An Ill Wind (19 page)

‘Mind your blaspheming, Gherson,’ said Devenow. ‘This be Captain Barclay’s wife and not some common cull.’

Raising herself gently, Emily went about her business, careful to keep a good grip. It was the sound of a distant gun that nearly did for her, because the hand on the tiller, that of the midshipman, jerked slightly and, given the wind was reduced on the sail, so did the boat. Forced to wrench forward, she fell back into the boat still in a state of dishabille. Devenow, just as taken by the sound as everyone else, had dropped the canvas screen, leaving her exposed and very red in the face, this as her husband shouted.

‘A signal gun, by damn, or I am a Dutchman’s uncle.’

For all her blushes, no one was looking in Emily’s direction, every eye being cast forward, which allowed her to rearrange her clothing. Then, and only then, did she realise the import of what was being said.

‘We are somewhere off the Pointe du Raz, lads, and if that is a signal gun then it will be the inshore squadron blockading Brest.’

‘It might be the Frenchies, your honour,’ a voice cried.

‘Take that damned man’s name!’

They sighted the first of the sails mid afternoon, and, atop that, a long white pennant streaming forward to denote the rank of the commanding admiral – odd, given his nickname, if Ralph Barclay had the right of it, would be Black Dick Howe. Soon the three masts of the frigate were plainly visible, and they obviously had sharp eyes at the masthead, for almost as soon as they could make out the top strakes of her hull the sails were trimmed to bring her round to close, which produced a hoarse cheer.

‘Belay that,’ Ralph Barclay called, but without much rancour. ‘Let them see we are true Englishmen. Hearing a cheer like that they might mistake us for Johnny Crapaud.’

‘HMS
Nymphe
, if I’m not mistaken, sir,’ the lieutenant called, joyfully, ‘one of the finest frigates in the fleet.’

‘By damn, sir, she could be the tub of Hades Hall for all I care.’ That was when he caught the eye of his wife, who was frowning at his language.

The calls of recognition were exchanged as the frigate closed, changing course to present a lee side, with the midshipman on the tiller bringing the boat round, sweet as you like, to lay alongside with willing hands to help them. They came aboard a vessel as full of joy to see
them as they were to be safe on a deck, but there was no time for pleasantries, for as the captain, Edward Pellew, pointed out, there was a blow coming and he needed to get his ship into a fit state to confound it.

‘In short, Captain Barclay, I must get some sea room, so please go to my cabin where my steward will make you right at home.’

‘You have a surgeon aboard, sir?’

‘I have.’

‘Then I would be obliged if he too would come to your cabin and bring with him some tincture of laudanum.’

John Pearce would have admitted without a moment’s complaint that he was far less a seaman than Ralph Barclay, but he had served long enough at sea to know trouble when he saw it. The darkening horizon along with the strengthening wind which had swung right round to the south-west had him in the captain’s cabin studying the charts and looking for a place to shelter. He had been in a Biscay blow the previous year and the master of the vessel on which they had been sailing had got them into a safe haven; now, without an ounce of that man’s knowledge, he had to do the same.

At first sight there were any number of places but the most obvious two were Belle Isle, to stay in the lee of that large island, or to make for the great hook which formed the outer protection of Quiberon Bay. Not trusting to his navigation – he might miss even a large island – he opted for Quiberon, putting up the
helm of a vessel he now knew to be called
Guiscard
and sailing due north to get a sight of land.

The cry from the masthead had him on deck in an instant, and the news that there was a sail bearing due east took him up into the rigging, having grabbed one of the late captain’s telescopes, to have a look. The red, white and blue flag streaming from the masthead told him the nationality of the vessel, while the fact of it coming out from the mouth of the Loire, albeit that river was way over the horizon, suggested it might be a warship hunting for the very vessel he was on. Or it might be another merchantman; it was too far off to tell.

He could not take a chance: he was on an unarmed ship and had a crew practically devoid of weapons barring a few cutlasses they had found in a rack. If it was an enemy warship he had no means of fighting them and that meant surrender, not a pleasant option given what he had been told about the activities of the Vendée Jacobins. If they were after the priests and nuns they would likely mete out to him and the others the same treatment used on them. Sliding down a backstay he gave the orders to alter course: if there was a blow coming they must head right into it, drawing on the pursuit, if it was that, in the hope that they, reckoning the game not worth the candle, would bear up for home.

