Blown Off Course (5 page)

As the drum started beating, the youngster had to work hard to keep his bowels from issuing an involuntary evacuation, but the terror of exposure had him marching forward as the command was given. They passed the mouth of the naval cannon to a last salvo, followed by loud cheers, with the grinning faces of the tars full of encouragement. For the first time in his naval career, the midshipman issued a command that was stern enough to be immediately obeyed.

‘Belay that damned noise.’

‘Do not castigate them for encouragement, Mr Burns,’ Driffield called, ‘for it is only engendered by jealousy. They, I am sure, would wish to be alongside us.’

The first French ball scythed into the centre of the long, thin line of redcoats and took with it two bullocks, the ranks closing up automatically to fill the space, the eyes of the men Toby Burns could see, staring straight ahead, fixed upon their object, with he wondering how they could act so and ignore the bloody corpses of their fallen mates.

‘Grape soon,’ Driffield said, out of the side of his mouth, as if he was about to be in receipt of a surprise and welcome gift. ‘We will charge after the first salvo, I’ll wager.’

That grapeshot came as if ordered, the tiny steel balls cracking as they passed Toby’s ears. His first thought
was to fall to the ground as if wounded, but having already employed that bit of subterfuge in a similar attack on the heights of Toulon he had severe doubts as to it serving a second time. In one hand he had a loaded pistol, in the other a raised sword heavy enough to make his young arm ache, and all his thoughts were on how to employ those weapons on himself, not the enemy. Yet, if he was afraid of the pain of a wound inflicted by others, he was even more fearful of one made by his own hand.

He had, he knew, begun to cry, the tears streaming down his face, his mind in a turmoil of thoughts and emotions, saved from discovery by the sudden command to charge, which allowed him to be dilatory and let those alongside him get slightly ahead. By sidestepping he got himself behind two bulky fellows – soldiers or marines it made no odds, they were taller than he and that sufficed: if a ball came his way they would take it first. Thankfully Driffield had lost all interest in his hero midshipman, his own lust for glory consuming his being. He was yelling and waving his sword like a banshee, and right before him lay the damaged earthworks of the enemy redoubt, still firing grape, as well as supporting musket fire.

Which one of those weapons took him in the chest mattered little: he stopped as if struck by a plank of wood, his body going rigid and seeming to rise from the ground, his weapons in the air as if he was aiming them at the heavens, his black tricorn hat flying backwards and off his head. Then he crumpled, collapsing not falling, first to his knees and then sideways to the ground. Toby
Burns was beside him, kneeling, glad of the chance to stop going forward, looking into the still-open eyes.

‘Do not attend to me, Mr Burns,’ he gasped. ‘Lead my Lobsters to victory.’

It was a relief to Toby Burns that Driffield’s eyes closed then, that a stream of bright red froth burst between his lips, accompanied by a deep groan. With the man down, Toby did not have to go any further forward and from his kneeling position he could see that the redcoats were atop the earthwork, taking aim with muskets at what must be a fleeing enemy. He had survived!

The counterstroke was not long in coming. No sooner had the defenders abandoned the redoubt than those who had taken it were in receipt of musketry from their inland flank, a party of French infantry firing from the deep scrub and woods above them, those crowing their victory on the crown of the embankment taking the most punishment, with Colonel Stuart, who had led the attack, calling to them urgently to get down. From being a defensive position that had protected the French it now became one behind which the redcoats cowered, with Stuart, foolishly exposed, spyglass to his eye, seeking to assess what threat they faced, which given the swing of that tiny telescope, seemed to be coming from more than one direction. Toby, having run for that same shelter, was right by his legs as he spoke.

‘Humbugged, by damn.’ Then the movement at his feet caught his eye, and he barked, ‘Stand up, sir, do not let the men you lead see you cower.’

‘Mr Driffield is dead, sir,’ Toby protested, as a knot of other officers joined their colonel.

‘All the more reason for you to appear unconcerned, lad.’

He had no choice but to comply, not least because what officers remained had come to join their colonel. Faint over the ground behind him, Toby could hear shouted commands. A glance backwards showed the remainder of the British force forming up, their lines being dressed once more for tidiness. He could also see the guns being levered round to take a new aim.

‘They are coming to our rescue, sir,’ he cried.

