The Devil to Pay (15 page)

‘I think I am obliged to explain what occurred to a fellow naval officer,’ Pearce said, fingering the letters he had just been given.

‘While the man who commands this fleet, Lieutenant,’ Toomey insisted, ‘has charged me to obtain the particulars, he being too burdened by duty to undertake the task himself.’

Obliged to comply, Pearce spoke for an age, leaving nothing out and several times referring to his logs, making no bones that the decision to leave Naples had been his.

‘The court martial will want to know why?’

‘The whole port was abuzz with talk of privateers operating between the cities of Naples and Palermo.’ Pearce
lied, ‘I admit to being tempted into seeking a prize before returning as I was ordered.’

Toomey nodded and took the lie without comment – officers chasing after prizes was common enough – this while John Pearce was wondering what Dorling would have said in his log; there would be no mention of privateers. At the same time he was wondering why he had found it impossible to ask him.

‘As a result of being in the waters between Naples and Sicily we came across one of our countrymen, a merchant vessel, in dire need of aid from a pair of brigantines that proved to be from Barbary, which I gave gladly, for had I not done so she would have surely fallen to them.’

‘The minutiae, sir?’

Recounted it sounded heroic, even if Pearce made no effort to render it so. He kept his voice flat and told of what happened as well as the result, making no mention of Emily Barclay, this while Toomey wrote various notes, only occasionally looking at Pearce when he felt the need to confirm the truth of what he was being told by meeting his eye.

The clerk scratched away as Pearce recounted the tale; the sight of the enemy, the pursuit and the eventual outcome, none of which Hotham’s clerk responded to with even a flicker of emotion, the same when he related the loss of the ship; he appeared to a dry functionary to his fingertips yet the man he was questioning could not even begin to guess at what was going on in the Irishman’s mind for as he wrote, he was also testing ideas on what to propose to his admiral that would satisfy Hotham requirements yet might either stymie his stated intentions or solve the entire matter
once and for all, a glimmer of a solution was beginning to emerge.

‘I will, of course, require your logs to show Admiral Hotham and he will no doubt wish to interview you himself.’

‘Meaning I will have to repeat everything I have already said to you?’

‘Not everything, Lieutenant,’ Toomey replied, producing a smile that stood in stark contrast to his previous dry demeanour. ‘I will précis it for him.’

‘I have one request to add to what I have said, not for myself but for the crew I had the honour to command.’

‘Go on.’

Pearce looked hard at Toomey as he asked that they be permitted stay together, trying to see if it had any effect, not that he was obliged. The chief clerk merely advised him to return to the wardroom and await an instruction from the admiral, which Pearce did once he had checked that his men would be fed, this before being shipped to a transport, which doubled as a hospital ship. It was also a holding space for sailors without a ship of their own where, once he had seen the admiral, Pearce expected he would join them.

That satisfied he went back to the wardroom, there to read his letters, one from Alexander Davidson telling him how close he was to exhausting his funds, the other from his lawyer Lucknor with news of the replies he had received to his enquiries, including a fair copy of the Burns letter, which had him swearing under his breath, it being a tissue of lies. He registered Lucknor’s doubt about the way it was composed and decided that was one little swine he would take pleasure in grilling.

‘Anyone here know where a Mister Toby Burns is serving?’

The reply came from a marine captain. ‘As long as he’s not serving here aboard
Britannia
.’

‘I was not aware that he did,’ Pearce replied, sensing the disapproval in the way that had been said.

‘Gone now,’ the marine said, but in a manner that did not invite further enquiry.

That did not bother Pearce; someone like Burns would not be hard to find.

Toomey was with Hotham at the same time and, having told the tale of the loss of HMS
Larcher
he was now listening to the admiral’s thinking on the whole problem of Pearce, Barclay, Toby Burns and the London lawyer and getting himself into a real bind.

‘Sir William,’ Toomey replied, making no attempt to hide his exasperation. ‘I hope you see me as a confidant, a man in whom you can repose your trust, indeed have I not demonstrated that to be true on many occasions?’

The response did not come with the alacrity the clerk would have liked, but then with Hotham it rarely did. ‘Yes, Toomey, you have.’

‘And it would not surprise you to find that I have thought upon the matter that presses on your mind?’ A low shake of the head and a look bordering on suspicion. ‘Then would it not serve to admit that two heads are better than one? I would therefore take it as a compliment, nay as a necessity that you appraise me of what it is you have in mind.’

The admiral looked like a man being asked to hand over his purse to a highwayman. Indicating Toomey should
come close, he spoke quietly and with some urgency for several minutes, outlining what he had had in mind for John Pearce, now thrown into doubt because he lacked a ship. Toomey’s head dropped to his chest as he listened.

