A Flag of Truce (8 page)

‘Don’t stare, Gherson, it lacks manners.’

Barclay’s rebuke had him looking at his books again, but an introduction had him on his feet.

‘My dear, allow me to name Cornelius Gherson. I have engaged him to be my clerk.’

‘I know your face, Mr Gherson,’ said Emily.

He nearly blurted out that he knew hers, but he forced himself into an obsequious nod.

‘He was one of my Sheerness volunteers, my dear, and damn me…’ Seeing the look that minor blasphemy brought to his wife’s face he looked contrite, yet thinking it was a burden to be with sailors one minute and a wife of strict manners the next. ‘Anyway, I had no idea he was accomplished in the clerkish line, but now I do.’

‘Is this to be his place of work, husband?’

Please, thought Gherson, unaware of why the question had been posed. It was because of Ralph Barclay’s sailor-servant, Shenton, who had been with him for years of bachelorhood and had not taken kindly to his master having his wife aboard. He was, to Emily Barclay, a nuisance, never knocking when he should and, in his own subtle way, letting it be known that he saw her as an interloper. Another person with unrestricted access to this cabin was not to be welcomed.

‘No, my dear. We will find him a crib in which he can work.’

Another knock and Sykes entered. ‘You sent for me, sir.’

There was a terrible temptation to scowl at the man. Sykes was competent but lacked the necessary fire, being a bit soft on the hands, and Ralph Barclay had had to rebuke him more than once for what he saw as Sykes mollycoddling them, which always produced a look of injury. But it would not do; he had to look gracious. A quick explanation
followed, in the same vein as that given to Farmiloe, with the captain unaware that by now everyone on the ship knew what was afoot.

‘I just wonder if the experience will be better than sitting here, Sykes, when we are fully rigged and only the odd bit of grease or tar needed to keep us shipshape. I can tell you we will not weigh until Toulon is either secured or abandoned, and I know that Mr Digby could use a capable man.’

The alacrity with which the offer was accepted quite offended the giver; the man might have at least have pondered, but then he did not know how much Sykes disliked him, nor had his mind moved at the same speed. The bosun could go on a detached duty, but his place aboard the frigate was secure. No one but Lord Hood could take it from him, and even if he did Sykes could appeal above the C-in-C’s head to the Navy Board.

‘Very decent of you, sir, and I thank you for your consideration.’

There was a terrible temptation to do the same to
Brilliant
’s master, who was a useless timid sod, but that would be a step too far. ‘Right, Sykes, ask Mr Glaister to join me; we must work out some revised watch lists.’

‘And, Mr Digby, I have to inform you that I lack the knowledge to do the task for which I have been selected.’

Digby had listened with increasing disbelief as Pearce had outlined his adventures of the last six months, since he had seen him go over the side of HMS
Brilliant
off the Brittany coast, already having seen action. To be pressed once was bad enough, to be pressed twice was hellish, yet there was also a strand of envy mixed up with wonder at the amount of conflict Pearce had seen. It was the stuff of a junior officer’s dreams. The man, despite his insistence on naming other people as responsible for what success he had enjoyed, seemed touched by some divine providence in the article of opportunity. To help in the capture of a French 74, which might have sunk a British 50, was fantastic.

‘Might I suggest that you seek the appointment of another officer.’

That was tempting; to have as his second-
in-command
someone of so little experience was bound to place an extra burden on him, and it was not as if Pearce wanted it. What he asked next was what killed the notion.

‘I would of course want O’Hagan, Taverner and Dommet released into my care.’

Digby was quite brusque; Pearce ashore and close to Barclay with that trio to aid him was too risky to be considered. The man might not be beyond secret murder, and where would that leave him!

‘I must decline both requests, Mr Pearce. We
have been given a duty to perform and it is up to us to execute that to the best of our ability. Now you will cease to be so unconstructive and help me to work out how we are going to fill the various offices that must be occupied. Not one of the men Captain Barclay proposes to send us, apart from Mr Sykes and Costello, has a true rating over able seaman, and we are still short of a master and probably another midshipman.

‘Then can I suggest, sir, you request that they should come from HMS
Weazel
. Mr Neame, you must know, is an excellent master, and Harbin I rate very highly.’ Digby was nodding slowly, while Pearce was thinking that with those two aboard some of his inexperience could be disguised. ‘Oh, and my Pelicans have requested that we ask for a couple of hands from
Leander
. Their names are Latimer and Blubber Booth. Both good men who can hand, reef and steer.’

