‘He’s a tartar, Collingwood, and that is to the good. There will be no rest with Jervis at the helm I can assure you, no sitting in San Fiorenzo Bay. Admiral Jervis is a close blockader by nature. He intends to keep his fleet cruising off Toulon and if the French do come out, to destroy them utterly.’
Even more flushed now, Nelson had banged his goblet on the polished mahogany of the table, while speaking loudly and emphatically, thus attracting every eye and every ear to his outburst. Pearce reckoned the arrival of Jervis would be good news to most of the officers present, frigate captains at best, while it might be less welcome to the commanders of the line-of-battle ships, happy to be at anchor in San Fiorenzo Bay. The captains there were split between those who had cleaved to Lord Hood and those who had supported Hotham, both sets now adrift as client officers.
The surprise was that Jervis had come out in a frigate and not a capital ship. Indeed, he should have been leading at least a dozen seventy-fours to replace those worn out by service, captained by men who owed any hope of advancement to him. Nelson supplied the answer: he had intended to come out in HMS Boyne, his flagship in the West Indies, but she had caught fire and blown up in Portsmouth harbour, taking down with her nearly all the admiral’s possessions.
It had never ceased to amaze John Pearce the speed with which information spread throughout a dispersed fleet, the carriers being the men who hardly saw a day when some of their time was not spent on a ship’s boat, carrying letters, moving officers as well as a dozen other purposes. The new dispensation in terms of discipline had been no exception. Everyone knew Jervis to be a flogger by reputation, anyway; that he would brook no indolence was only to be expected. Had someone alluded to the thought Pearce had just harboured regarding reinforcements? It was possible, as Nelson, flushed with more than wine, entered a strong opinion.
‘The government does not understand the needs of the Mediterranean, sir, which is what comes of having a civilian as First Lord, something on which Sir John and I are in full concord. Chatham may have been a laggard in office but at least he was a soldier, albeit one slow to rise from his bed of a morning.’
Heads dipped at these remarks. Nelson had managed in one sentence to insult two very important people: the Earl of Chatham, William Pitt’s elder brother, as well as Earl Spencer, who had been shifted into the position of First Lord when the Portland Whigs joined Pitt’s government. It was drink that loosened his tongue, of course, and, even if he was held in high regard, there would be folk at this table who would report back in their letters home what had been said.
‘Hear him!’ Pearce cried, he too thumping the table with the flat of his hand, a purely mischievous act designed to increase the discomfort of those who worried at Nelson’s outburst. Digby, sat next to the ship’s parson, looked daggers at him, which had the target suppress the childish desire to stick out his tongue.
Dick Farmiloe was shaking his head, albeit with a quiet smile, indicating he knew what Pearce was about. Judging by the reaction of both Taberly and Glaister they were in complete agreement for once, which would be that he was a menace and that revived a previous reflection.
It was a sadness these two had command of HMS Brilliant, which barred him from going aboard to reacquaint himself with some of the men with whom he had first set sail from Sheerness. Oddly, he numbered as companions people who had helped Ralph Barclay to press him into the navy. But there was one other person he would have dearly liked to have come face-to-face with and that was the slug, Toby Burns, who, for reasons unknown, was not present.
‘However,’ Nelson added empathically, no doubt having sensed the mood, dragging Pearce away from his less than pleasant thoughts regarding Burns, ‘we must acknowledge that such politicos have concerns of which we are unaware.’
The reaction to that was overplayed, with excessive noisy agreement; these men did not want to be associated with what had been said previously. Thankfully, the ‘Roast Beef of Old England’ was played, the platter brought in and if the beast that provided the huge joint was Ligurian, it had been well hung and properly cooked. Added to which, the decanters were doing the rounds to render jolly even the most miserable soul.
Not Digby. While most were flushed and red in the face from proximity to the stoves and too much Tuscan wine, he was in deep conversation with the black-clothed divine who served as chaplain aboard Agamemnon, known to the fleet as ‘Eggs and Bacon’. It seemed what the man was hearing was making him uncomfortable. In tightly packed seating, he had edged his body as far away as possible from Digby, while his face, even if he was nodding, carried a hint of disquiet.
After ample cheese and copious amounts of port wine, Pearce sought his boat cloak and the deck for a blast of fresh air, away too from the fug of numerous pipes. He was soon joined in his pacing by Dick Farmiloe, the talk naturally turning to shared memories, not least for both, their service under Barclay.
‘I am curious, John, how far would you have taken your case against him?’
‘All the way to the Old Bailey,’ Pearce replied. ‘It would not have troubled me to see him hang.’
This was said even though he was unsure if it was true. As in everything with her husband, Emily caused complications. His actions had many times been as much to protect her as to bring down her husband, and even if he wanted vengeance, he was not sure an execution was included.
‘It would have required you to testify; you were there.’
‘That sounds very much like a question, John.’ Pearce shrugged. ‘To answer it, all I can say is that I would not have lied under oath.’
It had always had an interesting slant, talking to Farmiloe about that night in the Pelican Tavern, for he had been in Barclay’s press gang, not, being a midshipman, a very important part, but an accomplice nonetheless.