‘We’d best fetch out some storm canvas,’ were the first words he uttered, ‘and somebody go and find that Abbé. Tell him we need his prayers.’

It was a common expression among sailors that the weather was a fickle beast and one wont to surprise a fellow rather than do as he anticipated; those clouds building on the horizon and the system they portended performed exactly to that maxim. The men had got the heavy storm canvas on deck and were bending most of it onto a topmast spar, not easy given their numbers and state of well-being, while another was being fetched up for the lateen sail of the mizzen, when the wind shifted once more, this time into the south-east, which meant the heavy thunderous threat ahead seemed to stay where it lay, neither closing in on them nor receding.

They had already been aloft, Pearce included, to get set as much sail as the brigantine
Guiscard
would carry, with the man in command racking his brain to recall everything he had ever been told about the task being
performed, adding as much guesswork as knowledge, this while one of the crew who knew the duty cast the log to tell him if they were gaining any speed. At first they did, but it soon became apparent that the more sail they set, the less they gained, and Pearce had some taken in on the foremast, reckoning on something he had been told: that the head of the ship could be driven too hard into the sea with an excess of canvas aloft slowing the rate of sailing.

‘Happen the father’s prayers are working,’ said Michael, seeing the weather still far off, this said with all the conviction of his religion.

‘I would be inclined to agree with you if that fellow over our stern were not gaining on us.’

Taking a telescope once more, Pearce went back up the shrouds all the way to the mainmast top, there to hook a leg over the yard and settle himself so he could employ the thing. Time had taught him to use it properly: small movements of the tip were magnified, as much as was the observable object, so he quickly had the pursuit in plain view and the first thing he noticed, without in any way being sure of how to designate it in terms of a name, was that it was a three-masted warship, the deck carrying what were unmistakably cannon.

Keeping it in view, not easy as he swayed in an arc caused by the ploughing motion of the ship, he tried to work out a way to confound a vessel that was armed against that on which he sat, which was not; foul weather had been his only potential ally and an uncertain one at
that, but to spin round and look over that dipping prow was to see that as a threat distant still. Nor could he really do what he had been told warships did in a stern case, lighten the ship: she carried no guns, no cargo, only bodies. Other questions intruded: would the chase be satisfied with the ship? If he took to the cutter again – not a happy prospect, given it had been overcrowded when he came upon the
Guiscard
and would be a damn sight more so with double the number aboard – would these pursuers let them go? Or were they after clerical blood to add to that already spilt? If they were, he and his men would not likely be spared a similar fate.

Nightfall might aid them, if they could stay far enough ahead, changing course as soon as darkness fell, yet the sky above was now a mixture of fluffy white clouds and clear sky that promised, if it stayed the same, long periods of starlight. With a waxing moon, that was damn near as good as daylight on the reflective ocean. Being an optimist by nature John Pearce was not yet in despair, but rack his brain as he might, he could see no way out of the dilemma. On the principle that several brains were better than one, he decided to put it to the men.

‘If it be the holy mollies they are after, let’s put them in the cutter with oars, I say.’

He had gathered the men he now led near the wheel, so that Charlie and Rufus, manning it, could be included, and he was pleased to see they looked shocked. Few on the now steeply canted deck nodded
heartily at that suggestion, though it made many of them look thoughtful, while Michael O’Hagan wore an expression that indicated he wanted to clout the culprit. Much as it was distasteful, there was no denying it was a possible solution.

‘No,’ Pearce said, ‘that is a course I cannot countenance.’

‘Ain’t up to you, mate,’ replied Weary, the man who had made the suggestion.

The strangled cry as Michael picked him up by his shirt and lifted him four feet off the deck turned into a choking sound. ‘Sir, not mate, you heathen.’

‘Put him down, Michael.’

‘Sure, I’d rather drop him over the side. Happen those chasing us will stop to pick him up and gain us time.’

‘Can’t blame him, Paddy.’

