Blown Off Course

Title Page
Dedication
PROLOGUE
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
EPILOGUE
About the Author
By David Donachie
Copyright
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John Pearce knew he was wasting his time almost as soon as he sat down. Besides, in revisiting the Pelican Tavern – a place he had previously avoided – the thoughts both memory and his presence induced were far from pleasant, the whole not aided by the way his day had gone thus far, that compounded by a touch of lonely introspection: he had sent his good friend Michael O’Hagan back to Portsmouth to tell the other two men who formed his circle that matters were in hand that would see them free from worry. Then, as arranged, he had called upon the office of the First Lord of the Treasury in Downing Street, expecting to receive there the results of certain promises that had been made to him the previous evening, letters that would quickly and smoothly ease the lives of his companions in misfortune, as well as a possible commission taking him back to the Mediterranean. Neither had been forthcoming and nor had any explanation been offered for their absence. A
request to see William Pitt had been scoffed at, then brushed aside as that turned to a demand. It had been made abundantly plain to him he was not important enough to force the issue and no time had been given to him in which his concerns might be resolved.

Time was pressing; all three of his friends were now in some danger instead of just two, so, determined to force matters and having left an address at which he could be contacted, Pearce made his way to the Admiralty. He had in his possession a letter from Rear Admiral Sir Hyde Parker, which should partially realise what he required, as well as a written submission of his own he had always intended to be used. That the two buildings were not far apart was one blessing: it curtailed his anger at being so badly treated by the King’s First Minister as well as his speculations as to what had changed overnight.

He thought he had struck a bargain and, whatever his opinion of Billy Pitt, he had not had him down as a man who failed to keep his word, unlike the other politician who had been present last night. Henry Dundas, Pitt’s political fixer, a fellow Scot who commanded many vote in the House of Commons was, to John Pearce, a poisonous snake of a man. Dundas had been responsible for much trouble in his life, as well as that of his late father, the radical orator and pamphleteer, Adam Pearce.

Pitt had been clear in what he wanted – John Pearce had been his messenger before and would be so again. In return he would get, without the trouble of demanding them from the Admiralty, three protections from naval
impressment as well as two writs for arrest suspended. Had Dundas been lukewarm, had he changed Pitt’s thinking after Pearce departed? He did not know and speculation was useless. That was a matter which would have to wait!

Just to get into the Admiralty building he had been required to excessively tip a sour-faced and deeply inquisitive doorman, a fellow who reacted to his name as though the notion of this visitor holding a lieutenant’s rank in the King’s Navy was an affront to be taken personally. Finally allowed through to an anteroom, his letters passed on, he had sat waiting to be seen, this while officers of a higher rank and greater heft, arriving later, were waved through to interview, leaving him and the other queuing supplicants to quietly fester at the lack of even-handedness. The morning had gone and so had noon with no sign of him being granted an interview.

Eying those who waited with him did nothing for a mood which grew darker with each passing hour: a captain of advanced years and apparently little in the way of interest waiting to beg for an appointment, lieutenants of various ages seeking employment of any kind – the Impress Service if all else failed. The one thing they all shared, apart from the pique of being constantly passed over, was an air of quiet desperation that underlined their hushed conversations.

Pearce had stayed silent and deliberately morose, his thoughts left him little choice, more than once avoiding a complicit eye that sought to engage him in the kind of talk common in naval circles, of service past and the
possibility of shared acquaintance. He had no desire, especially after his reception at the front gate, to even proffer his name, lest in doing so he open himself up to enquiry, for if he wore, like these other men, the coat of a king’s officer, he wore it reluctantly.

Quite apart from that, he had his reputation and the means by which he had achieved his rank, which even in an establishment of some two thousand officers would be the subject of common gossip and lurid opinion, neither of which he wished to be exposed: if even a lowly Admiralty porter knew his story, then these others would have knowledge of it too. That he had been right to remain silent was underlined by the raised eyebrows and startled expressions which greeted the use of his name, sonorously announced by a footman.

