Blown Off Course (12 page)

‘Sadly, I doubt the Toulonnais are drinking it now, but I will happily add to my toast a wish for the safety of those poor unfortunates we had to leave behind.’ With a quick nod, Emily acceded to that and drank, feeling those bubbles tickling her upper palate. ‘Now, might I suggest, we sit down and you can tell what it is you must so urgently see me about?’

She did not move. ‘I would have thought, sir, that was obvious.’

‘If it is obvious to you, it is not to me.’

‘You would force me to say it.’

‘You must, in truth, do so at some point in the evening.’

‘I believe you intend to ruin my husband.’

‘If I can, I will.’

‘Might I be permitted to ask how you intend to proceed?’

‘Only if you both sit down and having done so assure me that you have come to plead for yourself and not for him.’

‘Would that make such a difference?’

‘At this point I have no idea, but I must say I would be disinclined to do anything that would simply aid your husband’s cause.’

‘You hate him so much?’

‘More, madam, than any man alive.’ That was not strictly true: there was one man he hated more, even if he had never met him, a Jacobin zealot called Fouché,
whom he held responsible for the death of his father. ‘And I must tell you that hating my fellow man is not a normal state of affairs for me. I was raised to think otherwise.’

‘I know nothing of your background.’

Emily was lying; quite apart from what she had picked up in conversation, especially with Heinrich Lutyens, she had been obliged to translate a letter for her husband shortly after HMS
Brilliant
weighed from Sheerness, one Pearce had written seeking intercession to get him released from the navy, and once his true name became known, for he had been entered in the frigate’s muster book as ‘Truculence’, his parentage was rapidly established. If she had never heard of the Edinburgh Ranter before, her husband had told her much about Adam Pearce. It was, and she knew John Pearce would smoke it, nothing less than an attempt to delay the real object of her visit, to soften him up so that a blunt refusal of her plea would be harder to make.

‘Would you like to know?’ Pearce asked, his motives for allowing the subject to be aired very different from her own. Before she could say yes, which by her expression she was about to do, he added, ‘That is, of course, a two-way affair. You must, in all fairness, share the story of your upbringing as well.’

‘I fear, sir,’ Emily replied, for the first time allowing a smile to cross her face, ‘you will be mightily bored.’

‘No,’ Pearce said emphatically. ‘There is no way in creation that you could bore me.’

‘Perhaps,’ Emily gasped, taking refuge in her glass to hide a blush deeper than any which had preceded it, ‘it would be best to call for dinner to be served.’

Having spared no expense – he was after all engaged in an attempt at seduction, even if he doubted progress would be achieved on this occasion – John Pearce set out to show that he was a man who knew his way around both board and cellar. The food had been carefully chosen as had the wines, and while he obliged Emily by telling her of his peripatetic upbringing, that was interspersed not only with enquiries as to her background but with comments on what they ate and drank, not in a swanking way, but showing he was a man of the world.

The oysters were fresh from Whitstable, which allowed him to discuss the relative merits of those and their Normandy cousins; the fish, a deep-water bass, had been cooked in thickly packed salt to keep its flavour, the crust having no effect on the taste once filleted, accompanied by a wine from the Upper Loire; while the cut of beef, set off by a robust Hermitage, was a cross-grain one called an
onglet
, uncommon in England and served in a mustard sauce with small roasted potatoes.

‘Such detail, sir, the careful observation of what you consume, is not an English habit.’

‘But, madam, it is very much a French one, which is why I think their cuisine is so much more varied than ours.’

‘I was raised on plain fare to your tastes, I fear – roast meats and game.’

Pearce lifted his glass of red wine. ‘Then I shall recommend it to your entire sex, given the result it has produced is one of great beauty.’

She dropped her eyes. ‘Sir, you must not address me so.’

‘I would have you tell me why I must not speak the truth as I see it.’

‘It is unbecoming.’

‘Because you are a married woman?’

‘Yes.’

There was a lightness of humour in Pearce’s tone as he responded to that, for he had no notion to spoil what had become a pleasant mood by mentioning to whom she was wed. ‘Then I can only conclude that it is an estate the French treat with the same attitude as they do food. To a Frenchman experience is all, in whichever room it is attained.’

‘Sir!’

‘You blush at a compliment, which I do assure you I mean.’

‘That is the whole point. You should not say what you mean.’

‘I cannot stop myself.’

‘You must,’ Emily insisted, feeling in her extremities a tingling sensation that went with the beating of her heart. ‘You are too forward.’

‘Then, if I am less so, do I have any hope of penetrating your reserve?’

