Behind him mops were produced – they had been fetched in anticipation, this being no strange ritual with the premier – and the deck was swabbed before being flogged dry with cloths. Throughout, many a glance was thrown at the now distant shore and the still-swelling clouds of smoke, now high in the morning sky.
‘I am thinking red rags and bulls, John-boy,’ was the comment made as soon as the canvas screen was pulled shut.
‘Ask yourself who is waving it, Michael, for it is not I.’
‘First you dip, when you know Mr Digby thinks it unseemly in an officer, then you shout all that jolly nonsense on the deck so he is bound to hear.’
‘I did it to bait him,’ Pearce replied, slipping on his best breeches over his smalls, this as Michael fetched a clean shirt from the sea chest. ‘And before you talk about the concerns of the crew, recall what we have just been about.’
A black stock was handed over to be tied round the neck, the hair combed in the small mirror, until Michael added, ‘A success that will wound him.’
‘Damn me, I hope so.’ Pearce said, as his blue coat was handed over. ‘Now, I suggest you look to your own needs, not mine, while I go and check on the progress of Mr Conway. To think a mid comes aboard with a wound and I doubt his captain is even aware of it.’
‘Food, John-boy.’
Pearce picked up a pear, fresh from Leghorn, and bit into it. ‘Mr Bellam will have something for me, and you.’
He found the midshipman, stripped now of his shirt to show his pale pubescent body, with the one-legged cook bent over his arm, the men who had come with the mess pails to fetch food being attended to by Bellam’s assistant. The boy’s face was a picture as the needle entered then emerged from his skin, while he was using the chicken leg he was eating as a way of suppressing any cries of pain. Pearce too bent over to look at the long gash, now an angry red colour, as the two edges were being pulled together.
‘We are on course for Vado Bay, Mr Conway, where I suggest you request permission to go aboard HMS Agamemnon as soon as we arrive. It would be wise to have Mr Roxburgh look at your wound.’
‘Then let’s hope he appreciates my handiwork, your honour,’ Bellam said, slightly aggrieved. ‘Wound is clean and soused in vinegar.’
‘I’m sure he will, Mr Bellam, but he is a surgeon and you are not. We cannot have Mr Conway risking an arm for want of attention.’
‘Will I lose an arm, sir?’ the boy asked fearfully.
‘Not if your shirt was clean. Did you obey my instruction to don a clean one before we left the ship?’
‘I think so, sir.’
‘Which means no, Mr Conway. Always keep one garment clean and change into it whenever you go into action. The wearing of soiled clothes is to risk contamination.’
‘Mr Pearce, captain is asking after you.’
Pearce turned to acknowledge the bosun’s message. ‘Thank you, Mr Bird.’
Pearce was once more obliged to stand, head bent, to observe nothing more than the top of his captain’s head; the man would not catch his eye.
‘I asked Mr Grey for an outline of what happened, but he seemed either particularly ill-informed or reluctant to tell me. What I do know is this, sir. I lack any information on the route by which the French must be supplied, which is what I sent you to discover.’
‘You would have observed the fire, sir, perhaps even heard the explosion.’
‘I did both, and I also noted it did not emanate from the location to which I despatched you.’
‘I admit to stretching my orders, sir.’
Digby finally looked up, his tone sceptical. ‘Stretching, you call it?’
‘My appreciation of the situation differed, I think, from yours and being on the spot I acted as I thought best. We destroyed a battery that would have closed the entrance to the bay for even a fleet.’
The head was down again. ‘A singular success, then. Oblige me by producing a written account.’ Having prepared himself for an attempt at chastisement, Pearce was thrown by that calm request. All he could do was acknowledge it. ‘That will be all, Mr Pearce. You will, of course, be excused any other duties until your account is completed.’
There was a method of writing such a report, one in which any form of personal praise was anathema. By all means allude to the sterling actions of those he had led but any hint of glory hunting would be frowned upon. The way he had ‘stretched’ his orders had to be handled delicately too; that had to be reported as a wise precaution leading to a need for a response, one that made it impossible to carry out his verbal instructions from Henry Digby.
