A Treacherous Coast

by David Donachie

  ‘Sir,’ Grey insisted, addressing Digby. ‘Look before you and what do you see? Men in their hundreds.’

  ‘Pitiful creatures.’

  ‘Who must come on because they cannot go back.’

  Pearce was slow to realise what Grey was driving at, something entirely missed by Digby. Withdrawal for the French would take them into an arc of close-range naval gunfire from two frigates, which few, if any of them, would survive.

  Their now deranged captain hauled out his sword, waving it in the same manner as the French leader and he began calling out exhortations probably in a similar vein, seemingly oblivious to the fact that no one was responding, but it left Pearce at a loss, not something that lasted. He swung hard and felled Digby, Michael stepping forward as he went down to relieve him of his sword.

  ‘Mr Conway,’ Pearce said, waving a now sore set of knuckles, ‘take the captain’s pistol.’

  ‘Sir, I—’

  ‘That is an order. Captain McArdle, lead on.’

  ‘Should have left you with your idiot,’ the Ulsterman growled, he having finally recognised Pearce, ‘save me the bother of killing you. Now for the love of Christ form up for a retreat, and pray to God we can manage it.’

  ‘Will Hallowell not send reinforcements?’

  That got a look of scorn from McArdle, replicated in his tone of voice. ‘Are all tars stupid or do I just imagine it? There’s no point, which should be obvious to even your Bedlam inmate. Do you see an Austrian anywhere?’

  ‘No,’ Pearce admitted, which was as good as saying they were not coming.

  ‘We can’t hold this bridge and once they can cross it we will not be able to hold the beach either, so if Captain Hallowell has an ounce of sense he will already be re-embarking his men. Now we have been graced with time I never thought we would have. Your delaying should have cost us dear but it has not. It would be foolish to push that luck too far.’

  Digby was on his hands and knees, shaking his head and laughing in a maniacal way, his words coming out slowly through his mirth. ‘I have you at last, you swine. Striking a superior officer will see you paid back for the slights you have aimed at me behind my back. Now obey my order and prepare to attack.’

  Digby was lifted, still laughing, and Pearce put a man either side of him to make him move and to prevent him staggering about as well, for he seemed to have lost some control over his limbs. They withdrew, stopping frequently to form a line and threaten a pursuit that became too close. Behind them the French were now pouring across the River Centa bridge to fan out and spread across what was a flat, featureless flood plain, while ahead Pearce could just see the beach, now full of an activity that equated to being ant-like; small figures in constant movement doing that which McArdle had described, getting off the shore everything so recently landed.

  Eventually, they came to a line where the ships’ cannon, four in number, had been set up which had a giggling Digby seeking to embrace one, still laughing but now making noises of endearment utterly out of place. The lieutenant in command was looking at Pearce with a strange expression on his face, as if he was somehow to blame.

  ‘Do you wish us to remain here?’ McArdle enquired, to which he got a negative reply.

  ‘You are to head straight for the beach, sir, and wait to embark. Your own boats will be plying to and fro.’

  ‘And these cannon?’

  The lieutenant jerked his head back to the cart by which they had got them here, and the triangular frame made of cut logs and fitted with triple-block pulleys by which they were to be hauled aloft for loading.

  ‘We will try to get them off but if we have to, we have the means to burst the barrels.’

  ‘The cart, where did you acquire it?’ Pearce asked.

  ‘It was in the holds of Agamemnon. Happen the commodore will lose that too. Bit of powder should make of it a decent bonfire.’ He looked into the distance, hand shading his eyes for the sun was now up over the distant hills, low and glaring. ‘Now, I suggest you move, gentlemen. The French are coming on in strength.’

  ‘You’ll give them a blast, I hope,’ McArdle asked, his reddish face now illuminated by that sunlight.

  ‘They’re loaded with grape right enough, sir. A bit of Crapaud blood will make my day.’

  ‘It tempts me to stay for the sight of it.’

  ‘If you can run fast and be sure of a boat, I have no objection.’