‘Damn me, I hope not,’ Charles Stuart said, with a wry grin, as several musket balls cracked over Toby’s head and by the ears of the gathered officers. ‘But they will cover us as we seek to retire. Mr Burns, I know you to be a brave lad, Mr Driffield told me, so get your Lobsters formed up and ensure they have their muskets loaded. I am in no doubt you are aware of what is required, but I will tell you anyway. They must follow my orders as to when to deliver a volley and then retire at a walk so they can reload on the move. I anticipate the French will pursue, so I will require them to stop on my command and fire again, then repeat the manoeuvre.’

‘Sir.’

‘See to it, lad, we are short on time. Gentlemen, to your places.’

Approaching the marine party Toby was aware that it was not only Driffield’s body lying out in the open: from a detachment of twenty, they were down
to fourteen. It was an absurd thought to have at such a time, as he counted their number, to see there was one for every year of his age. With a tremulous note in his voice he issued his orders to a corporal, who looked as if he understood, though there was a definite scowl attached to his acknowledgement for having to take instruction from such a nipper.

‘Follow Colonel Stuart in all things. I will issue no more commands.’

‘Praise be,’ came a growling voice from behind the corporal, who issued a weary, insincere reprimand.

The British cannon opened up and that was the signal for which Stuart had been waiting. In a
parade-ground
voice he ordered his men to form up, his next command as they complied to give the French a volley. Then they spun and began to walk with their backs exposed to enemy musketry, each man holding his weapon as he first cleaned it, tore open a charge, poured powder down the barrel, followed by a
rammed-in
ball, the last act being the priming of the pan, then the response: stopping, turning, aiming and firing as ordered, then continuing the orderly retreat. It would have been admirable to see it if Toby Burns had looked, a demonstration of the tight discipline and training of the British redcoat; he was not watching, he had his eyes firmly on the ground before his feet, his shoulders hunched for what he knew was coming.

The searing feeling in his arm was not pain, more like that which you feel when inadvertently touching a very hot griddle, but a look to the side showed his blue coat ripped and the first sign of blood beginning
to emerge through his equally damaged shirt. He fell to his knees, part in shock, part in the thought that he would be less of a target, with the notion of being taken prisoner suddenly attracting him.

‘On your feet, Mr Burns,’ Stuart called over the sound of both cannon and musket fire, ‘lest you favour the notion of a French bayonet in your vitals, for they will not take captives, I’ll wager.’

Toby Burns was up and running in a flash, getting ahead of the line until another shout slowed him.

The whole body of British forces, once reunited, effected an untidy disengagement, guns being hauled away ahead of the infantry, until they were on the route back up to the Pass of Teghime, one so narrow the French declined to enter in pursuit. A hastily bandaged midshipman was with them, head held high now, feeling for once like a true hero, issuing, much to the annoyance of his toiling tars and very likely the struggling oxen as well, brusque orders which did nothing to aid the task of getting those heavy cannon up the steep hill.

Pearce had entertained Winston regarding his sojourn in Paris, before going on to describe serving under Ralph Barclay, and that had naturally led on to the story of his adventures in Brittany, which then required him to recount the events of the second impressment at sea of him and his friends thanks to the supine nature of Toby Burns, this over a tankard of ale it was his turn to provide. Winston was a good listener, rarely interrupting unless he required clarification, but he did enquire what it was like to be flogged.

‘Not, sir, that I am a stranger to punishment, given I was a pupil at Eton, where the masters were hearty with the birch. One, I admit before my time, flogged forty boys in one day, which given the strain on the swinging arm, is prodigious.’

‘It is said to make a good man bad and a bad man worse, so what it does to mere boys I cannot imagine.’

‘But would it not also be true to say that in certain settings, even a school, discipline is very necessary.’

‘Command is very necessary, sir, but I have had charge of a ship, albeit not a large vessel and for a very short period. A basilisk eye and a threat to stop grog will serve just as well as the lash, excepting, of course, the endemic hard bargain who might require to be stapled to the deck. But you must understand that flogging at sea is ritualistic in its execution, as much a demonstration of the power to punish as the actual act of punishment itself, so it is often not about chastisement but the glorification of the office of ship’s captain.’

Thinking back to what had happened to him, almost a piece of theatre in its undertones, John Pearce felt it necessary to add to his explanation. ‘Having said that, it is also the case that the crew of king’s ships tend to an appreciation of what constitutes fair play and have thus devised their own methods, as long as they are not dealing with an outright martinet, of mitigating the actual pain inflicted.’

‘Mr Pearce, you have been most forthcoming and damned entertaining, and no man could question you have had an interesting life, but you mention you held a command, so you must tell me how you came by, in such a short service at sea, that blue coat.’