With a wit sharper than the man speaking he could see a number of definite flaws in what had been planned – it was all maybe this and perhaps that – but it had the merit of being action instead of passivity and that was welcome. At the very least the idea had the virtue of separating for some time the people Toomey knew to be a threat and if what Hotham had in mind turned out to be a dud, then it gave time for other avenues to be explored.

As his employer continued, Toomey had one of those flashes of enlightenment that come upon a person only very rarely, in which a plan of action seems to arrive fully formed and he now interrupted his employer, which got him a glare, one he ignored. He began to speak rapidly, which reversed the previous physical positions until eventually Hotham was nodding.

‘Sir, you cannot resolve this problem without taking out of circulation the man who stands as a threat to you. To act otherwise leaves loose ends, does it not?’

That was allowed to sink in; there was no need to elaborate on whom constituted the most dangerous loose end.

‘Will it work?’ Hotham enquired, like a man who had yet to grasp all the essentials.

‘There are still elements I have not yet fathomed. Should you agree to what I am saying, sir, and accept the main conclusion of my argument as correct, there is only one fact that you may find hard to swallow?’

‘And what, Toomey would that be?’ came the less than sanguine reply, accompanied by a direct look; the notion of unpleasant swallowing was not one Hotham cared for.

‘Lieutenant Pearce must have a court martial?’

‘He lost a vessel of His Majesty’s Navy, of course he must, man.’

Toomey let the irritation pass over him; it mattered not that he had stated the obvious. ‘For the plan I have just outlined to work, sir—’

‘Get to the point, Toomey!’

‘At his court martial, Lieutenant Pearce must not only be cleared of any wrongdoing, he may have to be praised to the skies for both his bravery and application.’

‘What!’

‘It is, sir, as I see it, the only way.’

Toby Burns stood on the deck of the transport vessel
Tarvit
idly surveying the anchorage and the fleet. If he had expected to feel different there was no evidence of it. The arrival of several boats bearing sailors was only of mild interest; they were noisy it was true but only in passing and he would see no more of them, the accommodation for officers being well separated from both the area set aside to function as a hospital and that space allocated to house officers; given he was at present, the only occupant, it was commodious indeed.

Tarvit
had its own blue coats, who also had their own quarters and to Burns these men had a slightly enviable life; transports were much more relaxed than a frigate, ten times more so than a ship of the line. True they had cannon but they were few and the crew they carried were sufficient to defend the ship against anything but an enemy warship. There was none of the bustle and exactness that characterised a man o’ war, which to the likes of him made
life fraught with too many possibilities for error while battle was something to be avoided not sought out. Perhaps he should aim for a place on one.

This reverie was disturbed by a set of floating cries echoing across the bay, this from the lookouts set on every warship as a matter of course – there were none on the transports, their shouts followed by quarterdecks suddenly becoming busy. The thought that it might be an enemy was quickly dismissed as risible; the French capital ships were tucked up safe in Toulon and no lesser vessel would enter the British fleet anchorage unless they were contemplating suicide.

Time, as ever, stood still which had Toby reflecting on the stupidity of the air of excitement that always attended a sighting, usually dissipated over hours as what could be seen from the tops eventually came in view from the deck and was only very rarely anything other than a let-down. This was no different; indeed he had time to go below and order coffee from the wardroom steward, drink it slowly and think of many other matters before his return to the deck and the sight of a seventy-four beating up on a contrary wind.

Her name was a mystery to him and would have been even if he had sighted her previously – Burns had little interest in ships – but every other deck would have folk identifying her by the great bosom of the figurehead that decorated her bowsprit, every one of which was singular in design. Besides that every vessel had its distinctive features for if seventy-fours were built to a standard it was in their ability to give battle, not in common construction. Within two cables’ lengths of HMS
Britannia
the guns began to
echo as salutes were exchanged, followed by the signal that even Toby Burns new being raised, telling the captain to repair aboard the flag.

John Pearce was still waiting for his interview so he joined the rest of the wardroom to witness this new arrival, vaguely aware that he had seen her lines before yet, had anyone enquired of him he would not have been able to provide a name. Since no one else on
Britannia
could identify her it was assumed she was new, making her an object of envy for men who sailed in vessels with hulls made loose from years of service.

‘I know that Admiral Hotham has an expectation of being joined by HMS
Semele
. Fresh off the stocks as we suspect but I’m damned if I know who has her?’