  Digby, an object of deep curiosity, as well as fear of contagion from someone clearly mad, was lifted from kissing an eighteen-pounder and led away by two of his crew, with Pearce, Grey and the rest following, including McArdle’s men but not their commander. They were well out of earshot before Pearce spoke.

  ‘What was that jibe about grapeshot and the Turks, Michael?’

  It was a time before he got an answer, the Irishman slow to respond and he had a good look at a now gibbering Digby before he did answer.

  ‘When you came up onto them bulwarks with your sword waving, Digby ordered the guns to fire.’

  ‘Loaded with grape?’ Pearce asked, a sick feeling in his stomach.

  ‘Conway obeyed, even if he knew it was wrong. Those who stayed aboard said it was in his face. He could have refused, but didn’t.’

  ‘You think Digby deliberately tried to kill me?’

  ‘Looks that way, with Conway calling the order to fire, even if he could see you plain.’

  There was no avoiding the wounded tone in what followed. ‘Why didn’t you tell me before, Michael?’

  Michael indicated Digby, ahead and now nearly being dragged to the beach. ‘Sure, I reckoned you to kill him.’

  ‘What makes you think I won’t now?’

  ‘Holy Christ, will you look at the state of the man? He is possessed by devils, is he not?’

  ‘He’s possessed by something but not fiends. Mr Conway, to me.’

  ‘He’s only just above a nipper, John-boy.’

  That got a nod as the midshipman approached, the look in his eye an awareness of what might be coming, one that reminded Pearce of Toby Burns. This boy was different, or was he? His excuse mirrored that of Burns. The stuttered explanation of his need to obey an order got them to the shore, where Coxswain Tilley was busy plying back and forth with Flirt’s cutter. The look on his face as he saw the condition of his captain was one of wonder mixed with horror.

  ‘Get him in the boat and keep a tight hand on him, Tilley. He’s likely to jump in the sea and I am not sure I would want to go in and save him. Get him aboard and into his cabin, with the marine sentry inside the door not out.’

  The ‘Aye aye, sir’ was not hearty.

  ‘Am I to go aboard too, sir?’ asked Conway, his voice tremulous.

  Pearce was weary – they all were from a disturbed night and the anxieties of the morning – so his response lacked passion. ‘Where else would you go? Do you wish to wait for the French?’

  ‘It’s just …’ He could not finish the sentence.

  ‘You obeyed an order, Ivor. Perhaps in your naval career it might be an idea to learn how to disobey some. Take a bit of advice, find another berth. The crew of our ship will never forgive you, even if I do.’

  ‘I am grateful, Mr Pearce.’

  ‘And I am alive, which is all I can ask for.’

  Digby was resisting those trying get him into the cutter, yelling about the need to stop the French and issuing stupid orders that bore no relation to reality. Pearce now had his explanation as to why he had been so hated and reviled. He could see now it was an affliction of the mind, one which had grown progressively worse until this very day had tipped Digby into palpable madness.

  He heard the cannon he had passed go off, which was a signal to hurry. All the boats from the brig were now full and taking his men back to their berths. In the end, he was left alone with Michael, on the beach, neither talking, Pearce thinking of everything and gloomily so: Emily, his baby son, HMS Flirt, now without a captain, the navy in general, his father and how they had lived
as well as how he had died.

  ‘You need a boat, Michael, Mr Pearce?’ It was a smiling Martin Dent. ‘Seems your lot ain’t lookin’ to hurry you two back aboard.’

  ‘Sure, I’ll be thinkin’ of joining the Revolution, Martin,’ Michael joked, ‘but if you’re offering?’

  ‘Taberly will roast you, Martin. I’m the last person he would want you to rescue.’

  The eyes were alight and the smile broad. ‘I can live with it, John.’

  ‘Live. That we must all do.’

  With that, Pearce clambered into the cutter of HMS Brilliant, and once sat a thought occurred. ‘Martin, this could be the very boat that Michael and I were thrown into when we were hauled out of the Pelicans.’

  ‘Likely true, Mr Pearce, very likely true.’