‘I will see what I can do, but we must show some haste, for there is much to be taken aboard in terms of stores. We have to be ready to weigh by this time tomorrow.’

Coming aboard the newly commissioned HMS
Faron
, Lieutenant Digby was greeted by the boy who had brought her in, Midshipman Harbin, who was immediately asked if he was prepared to stay aboard. It was telling that he hesitated, pointing out that his ship was HMS
Weazel
, and only assented when he heard from where the recommendation had come, and that the same fellow who made it would be joining them. Farmiloe came aboard with the draft from Ralph Barclay, and though he seemed a personable enough lad, the mention of that same officer produced a dramatically different result; the notion of Lieutenant John Pearce sharing the same deck did not please him at all.

‘Mr Sykes, at your service, sir, and right glad to see you again. Captain Barclay has agreed that I may serve on your ship on this commission, if that is acceptable to you.’

‘Acceptable, Mr Sykes, it is damned handsome,’ Digby replied, not willing to say what he really thought, that it was damned odd.

‘It is only because he has orders to keep our ship in the inner harbour with enough men to man the guns, a floating battery so to speak. Admiral Hood intends to keep Johnny Crapaud honest. Any sign of backsliding and it’s a cannonball through the winders.’

Digby raised an eyebrow, not at the notion, which was sound, but at the easy way that Sykes talked of it; surely such a thing should be in the nature of a secret. Mind, he had never ceased to be surprised at the way sailors found out things that should not be vouchsafed to them. Keeping a secret aboard a ship was something generally held to be well nigh impossible unless the captain was so close-mouthed he told no one of any action he contemplated.

‘Then you will know, Mr Sykes, of our intended duty.’

The bull-necked bosun grinned, reminding Digby that, with the exception of his dealings with Ralph Barclay, the man had a habit of general good cheer. ‘Whole port and fleet knows that by now, your honour.’

‘Then the whole fleet will also know how much time we have to complete our stores. Best get to work, Mr Sykes, and I suggest you start by
inspecting how we are fixed in the article of canvas and cordage.’

Sykes gave instructions to the men with whom he had come aboard, and Digby greeted each one he could remember by name as they passed him, pleased that they seemed content to be coming aboard his ship, then immediately concerned that the reason could be that they might see him as soft.

‘Mr Farmiloe, I have here a list of stores compiled after ship’s capture. Please be so good as to go below and ensure it is accurate.’ Farmiloe looked at the sheet, and pointed out that it was dated not more than a week past, to which Digby replied, ‘Time enough for tempted fingers to diminish it substantially. I need to know precisely what to request from the storehouse ashore, and I would not dare start off short.’

‘Mr Pearce approaching, sir,’ called Harbin.

‘Very good, Mr Harbin. See to Mr Farmiloe, tell him where to stow his dunnage, and then report back to me.’

Digby was suddenly aware that the approach of Pearce, with the three other Pelicans in the thwarts, had taken everyone’s attention; in fact no one was doing anything. In a voice that was heard in half the ships in the anchorage he yelled at them to ‘get a move on’, and was pleased by the response, forced to turn away to hide his smile. Men were rushing to their duty; he might be remembered a considerate
soul, but he was not going to be thought lenient.

‘Sure that’s a fair old roar, John-boy,’ said Michael O’Hagan, ‘are you sure it was Digby?’

The men on the oars, all from Hotham’s flagship, looked at each other to register their surprise, not for the first time, that a common seaman should address an officer so.

‘That, Michael, is the voice of one in command, and if you think it loud, wait till you hear me. I think you will be surprised.’

O’Hagan laughed out loud. ‘Jesus, never. Did I not tell you once that you were made for a blue coat?’

‘And I saw you as a positive tyrant,’ added Charlie Taverner, with just a trace in his voice that the remark was not wholly tongue in cheek.

Pearce knew he had a problem with these three, probably he would have a problem with the crew he was about to face, because they knew him more as one of their own than as an officer. He had been gnawing on how to deal with it, and come to the conclusion that it would find its own level, for he could not behave in any other way than his conscience dictated. If any act of his caused offence, so be it, but now was as good a time as any to lay down a marker.