Michael looked at Polly Parrat with a frown. ‘My given name is Michael, friend, and I’d be obliged if you would use it.’

‘The name don’t make no odds. We are in a pickle here without there bein’ a clear way out. Mr Pearce here has told us what those Jacobin buggers got up to, and while I ain’t no blind foe of a papist, I am no more minded to suffer as they are promised.’

Pearce looked at the sky and the way the sun, now hidden by a cloud, was well past its zenith and beginning to sink in the west, speaking his previous thought, trying to sound what he was not: confident.

‘If we maintain our present rate of sailing he will not come up on us before night falls. We will change course and see if we can confound the fellow.’

‘And if we don’t?’ Parrat asked.

‘Let’s see what dawn brings, Polly. Meanwhile, I will see if we can get the nuns to make us some dinner.’

The sailors had to fetch the wood from the store as well as the barrels of salt beef from the hold, this while others got the coppers lit. For once they could have as much as they liked, peas and hard cheese included. There was no biscuit but what they had brought aboard and that had to be shared with the clerics, but not before they had said grace in the Latin, which had some of the Jack tars fearing for their souls, having been raised all their lives to see Catholic priests as the servants of Old Nick.

There was cider instead of beer to drink, which occasioned the odd moan, so wedded were they to their small beer and, knowing the strength of that brew, Pearce put Michael in charge of its distribution and the storeroom where the barrels were kept. The last thing he needed was any of the few men he had getting drunk, which they would do readily if deep despondency took over from their limited hopes: he needed them alert.

Having eaten with them, drinking little, Pearce went aloft again to be alone with his thoughts, well aware that the discussion would continue without him and out of earshot of the likes of Michael. If they collectively decided they wanted to abandon those priests and nuns
he was in no position to stop them. Certainly they would not respect his rank, which made him smile, given he had little of that commodity himself for his commission. Instead of dwelling on it he trained the telescope once more, to view a deck much more clearly defined now by the lower sun, so much so that he could see the figures moving about on it, as well as the men on the wheel. The figure that took his eye most, hanging onto one of the foremast shrouds and staring straight ahead, made him catch his breath.

He was dressed all in black from his tall hat, kept on his head by a scarf, through his coat, all the way down to his breeches and high boots, the only flash of colour the heavy tricolour sash he wore around his waist. He was too far off to be certain but that sinking sun was throwing a bright light from behind Pearce onto the enemy deck, and before it faded he had made out the face of a man who would most certainly kill him, and take pleasure in doing it slowly if he caught him, the one-time representative on mission from the Committee of Public Safety, Henri Rafin.

The last sight he recalled of him was the bastard floundering in the water off La Rochelle, he having chucked him into the sea, following on from a nip-and-tuck rescue in which he had been taken hostage. A man of outstanding arrogance, he was just the kind of turd that had floated to the surface thanks to the Revolution. And, if what he had heard of events in Nantes were true, he was, too, a perfect tool for vengeful pacification, a
fellow who took pleasure in seeing others die, gloated in hearing the crowd bay as the blade of Madame Guillotine chopped off the heads of those whose only crime was dissent or having been born into the better classes.

Whatever his doubts before, whatever the conundrum, there was no way in creation he was going to give himself up into the hands of that man, and if there was no other way to avoid being taken he would steer the ship straight for Rafin and seek to take the bugger to the bottom with him, a notion which set his mind working long before he made his way back to the deck.

Night came slowly, as always in these climes, but not before they had experienced a glorious sunset, the heavy horizon clouds having broken up, the kind of golden light fading through orange to red which would have been inspiring for a less troubled soul, especially as it was accompanied by sweet singing from ’tween decks, where the holy passengers were celebrating mass. As soon as they were under cloud and in the dark, Pearce, having noted the position of Polaris before the star was blotted out, altered course to the north. If he was going to try to run that was the best direction with the wind coming in nicely over the starboard quarter: it was also the way home.

He had only held his previous course, sacrificing a certain amount of speed, to allow for this change, working on the principle that whoever commanded the chase, and it certainly was not Henri Rafin, would not
know the
Guiscard
was manned by British sailors. He might, therefore, given a change of course had to be on the cards, suppose they would aim for a return to French soil. If they reversed their course while he held his new one, the gap might be opened enough to get them hull down and therefore hard to spot, even under a bright moon.