  With the last of the men back on their ships, Hallowell gave the order to weigh and led them back to Vado Bay, for Pearce, a period of inactivity. Digby, still gibbering, was shipped to Leghorn, where it was expected he would eventually be transported back to England. After two winter weeks at anchor, a message came from HMS Agamemnon, ordering him to quit the brig and find his way to San Fiorenzo Bay, the fact that Nelson had not seen fit to see him first an indication that it boded ill.

  No provision was included in how he was to get there and that being easier said than done, and in the absence of any orders to the contrary, he packed his sea chest and took the pinnace, with the Pelicans as crew, with their dunnage, and sailed it there himself. Not for the first time, he was kept endlessly waiting by an admiral. Jervis was not about to put himself out for a mere lieutenant and in the end he never got to see the man. It was to Hyde Parker’s cabin he was directed, to find a stony-faced senior officer and to receive news he could not decide about, good or bad.

  ‘The fellow taking over HMS Flirt is adamant he does not want you on board.’

  ‘Am I allowed to enquire who that is, sir?’

  ‘Name of Glaister, moving from Brilliant.’

  ‘Then I can only be grateful for his malice,’ was the smooth response, which was not well taken: junior officers were supposed to plead.

  ‘As he is moving, there is a berth on HMS Brilliant serving under Captain Taberly. Not premier but second lieutenant.’ Parker looked a might perplexed. ‘He seems quite keen to have you, which I have to say is singular on this station.’

  ‘I would be minded to decline.’

  That got an angry outburst. ‘Would you, by damn!’

  ‘I know Captain Taberly, Admiral Parker, and he is not an officer many men would rush to serve under.’

  ‘That, first of all, is a calumny of a fine officer. Second, you do know the consequences of such a refusal?’

  ‘I do.’

  He was in a cleft stick; turn down a commission on the frigate and he would not be offered another even remotely suited. But to serve under Taberly was to have as a captain a man possibly worse than Digby. That was the way of the navy, you served where you were directed; there was no personal choice. Odd to think that Emily might get her victory after all, for as Parker had said, there was a dearth of captains willing to have him on board.

  ‘I take it Captain Babbage has been given a replacement for his late premier?’

  ‘The answer is yes, not that it is any of your concern.’

  Hyde Parker then went into study mode, fingertips on chin as he contemplated what to do with this man he no doubt reckoned a pest.

  ‘I have one more offer to make and it is the last.’ Pearce merely nodded. ‘The transport vessel HMS Tarvit is to return to England with men sick, old or bearing wounds. She is a rented private vessel, presently without a commander, and that is a lieutenant’s command.’

  ‘Would I be allowed to see Admiral Jervis?’

  ‘No. He has deputed me to deal with this.’

  And get shot of me, Pearce thought. The offer of Taberly was a blind; Jervis had made plain his dislike and when it came down to it, he was no less cunning than Hotham. The prospects for him on this station as long as Jervis held the command were nil. Perhaps it was time to shift, and also, if he could find a place in some home posting, it might solve the problem of Emily. He would be able to see her, but not have to play the county squire. In reality, there was no choice.

  ‘Is she here?’

  ‘Leghorn and ready to sail within days.’

  ‘Then I accept.’ Pearce stood and looked down at Parker, forcing a smile, one that hinted at success not failure, added to the delivery of a barbed valediction.

  ‘I cannot wait to see my good friends, Pitt and Dundas. I’m sure they will want to hear all about matters out in the Mediterranean from someone with no interest in personal advancement.’

  If that was bluff, it was enjoyable, causing Hyde Parker to produce a deep and uncomfortable frown. And what I am not going to tell you is that I will take Glaister’s pinnace and he can get it from Leghorn how he pleases. He will also find he is short of three hands, hopefully before he has time to do anything about it.

  ‘I will proceed to Leghorn immediately, sir. I bid you good day.’

  ‘It is that very thing, Pearce, a good day.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  ‘It’s not desertion, Michael. I am pulling the old trick of taking my followers with me when changing ships on the excuse I was temporarily in command. You will be entered in the muster book of Tarvit and I will pen a note to Glaister. I’ll wager we’ll find Tarvit to be short-handed, there’s no way Jervis is going to properly crew her going home, and if that is the case, moving you can be justified afterwards.’

