A Close Run Thing

by David Donachie

  Even if it was a dog’s dinner the anchor had been dropped and it held. The taking in of sail had been a farce, but the whole had been, if not a complete success, enough to prove that with time he would have under him a mostly competent crew, a feeling driven home as they repeated the whole manoeuvre three times.

  Once anchored for the last time, with everyone else in the Nore either bored or sated with their derision, he could stand the men down, instructing the purser to issue an extra tot of grog, Bedfords included. In his cabin he poured copious amounts of wine to his guest lieutenants as well as Hallowell, Mr Williams and Moberly, the latter’s men having done sterling service on the capstan.

  Privately, for all his joy, he reckoned going to sea – which he must do after not much more training – was going to be interesting, to say the least. In his mind he began to compose the speech he would have to make, this in between toasts to Hazard, Bedford, Captain Byard, the King’s Navy, not forgetting to damn the enemy, quite specifically the Dutch.

  Having seen his visitors and their hands over the side, he went below to the orlop to visit Teach, who had been accommodated in what would have been part of the sawbones’s quarters had the ship possessed one. He had a strong desire that any resentments – and the man was entitled to have them in his view – should not fester. Teach lay face down, his back shining with the ointments put there by Bedford’s surgeon, who, before departing, had left instructions to apply it regularly.

  ‘I have come to see how you fare, Teach.’

  ‘As if you care.’ It was a snarl.

  ‘I cared enough to save you from worse.’

  ‘What can be worse than to be treated like a rabid dog?’

  Pearce took off his hat and sat at the bottom of the cot, which allowed him to see into the man’s eyes, deciding to be honest.

  ‘Mr Peat was all for you swinging, but I prevented it.’ Seeing Teach preparing to be scathing, he spoke, to ensure there was no further offence that would oblige him to react. ‘I ask for no gratitude for doing what I saw as my duty. But I have to say to you, if you persist in the attitude you have shown so far, you will leave me little option but to repeat what has happened to you.’

  ‘Do your worst.’

  ‘A ship of war is not a republic. Someone has to lead and others have to follow and we have been allotted our roles. You are inclined to challenge authority, which will not serve.’

  If only you knew, Teach, he reflected silently, how little pleasure I take in being such a hypocrite and he knew he was about to indulge in a bit more. He had been nothing but bellicose since the day he’d been pressed.

  ‘It is my view that those most likely to rail against discipline often make natural leaders. When you come back to health, apply yourself to your duty and I will mark it. If the needs of the ship warrant it, you will be rewarded.’

  The sound wasn’t words, just an audible scoff.

  ‘I have on my desk the reports from various sources regarding how certain men behaved today. Some of them will soon find themselves in a position of authority over their shipmates, so I do not lie.’ If Teach had fallen silent, there was no change in his expression; he still looked livid. ‘I have done what is my duty in coming to see you and I’ve spoken my piece. I can do no more.’

  Pearce stood and replaced his hat. ‘What happens next falls to you.’

  Back in his cabin he did indeed have a list of those seen to have performed adequately; well was barely an option, given the depth of nautical ignorance. They would require careful and continuous monitoring, but that was true of any ship. On a plain sheet of paper he played with their names and the position they might fill, with the knowledge that all would have multiple tasks.

  The best topman or mate to a warrant would, at times, have to double as a gun captain, even a quarter gunner. He would have to sit and discuss with his standing officers whom they wanted to assist them, with the knowledge of the differing jobs that fell to men on a normal day, and how that altered dramatically when battle was imminent.

  Lastly, he wrote once more to Emily to tell her of his progress, aware that he was painting a picture of the day which was a great deal rosier than the reality. He could only wonder if she would be pleased. A repeat letter went off to the Sick and Hurt Board which, having visited Teach, had become to him a matter of urgency. With an inexperienced crew, accidents would be endemic, while treatment for those who could be saved was essential.