That declaration from Captain Holloway caused an unpleasant shiver to run through the Pearce body. If it was HMS
Semele
and if nothing had changed he had good cause; the notion of Ralph Barclay, as well as some other bodies from past problems, being in the same theatre as he was a very unwelcome one. It would have cheered him a little to know that William Hotham felt the same, at least about Barclay, given the timing of his arrival was not going to be fortuitous.

Charlie Taverner and Rufus Dommet, stood on the forepeak of
Tarvit
were close to cursing. The seventy-four was no stranger to them; they had served on her until John Pearce managed to get them off and they had no fond memory of the experience or of the man who had commanded her, while an unwelcome thought could not do other than surface; right now they were hands without a home and the possibility existed that they might find
themselves shipped into this new arrival. What they did not know was the nature of the men for whom they had been swapped. Michael O’Hagan, standing with them, had an inkling of possible future problems but felt it best to say nothing.

It was not cowardice that had Pearce make for the now empty wardroom but the need to think and his conclusion, once he had calmed himself, was that his only real concern lay with Ralph Barclay. The men he had arranged should be swapped for Charlie and Rufus were members of a smuggling gang led by two brothers called Tolland, villains with whom he had inadvertently become involved because they saw him as the man who stole their illegal cargo. He was also the man who, after a failed attempt at murderous retribution, saw a round eight of them pressed into the navy for which they would be even less forgiving.

Four he knew would be in
Semele
including one of the Tolland brothers, for he had arranged that they be swapped from a receiving hulk for his two Pelicans. Being innocent of the primary charge they held against him meant little but so too did their possible presence; as pressed seamen they would be confined to the vessel, even in port, and there was no chance at all of his being invited aboard Ralph Barclay’s ship. Even if they sighted him and that was unlikely, they could scarce harm him, though he had no doubt should the occasion arise they would seek to do so.

There and then he decided to avoid Barclay too, not from fear of a man who had already declined his invitation to meet over any weapon he chose, but just to maintain the peace. He was in enough trouble for the loss of
Larcher
without adding to it by becoming a pariah with every
officer on the fleet for his private affairs, some of whom would make up the judges in his court martial. Barclay would hear of his presence, there was no avoiding that and should they come face to face John Pearce was not the man to duck such an encounter. Yet for the sake of Emily it was best they stayed apart.

The arrival of Barclay aboard the flagship reverberated through the wardroom bulkhead, as whistles blew and marines stamped their boots. Holloway would be there to greet a man well ahead on the captain’s list, as would be most of his officers. They had no reason to mention his presence so he began to feel more relaxed; that was until the realisation dawned that Hotham could, without consultation with anyone, make Barclay the man who would head his panel of judges. If that happened he might as well resign his commission and forgo the pay that went with it.

The noise died away and the wardroom refilled as the men off duty who had been curious filtered back into their communal space, full of talk, much of it about Barclay, known from past service to several, not least from Toulon where he had lost his arm in what was seen as an action to admire. He had also taken several prizes since the outbreak of war and that was an occasion for barely disguised envy. Though each speaker had a care how he expressed an opinion, that being the naval way, it was not hard to detect that Barclay was not much loved, with the word ‘taut’ being employed more than once, added to allusions to his temper being one that carried a short fuse.

It was telling to Pearce that no one asked him: if he was a guest of the flagship wardroom, he was not a wholly
esteemed one. The men who berthed here knew of his name and reputation too, knew of the fluke – as they would no doubt term it – by which he had achieved his present rank as well as the opportunities Pearce had previously been afforded by Lord Hood, missions that, given everyone was highly ambitious, could only cause professional jealousy.

The behaviour here was in stark contrast to the attitude he had encountered in the wardroom of HMS
Victory
. There initial reserve had melted in the face of a need to be appraised of the Pearce good fortune, though it was a tenet that any such berth took its cue from the attitude of the resident premier. Aboard
Victory
that particular officer had held no grudge against him and his inferiors had followed his outlook; here the man was polite but rigidly so.

It might be to do with his father. Anyone who knew of his antecedents would be quick to alert the rest that they were hosting a dangerous radical, not a species much loved in a naval mess. Yet they would never openly allude to it: mutual politeness was an essential component of wardroom life in which some commissions lasted years, few were less than several months.

Obliged to live hugger mugger with men you did not like and others whose habits – flute playing or constant singing, indifferent manners, loud opinions combined with very obvious personal faults – could drive another fellow mad with irritation. But that must never be allowed to surface if any kind of harmony was to be maintained. Again the resident premier set the tone and enforced the standards, his rule of the wardroom absolute.