Any hint they had been deliberately circumvented had to be avoided, while allusions as to their wisdom, or in this case to both John Pearce and Edward Grey and their lack of same, needed to be sidestepped. Conway got a mention for his bravery and his wound, while the steadiness of the crew of HMS Flirt was heavily remarked upon, without the inclusion of any names; conspicuous individual gallantry was recognised on the lower deck, but only rarely.
Passed to Digby, Pearce wondered if he would be summoned to add anything. He was not, and the journey back to Vado Bay proceeded without another word passing between them. On opening the anchorage Pearce noticed two of the frigates were absent, cruising no doubt, this while all the rigmarole that attended ships joining was repeated, with Digby immediately once more setting off for Agamemnon as soon as Flirt was at anchor, though this time there was no flag requiring his attendance.
‘Happen he’ll steal John’s thunder,’ suggested Charlie Taverner, for no one doubted he would be delivering the despatch about the successful raid. ‘Odd how the man has gone sour.’
‘Too much time sat in his cabin brooding on things,’ Michael O’Hagan replied, this accompanied by much nodding from Rufus. ‘For me, sure, I wish they would make it up.’
‘One’d have to make a move, Michael, and John is not that way inclined.’
‘And nor,’ Rufus insisted, ‘is Digby.’
‘Be best if he shifted – John, I mean.’
‘You know why he won’t as well as we do, Rufus,’ Charlie responded. ‘It’s the Pelicans all together, or none.’
‘Which is never said openly.’
‘Nor will it be,’ Michael said. ‘He thinks we don’t know.’
‘We could ease it for him. Flirt would be as good a berth as any with one of them gone.’
‘Happen you would go back aboard Brilliant, Charlie,’ Michael posited, half in jest.
‘No fear. It were bad enough with Barclay but I reckon that Taberly to be worse.’
‘He is,’ Michael said in sour tone, having been the one to serve under the man. ‘The word “bastard” scarce covers it.’
‘Now there’s another one who hates John,’ Rufus added.
‘He has a gift for making enemies,’ Charlie responded, with a definite trace of pride.
The person mentioned they could see from where they had gathered on the forepeak. Pearce had a telescope trained on the flagship, observing a somewhat crowded deck and strange uniforms, many of them white, which indicated high-ranking Austrians being aboard. That took his eyes to the boats in the water and the pennant on the stern of the largest, a substantial barge bearing the twin eagles of the Habsburgs, so Pearce assumed they were aboard to discuss what actions they were planning to take, something that would break the present deadlock.
Again, Digby was not on Agamemnon for long, though that was likely to be more to do with the commodore being busy. He was received back aboard with due ceremony and went straight to his cabin without a word spoken. There he remained while whatever was happening on the ship-of-the-line was concluded, the high-ranking visitors departing. They had not been gone long before Nelson’s barge was in the water and it took very little time after it set off to realise where it was headed.
Digby was on deck in double-quick time, his eyes ranging over the planking to ensure all was shipshape and tidy, many an order barked out that something perfectly proper and in n
o need of attention should be seen to, his concern obvious. It was not at all common for the likes of a commodore to visit a mere brig; normally the commanders of such a vessel were brusquely summoned, but here it was. The barge swung smartly to the side and Nelson came aboard in sprightly fashion, his smile wide as he lifted his hat to the quarterdeck.
‘Mr Digby, I hope you will accept my apologies. I was heavily engaged with our allies when you came aboard and could do no more than acknowledge you with a wave, which is a great pity, for had I read your report on your recent exploits, I could have used it to impress on the Baron de Vins the advantages of action over his present sloth.’
‘May I invite you into my cabin, sir, where my servant has laid out some wine?’
There was a bit of the actor in Nelson and he indulged in that now, his face becoming mock serious, his tone an attempt at being gruff, which singularly failed given the high pitch of his voice.