  The pinnace was scudding along, the weight of Michael O’Hagan on the larboard side welcome in keeping the boat stiff on what was a fine breeze. Pearce was amazed that no one, Parker included, had enquired how he was going to get from Victory to where he needed to be. He had not hung about to give them the chance, cribbing some stores, water and biscuit then setting off. Likewise, Parker had said Tarvit was ready to sail, which should mean she should be fully provisioned and that too was suitable for he could weigh swiftly. If he hung about, Michael, Charlie and Rufus might have to be returned to Flirt.

  ‘Happen a different name in that muster book, John,’ Charlie suggested. ‘Done it afore an’ it keeps the beaks at bay.’

  ‘I’ll think on it.’

  ‘Miss old Flirt,’ Rufus said. ‘Good bunch of shipmates, they was, though abaft the mast weren’t too settled.’

  ‘Blame me,’ Pearce joked.

  ‘We did,’ was a chorus, with Rufus adding, ‘Drove poor Digby mad.’

  ‘Command of you lot would do that without any aid from me.’

  ‘Is a transport run like a man-o’-war?’

  ‘Charlie, I couldn’t tell you.’

  ‘Sure that’s to make us feel better,’ O’Hagan opined.

  ‘Michael, I hate to disabuse you, but I don’t know everything.’

  ‘Holy Mary, the truth at last.’

  The pinnace was not spacious, especially with Pearce’s sea chest and the dunnage of the others taking up space, and neither was their diet good or the journey comfortable. Yet to Pearce it was a joy to be in the company of his friends with no authority around to enforce hierarchy, with plenty of ribbing – quite like old times, really. They spent one night at sea and raised Leghorn around two bells into the forenoon watch, unloading their possessions in a harbour full of merchant vessels and not short of men-o’-war, one being HMS Victory in the company of several seventy-fours, to then abandon the pinnace at the quayside.

  Tempted to go straight to the pensione d’Agastino and visit Emily, he knew that would have to come last; there was too much to do if he wanted to weigh quickly. He needed to tell her he was going home and that he would wait for her there. She could contact him through Alexander Davidson, his prize agent.

  The first task was to visit the harbour master’s office, there to find out at which mooring his ship lay in what was a crowded anchorage. That done, and it took time, they hired a local whe
rry, not without difficulty and language misunderstandings, to get them to Tarvit, on the way passing those warships seen on arrival, as well as the many boats plying to and from the shore, many bearing King’s officers and coming by in close proximity.

  Their presence worried him, not for himself but for his companions, doing all they could to keep their faces hidden as they passed by the fighting vessels. Time in the navy made them, as far as dress was concerned, look like what they were and all they had as protection was his blue coat until eventually they found their destination.

  Lieutenant John Pearce came aboard Tarvit to no welcome at all, no whistles or stamping marines, only curious faces and what seemed a degree of indifference. A chartered transport had few of the offices of a warship; no master-at-arms, purser or other Navy Board appointees. The necessary positions were filled with civilians granted temporary certificates by the Admiralty to protect them from such things as press gangs and over-officious functionaries, the most important to Pearce was a big-shouldered bear of a fellow called Michael Hawker, who was acting as first mate. He would do much of the sailing and crew management.

  Those already aboard were employed by the private owners, were paid by them, so still owed them allegiance. They would acknowledge a blue coat, the navy insisting in a chartered vessel carrying Admiralty possessions or people that one should be in titular command, but they would not bow to him in any respect other than that which they would show to the captain of a merchant vessel.

  He checked his cabin, spacious and reasonably well furnished with sleeping quarters, a dining room as well as a separate bureau, Michael installing himself in the adjacent servant’s quarters to find a larder bare of so much as a lump of mouldy cheese. By the time he had sorted out his dunnage and cleaned to his high standard, he found Pearce had gone on a tour of inspection, so he went to find the ship’s cook. Charlie and Rufus, with the habit of previous practice, had found themselves berths with the rest of the crew, who, if they wondered at their status, did not yet care enough to enquire.