There was only one avenue that would deflect the way this conversation was going. ‘I came here to request you to desist in the action you propose to take against my husband.’

‘I know.’

‘On the grounds that others will suffer should you succeed in ruining him.’

‘I am aware of that too, but I hope you have not come here to plead for your nephew as well as your husband.’

‘My pleas would be for myself. If you bring him down, you will also damage me.’ Looking into Pearce’s eyes, which were not soft now but hard and uncompromising, Emily knew she must be totally honest: nothing else would serve. ‘I must tell you that I have taken a decision to live apart from Captain Barclay. You may have suspected he sent me here to intercede with you …’

‘It would not come as a shock to me that he would do that, but I do think you would decline, even if he had a grip on your affections.’

‘It is enough that you understand it is not so. In fact, my being here would only increase his fury.’

‘Perhaps,’ Pearce smiled, ‘I understand more than you are saying. I must also add that nothing would give me greater pleasure than that your husband should have good grounds for his feelings.’

There was no flippancy in the words – much of the evening had been spent in a kind of banter – neither in John Pearce’s mind, nor in the way they were delivered, and in his eyes was a directness hitherto lacking: there was no way to miss the seriousness of what he was saying and Emily Barclay did not, which caused her to stand up.

‘I made an error in coming here and I must go. Please call for my coat and hat.’

‘Depart, with nothing resolved?’

‘It seems to me, sir, that you have made plain the price you would extract for compliance and it is not one I am prepared to pay.’

‘Emily Barclay,’ Pearce sighed. ‘You are beautiful beyond measure and you are also honest and very brave, which I know, for I have seen you tend to wounds on men that would make a matron twice your age blanch. It is because of that I have gone too far, pressed too assiduously, but I do assure you it is not a thing I embark on lightly.’

‘I do not follow your drift.’

Pearce was aware of a subtle change in his feelings: in setting up this meal he had approached Emily Barclay in the same manner, and with the same purpose, as he would have done with any other attractive female. Yet right now he was acutely aware that he wanted her to think well of him, in a way that had nothing to do with his initial aims. It was not a shock, it did not come as a bolt-from-the-blue revelation, but John Pearce knew he was actually smitten in a way he had never been in the past. He wanted her to like him as a person and he badly wanted her company in every imaginable respect.

‘You see me as a rake, hence your objection to my behaviour in Italy and, being honest, I cannot deny that the opportunity to engage with you in a conversation that might prove amenable was too good to resist, yet—’

Emily gave him no chance to finish, for she lost her composure then, as much angry with herself as with
John Pearce. ‘It was more than that! You have set out to charm me, sir! You have set out to seduce me with your wines and food and your interesting life story, which does not want for a degree of sympathy, and this taking place in a private room away from prying eyes. I was a fool to accept your invitation and I should have departed as soon as I saw it was not to occur in a public place.’

Pearce had stood up with her, as a gentleman should. Now he came closer and was impressed by the way she stood her ground, which was typical of her nature. Emily Barclay would not back down and it was very endearing.

‘You will, I think, not thank me for saying so, but having spent the last hour or more in your company, my interest has moved on to a degree I could hardly have thought possible.’

‘What are you saying, sir?’

He took her hand and lifted it to plant a kiss on the back. ‘You know exactly what I am saying, Emily.’

‘My things,’ she croaked.

‘Only if you insist.’

‘Which I do.’

‘Of course,’ Pearce replied, moving to ring the bell for Didcot. ‘But with nothing decided, I think you and I must meet again.’

They stood in silence till Didcot responded, each with their own thoughts, each assuming they knew what the other was thinking, which, in the way of such things, were entirely at odds with the truth. Pearce was castigating himself for being too open,
while Emily saw in his sad smile an attempt to engage her sympathy and get her to change her mind and stay. He saw in the firm set of her jaw a determination to resist him come what may: to her it was set in anger at the way her thoughts were so unclear. Part of her wanted to remain in the room and she hated herself for the weakness of such a position.

Naturally, Didcot, ordered to fetch her outdoor garments, did not help either of the principals with his mixture of obsequious acceptance of his instructions, mixed with his barely disguised smirks over what he assumed had happened. To his mind, the man he was set to serve had tried it on and got an elbow for his pains. Once in her cloak, Emily merely nodded to Pearce, thanked Didcot as her manners demanded and left.

It was odd, the consequences of her departure: for John Pearce, as he surveyed the disturbed table, there was the realisation of a degree of disappointment that had nothing to do with thwarted carnality. For Emily Barclay, sat in a hack, there was a feeling of emptiness in the pit of her stomach that, having eaten and drunk well, she found inexplicable.