‘What I should do, of course, is excoriate you for your blatant breach of the orders I gave you. Damn near worth a flogging round the fleet.’
‘My cabin, sir,’ Digby repeated, in a slightly strangled tone, one that intrigued John Pearce, an invitation ignored for a second time.
‘I order you to do nothing but observe and how do you behave? You blatantly disobey.’
‘Sir I—’
Nelson’s face lit up again. ‘Never fear to do so, sir, if opportunity presents itself, as it has on this occasion. Action I will always support and it is to your credit that you saw an opening to smite our foes and took it with both hands. That, sir, is what the service needs more of.’
Digby could not look at John Pearce; indeed, he could not look at anyone as Nelson added, ‘Might I suggest your wine would be better taken on the quarterdeck, where I can toast not only you, but your officers and men?’
Nelson turned to Pearce and gave him a fulsome greeting, he taking the good arm of the wounded midshipman, to haul him forward. ‘Might I bring to your attention this young man, sir, Mr Conway, who behaved with outstanding élan? I would also point out he might be in need of your surgeon.’
‘Then, Mr Pearce, he will return to Agamemnon with me and I will give him dinner where he can relate his exploits. Now, Mr Digby, that wine?’
CHAPTER NINE
It was hard to be sure what sunk so low the mood on board HMS Flirt. The fact that the captain seemed to have claimed credit for something not of his doing and had been found out shamed the ship, for it was bound in time to be spread by gossip. Then there was the duty upon which they were engaged and the weather within which it had to be carried out. Beating to and fro off the port of Genoa in generally rough winter seas was bad enough; to be required to continually launch boats into such conditions, in order to inspect cargoes and scrutinise paperwork, was wearing in the extreme.
Little was seen of Henry Digby outside those duties he could not avoid: being on deck at sunrise – not that there was much of that commodity – witnessing punishments, which had become more prevalent despite the attempts by John Pearce to avoid bringing transgressions to his attention. Then there was the one he clearly enjoyed: the Sunday service following on from his inspection of the lower deck, a time at which he, deeply religious, could allude to what he saw as the evident sins of those over whom he had command.
That apart, Digby took much advantage of the ability of a ship’s captain to obtain privacy. He was, of course, punctilious in the carrying out of his duties, but it was done by verbal delegation, not hands-on control, which placed added burdens onto his first lieutenant.
Called upon to board a neutral trading ship, it was John Pearce who had to close in the cutter, through freezing, choppy waters, often slopping over the gunwales, to then clamber aboard and seek to discern if he was being fed truth or lies. Was the vessel truly headed for Genoa, or trying to slip through the screen set up by Flirt and a distant HMS Troubadour to interdict those seeking to supply the French?
Despite all the attention he had received, young Mr Conway’s arm was slow to heal, requiring to be regularly cleaned. It was also causing him pain, which meant that he could only very rarely share the duty of inspection. Calm seas he could manage, but Pearce feared to put him in jeopardy when the wind was blowing and the waves were high, for he risked being ducked as he tried to board a trader one-handed.
Edward Grey was not expected to undertake the duty as it fell outside the marine officer’s remit, a stricture that did not apply to his men, a pair of whom had to man the boats with their muskets to ensure compliance. As of this moment, John Pearce was obliged to call upon his captain to relay some vital information.
‘It is the opinion of Mr Dorling that the weather is set to worsen considerably.’
Digby examined Pearce for several seconds before he turned to look out of his casement windows at the troubled sea, hard to visualise through the small panes of salt-caked glass, ignoring the fact that, while he was safely seated, his premier was required to keep a hand on the deck beams to compensate for the telling pitch and roll of the ship.
‘And he would wish to take precautions?’
‘He would, sir. If I am allowed an opinion—’
The interruption was sharp. ‘You rarely decline the opportunity.’
‘I was about to say that in all the time I have served with Mr Dorling, I have never had cause to doubt his appreciation of what may be in the offing as far as weather is concerned. For all his lack of years he has a feel for the matter.’
‘Even if I have been at sea for longer than he?’
