The Perils of Command

by David Donachie

  Each report went through the ship’s captain, on to the executive officer of the fleet – passed to his clerks, of course – to be subsequently available to the commanding officer so he could assess the state of his fighting vessels. Finally these logs, along with his assessments, were despatched to the Admiralty itself where the minions there, better paid than most sailors and by reputation notoriously indolent, scrutinised them for discrepancies.

  Anything seen not to add up was passed back down the chain. Much of a captain’s time was taken up accounting for matters long in the past and that could only be achieved because he had a copy of everything that had ever been written. In theory it was impossible to cheat or to hide various misfortunes from the Navy Office. That it happened, and frequently, was a credit to naval ingenuity. If a rising officer learnt to sail and fight a ship of war, he also in his progress was tutored in the very necessary skill of how to muddy the handwritten waters.

  Horatio Nelson had his barge in the water before the ship was secured, John Pearce with him and they were soon rowing towards Britannia at speed. It mattered not how many times he had been in a cutter, barge or even a small jolly boat, Pearce found himself impressed by the skill and strength of the oarsmen. With expressionless faces they employed their heavily muscled arms to propel with seeming ease a craft made of heavy timber that took several dozen men and the employment of the capstan to get it in and out of the water.

  Their strokes were even so no orders were required to be issued until they approached their destination, on this occasion the gangway that led to the entry port in the side of the flagship. Quietly instructed by Nelson’s coxswain, the barge swung in a smooth arc to come to rest right by the sea-level platform, John Pearce pulling his hat low to ensure no one looking over the bulwarks would spot an arrival in which he hoped to employ the element of surprise.

  Nelson came out of the barge briskly, he being a man who did anything that could be observed by his peers or superiors at pace. It was therefore odd that he stopped on the stairway and turned to face his passenger with a look of deep curiosity, his countenance made pink by the setting sun.

  ‘It occurs to me, Mr Pearce, that I never got round to asking you how you came to be in Leghorn. Admiral Hotham is bound to enquire and I would look foolish if stuck for a reply.’

  ‘You intend to mention my name?’

  ‘I fear I must, if only to offset some of the opprobrium that arose from our last visit there.’

  ‘Is that not a subject rendered dead by the passage of time?’

  ‘Most certainly not. My crew labour under the shadow of what occurred, Mr Pearce, and it is my duty to see that thinned if not shifted. Indeed I may ask that you be brought in to explain yourself what took place and to be more honest with Sir William than you have hitherto been with me.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Come, Mr Pearce. I was watching you when my youngsters were explaining matters to you. Something they said, and I reckon it comes down to descriptions, triggered a response in your features which means there are facts you know but have not shared. I am sure our C-in-C will be as eager to hear from your lips what they are, just as am I.’

  ‘Then I beg you take note of Sir William’s expression when you mention my name.’

  ‘Why are you grinning, sir?’ Nelson asked, slightly piqued.

  ‘I think you’ll find it can be noted as unusual.’

  Someone banged an object against the interior scantlings to advise Nelson that he was keeping waiting the reception party and that had him moving, to be greeted by the required bosun’s call and the stamp of marine boots in a ritual that was replicated a dozen times a day or more as ranking officers came to visit their commander. Pearce reckoned it to be, like the endless gunfire salutes, nothing more than flummery.

  ‘Captain Nelson, sir, welcome aboard.’

  As he nodded to the premier – no mere officer of the watch would suffice for a senior post-captain – Nelson raised his hat to the invisible quarterdeck and the flag that hung on the mizzen mast. Below their feet the men on the lower deck had raised their heads as the marine shoes landed with a collective thud, some to wonder who was coming aboard now, others to curse the noise.

  Cole Peabody was one of the latter; he hated anything that smacked of order. That was doubly so when it was naval and he was not shy of saying so and less guarded on the ship than the previous one. In the short time he and his mates had been aboard Britannia it had become clear that Captain Holloway was not Captain Barclay. Not that the flagship was slack, but there was none of the tension of mistrust that had existed aboard HMS Semele and hung between the lower decks like a miasma.