‘Lieutenant John Pearce?’ There was a degree of disdain in this fellow’s look too, as he responded to an affirmative reply. ‘Admiral Affleck will see you next.’

A buzz of animated conversation followed him out, most larded with surprise, or perhaps venom from those who, in recognising the name, would see him as an undeserving upstart. Yet there would be jealousy too, especially from those recently commissioned, who would realise that, if they had been sitting in the same room with a fellow of murky elevation, they had also been within talking distance of a man who had enjoyed the good fortune for which they craved: they had not only failed to nail his identity, but missed an opportunity to press for details, to
hear of his exploits from his own lips.

The room he had entered, home to the Board of Admiralty, was spacious and rectangular, lit by three large windows that struggled to illuminate the dark panelling of the walls. Outside could be heard the muted sounds of Whitehall, one of the busiest thoroughfares in London: street hawkers and peddlers, hoarse military commands from the barracks of the Horse Guards, carriages in such quantity and so lacking in discipline that endless disputes resulted on who had the right of way. At one end of the boardroom table sat Admiral Phillip Affleck, the most junior of the naval lords, his indifference to the visitor obvious by the way he flicked a finger and spoke, not to mention the contemptuous tone of his voice.

‘Please address yourself to the Secretary of the Board, Lieutenant. I have little interest in you or your business.’

The man in question, Phillip Stephens, sat to one side at a separate desk. He was elderly, arrogant of eye and with disapproving shape to his mouth, features that were set off by the dry, pallid skin of a lifelong indoor man. Having shown no curiosity whatsoever, barely acknowledging his entry, he had examined the letter Pearce had sent in earlier with a jaundiced expression, his greying eyebrows rising towards his like-coloured wig as if the contents were in some way bizarre and the signature at the bottom quite possibly a forgery. He then picked up Pearce’s own submission, a request that the persons named,
having been released from naval service by the officer in command of the Mediterranean Fleet, be granted exemptions that would protect them from the risk of being once more pressed. Then it was back to the letter, which was waved slightly.

‘This in itself does not provide means for your request, sir.’

‘I cannot see how it fails to, Mr Stephens. Admiral Hyde Parker penned it on the instructions of Lord Hood. He has freed these men from the navy on the very good grounds that their original impressment was illegal.’

‘It does not say that, Mr Pearce.’

‘No, but I do!’

That brought forth a snort of disapproval from a supposedly disinterested Admiral Affleck.

‘Hardly grounds to give out such documents to …’ Stephens hesitated and made much of picking up an eyeglass to look at the names, ‘… O’Hagan, Taverner and Dommet, is it? Protections are not things to be handed out lightly at such a time, when the fleet is so short of hands to man her ships. I need hardly remind you we are at war with a most vicious enemy.’

If Pearce was cursing Hyde Parker for being imprecise, he was also silently castigating himself for failing to make sure the intentions of the communication were clear. The release and future safety of the trio had been part of their arrangement, a reward for his services to Lord Hood; that his friends, the men with whom he had been pressed himself, should, in theory, be free to
walk the streets of England in safety. At the moment Charlie and Rufus were anchored off Portsmouth, stuck aboard the badly damaged frigate, HMS
Fury
, with Michael on his way to rejoin and reassure them. She had lost all her masts in a ferocious Biscay storm, before rescuing them from off the coast of Brittany from near certain captivity.

The original intention for everyone to travel with John Pearce had been set aside for several reasons, one being – and this was where theory parted with practicality – that two of his companions had writs out for their arrest – it had been these Pitt had agreed to quash, the provision of three protections more gilding than necessity, given he had the means to acquire them anyway. The writs were probably not much of a problem in Hampshire but one that would increase as they approached London.

There was also the cost of four souls travelling at a shilling a mile: Pearce had only a limited amount of money with which to pay, having been required to expend a fair bit of his coin to buy slops and the like from the frigate’s purser, for those with whom he had been rescued, this to replace items lost at sea. His own blue coat had suffered so much he had been obliged to buy a second-hand replacement from a Portsmouth tailor on the very good grounds that to appear in Whitehall in a singed and torn garment would not serve.