If that statement was true, it masked certain obvious facts. Dorling was a ship’s master and thus had studied the needs of his profession in a way those wishing to be officers rarely did. Charts to him were like books: a source of enlightenment. His sail plans were generally exemplary and if the likes of Digby understood them too – John Pearce reckoned he was now not bad himself – it was telling how few times Dorling’s decisions were questioned.
In addition, the young man had been in receipt of the combined wisdom of his peers. Masters, like everyone else in the King’s Navy, kept copious logs and produced drawings, and these, stretching back over many decades, were studied by the men who succeeded them, providing a collective knowledge that any commander ignored at his peril. As a group they were fond of relating the tale of Sir Cloudesley Shovell, who had ignored his master’s opinion on a safe course to pursue, only to run his entire fleet aground on the Isles of Scilly, the abrasive Admiral of the Fleet forfeiting his own life in the process.
‘I am sure he would welcome your opinion, sir,’ Pearce said in a mollifying tone; better to get a result than win a row.
‘He can have my opinion whether he wants it or not, Mr Pearce, or does he require to be reminded who commands?’
That was not worthy of an answer, so Pearce returned to the wind- and rain-swept deck, pulling tight the oilskins he was wearing to keep out both elements. The wind was a robust north-easterly, while above their heads it was hard to see how fast the clouds were moving given they were an unrelieved dark grey. In this corner of the Mediterranean, the armpit of Italy, the currents tended to swirl, procuring the same kind of choppy waters that plagued the English Channel. Big and regular waves with long troughs were rare, yet that could change in a blink if the wind suddenly shifted.
Rain notwithstanding, hats were raised as Digby, well wrapped against the elements, came on deck, scanning the horizon as if he required to check there was no other vessel in sight, not even HMS Troubadour, patrolling further to the south. Tempted to remind him that he would have been informed of anything seen, Pearce held his tongue; it was all for show.
‘Mr Dorling, what is it that you anticipate?’
There was no overhearing the exchange that followed, it was carried out with heads bent over the binnacle – not that what was being imparted was a mystery; Pearce had already been informed. The Ligurian littoral lay close to the Maritime Alps; indeed, on a clear day they were easily visible as the
y rose beyond the shoreline towards the high, snow-capped peaks. If the ‘armpit’ was capable of being stormy, the high mountains and the unique conditions they could create added to the risks of sailing in these waters. There was a reason no other vessel was in sight: anyone with sense had run for the nearest harbour.
That was what Pearce would have done if he had been in command; staying out at sea in conditions expected to worsen was futile when those they were there to interdict were either safely tucked up in Genoa or any of the harbours further south. Digby was adamant that their orders did not allow for that, of course, but to a man given to endemic disobedience such things meant nothing against the risk of losing both the brig and many lives, not least his own.
‘Very well, Mr Dorling, take what precautions you must, but I abjure you to keep us on our station if you can.’
The master looked at Pearce when Digby staggered away to his cabin; the response was a shrug. That said, there was work to do: rigging storm canvas and extra backstays, getting anything loose off the deck that could do harm, putting extra lashings on the cannon trunnions, while matters had to be as secure below decks as they were up above. Throughout those tasks the wind increased, in addition beginning to gust dangerously.
The cant of the deck was acute, for staying on station meant beating to and fro with the gale on their beam, exerting heavy pressure on one side, and when they, with some difficulty, came about, immediately reversing it with an increasingly buffeting wind made it recognisably more difficult each time. Dorling’s mouth was by Pearce’s ear now, the foul-weather hat lifted so he could hear.
‘This is not sense. We should let the wind take us where it will. Run before it as we have previously.’
The message was plain: you took my advice before and happen that saved us. Dorling went on to state his worry that with the increasingly unpredictable gusts, fed by the wind howling down the Alpine valleys, one was bound eventually to catch Flirt as she was wearing to come about, and in that lay great danger.
‘You need to speak to him, Mr Pearce.’
A Treacherous Coast Page 9