  The way Ralph Barclay ran his ship ensured that few trusted any other and most granted that to no one at all. The lieutenants ran their division competitively, always seeking approval from the quarterdeck and in doing so they bore down on the hands, more on those who could not be counted amongst their favourites, and Barclay kept them at odds with each other to ensure efficiency.

  ‘Flag’s been at anchor, Cole, who’s to say Holloway won’t be a right tartar once we is at sea?’

  ‘If we ever raise sail,’ moaned Dan Holder. ‘We’re stuck here in a mess of our own shit.’

  ‘Suits me,’ Cole responded, his voice as usual rendered hiss-like through the lack of teeth. ‘Can’t think why any bugger would be at a rush to get into a fight for some other sod’s glory.’

  ‘Winnin’ lines the poke, Cole. We never heard the end of how much the swabs aboard Semele made under Black Dick Howe.’

  ‘Pennies, when you might get your head blown off. Not for me, mates – if I is going to risk my person it will be for a decent reward like we used to get.’

  A hoot came from Cephas Danvers. ‘Then find where the admiral keeps his coffer, for that will be stuffed with gold, fer certain.’

  The marines dispersing were as noisy as they were assembling, which had Cole Peabody lifting his head and swearing, as Fred Brewer enquired as to who it might be coming on board.

  ‘It will make no odds to us, mates, so best not hark to it.’

  John Pearce had received a look from the premier, one he had come to recognise on the face of many of his fellow officers. It spoke of an attempt to mask with a carapace of good manners the disdain they felt for his person and the way he had acquired his rank without going through the rigours of years at sea and the hard-to-pass examinations.

  There were others who were less troubled by the fact that King George had jumped him from midshipman to lieutenant by royal dispensation as a reward for an act of outstanding bravery. Pearce had saved a ship of the line, albeit a small one, from certain capture and they were fair-minded enough to rate his elevation deserved. Yet in a service rife with competiveness they were in a minority and the object of most folk’s contempt had learnt to ignore both opinions.

  Nelson was striding towards the great cabin with Pearce at his heels, hunched in an attempt to stay unremarked behind the much smaller captain. If his efforts failed with one lieutenant they passed, it kept it from anyone dead ahead, which allowed him to get close to the cubbyhole Toomey used as an office without the clerk being forewarned.

  Toomey greeted Nelson by half rising from his seat and informed him that he could go right in for the admiral was awaiting. Pearce had half turned to look down the main deck as the clerk did so to remain mysterious.

  ‘You will wish to leave me your logs, of course, sir.’

  The thud as the heavy ledgers were dropped on the clerk’s desk was very obvious as he heard Nelson acknowledge Toomey’s instruction. As soon as the marine sentry came to attention he turned to face the admiral’s senior clerk and spoke in a clear and carrying voice.

  ‘Mr Toomey, I bid you good evening.’

  The head shot up; clearly he recognised the voice and his face suffered a complete loss of blood as what he had hoped was an error turned out to be fact.

  ‘I daresay you are surprised to see me?’

  To
omey had not got to his present position without ability and that extended beyond numeracy and the skill to compose clear orders. If his shock was palpable even in the glim of a pair of lanterns it was swiftly masked to be replaced by a rictus-like smile.

  ‘Surprised and delighted, Mr Pearce,’ he croaked. ‘To see you here implies what? That the mission on which you set out was aborted, perhaps?’

  ‘On the contrary, Mr Toomey, it was carried through to a conclusion and was an outstanding success and led, I have to say, by a most gallant officer.’

  ‘Mr Digby is …?’

  That was prevarication; Toomey did not want to hear about any successes.

  ‘Recovering from a wound that with an inch of difference might have killed him. But he will soon be whole again and therefore not be a burden to your conscience.’