Two tankards of porter added to the metheglin had tended to soften John Pearce’s natural modesty, so there was just a trace of swank in the way he replied. ‘Have you heard of a French capture called the
Valmy
?’

‘Who has not, it had the church bells peeling,’
Winston said, before keenly looking at Pearce. ‘Was you the fellow who took her?’

‘I played a small part in her capture, yes, and it was much exaggerated in the telling.’

‘Yet profitable, I imagine.’

‘No. I was dunned out of my true share of the proceeds, getting pennies not pounds, but my actions impressed Farmer George: the old booby insisted I be given promotion from midshipman to lieutenant.’ Pearce took a deep swallow. ‘Wasted, I might add, since I have no intention of any further service to him or his damned navy.’

‘I don’t follow.’

‘I would not accept another commission, sir, though I am forced to admit there is no great queue waiting to grant me one.’

‘The navy presents great opportunities in war, sir.’

‘That may be true, Mr Winston, but not for me.’

‘Then I am forced to enquire, sir, what occupation will you follow?’

‘That is yet to be decided. My main concern at present, protections secured, is to find a means to bring the aforementioned Captain Barclay before a court.’

‘If it is for illegal impressment, sir, you will struggle, for the tars are good at minding their own. A seaman was killed not six months past in the Thames Estuary by a boarding party intent on pressing seamen. Yet, with the Admiralty fielding its full power in the court, the lieutenant in charge was acquitted even of manslaughter, when he was clearly guilty of murder, he having given the order to fire the muskets, admittedly in reply to one being set off from the ship.’

‘I have a possibility of getting him met with a charge of perjury.’

‘Perjury, by damn! Do I detect the beginning of another tale, sir?’

Pearce smiled. ‘I think, sir, I have assailed your patience enough.’

Winston signalled to the serving girl. ‘Another will do no harm and it is my turn to provide it.’

And neither did it harm him as Pearce recounted the details of the travesty of Barclay’s court martial, of how he and the true witnesses had been sidelined. He went on to explain the need for evidence – declining to say the pure, unvarnished proof was lost because of a fire at sea.

Winston was quick to allude to the expense. ‘There is not a lawyer in creation, sir, who will not rub his hands at such a brief, for deep pockets will be needed and they are masters at the stripping out of wealth from their clients.’

‘True,’ Pearce replied, draining his ale. ‘But if I can get a certain midshipman back from service in the Mediterranean – the aforementioned Burns, who was most avowedly not, as he claimed, there on the night I was pressed – I will have Ralph Barclay regardless. Now, I must finish my drink and be on my way, sir.’

‘Before you depart, Lieutenant Pearce—’

‘I think Mr Pearce might suffice from the morrow, for once I have collected from the Admiralty the protections for my friends I may discard this blue coat for ever.’

‘Yet you have experience of being at sea.’

Pearce laughed, an act made more hearty by the consumption of porter. ‘Not a great deal, sir.’

‘From your own lips you have admitted to commanding a vessel. What I mean to say, sir, is my line of business occasionally includes the need to ship goods by sea, mostly in the coastal trade, and I must tell you the war with France makes more difficult what was never easy. In short, finding reliable people who will do what I need done and properly.’

‘It is very kind of you, Mr Winston, but I shall be wholly occupied for some time in getting Captain Barclay into a court of law.’

‘Nevertheless, you must, I suspect, find some form of employment in the future.’ Winston reached inside his coat and produced a small rectangular card. ‘Upon this, sir, are my details, where I can be found, though I would add I am generally there only in the mornings. Should your needs, not least the lawyer’s fees, require you to seek out a way to make your way, then let your feet direct you to my door, where you will be most welcome.’

‘That is most obliging of you, Mr Winston, but I am not without means. I am off to see the fellow who represents me in the article of prizes, where I will discover how I am found in the nature of funds. That is one measure of how soon I can proceed with the matter Barclay.’

‘You took prizes?’ Winston asked, with a slight air of disappointment.

‘I was most fortunate in that regard, yes. One in the Mediterranean and another on the way home.’

‘Valuable, I suspect, this time?’

‘If all is well I should be able to easily sustain my own needs and perhaps have enough to bring my case.’

Winston nodded slowly, then seemed to recover both himself and his winning smile. ‘Then it only remains for me to wish you well, sir.’

‘Perhaps we will meet again.’

‘Perhaps, Mr Pearce.’