  That acknowledged, he knew he would lose some hands to falls and other accidents. Every King’s ship suffered losses, more from the commonality of sailing a complex vessel than ever expired from enemy action. They had shown some collective solidarity today and he set himself to thinking how that could be supported.

  The best way would be to put some prize money in their poke, which was very easy to think of and damned hard to achieve. The thought of facing an armed enemy this early was not to be contemplated. Would it happen when they were properly worked up, and what would be the outcome? There was no way of telling how a crew would act in battle until it was joined.

  He had to put into action the next part of their training, which was to call ‘All hands’, and see how they performed in getting to their stations in darkness.

  ‘Bedford weighing, sir.’

  ‘I thank you, Mr Hallowell. Have the crew man the yards. We must give them a proper send-off.’

  The seventy-four, third rate, lit by a newly risen sun, showed how it should be done. Byard had a well-worked-up crew and it was demonstrated in the smooth transfer from being static to being under topsails to get moving, then courses on the fore and main by the time she came abreast of Hazard. The yards were passably manned, the topmen in place but too many of the rest only sparsely on the ratlines.

  That said, it was a gesture and it seemed to be much appreciated. Pearce called for three cheers and it was delivered with enthusiasm as he lifted his hat to Byard, the older man returning the compliment. As the stern began to fade from view, it was time to call the men back to normal duty, to swab and flog dry the decks and to eat their breakfast.

  That completed, it would be time to see if they could weigh, sail Mr Williams’s course once more, and re-anchor on their own. Everyone was in for another very trying day.

  Walter Hodgson, having taken the precaution of billing the company for his expenses, was waiting to be admitted to the presence of Edward Druce, to whom the amount had been passed for approval, and if his mind ranged over all sorts of possibilities, the thief-taker was calm. He had been faced with many difficult situations in his life. Employers refusing to pay, acquittals where he was sure of guilt were just the surface. There was the threat of violence too; villains did not always want to come quietly.

  He had learnt long ago that overthinking what might come his way was of no use. He carried out the given task; how it would all play out was probably preordained. The bell rang eventually to have him ushered in, to face an eager expression from Druce, who seemed to be anticipating good news. The problem for Hodgson was complex; he was unsure what that would entail.

  ‘I took the liberty of ordering coffee, Mr Hodgson. I hope that meets with your approval.’

  ‘Most kind, Mr Druce.’

  ‘Do sit down by the side table and pour for yourself.’ There was a lull while this was carried out, but there was no missing the tension in the room. Druce controlled his palpable impatience until Hodgson sipped the steaming brew, before speaking again. ‘You have, I hope, something of importance to report?’

  Hodgson put down his cup and reached into his folder, producing the twin images as described by Daisy Bolton, these passed over. ‘I would ask, sir, if you know either of these two fellows?’

  Druce’s lips were puckered as he accepted the drawings – either he was surprised or curious, probably both. Laid side by side, he studied them for a while, before slowly shaking his head.

  ‘Am I to deduce they are significant?’

  ‘They might be. Best I tell you how I c
ame to have them drawn up.’

  Hodgson took Druce through his meeting with Daisy Bolton, her bagnio and how it operated, sensing a degree of impatience. Being no stranger to erotic entertainment, this was superfluous information to his employer. The thief-taker then moved onto the circumstances of the murder and what Daisy had discovered, finally coming to the departure of the two fellows so drawn, very shortly after the arguing pair left the main salon. To that was added their prior glum behaviour.

  ‘You being an intelligent man, Mr Druce, might wonder at what they were about, two sailor types in a place in which they seemed to find little joy, which is not the way of your common tar. Not much drinking and no interest in the girls.’

  ‘Sailor types, you say?’

  ‘Aye, and Gherson claims he was felled by a marlin spike.’

  Unable to comprehend the significance, it proved necessary to remind Druce that Gherson was a one-time pressed seaman and that a marlin spike was as good as a billy club any day.

  ‘He was out cold when Mrs Bolton found him, that is, once she recovered from her shock. I hardly need to tell you a man found in a state of unconsciousness, with a lump on his head, which might have come from said spike, would struggle to carry out that of which he is accused.’