‘I’m damned if I will see him again,’ she swore, in the way that one does to seek fortitude.

Ralph Barclay sat stripped to the waist, feeling an apprehension of forthcoming pain of the kind he had experienced too often of late, which caused him to ask the doctor attending him for a tincture of laudanum. The man’s frown was annoying, as was his Scottish
burr as he advised a dependence on the opiate to be injudicious, unwelcome advice to a fellow who had come to see it as something to ease not just physical discomfort but those of the worried mind as well. He was also wondering why it was all medical men now seemed to be Scots, a damnable race even to a man whose antecedents, and indeed his very name, were Caledonian, though so far distant in the past that such an association could be discounted.

‘Are you ready, Captain?’ the man asked, once he had sunk the black and bitter liquid.

‘Aye,’ Barclay replied, though he would have preferred to wait till the laudanum took full effect, not a welcome notion given he was paying this fellow by the hour.

The doctor approached his stump and leant to sniff, seeking corruption, grunting that all seemed well. ‘There is no anger on the surface either, sir, so I propose to give it a wee tug if you are game.’

Game! Ralph Barclay thought, this is no damned game, but he nodded for the fellow to proceed.

The string of the ligature hung from the end of his stump, the skin around it puckered and pale, the arm above now wasted where it had once been muscled, for it was never used now. Gently the doctor took hold of the end and his patient closed his eyes in anticipation, keeping them so and wondering what this quack was doing. He only opened his eyes when the doctor spoke.

‘Come away clean, sir. Your arm is fully healed.’

Looking down at the stump, Ralph Barclay saw the
ligature was no longer there and only then did he see it swinging in the hand of the smiling doctor. His heart lifted and not just from the lack of hurt, for testing it previously had always been painful. With the wound healed he could return to duty. HMS
Semele
would be his.

Having never met a special pleader before, John Pearce was unsure, having spent an hour of the morning with one, whether he was glad to have broken that run. Not that Theodore Lucknor was an unpleasant fellow, far from it: he had a lively countenance on a head somewhat too large for his body, a mass of thick, curly and unruly black hair, eyes that positively sparkled with the various emotions he took no care to conceal, added to a booming voice – exaggerated by the confines of his cramped office – and a mischievous grin when the occasion warranted it. That he saw the justice of the case this man before him wanted to pursue, he left in no doubt, it was how to carry it forward that puzzled him and that was his occupation in life, to prepare court papers in pursuance of the wishes of his client.

‘Perjury, sir, is a crime that must be pursued in a criminal court, it is not a matter that can be brought before a judge as a civil matter. The question, and it is
a trying one, is how to get that unwieldy article, the law of the land, to act.’

That last statement was accompanied by a loud smack of his fist on the desk, which both sent up a cloud of dust and dislodged several spills of paper: Lucknor was not a tidy man, nor did he take much care in his dress, while his fingers, stained black with ink, showed how much time he spent with a quill in his hand.

‘If I had those court martial papers …’

‘I am bound to say, Mr Pearce, that the case would not be advanced one jot by their survival. True, given other factors, they would have proved deadly in court, but it is the very things, those other factors, which you must have.’

‘There is no doubt, Mr Lucknor, that an illegal act was committed in the Pelican, and there are folk who still frequent the place who know that well.’

‘But you must have evidence of the identity of the perpetrator, sir, and that can only be provided in an unquestionable manner – given you say that Barclay did not enter the tavern – by those with whom he did the deed. I refer to the members of your press gang, and they, I hazard, will not come forward and volunteer to incriminate themselves in an act being touted as illegal.’

‘So my testimony, and that of my friends, would carry no weight?’

‘I think you do not know a court of law very well, Mr Pearce, so you do not understand what a good defending counsel can achieve. You openly admit that two of your companions in misfortune are under threat for their past misdeeds, which leaves you with your
Irishman, who may be, as you said earlier, one of the most upstanding fellows you have ever met in your life, but it will be easily established that he is partisan in your case, while you will be asking a jury to take his word against that of a senior naval officer that …’ Lucknor paused then to glance at the notes John Pearce had given him, ‘… the act was deliberate, not, as he stated at his court martial, an error brought on by an inexperienced midshipman mistaking the nature of where they had landed.’

‘Which is a blatant lie,’ Pearce barked. ‘Something you do not seem to wish to accept.’

