PRAISE FOR DAVID DONACHIE’S
JOHN PEARCE SERIES
‘Using a clever blend of fact and fiction, Donachie leads his readers through the seamy side of life in the 1790s, and with graphic imagery he spins a rollicking yarn of boldness and redemption’
Good Book Guide
‘The various strands…intertwine satisfactorily and help to keep up the tension…Donachie also succeeds admirably in the difficult job of getting across the political complexities of the time without resorting to lecturing’
Historical Novels Review
‘High adventure and detection; cunningly spliced battle scenes which reek of blood and brine; excitements on terra firma to match’
Literary Review
‘A must for armchair mariners… It’s superb stuff’
Manchester Evening News
‘Vivid and accurate shipboard action… Compulsively readable’
Cambridge Evening News
A Shot Rolling Ship
DAVID DONACHIE
To the memory of
Mick Jailler
A good friend who showed in life
a level of bravery and tenacity
that few could match.
He also tried very hard,
yet failed, to hide his generosity.
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
AUTHOR’S NOTE
About the Author
By David Donachie
Copyright
CHAPTER ONE
‘Welcome to hell, brother.’
The voice under the thick felt hat was gruff, neither friendly nor unfriendly, the face the colour of mahogany, pitted, lined and weary looking, the eyes deep pools of brown. It stood out from the rest of the ship’s crew only because it was close to a lantern, so that all the others present were but seated shadows, eyes in the gloom, sizing up a newcomer. ‘Happen there are those who told you Old Nick’s lair was hot and reeks of brimstone. It ain’t, friend. It goes by the name of Griffin, and it be cold, damp and the smell is of bilge and rotten timber.’
A voice from the gloom added his opinion. ‘Pressing this lot ain’t goin’ to make it smell any better.’
John Pearce, half crouching, lowered the canvas sack that contained all his worldly possessions, the homicidal fury he had felt on coming aboard subsiding into a cold anger. That was underscored by a deep feeling of powerlessness, the natural state of mind for a man ensnared for the second time in a matter of weeks by the tentacles of King George’s Navy. How could he get out of this? He had to get off this ship, but there seemed no way of doing so short of chucking himself into the sea and that would only lead to recapture unless, and just as likely, he drowned in the cold grey waters of the English Channel.
The sounds above his head were of a ship getting under way; shouts as sails were sheeted home, the groan of strained timbers, the creak of the cables that controlled the rudder. A sudden lurch as HMS Griffin, out of the lee created by the much larger East Indiaman, dropped sideways off the crest of a wave. That forced him to grab hold of a ladder rung, his muscles tensed as the bows hit another wave, sending a shiver through the entire frame. This was happening on a relatively calm sea, which made Pearce wonder what it would be like to be aboard in rough water. He had to acknowledge one speaker, the fellow in the felt hat, to be right about the smell, except he had left out the stench of packed and unwashed humanity, hardly surprising given the lack of space. Pearce had to crouch just to avoid clouting his head on the deck beams: even if the mass of bodies prevented him from seeing the exact dimensions of his new home, he knew it to be tiny. The deck he had crossed on coming aboard was that, no more than twenty stretched paces bow to stern, and less than half that dimension in the beam; what lay beneath could not be greater.
‘Are you to move on, John boy, or are you wishing to leave us to freeze on this here ladder.’
Michael O’Hagan’s Irish brogue was muffled because he was still standing upright in the well of the hatchway, through which ran a wide, thick-runged ladder. Behind him the others pressed out of the Lady Harrington would be on deck, no doubt watching, as Pearce himself had done moments before, that spacious and steady merchant ship sailing away towards the easily visible southern shore of England.
‘Aside there, let me pass.’
The voice was that of Lieutenant Benjamin Colbourne, the man who had just pressed them, sharp and commanding. Rufus Dommet was the one who answered, the shrill voice evidence of both his youth and perhaps a degree of nervousness. ‘There’s no room to pass.’
‘Shift I say.’
‘But…’
‘Silence. You are new aboard, man, and I forgive this once, such a response as being due to ignorance, but do not in future address me with such familiarity, and do not leave out an acknowledgment of my rank, or I will be obliged to discipline you.’
From somewhere in the darkest recesses of the deck came the sound of a loud and derisory mouth-made fart. John Pearce edged forward towards that raspberry and the men before him, by standing and moving back the barrels on which they had been seated, cleared a space. Michael O’Hagan joined him, even more stooped because of his greater height, mouthing a quiet, ‘Mother of Jesus’, as he realised how cramped it was. Behind Michael came Charlie Taverner, still confused, that state of mind rendering the normally voluble Londoner silent.
He was bustled to one side as the blue-coated officer squeezed by. ‘Move back there, make some space.’
The mahogany face spoke again. ‘Can’t make what ain’t there, your honour, ’cepting we stove out some of the scantlings.’
‘Belay that, Latimer.’