He had also seen, when seeking to book his passage, how many eager eyes studied the London coach, plus the knowledge he possessed from previous journeys that every
post house on the way to the capital was a magnet for those hunting naval deserters. His friends bore the marks of their service: pigtails grown as hobbies could be cut and jaunty clothing discarded but there was no disguising a sailor’s gait plus the ruddy complexion occasioned by exposure to the constant wind, while even a cursory examination would spot palms ingrained with tar.

In theory, being with a commissioned officer, someone who could vouch for them, should be protection enough, but the writs out for Charlie Taverner and Rufus Dommet complicated matters. It was no secret that men ran to sea from the law, which always exposed sailors to extra scrutiny from a whole stratum of folk who made their living from the trade in bounties. It was a truism John Pearce knew from his previous travelling life: in a strange setting you never knew who was who and what they were about. As an enterprise travelling together was not only too expensive, it was too risky.

So he had travelled with Michael O’Hagan, the Irishman’s safety secured by his coat and, sure that matters were in hand, he had sent him back again with a leave pass which would pass muster on the road and protect him from interference: no one scrutinised a sailor going to a ship, only those who could not prove they were not running from one, and in doing so had inadvertently put him at risk, for now time was of the essence.

HMS
Fury
would not remain at anchor forever; she was slated to be warped into the dockyard for repairs, which would remove the element of safety his friends
now enjoyed. That he was angry at this moment, he knew, yet he was also aware that to let that show would not serve with a functionary like the fellow before him: Stephens was accustomed to the tirades of men of much higher rank than he. Pearce hated to beg, it went right against the grain of his being, but he kept in the forefront of his thinking that he was not seeking something for himself. He was pleading for others and that allowed him to suppress his ire and address Stephens in a firm but even tone, speaking more in hope that certainty.

‘It is also the wish of the First Lord of the Treasury, Mr Stephens, which I am willing to undertake to confirm. I take it a note from Mr William Pitt, supporting Admiral Parker’s letter, will sway matters.’

That got him a crabbed look: the notion that he, a mere lieutenant of limited service time and ambiguous elevation, could call upon the assistance of the king’s first minister was surprising. But then Stephens’s already hooded eyes had narrowed and flicked towards Admiral Affleck, which told Pearce the secretary had recalled how he came by his rank, gifted to him at the insistence of King George himself. He surely could not call to mind that singular event without also recollecting the circumstances that brought it about, the capture of a French ship of the line, which must cause him to surmise he was not dealing with an ordinary officer. Before him was a fellow for whom the expression ‘still waters’ could have been coined, for John Pearce ran very deep indeed, perhaps too deep for even a powerful Admiralty secretary or a naval lord to gainsay.

‘Is it not strange indeed,’ Stephens intoned, employing a sepulchral air that went with his desiccated, colourless appearance, ‘as well as an indication of the troubled times in which we live, that a man can go from being so recently under the threat of a King’s Bench warrant, to being able to call upon the services of the minister who had it issued.’

That had the hitherto silent admiral expelling the air from his lungs through flapping lips, in a way very reminiscent of a bored horse.

‘Be assured,’ Pearce replied, with a confidence wholly false, ‘that I can do so and on this very day.’

It was to salve both his pride and the authority of the Board that Stephens concluded the interview in the way he did: inclined to refuse, he was certain, given the power of Pearce’s connections, he must accede, but the least he could do was make the man before him wait for something he could order completed by a mere ring of a bell.

‘Call back on the morrow and they will be handed to you.’ The eyes went back to the papers that littered his desk, numerous, for Phillip Stephens was the man who really ran the King’s Navy, an organisation which in its complexity and reach was the wonder of the world. ‘Good day, Lieutenant Pearce.’

‘Obliged, sir,’ Pearce replied, producing the courtesy, even if he did not feel any had been forthcoming.