‘Troubled, John? How could I be? I had never heard of the Liberties of the Savoy and had no idea where we were pressing was illegal. It was a duty I had never previously undertaken and I say to you now, I hope never to have to do so again.’
‘I have a mind to stay in the navy, Dick. What do you say to that?’
Such an abrupt change of subject took time to elicit a response. ‘Given what you have always led me to believe, I would say I’m surprised.’
‘Is that avoiding the real question?’
‘Which is?’
Pearce grinned and slapped him on the back; he was in the company of one of the few fellows with whom he could be reasonably open. ‘You know very well. My prospects should I choose to do so?’ The sucking in of breath was not reassuring. ‘Be honest, Dick.’
‘Truly, you will struggle to get round the stigma of your promotion to lieutenant. You experienced today the way it marks you.’
‘I have another reputation to counter that, though modesty forbids me from listing it.’
The laugh that got was hollow. ‘John, you are brave and you have proved it more than once. How do I tell you that the resentment you already engender is rendered doubly damning because of your perceived good fortune? There is hardly a man in the fleet who does not think they too could shine as you have, if given the chances you have been afforded. Such a feeling does not provoke admiration, it causes jealousy.’
That induced a period of silence and reflection, until Farmiloe posed the obvious question as to why he had suffered a change of heart. Pearce was not going to be open about that, even with him. How could he allude to impending fatherhood without invoking the name of the mother? Come to think of it, did Dick Farmiloe know the name anyway? He could not enquire.
‘I accept I have been lucky, Dick, but I must add that it has occurred in ways I have never sought, but in situations forced upon me by circumstances and more often by others. Yet as I stand here now and think of what else I can do with my life, the vista is a far from encouraging one.’
‘You are not a dunce, John.’
‘A sentiment you may find disputed in certain areas.’
The smile accompanying that was wi
ped away by Tilley, come to tell him that Digby was in the cutter and wondering where he was.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
‘I could have sworn you were in Digby’s cabin; I heard your name called out more than once.’
Digby had taken to talking to himself and loudly enough for it to be obvious through the bulkheads; the surprise was the marine had only just heard it.
‘Edward, I am amazed you have not noted it before.’
‘There was a degree of cursing too.’
‘He seeks to bring down on me divine disfavour.’
Though he had not witnessed the fact himself, this peculiarity had first been brought to him by Michael O’Hagan. In his capacity as servant, he knew everything that was going on aboard the ship and not just with the officers, for the hands talked to him as one of their own. His source had been one of the marines who took turns guarding Digby’s door and could not help but be aware of what was happening on the other side. It was telling that if they were prepared to gossip to O’Hagan, none of them had even hinted at the fact to their own officer.
‘How long has it been going on?’
‘It started the day we dined on Agamemnon. When I heard of it, I assumed drink had played a part, though in truth I cannot say Digby imbibed excessively. What I do recall is him being in deep conversation with Nelson’s parson.’ That brought on a wolfish grin. ‘Perhaps he was asking about exorcisms and how to cast out devils.’
‘Or the weather has been the cause.’
‘There may be truth in that. It makes me gloomy, Edward, and you will struggle to raise a smile ’tween decks too.’
The sky was slate grey, as was the sea, so that they merged to remove any hint of a horizon, melding into one and leaving everyone feeling as if they were in a cloying and disagreeable cocoon. At least the swell was within reason and not what they had suffered this last week: heavy rolling seas driven down from the north, accompanied by biting winds often full of snow that blew into and piled up in the bulwarks. From there it had to be shovelled overboard; given its weight, if left it altered too much the trim of the ship.
The stoves provided some relief from the cold if you could get close enough, which was not always easy for the crew, given they had to jostle a shipmate aside to do so, with many seeking relief from the cook’s boiling coppers. Even in such conditions, beating to and fro off Cape Noli, the course had to be reversed several times a day, which sent the topmen aloft to work on freezing, ice-stiff canvas, while below their confrères were required to haul off rime-coated falls, with chapped hands. It was worse in darkness.
‘Will Digby have a Sunday service?’ Grey asked.
The same thought had troubled Pearce; tradition – and the navy ran on that – said he would. But common sense told him that to line the crew up on deck to castigate them for sins numerous as well as transgressions possible, when they would be shivering, was unwise. His relationship with Digby was affecting them and their feeling towards him; such an act would only feed that discontent.
‘You could point out it would be cruel.’
That got a derisive snort from Pearce. ‘For me to counsel against it will only assure it takes place.’
A well-muffled Michael O’Hagan appeared, bearing in his cupped hands a steaming cup of spiced wine, which he surrendered reluctantly given it was warming him through his mittens. Pearce took it gratefully and looked meaningfully at Grey, his servant getting the hint.
‘Would Mr Grey be after caring for the same?’
‘I certainly would.’
‘Then I will tell your own man to fetch it up.’
That got Pearce a look saying ‘Don’t you damn well dare ask me to provide’.
‘Just pass on the message, Michael.’
‘I think, if you don’t mind, John, I will take my brew below,’ Grey said.