He was on the wheel himself now, calling for braces to be tightened, trying to feel through the spokes the best point of sailing and damn the course, his hopes dashed when the sky cleared and shafts of moonlight bathed the seascape to show that if they had made ground on their pursuers, they had held steadily to their original line, which was not enough to put them out of sight, this proved by an immediate change of course and a renewed chase.

‘What now, Mr Pearce?’ asked a voice in the pale light.

It was telling that he did not answer: there was nothing really to say.

The same condition having prevailed throughout the hours of darkness, there was a clear sense of foreboding when the sky began to lighten to the east, showing the chase to be no more than a couple of cables’ lengths off their stern, so close that no telescope was needed now to see, when full daylight came, the details of the Frenchman. Soon they would be employing their bow chasers seeking to knock away something vital and
bring matters to an even quicker conclusion than was inevitable.

‘Gather round, all of you,’ shouted Pearce, still manning the wheel. He waited till that request was obeyed, wondering about the words he would use to explain the thoughts he had formed aloft. ‘Before we departed Toulon my companions and I were on a fireship and you know, having had to abandon your own vessel, how dangerous that is.’

‘You planning to see us burnt off a barky a second time, Mr Pearce?’

Somehow Polly managed to say that without making it sound like an objection, which Pearce had been expecting, raising again his feeling of respect for the man. He was a natural leader: if he had decided to dispute his authority the men, Pelicans aside, would have backed him and it was plain he knew it. Yet he had not done so, nor, without any better suggestion to make, had he even set out to diminish the man to whom he had deferred.

‘If we load the cutter with what she will bear in the article of stores, how long before we can get her back in the water, all hands on the task?’

‘If we get her set right, minutes.’

‘That’s all you will have and that includes getting the bodies aboard as well.’

‘The papists?’ asked Weary, who had wanted to leave them behind. This time he had made sure he was not within reach of Michael O’Hagan. When
Pearce nodded, he insisted, ‘They’ll sink us.’

‘No, we’ll float – not in comfort – but the other thing we must do is step a mast on her. There are carpenter’s tools below and we have spars which will serve. I am trusting there is one of you who can rig the tackle for a sail, and we do not lack canvas. That means we do not need room to row, so there is more room for people.’

‘And then you are goin’ to set this barky alight?’ Polly asked.

‘And ram her into the chase. If she’s fired I doubt they will have much stomach to pursue us. They will be too busy saving themselves.’

‘You’re mad,’ Weary said.

‘If anyone has a better idea.’

The sound of the ball being fired arrived not long before the object itself, and looking aft Pearce saw the smoke being blown in their direction, thinking that even the wind was aiding them. The ball dropped short of the stern but not by much.

‘An extra charge of powder will see the next one strike the hull. Time to decide.’

‘Ben,’ said Polly, ‘you’re handy with rope work. Sort out what we need for a sail while I get the right kind of spars for a mast and a gaff. Weary,’ he continued, ‘get them tools out and what you need to rig not only a mast, but places on the cutter for stays to hold it steady. The rest of you get that cutter turned over and the stores set by her that we need, more drink than food.’

He looked and nodded at Pearce, who then issued his own commands. ‘Michael, Charlie, Rufus, I want anything flammable you can find placed right under the forward companionway as well as the means to get it ablaze.’

The crash of gunfire was louder as both bow chasers fired together: Pearce had predicted the powder charge would be increased, so the sound of tearing timber accompanying the arrival of the two cannonballs added to his standing.

‘Michael, get the priests and nuns to help you. They will be safer further away from the stern and, if they are working, less inclined to panic.’

The chase crept closer over the next hour, firing steadily, reducing what had been the captain’s cabin to a mess of glass and matchwood. Pearce was more concerned about the point at which the range decreased enough to allow those cannonballs to carry the taffrail: then he and everyone on deck would be at risk. Added to that, he dare not wait until they were within range to hit a mast, given he needed all the sails he had to manoeuvre.