mr Grey,’ he said, as the marine came aboard, his uniform and appearance pristine. ‘You have suffered from grime less than I. My compliments to the captain and please tell him I will attend upon him as soon as I am dressed, if it is convenient.’
That too engendered a look tinged with dismay; Grey was equally aware that Digby should have welcomed them aboard, while it had ever been obvious he was as reluctant to interfere in their dispute. There was, however, no choice, unless he required John Pearce to issue a direct order, one that would be embarrassing before the whole crew.
‘Sir,’ came the reply, emphasised by a frown to let Pearce know of his disinclination.
‘Mr Dorling, do you have anything requiring to be reported?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Then I ask you to continue on deck until I have seen the captain. Do you have instructions?’
‘I do, sir, to set a course for Vado Bay.’
‘Then carry on, but I would wish the men I took ashore with me to be fed, provided with a tot of rum, and then stood down for a full watch.’
Michael O’Hagan had disappeared while these exchanges were taking place, to reappear with another towel and a bucket of fresh water, plentiful given the ship was acting off a river-fed coast. He tipped this over Pearce’s head to wash the salt off his hair and body, leaving a huge puddle around his feet.
‘Forgive me for adding to your work, lads,’ was the hearty shout as he went below.
A Treacherous Coast Page 8