If Lieutenant Colbourne was made angry by the interjection, a vocal complaint from what appeared to be a common seaman, he did not show it – the response had no animosity, more a weariness born of habit. Instead he turned and commanded the other pressed men still on the deck to come below, which required him to push even more to squeeze them in. He then raised himself onto the lowest rung on the ladder so that he, bent forward, could address an assembly crammed so tight it seemed that only the bodies held each other against the pitch and roll of the ship, and that was with a quantity of the crew absent, for there were men on the deck still, sailing the ship.
‘Get your sodding dunnage out of my mouth.’
Charlie Taverner, the guilty party, who still had his ditty bag slung over his shoulder, reacted sharply. ‘Happen I would rather leave it gob stoppin’ than smell your breath, mate.’
‘You’ll be smelling your own blood, cheeky bugger.’
‘Silence.’
John Pearce examined Colbourne closely as he issued that stricture, expressed in an absent-minded fashion while he was occupied, simultaneously riffling the pages of a book. On the deck of the Lady Harrington the man, as tall as John Pearce, though thin, had looked imposing, but after only a few weeks as an enforced sailor Pearce knew that the uniform had some bearing on that. The lieutenant looked less impressive n
ow – hardly surprising given that with a book held up to his face, and an arm hooked round the ladder upright, he was forced to speak from a position forced on him by the lack of headroom, one that robbed him of all dignity.
‘By the power vested in me by those executing the office of Lord High Admiral, it is my duty to acquaint you with those statutes so laid down by them to govern the behaviour of the officers and men of His Majesty’s ship at sea…’
The voice became a drone in the background, partly for the fact that John Pearce had heard the words before, but just as much because of the dull way that Colbourne recited them. It hardly seemed possible that not much more than an hour before he had been discussing how to get ashore on the Kent coast in a way that would allow him to evade notice. Every fibre of his being longed for that; it had since he had been, three and half weeks previously, illegally and violently taken up and pressed for the first time.
The image of that night came easily, as did remembrance of the Pelican tavern, hard by the River Thames, tucked in the Liberties of the Savoy, a warren of streets and alleys where minor felons and debtors could live without fear of bailiffs and tipstaffs. Sought by him as a refuge from pursuit by a more powerful law, it had been full of humanity, smoke, laughter and argument, all perfectly normal until the door burst open and the Navy arrived in force, with cudgels and purpose, rudely interrupting his cagey conversation with a quartet of impecunious strangers who made their living on the riverbank. It had led to sudden mayhem and a near escape, but he had not evaded the press gang; instead he had experienced capture and received, at the end of a knotted rope, his first taste of naval discipline.
The course of his life had changed in that moment, his only desire to get away and to do so without attracting attention. To get ashore discreetly was essential, for he suspected there was a King’s Bench warrant out for his arrest. Obstacles to that aim had been numerous ever since he was taken up, yet he had somehow overcome them all to gain his freedom, but now, having fallen foul at the very last hurdle, he must start all over again. He looked around at the dimly lit faces of his new shipmates, at least those he could see. They ranged from the very young and open, of seamen who were little more than boys, to the man who had spoken to them first, a gnarled veteran who had clearly spent years at sea.
There would certainly be people in this tub that would seek to stop him deserting; he had learned in the last few weeks that a proper sailor’s attitude to a pressed landsman rarely included much in the way of sympathy. The best he could hope for was indifference, a stance that would have men look the other way at matters which they thought to be none of their concern. One or two might be positively compassionate, but to balance them, in any group, there were bound to be those who would interfere from natural malice – men who hated to see others make a gain not vouchsafed to themselves – and that took no account of those with warrants and petty ranks, keen to protect their little shards of authority.
Such a thing did not apply to Lieutenant Colbourne; he was a known quantity. Having gone to the trouble of pressing them out of a passing merchantman, the ship’s captain could be guaranteed to do everything in his power to keep Pearce aboard, so the nature of the man was of serious concern. The officer who had first pressed him, and given him that welcoming clout with a knotted rope, had been a black-hearted tyrant called Ralph Barclay. Was Colbourne the same? Was he as watchful, as keen to see his inferior officers use their fists, a starter, or the lash to maintain authority?
Chance had allowed him to outmanoeuvre Barclay and regain his freedom; could he do the same to Colbourne? What of the ship, this HMS Griffin; where would she sail, what were her duties? She had come up upon the Lady Harrington close to the South Kent shore, in soundings as Colbourne had insisted, a fact that seemingly gave him the right to press seamen from any merchant vessel he encountered. Did her duty keep her in such proximity to the coast or would she be sailing into deeper water? Soundings. The word had a funereal ring to it, a death knell of hope. A lead line cast into John Pearce’s soul not twenty minutes ago would have touched bottom quickly when he realised what was about to happen, realised that, in the end it was Ralph Barclay who had humbugged him and not the other way round; as he had contemplated his options, he was in near despair. That, he knew, was a useless emotion and it was not in his character to dwell in the slough of despond. Now, every nerve end was alive, his eyes and ears acute for any clue that would aid his cause. He would get off this ship or die in the attempt.