  The face, as Hodgson spoke, had gone from relaxed interest to clamping teeth and pursing lips, until Druce said in a voice suddenly hoarse. ‘Are you implying that Gherson is indeed innocent?’

  ‘Only that the possibility exists.’

  He thought to mention the lack of a knife – after all Catherine Carruthers had been badly mutilated – but decided there were too many possibilities for its absence at the scene of a crime, which had been trampled over by what amounted to a throng.

  A slightly strangled note emerged when Druce asked, ‘Do you not need to enquire further and find out?’

  ‘I can ask for more, but I am not the law of the land and no one is obliged to answer my questions.’

  Druce looked down at the twin images again, going back mentally to the previous attempt to get rid of Gherson and the reasons why. For a man of Denby Carruthers’ age to marry a very pretty but naïve woman, thirty years his junior, challenged wisdom and had occasioned much ribald comment amongst his business associates. Druce had shared their reservations, though he never allowed them to be even hinted at in Denby’s presence.

  He had come across Gherson when visiting Denby and Catherine, though he barely registered, being a fitful presence: an obsequious young man of blonde good looks, employed as a live-in clerk by a man of wide commercial interests. What his confrères had joked about had come to pass; clever and supremely successful as Denby was, he had been cuckolded and humiliated.

  It was Gherson, re-emerging as Barclay’s clerk, who had given Druce a filleted version of what happened on London Bridge, not having any notion of Druce’s relationship to Carruthers, which established to Druce that his brother-in-law had deceived him regarding his intention then. Looking at these two faces, not in truth reassuring, had he deceived him again now? For when he had asked for Gherson’s whereabouts it was to again talk of a beating.

  He was acknowledging the chance of something he had thought on, but suppressed as too dreadful to contemplate. Had Denby arranged the murder of his wife, in such a manner that Gherson would get the blame? And if that was accepted, what was he to do about it?

  ‘We are in deep waters here, Mr Hodgson,’ was produced as a holding remark.

  ‘Indeed, sir.’ Hodgson was doing the same, leaving Druce time to think.

  Ever since that first request that Gherson should get a beating, Edward Druce had been drawn into a web out of which he could not break, one which had been the subject of sleepless nights. Denby Carruthers too often treated him with insulting and constant condescension, made worse by the way his own wife favoured her brother over him.

  She could not see the bully, always prattling on about his kindness, which was a way of reminding her husband how much he owed to the man who had financed him, had made it possible for them to live in more than just comfort. Taking on board what was being implied, Druce could see the solution to several problems at one go, for Gherson, whom he had hitherto for the sake of the agency protected, had become as much of a bane as Denby Carruthers.

  ‘I do not see how any organ of the law could become involved,’ was issued as a statement, when in truth it was an enquiry.

  Hodgson confirmed that to be true. Justice in King George’s realm was a chancy business, one in which he had prospered, there being few officially tasked with the apprehension of those charged. It fell to those in search of bounty and the task was delivery, not enquiry. A felon was issued with a warrant for his arrest and, once that was achieved, it fell to the courts to do the rest, the rest being very little.

  ‘However,’ Druce added, with the air of the concerned citizen, ‘we would be remiss if we did not continue to seek the facts of the matter, do you not think?’

  ‘So you wish me to continue?’

  ‘What would that entail, Mr Hodgson?’

  ‘We have those faces and they belong to flesh and blood. Happen printed and distributed, we could find these coves and demand to be told of their actions on the night.’

  ‘Would they admit to any?’

  ‘Their faces out and questions raised would get them before the magistrate at Bow Street.’

  Druce made a steeple of his hands, the fingertips touching his chin, the brow furrowed. ‘One has to examine the consequences, for such a questioning would be unlikely to remain discreet.’

  ‘I would do my best to keep it so.’

  ‘With all of London agog at the slightest detail? I find myself concerned at setting hares running, which may produce nothing, and in that please do not think I cast aspersions on your abilities.’