The sky was darkening by the time the last bell of the eight was rung, bringing up the first dogwatch and Ivor Conway, not that he would have been easy to recognise, so well wrapped was he with everything he could find to ward off the cold. At least his arm had begun to mend, in the way of these things quickly once the process had begun, though he still favoured it by using his left hand where possible.
Pearce was glad to get off the deck, chilled as he was to the marrow. O’Hagan had made sure his personal stove was pulsating, which allowed him to strip off his own layers and allow the warmth it produced to near scorch his hams. His question to Michael was the obvious one and had to be asked: was Digby still at it? He could scarcely go eavesdropping close to the cabin door himself.
‘Sure, the Lobster on duty this forenoon watch says the captain has taken to shouting even more.’
‘It would do him good to get some air. He would brood less if he had the deck.’
‘There’s a worry that a fiend has got into the man.’
‘What has got into the man,’ Pearce responded impatiently, as the ship heeled, coming round as it was on a reverse course, ‘is his own deceit and conscience. A devil forsooth!’
‘It is all very well for you not to believe, John-boy, but there are others, and not just I, who know that the spirits are real and more likely to be of evil intent than good.’
‘Stuff and nonsense.’
Pearce was not as vehement either way as some people; indeed, indifference was his usual position. Challenged he did not deny, unlike his father and any number of astute minds in post-Revolutionary Paris, that some form of divinity might exist, though his own view could not countenance an all-seeing and all-forgiving deity. He inclined to the case made by the philosopher David Hume that if there was a God, he was probably an inept one judging by what he allowed to happen. These much-rehearsed opinions were once more aimed at his friend, to get a familiar response.
‘Jesus, it will take some prayer to save your soul.’
‘What you’re saying is that the crew are getting the quivers.’
The way tars behaved was larded with superstition. They were convinced any breach of their traditional habits was bound to bring on disaster, which inevitably meant drowning and falling into the clutches of Lucifer. If such nostrums never ceased to amaze him, there was another trait he could not fathom: so few of them could swim. It was as if they accepted such a death as a fate for which they were fitted.
‘If I was to say,’ Michael responded gravely, ‘that the talk around the stoves would not make for happy overhearing, then I reckon it has to be attended to.’
‘And how?’
That got him crossing himself as he replied. ‘Captain’s got to stop his ravings, and it be double silence needed in invoking the Devil.’
Warm now, Pearce could manage a smile. ‘I was given to understand it was me he was invoking, or should I say chastising, or so you told me. It’s my name he is shouting out not Satan’s.’
‘He is calling the curse of Lucifer down on your head, I am told.’
‘Then let it be known that I have a top hamper fit to bear it, Michael.’
A voice came through the canvas screen. ‘Mr Conway’s compliments, your honour, he asks can you come on deck?’
‘In the name of God, why?’
‘Summat’s been spotted in the offing and the captain said you should attend to it.’
‘You asked the captain first?’
‘Aye, sir, I did, interrupting his mutterings when I knocked.’
Things were getting worse to the point where Digby was neglecting his duty. If it had been reported to Digby that something had been spotted, the ship’s captain was required to respond, for in his hands lay the safety of both ship and crew. To pass it on to Pearce was close to dereliction. Should he remonstrate with him? Would doing so achieve anything but a direct order?
‘Tell Mr Conway I shall be up presently, just as soon as I have enough clothing back on.’
It was with no enthusiasm whatever that Pearce began to dress in articles that, thrown on his cot, had barely been affected by the stove. Already wearing a flannel vest and two s
hirts, he added a kerseymere jersey, then a leather waistcoat and covered that with his thick boat cloak. Finally, a muffler was wrapped round both his head and neck, one thick enough to make it impossible to wear his hat.
‘Once more into the breach,’ he murmured as he pulled the canvas screen aside.
Michael was shaking his head. ‘Don’t help having you talking to yourself an’ all.’
If John Pearce was feeling put upon, that had to be tempered by the fact that he was relatively well-off. The lookout, sat on the mainmast cap, who had seemingly spotted what he thought had to be the glint of a light, had it much worse, so Pearce’s first act was to ask that he be relieved, ordering him below for enough time to ease his chill.
Something being spotted and the direction established, there was no choice but to call up the hands and set the ship on a new course to close, which also brought the master on deck. Dorling, having plotted the new course, shared with Pearce as he marked the slate it was to the north and thus they would be closing with the shore.
‘Too far off, surely, to be a light on land?’
‘Be a whole watch before you could sight one of those, Mr Pearce. That is, if you could see owt at all.’
‘It could be imaginings.’
‘Lookout was sharp-eyed, sir,’ Conway interjected, ‘and I think I saw the flash of it with my own eyes.’
‘Very well. Cover the binnacle and douse our lanterns, Mr Conway. Canvas over the hatches too and no bells. We will go by my watch.’
‘Clear for action, sir?’
Pearce thought about that for a bit. In these temperatures that would have the gun crews on deck for as long as it took to establish whether they were needed at all and that could be hours. The hands on HMS Flirt were men of long experience; they could clear quickly and so it was best to wait. The second flash, two bells later, meant such a posture had to be revisited, though his conclusion was the same, albeit Conway was despatched to Digby to alert him, not that the captain appeared.
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