‘I have learnt, my friends, a ship must run smooth, that there is no place for laxity, for the sea will surely take you if you do not treat it with
respect, and so will an enemy. I hope you too have absorbed this lesson.’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said young Rufus.

Charlie’s voice had no humour now. ‘It means, Rufus, that when John Pearce shouts shit, the likes of us jump on the shovel.’

‘Stow it, Charlie,’ Michael responded, as the boat came alongside. He was already following Pearce through the gangway, when he added, ‘John-boy will not become a Barclay just because he has the dress, but obey him we must, if he asks us to.’

‘It’ll be hard, Michael.’

‘I do not recall it so. I seem to remember we was happy to follow his lead when we were last in real trouble.’

The reference to Brittany made Charlie Taverner shut up.

‘That’ll be a damn rum vessel an’ no error,’ said the man coxing the
Britannia
’s boat, as they pulled clear. ‘Paddy’s Market by the sound of it. Ain’t never heard the like, disputing with an officer like that. Navy’s goin’ to the dogs.’

‘Mr Pearce,’ said Digby, responding to the raised hat. ‘I welcome you aboard, though I have a feeling it should be the other way round.’

Pearce did not want to think of that, nor of Digby occupying quarters the like of which had so recently been his own. ‘I hope you recall our old shipmates, sir?’

‘That I do, Mr Pearce, and I welcome you aboard also. I have sent in a request to the flagship to be allowed to warp into the mole to take on stores, so we will need the boats manned as soon as that is given. Please be so good as to tell Mr Sykes this will be his next task after he has checked the sail lockers and the cable tier.’

‘Aye, aye, sir.’

As they made for the companionway, Digby called Pearce back to him, and said quietly, ‘I know, sir, you have an attachment to these fellows that exceeds the bounds of normal duty, and while I respect it, I cannot allow it to interfere with the running of the ship.’

‘I know of the problem, sir, as I know that it is one with which I will have to deal.’

‘Let me say with some sincerity, it would not please me if that problem were to become mine.’

It was a sight easier to load stores from the mole than from boats or floating hoys, though there was no other way to bring aboard water, which was being pumped by hose from the seaward side, each barrel assembled from staves by the cooper, then sealed as much as was possible when full. It was damp work, but since the day was warm it was also pleasant, better than just hauling on ropes to hoist in beef and pork from the carts on the shore, so the men shifting the water barrels were rotated with
others so that the tasks were shared out evenly. Digby did not drive the men with harsh words, but encouraged them with orders dressed as requests, and both Pearce and Robert Sykes took their cue from him. They carried the same weight as barked commands, but were not resented.

Ralph Barclay was on his poop, a glass to his eye, watching the progress of the work, unsure if he should be pleased or resentful that it seemed to be going smoothly. Occasionally he could see Pearce and on more than one occasion the man was laughing, either at some remark he had made, or a response he had received from the men of whom he was in charge.

‘Unbecoming, damned unbecoming.’

‘Sir?’ Barclay turned to see Midshipman Toby Burns beside him, small, his face a mass of adolescent spots, his eyes full of what could only be trepidation. ‘You sent for me, sir.’

The glass went back to Barclay’s eye. ‘So I did. I wish you to proceed to yonder ship, the French capture, and ask Mr Digby if he would care to dine with Mrs Barclay and I tonight. And Burns, I wish you to make a point of issuing that invitation in the hearing of that blackguard, Pearce.’

‘With respect, sir, could I decline the duty and send another.’

‘What!’

Inside a uniform coat still too big for him, though
less so than when he had first donned it, Toby Burns was trembling at the prospect; it was too easy to recall the silence that had allowed Pearce and his friends to be pressed for a second time, when a word from him could have saved them. The cold threats John Pearce has issued at their last encounter, to pay him back for his duplicity, were potent enough to terrify him.

‘With respect, sir…’

‘Damn your respect, sir. Give me one good reason why I should accede to such a foolish request?’

The quiver in the boy’s voice was unmistakable. ‘On our last encounter, sir, in strict obedience to your orders should the
Lady Harrington
meet a King’s ship in soundings, I fear I made an enemy of Pearce by making no attempt to interfere with his being pressed again. Had I done so I am sure he and his companions would have retained their liberty, and I have no doubt that should the opportunity present itself he will seek to exact revenge for my actions.’