  The few moments of talk had allowed Toomey to recover some of his poise and that came out as a skill at deflection. He puffed his chest out to protest. ‘I cannot imagine why such a thing should be implied, sir.’

  ‘Do not seek to avoid your misdemeanours, sir, and I might add the chicanery of the swine you serve. You have been cunning, I will grant, but there is not a shred of doubt in my mind that you contrived with Hotham to dispose of both Digby and myself, while the fate of the whole crew of HMS Flirt was a matter of utter indifference to you both.’

  Was it genuine anger or fear that had Toomey come near to an explosion? Pearce did not know and nor did he care.

  ‘How dare you, sir! I will not sit here and listen to such base and wayward accusations. I rate you as mad, sir, and I have a mind to call for a file of marines to confine you.’

  ‘There is one by the admiral’s door who can hear every word. It will make for a fine tale once he is back at his mess table. Prepare yourself to be confined, Mr Toomey, but only for a brief spell until you are led to Tyburn and your just deserts.’

  Pearce pointed to the cabin door and played what he reckoned to be his best card. ‘Do not doubt that somewhere on those orders we received is your imprimatur, while I seriously doubt that Hotham’s part could be so easily discovered, and even if it were he would deny it.’

  The face lost blood again.

  ‘Nor, I suspect, do you have a moment’s doubt of this. That if his position is threatened then yours will be forfeit. I would reckon the mere sight of me, Mr Toomey, renders you a threat to your admiral even greater than the transcript I have of Captain Barclay’s court martial and the blatant perjuries it contains.’

  ‘Transcript?’ Toomey demanded, obviously confused; so, for a moment, was John Pearce until enlightenment surfaced, the realisation Barclay must have kept that bit of information to himself.

  ‘Now, here is me reckoning Hotham and Barclay to be two cheeks on the same arse. But by your reaction I am led to suspect that the good captain has not informed you of that which I have in my possession.’

  ‘Transcript?’ Toomey asked again, albeit in a fearful whisper.

  Pearce put his fists on the table and rested his weight upon them. ‘Every word said at Barclay’s trumped-up court martial, and that is before we come to the forgery of certain correspondence supposedly from Midshipman Toby Burns.’

  A hand went to Toomey’s brow, to be run across it, making truth of what had been no more than a guess.

  ‘What a tangle you have become engaged in, sir. It is one that will most certainly be taken amiss by the two gentlemen who sent me out with letters to Lord Hood. I refer to the First Lord of the Treasury, Mr William Pitt and my fellow Scotsman and Minister for War, Henry Dundas.’

  The door to the cabin opened and Hotham stood framed within it, his stocky body silhouetted by the stronger light. That was so dominant that his face, and thus his expression, was in shadow. There was no way to tell what he was thinking by sight, only by supposition. The vision was brief; the door was slammed shut.

  ‘The cat is amongst the pigeons, Mr Toomey,’ Pearce hooted, with manufactured glee. ‘Your admiral is at a stand, sir, and I have no doubt where that places you. Shall I enter and tell him that his client officer has kept from him just how threatened he truly is, that as soon as I get hold of Toby Burns and intimidate him with the prospect of the rope the game is over?’

  ‘You shall not enter, sir,’ Toomey spat, indicating the marine sentry with his head. ‘And that fellow there will prevent it on my command that he do so.’

  ‘It matters not. Hotham will see me or see himself damned.’

  ‘He will not!’

  ‘We shall soon discover who has the right of it, Mr Toomey. Meanwhile I will take a turn around the deck while you contemplate the less-than-rosy future that awaits you.’ The pause was well timed for effect. ‘Or is that no future at all?’

  Well before he reached the companionway leading to the upper deck John Pearce was almost purring with satisfaction. He was sure he had played his hand well, while the exposure of that transcript had proved explosive, merely by its existence but also because quite clearly Barclay had not let it be known. The old saw about there being no honour amongst thieves came to mind and in his reflections he played out an ever-increasing number of pleasurable scenarios as the men he considered responsible for that mission to the Gulf of Ambracia sought to deflect blame away from their own actions.