‘Article Four. No man shall have carnal knowledge of any beast carried in His Majesty’s vessels on pain of death…’
‘He has a right way with a jest,’ whispered O’Hagan, ‘with no room here to swing a dead chicken. Sure he’s fit for the fairground tent. If he was to lay out his hat I’d toss him a sixpence.’
Pearce felt himself smile, which made him realise how tightly clenched had been his jaw. It might be involuntary and the joke feeble, but it eased the angry tension and he was grateful for the release to a man who, in only a matter of days, had become a close friend. That was Michael’s way, to see humour in every situation no matter how desperate. Besides that he had a great flair for deflating those who sought to command him, as well as the ability, gifted as he was with height and strength, to stand toe to toe with any man who thought himself cock-of-the-walk. He had faults, all men do, and was bellicose when drunk, the state in which Pearce had first seen him, but if there was anyone he would want by his shoulder when trouble threatened, Michael was that man.
The words being mouthed by Colbourne were no joke. Articles of War they called them, those Lord High Admirals; articles of death more like, given the number of offences that attracted such a penalty. Ideas raced through John Pearce’s mind, split-second scenarios; a long swim if they ever got close enough to shore, the theft of a boat, or, given that he had money hidden in his ditty bag, a bribe to some of the crew to aid him and get him ashore. So real did these ideas seem that he could almost feel the solid ground of Mother Earth under his feet.
The way the ship lurched disabused him of that particular reverie and it also brought on a stab of guilt as he realised that he was thinking only of himself, ignoring the needs of those who had been taken up with him. That brought forth several emotions on top of self-reproach, feelings he had harboured before; annoyance at the way these men sought decisions from him, almost forcing him to be a leader – to think for them all when all he wanted was to think for himself. Michael, Charlie Taverner and young Rufus Dommet had been pressed too and with just as much brutality; they had shared discomfort as well as adventure, had been threatened and had stood together. In the giant Irishman’s case Pearce had grounds to believe he owed him his life. He was less beholden to the other pair, but still they had come to think of themselves as a group; the Pelicans, named for the tavern from which they were pressed. On first acquaintance it was easy to consider abandoning them and he had tried to do so. Then they had been strangers; it would be much more difficult now.
‘I feel sick.’
Cornelius Gherson’s whine, so familiar to those who knew him, coincided with a more telling heave of the deck, as a groaning Griffin lurched and steadied. Colbourne glanced up from his reading for a brief moment before carrying on. If he observed, from his close proximity to the complainant, that this newly pressed recruit was green around the gills it had no effect. Pearce could not see Gherson clearly but then he did not have to; the habitual pout on his almost too pretty face was common enough to require no imagination.
‘Don’t chuck it, mate,’ cawed the mahogany-faced fellow called Latimer, ‘lest you want to lick it back up like a dog.’
‘Don’t go down on all fours in front of anyone on this barky, lad,’ hissed another sailor in Gherson’s ear. ‘It would be to some aboard like an invite.’
That brought forth one growl of dissent, but mostly suppressed laughter; it was the way Colbourne did not react to the interruption that mattered, for it told John Pearce a great deal. H
e would not claim to know the Navy in the short time of his enforced service but he had the ability to make and trust swift judgements on people he hardly knew, for he had grown up surrounded by them as he traversed the length and breadth of Britain. This had been done in the company of his father, a well-known radical speaker and pamphleteer. John had watched Adam Pearce harangue, cajole and control crowds in many a fiery speech, this while his son passed round the hat to get enough coin for bed and board. Rarely had they stayed long in one place, often no more than a day. It had been an unsettled existence in which the growing boy had been frequently subjected to new surroundings, forced to make new friends, as well as to spot quickly those who might be enemies.
He was naturally and without consciousness doing that now, but he had one quite specific model against which to match this Lieutenant Colbourne, and that was his previous captain. The choleric bastard who had pressed him out of the Pelican would never have stood for such murmurings, nor would his crew have dared to utter them in the sure knowledge that such behaviour would see them gagged at the very least. So perhaps Colbourne was no despot, but was the manner in which his crew behaved brought about by easy familiarity – such as one might find on a happy vessel – or by the man’s lack of the attributes necessary to impose a rigid authority?
Pearce would know in time, but that thought served only to drive home the truth; that was the one commodity of which he had none, and that in turn edged his task from daunting to impossible. John Pearce had not only to get off this vessel but to cross a hostile homeland, at risk of arrest and seek the intercession of some of his father’s old friends to get the warrant lifted, brought on by a vitriolic pamphlet damning the government, which had forced both father and son to flee to France over two years previously. Regardless of the outcome he would then have to take passage over the very waters on which he was sailing to land in a country now at war with Britain and seething with bloodthirsty upheaval. He must make his way to the epicentre of the revolutionary storm and bring away from Paris his father, old and probably too sick to travel, then get him back to England. Anyone listening to that outlined would say he was mad, and the man contemplating these thoughts reckoned they would not be far off the mark.
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