  ‘Kind of you to say so, Mr Druce.’

  ‘My family, my brother-in-law, has suffered mightily from the manner and loss of his dear wife. It would grieve me to distress him any more and making a printed tract of these fellows, as you suggest, would open the whole matter up to excessive and nasty speculation, of which he has had enough already.’

  The steeple was pressed harder into the chin. ‘Carry on as you are doing, Mr Hodgson, for I can say without doubt, your efforts to date’ – the drawings were held up to be looked at by Druce again – ‘they have been exemplary. Your bill I will sign now so you can have it settled. In fact, I will add a decent and well-deserved bonus.’

  Which Druce did and it was handed over for him to be told, ‘I must advise you there is a limit to what I can do.’

  ‘You can keep an eye on Cornelius Gherson for me, a primary concern, which I dare not engage in myself. And who knows what you may turn up regarding the crime?’

  ‘Would you have me tell him there might be a doubt?’

  The eyebrows went up with the hands. ‘And raise the poor fellow’s hopes? I think that could be construed as cruelty. If and when his innocence can be established, that will be the time to advise him of the good news, do you not think?’

  There was no choice but to nod and agree.

  ‘Then, Mr Hodgson, that concludes our business for today, does it not? I do desire you to keep me informed, and me alone, of any developments as and when they occur.’

  ‘The drawings?’

  ‘Best left here. It would not serve that even by accident they should excite comment. They are, I’m sure, fixed in your memory and you are known for your diligence.’

  When Hodgson departed Edward Druce went back to studying the two faces. The matter of Denby’s involvement, indeed of his guilt, was not fixed, but then it did not have to be for suspicion would be enough. Complicit or not, a mere showing of these would silence him, for he would be as quick as Druce to see the possible ramifications of their public exposure.

  Edward Druce was not a man much given to laughter but he could not avoid it now, and it was no mere chuckle, indeed it was so full-throated he had difficulty in saying
out loud what had set him off.

  ‘Your days of treating me a dung on your shoe are over Denby, and for good.’

  The thought of Gherson did surface next, but he reckoned mere inactivity would take care of that problem.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Pearce got his surgeon, a Mr Cullen, plus two assistants. This time, coming as they did from the Sick and Hurt Board, there was no seeking to land him with the dregs. Cullen seemed sober and competent, while he had an immediate patient in Teach who, still in pain, would surely be grateful for their ministrations. He was still short two lieutenants but was determined, if anything supplied was to be like the now-departed Peat, he would willingly do without.

  At least, thanks to Admiral Parker, Hallowell had been confirmed and that influence was applied, once more, to gain for him a just-passed midshipman called Worricker, who arrived only hours after the surgeon. He hailed from Hastings, the scion of a family of fisher folk of the better sort, those who owned several boats and employed people to sail them.

  A seaman to his fingertips, at sea since he was breeched, Worricker was, like Hallowell, a real asset, which led his captain to think the Admiralty had made a mistake. The two hit it off immediately, which boded well for the future, as did a wardroom nearly complete in its complement.

  Not that all was entirely rosy for, without the Bedfords, the pace of learning slowed markedly and on one or two occasions – it was not entirely unexpected – the manoeuvres of weighing, sail work and anchoring had been very close to embarrassing.

  The decision to depart to Nore was taken for two reasons: wind favoured the move while, at another anchorage, continued exercises could be undertaken without the constant oversight of their naval peers, with Pearce sure it was affecting his men. Not that he intended to go far. He would give the north shore of Sheppey a wide berth on a course plotted by himself and a worried Williams.

  A letter was sent ashore to Oliphant, advising him to move to Faversham immediately, as Pearce intended to anchor just off the creek of that name. It lay at the point where the Swale rejoined the Thames, on the east side of Sheppey. But he kept to himself another aim, knowing Faversham was home to the government powder factories. He was keen to see how his crew handled the cannon when they could at least feel the blast and smell the burnt remains of a discharge. He would allow balls only if a certain proficiency was established.