  Lost in such thoughts he paid no attention to the seaman passing by on his way back from the heads, even when the man stopped for a split second to stare at him. By the time Pearce responded the man was moving again, making for the companionway that would take him below, so he was just a figure and a receding one at that.

  Fred Brewer hurried to his mess table, beginning with a cold glare that shifted two of his messmates he did not consider should hear what he had to say. If they moved slowly they were soon out of earshot and an eager look and a crooked finger from Brewer soon got the heads of his fellow smugglers close to his own.

  ‘You is never goin’ to believe what my eyes have just seen, mates.’

  ‘You havin’ been to the heads, Fred, we might not want to.’

  ‘You’re wrong, Cole, well wrong, for on my way back I spied an officer on deck.’

  ‘Christ, a miracle.’

  ‘Scoff you might, all of you, but you will not when I tell you his name.’

  ‘Cut the shallying, Fred. If you got anything to impart get on with it.’

  Fred was determined to enjoy his moment. ‘Tall fellow, well set and good to look at if you like that sort of caper. Looking well pleased with hisself an’ smiling away as I passed him by.’

  ‘I can feel my fist a’twitchin’, Fred,’ growled Cephas Danvers.

  ‘It will do a rate more’n that, Cephas, when I tell you what I clapped eyes on.’

  ‘I’ll poke the buggers out if you don’t speak out.’

  ‘There I was a-crossing the deck, breathing a bit of fresh by coming that route and the cove I espied was none other than that snake in the grass John Pearce.’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Cornelius Gherson knew the interview had not gone well just by the expression on Ralph Barclay’s face. That said he was surprised to be viciously barked at when he enquired as to the details. His employer did not see him pout, not that he would have cared that the man felt slighted; had he not been a vital part of the whole affair ever since Emily Barclay had enforced the original separation?

  He had guided the captain with good advice, even if much of it had either been scoffed at or ignored. Stomping along behind him as they made their way from the village of Posillipo towards the centre of Naples he reprised with bitter resentment the acts he had undertaken, more than one of which had put him at serious risk and left him questioning why he allowed himself to become so engaged.

  He needed to hang on to Barclay’s coat-tails in order to prosper, but prior to drawing that conclusion he had been motivated by the way Emily Barclay had treated him, as he acted as her husband’s messenger, with a degree of contempt that had made Gherson want to slap her hard. His approach having
gone wrong and with her husband desperate to recover the court martial papers, he had acceded to Barclay’s request and engaged the services of some of his old acquaintances from his past criminal life.

  Naval service might reckoned a rough trade but it was milk and honey compared to the underbelly of London, where a man’s life would count for no more than the possession of a soiled linen handkerchief. To exist in such a milieu required guile, wits and sometimes sheer braggadocio of the kind that gave opponents pause.

  Gherson had gone from childhood to manhood in the face of an almost permanent danger from a community that saw murdered bodies daily dragged from the River Thames to be sold – if they remained unidentified, and they rarely were – to the surgeons at St Bartholomew’s for dissection without much being cared for in the way in which these victims had met their end.

  To help Barclay – really for his own sake, though he would not admit to it – Gherson had engaged the services of one of the most villainous sods in a world peopled by such creatures. Jonathan Codge was such a conniving bastard not even Satan would have been able to collar him. Gherson himself had come close to being one of the numerous poor dupes Codge dobbed in to the Bow Street Runners in order to save his own skin.

  ‘Sir,’ he gasped, for Barclay was setting a pace that matched his mood. ‘I hazard you are going to ask me to once more advise you. How can I do that when I have no idea of the outcome of your meeting?’

  The captain stopped so abruptly Gherson had to halt swiftly to avoid a collision. ‘I need no advice, hear me. I require action not words and, by damn, if Devenow is not by the quayside when we get there he will find that any flogging he has had till this day was as a kiss from a buttercup.’