Lucknor held up a hand and smiled, not in the least put out by his client’s tone. ‘Mr Pearce, I am on your side, but it is necessary that, in the execution of my duty to you, I am obliged to point out the problems as well as anything we can use to advantage. We are, after all, talking of seeking a conviction which can only be brought about if the commission of the alleged offence is beyond reasonable doubt, reached by a jury who will have more in common with your Captain Barclay than a lower-deck witness, and that is a high standard to meet, one which brings with it a very serious sanction. A conviction for perjury can send a man to the gallows.’

‘I wondered if you believed me.’

‘That is not an unusual reaction.’ A hand swept through his mass of curls, making what was already unkempt even more so. ‘I do not doubt for a second your assertion that the court martial of which you speak was a travesty and I do not doubt that lies were told, but to get your Ralph Barclay before a judge will not
be easy, for as soon as your motion to do so becomes public the Admiralty will move heaven and earth to have it dismissed. You are challenging not only one of their officers, but as they will see it the whole area of press gang conduct, as well as the verdict of, to their eyes, a properly constituted court martial. You allege deliberate corruption on the part of one of their senior admirals, and, if not collusion, then a blind eye turned by Lord Hood to a tainted result. In short, you are proposing to put, in a time of war, the whole structure of national defence on trial. I fear you have not understood the magnitude of the task you have undertaken.’

‘Are you saying it is your opinion that my case is doomed?’

‘Most assuredly not, but what is required is an unimpeachable witness and …’ Lucknor looked at Pearce’s submission again, ‘perhaps, one more who, you suggest, will wilt under any sort of examination.’

‘Toby Burns has the backbone of a worm.’

‘You can only be sure he will do so if you have another witness, in this case I suggest the midshipman who was actually with Captain Barclay on the night in question.’

‘Richard Farmiloe.’

‘You say here he is a decent and upright young fellow, this underlined by the fact that he was sent away with you to the Bay of Biscay; in short, Captain Barclay would not have been able to persuade him to lie.’

‘And Lieutenant Digby, what of him?’

‘He was aboard HMS
Brilliant
when she was berthed at Sheerness, was he not? It was he who
commanded the ship in which you were diverted to La Rochelle, but he was not present at the actual illegal impressments.’

‘Is he of any use?’

‘If he would swear that Toby Burns
was
aboard HMS
Brilliant
on the night in question, he will be of vital interest to a court, for he can establish without peradventure the boy is lying, and that is the only question to put to him, of necessity in writing.’

‘Everyone you have mentioned is at present serving in the Mediterranean.’

There was a thought then that he might be going there himself soon, that was until he reminded himself he had heard nothing from Downing Street for days: it was not to be relied upon.

‘And’ Lucknor added, ‘you do not have the power to command they come home to make the case, only a judge can order that.’

‘So?’

‘We write some letters, Mr Pearce, carefully worded ones to both get from Farmiloe and Digby the truth of various assertions. With the former, we just need him to confirm that he was with Captain Barclay while Burns was not. If Digby supports that by saying the lad was on board the frigate, then we have a strong argument to confound any attempt by the Admiralty to apply for the case to be thrown out as specious. We can then demand that the people in question be returned to England for a proper trial and that Captain Barclay be held pending that.’

‘And Burns?’

‘He must be asked for the truth, and if he is tempted to lie once more, he may, and I shall make this plain in a roundabout fashion, be digging a grave for himself deeper than the one he is already in. Perjury is as much a capital offence for him as it is for his uncle. If he tells the truth, your case is made without the need for any other witness. Damn me, sir, he could bring down this Hotham fellow, to boot. Would that not be a coup!’

Lucknor paused then and looked directly at John Pearce. ‘Now, sir, there is the matter of my fees for the work described, and I must enquire of you how you are going to fund what will happen if we succeed in getting your case to court.’

‘Perhaps if you could give me some indication of costs?’ Pearce asked.

It was a chastened client who left the lawyer’s office, a man wondering if he wanted either Farmiloe or Toby Burns to be brought back to England, for if they did return he would need a king’s ransom to make use of their presence.

When it came to travelling overland Michael O’Hagan was much better equipped to cope: he had not only done it previously, but he was country bred, having been raised on an Irish farm, albeit one wracked by debt and too many children. Having walked from there, crossing both his own island and much of England in search of work, while needing many times to sleep under the stars, he knew what to keep an eye out for in terms of where north lay as a constant: the russet colour of tree
bark, the leafing on trees, which tended to the south and the sun, even on a path, where the cold side would be muddier. There was also the matter of shelter and getting fed, which depended on the skill to snare and cook small creatures like birds and rabbits, but also to spot where there might be a chance of some labour in exchange for a meal.