Pearce decided to beard the present holder, knocking on the door of his tiny cabin, which if it contained a hefty
cannon, at least had its own access to light as well as a private privy. On entry Pearce was greeted with a sour look, which obliged him to apologise for the disturbance.

‘Given the arrival of this Captain Barclay, sir, and his presence in the great cabin, I wonder if the admiral will find time to see me today?’

‘It is possible he will not, Mr Pearce.’

‘I am concerned to ensure that my men are being well cared for.’

The look on the premier’s face then was telling; it indicated that he thought that an exaggeration if not downright false. But good manners obliged him to meet what was a reasonable request from a fellow officer. It had to be dealt with however low he was held in personal esteem.

‘You may send a wardroom steward to enquire of Mr Toomey, if he is available.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘I assume,’ the premier said as Pearce made to depart, ‘that should you be answered in the affirmative you will depart for
Tarvit
.’

There was a terrible temptation then to say no, just to annoy the sod but it was not worth it.

Toomey was in his usual place, his tiny workplace just outside the great cabin, examining the logs of HMS
Semele
and wondering what this sudden and to his mind unwelcome arrival was going to do to the plan he had begun to hatch, for Barclay was not going to take kindly to any apparent favour being advanced to John Pearce. Behind the bulkhead Sir William Hotham, who had emitted a whole stream of damnations on being told what vessel was in the
offing, was also somewhat ill at ease, hardly surprising given the knowledge he had regarding the man’s errant wife.

He had welcomed Barclay, as he must with apparent enthusiasm, as a fine addition to his command and shared with him, albeit in circumspect language over a glass of claret, some a mutual condemnation of Sam Hood and his tenure of command, really a low opinion of his actions regarding the Royalist French takeover of Toulon and his support for it. At much at a loss as his clerk on what this appearance portended Hotham was saved from having to think too hard on it by Barclay’s account of his part in the Battle of the Glorious First of June as well as his troubles with the commanding admiral in the Channel, Lord Howe.

Traducing one admiral to another was fairly safe territory given their endemic rivalry. Post captains were not so very different, indeed it was said that if you sought to roast one of either rank on a spit there would be no trouble in finding another to do the turning. Hotham nodded sagely as his visitor outlined the way he suspected Howe had been humbugged by his French counterpart, drawn into a battle with the capital ships instead of doing what was demanded by the situation; stopping a convoy full of American grain getting to the shores of a France close to starvation. If it gained him glory and a great deal of money it had turned out to be a strategic error.

‘It is not a ploy for which you would have fallen, Sir William.’ That piece of inaccurate flattery was greeted with full and ponderous agreement. ‘I have no doubt you would have seen it for what it was.’

‘Fellow’s too old, of course. I’m told he has to have a chair on the quarterdeck these days.’

‘And not all there in the head, sir, as well as a man to see chimeras, Lord Howe had the damned temerity to accuse myself and a quartet of other fine officers of being tardy in our reaction to his orders.’ Barclay allowed that to sink in before adding. ‘It was, of course, Curtis who was the cause, he who sought to do us down.’

‘Yet here you are, Barclay?’ Hotham responded, clearly curious and somewhat suspicious.

Hotham knew very well how the Admiralty worked; if Sir Roger Curtis, a Rear Admiral and the Captain of the Channel Fleet, had put this man under a cloud he would not have done so without the cognisance of Lord Howe. There was man with a great deal of influence both at court and in the corridors of Whitehall, he being the King’s favourite admiral and a rumoured blood relative, albeit on the wrong side of the blanket. How come Barclay had been sent out to serve under him again in what was, by any standard, an area of operations were the chances of success were high? Up against Black Dick Howe he was lucky not to be on the beach.

‘I had the means, sir, to prove them both wrong and such was the information I held on the causes of the battle that my request for the Mediterranean was met with swift approval.’

Hotham mulled over the explanation before responding, followed by a moment when both men looked at each other enquiringly, the admiral letting Barclay know when he did speak that his appreciation of the workings of authority was acute; Hotham was a politico as much as a sailor.

‘To avoid embarrassment, perhaps?’

‘Precisely, sir.’

‘Two admirals outmanoeuvred, Barclay,’ his host said after a lengthy silence. ‘I hope you have not come to pull the same trick on a third?’

That threw Ralph Barclay. He was committed to Hotham’s flag, his future depended on it. Why had the sod said something like that? He could not know, and was not about to be enlightened, that it had to do with the plan he and Toomey had for John Pearce, a pitch that Barclay could queer even if his action was inadvertent. Right now Sir William Hotham was thinking of how to deal with such an eventuality.