‘If you obeyed me, Mr Burns, you have nought to fear.’

Bollocks, the boy thought, blushing at the mere notion that this uncle by marriage might discern his silent disagreement. Ralph Barclay had made it plain when he sent the
Lady Harrington
away that such an encounter was very possible, and also that it was one which would please him. But he had not
been within sight of the coast of England, had not seen the look in Pearce’s eye at being so close to freedom and having it taken away by another King’s officer, had not heard the way the words had been delivered, promising deadly retribution to a youngster whose life he had saved. And it was not just Pearce who felt betrayed by him, but that huge Irishman, O’Hagan.

‘Lieutenant Pearce…’

Ralph Barclay interrupted the boy again. ‘Please do not grace him with that rank in my presence, Mr Burns.’

‘I was about to say, sir, that the fellow has no knowledge of my return to HMS
Brilliant
, and if I could keep it so, I would be grateful.’

Saying that, Burns had reminded Ralph Barclay of why he had got shot of the little bugger in the first place, it being too good an opportunity to miss. Quite apart from being useless, and, from what he had heard about the action in the Trieux Estuary, more than a touch shy, he was Emily’s nephew, and that complicated the relationship between them; he could not as easily chastise her cousin as he could another mid, and the boy was a whimperer. God, the little sod looked as though he could burst into tears right now!

‘Very well, Mr Burns. Go and ask Shenton to deliver my message.’

‘I am grateful, sir, so grateful.’

‘Get on with it, boy,’ snapped Ralph Barclay, once more training his telescope on the toiling figures both on Digby’s deck and on the mole.

Burns rushed into the cabin, for Shenton was not in his pantry, to find his aunt sitting there at her embroidery. What was it about the look she gave him that was so different, not the kindly smile he had come to expect?

‘I have been sent to find Shenton, Aunt Emily.’

She was now looking intently at her stitching. ‘I believe you will find him with the cook.’

‘Thank you,’ Burns called as he rushed out.

Emily lifted her head then and looked at the open skylight no more than a few feet above her head, through which she had heard every word of the exchange between her husband and her nephew. What orders had the former given that had left Toby in terror of John Pearce; again, what was so different from her perception of what had taken place, as against the reality? The sharp stab of the needle into her finger was almost deliberate, and as she sucked on the blood it produced, tasting the salt, her thoughts were more uncomfortable than any puncture of the skin.

‘I fear I must decline Captain Barclay’s kind offer, Shenton. Admiral Hotham has requested that we be ready to weigh tomorrow and I dare not disobey such a command. Do however convey my gratitude
to the captain and his wife and say should my duty permit on another occasion, I would be happy to accept.’

Daft sod, thought Shenton, who knew his master better than anyone, having served with him through good times and bad since he was first made post. Shenton prided himself on knowing how his captain’s mind worked. He had issued the invitation to Digby, but his look had been fixed on Pearce, so the upstart should not mistake the message; the invite did not extend to him. As for Digby, would he guess at Ralph Barclay’s ploy? The newly promoted Master and Commander was never expected to accept; it was only a way to send an insult to John Pearce.

‘My compliments to your master,’ said Digby, ‘but we must get back to our task.’

They were still working after the sun went down, lanterns hoisted into the rigging, dinner taken for officers and men almost in between assignments, not resented by the lower ranks for being a shared experience, until, near ten of the clock, Henry Digby could pronounce himself satisfied as he looked over his untidy decks. He was, with the exception of that, ready for sea.

‘The decks,’ Pearce asked, knowing it was his duty to do so, for they were in an unholy state.

Digby replied in a voice loud enough to be heard from taffrail to bowsprit. ‘Can wait till the
morning, Mr Pearce, and I think an extra tot of rum for the men would be in order.’

‘I fear it will have to be brandy, sir,’ Pearce said. ‘This is, after all, in the article of spirituous liquor, a French ship.’

‘Brandy it is then, Mr Pearce, but do not ever say such a thing again. This is a King’s ship, an English King’s ship.’

‘With respect, sir, I think our vessel is British.’

‘Well said,’ came a voice from nearby, which Pearce recognised as that of another Scot, Dysart.