He also knew they must find some kind of watercourse to follow: to have something to drink was essential, and common wells were used by too many people, while around such streams wildlife and vegetation were abundant, cover was easy to find, for there were always bushes and trees, which in turn meant wood for a fire as well as a modicum of shelter should rain threaten. What he found first was hardly more than a brook, with little in the way of flow, but it served to provide the means to assuage their thirst and allow them to shave, each man taking it in turn to employ their guard razors to scrape off the beginnings of another’s beard, eased with the lye soap they had dunned out of
Fury
’s purser, though in the case of Rufus that tended towards fluff – something he had been much ribbed about aboard ship, where a clean chin and upper lip was an absolute requirement of the service.

‘It never does to appear like a beggar when you’re looking for a bit of work or wishing to avoid the eye of a watchman.’

‘Careful with that blade,’ Rufus replied, as Michael worked on his neck.

‘Be better plucking that than wasting a well-stropped edge,’ joked Charlie.

‘Where do we go from here, Michael?’ Rufus asked, his chin still in the air.

‘As long as the sun comes up to our right hand we are on the true path. Brooks lead to bigger streams and rivers, rivers is where towns are …’

‘And the law,’ Charlie insisted.

‘So we skirt round them.’

‘How far did that master say we had to travel?’

‘Some sixty-plus miles to London, land miles, but we will need to work a longer route to stay away from trouble and most of all, if we can, bridges. Do you not recall our shipmates saying to stay away from them?’

How to avoid being taken up when on the run was a constant topic below decks and there were those who boasted they could travel from one end of the country to the other without risk, but they always insisted bridges were the most dangerous places, for too many were locations that could not be crossed without paying a toll, which meant queues to get through and folk watching out for miscreants, as well as just plain nosy bastards.

‘As I said before, we go by church spires as much as we can, for there will be a walking right of way twixt two, used by all. Spot one on the horizon and that is a hamlet, two or more is a town, one that seeks to touch the sky is a city and those we avoid like the Black Death. Lacking those, we use the signs of which I have told you. We will seek to stay off roads and keep to fields and not travel too far from the rise of the sun till it starts to dip, for as soon as it does we must look
for shelter, wood and set snares in the hope of adding to our food.’

‘We’re bound to come across folk,’ Rufus opined, rubbing his new-shaved cheek.

‘Sure, we give them a cheerful top of the mornin’, for to be sullen or to avoid their eye will make them wonder.’

‘Some will wonder, whatever,’ said Charlie. ‘There are folks whose nose is never still.’

‘You can spot trouble, Michael, can you?’

‘As much as he can cause it, Rufus.’

Michael looked at Charlie as he said that, wondering if he was referring to what had happened with those crimps, but the man was smiling, so perhaps it was the memory of what Michael had been like when full of drink in the Pelican. Better still, it could be just a jest, for if they had rubbed up against each other in the past, Michael’s sticking with them had tempered the way Charlie seemed to behave towards him.

‘You’re a town boy, Rufus, and Charlie, well he’s London, where there are any number of folk looking to make their way by dobbing their fellows as a way to feed themselves. Country folk are less inclined to think ill of a man just for being on the same path and, as often as not, the farm owners will trade a meal for labour at a time of sowing and planting, though harvest is best, so we might find we has a chance to work to eat, as I have done many times in my life.’

‘And those folk will say, “Where have you come from?”,’ said Charlie, ‘so we need a story to tell.’

‘Can you talk like an Irishman, Charlie?’

‘Why would I want to do that?’

Michael hooted his reply. ‘Christ in heaven, Charlie, no one ever asks a Paddy what he is doing in this country of yours, they just think we have come to make our way.’

‘To steal our work, more like.’

‘Which,’ Michael grinned, ‘would never have caused you any harm, given you’ve never done an honest day’s toil in your life.’

Charlie cupped his hands in the brook and pulled out some water, replying with very evident pride as he sucked at it. ‘I will drink to that, Michael.’

‘So where now?’

‘Through these trees, Rufus, to the meadow beyond, which being left fallow, will not be tended till the time comes to cut for hay. We will keep to this water and hope we come across a blind farmer with three lovely, lustful daughters and flagons of cider in his cellar.’

Rufus looked excited by that, until even in his slow mind the unlikelihood of such luck was obvious.

‘Cost apart, Heinrich, it will take for ever, if my man Lucknor has the right of it, even if I were to carry them myself. A month or more to get a letter to the Med and as much to get one back again, that is if they trouble to reply.’

‘If you do get sent out you can take a deposition.’

‘But are they going to tell me what I want to hear?’

‘You think they might not?’ the surgeon asked.