The offices of Alexander Davidson were in Harpur Street, on the opposite side of Holborn to the lawyers’ chambers of Gray’s Inn. He was a man who lived above the shop, his home being on the upper floors of what was a narrow but handsome town house, thus the lateness of the hour – it was dark by the time John Pearce called – had no bearing. He had met Davidson before and that had been an unhappy occasion, one in which he had found the prize agent, representing his one-time commanding officer, to be a fount of unwelcome news. But his exploits in the Mediterranean had brought him a prize ship, a French sloop by the name of
Mariette
, subsequently bought into the service by Lord Hood and renamed. In need of someone to contract his business, he had sent written instructions to the only man whose name he knew to see to the distribution for both himself and the crew he had led.

‘Mr Pearce, it is a pleasure to finally meet you,’ said Davidson, as Pearce entered his office, the greeting followed by a quizzical look. ‘But I have the feeling, a strong one, we have met before, sir.’

There was silence then, as Davidson tried to place him. Pearce had come here just after his elevation to get his share of the capture of the French seventy-four, the story of which he had just been relating to Winston: he had departed with a lot less than he hoped.

‘We have Mr Davidson. I came to see you about monies from the
Valmy
.’

‘Sir, I place you now,’ the man responded, clearly surprised. ‘I cannot feel that our previous encounter endeared me to you.’

‘You act as a prize agent do you not?’

‘For several naval officers, yes.’

‘And I take it your actions were not motivated by personal animus in denying me my rightful share of the capture.’

‘No.’

‘Then might I ask how matters proceed in that case, since my entire claim is not settled?’

Davidson sighed. ‘The
Valmy
is locked in the courts, sir, with the legal wolves of Gray’s Inn, not more than a stone’s throw from where we sit, feeding heartily at the trough of both parties, for, bought into the service at twelve pounds a ton, with both gun and head money, she was a valuable prize. Neither of the litigants will give way and reconcile, and I fear if they do not have a care there will be little of value left to settle on.’

‘Then I can only wish them both damnation, sir, but today I have come to see how I stand regarding the vessel I took in Corsica.’

‘You did not receive my letter regarding that?’
Davidson was a good-looking man, in his early thirties, sandy-haired and with lively, open features. Now the countenance had about it an air of foreboding, and since Pearce did not respond, his face merely closing up, he was forced to continue. ‘I fear you will find yourself in the same boat, with the widow of Captain Benton.’

‘Go on,’ Pearce responded, his heart sinking.

‘She has laid a claim to the captain’s share, given her husband was in command when the action commenced. Let me say, Mr Pearce, that she has no choice but to proceed, being in straightened circumstances.’

Pearce was about to allude to the year’s pay, which would come her way by right as a serving officer’s widow, added to what had been realised by the sale of Benton’s possessions – admittedly not much after the purser’s twenty per cent emolument – but he checked himself. Benton might have been master and commander but his pay was that of a lieutenant, ninety-one pounds in a calendar year, and that was not great, added to which he had no idea of dependants.

‘Which means?’ he asked.

‘That she will pursue the case to the bitter end, sir, for she has nothing to lose.’

‘So what would you suggest I do?’

‘A settlement, which is what I proposed in my letter to you: share the windfall with the lady on an equal basis and I think she will be content.’ Davidson paused then, slightly embarrassed. ‘You do, of course, have the right to seek advice elsewhere. I am aware
that I seem to be disappointing you for a second time.’

Pearce looked away from Davidson then, his eyes scanning the portrait-covered walls and his mind ranging over the matter. Others were involved, the crew of HMS
Weazel
who took part in the action, but they would not be affected by any decision he made, and while he was thinking on that Davidson was still talking.

‘Naturally we are talking only of the captain’s
two-eighths
, which would not affect your eighth as the sole lieutenant on the vessel, so you would emerge as the superior beneficiary, giving you, if my memory is correct, some five hundred and eighty-one pounds less my fees of twelve per cent and a modicum of expenses. Then, of course, there are the prize court costs.’

‘You can quote such figures from memory?’ asked Pearce, far from amused.

‘God has granted me a head for figures,’ Davidson replied.

Pearce looked over his head to where a charcoal sketch sat on the wall, a full-length study of a young officer, in a lieutenant’s uniform, and the face was familiar.

‘Is that Captain Nelson?’

Davidson brightened, as if relieved at the subject moving to one less contentious, and turned to look at the same sketch. ‘Being some seventeen years old at the time he was no captain, Mr Pearce, as his garb will tell you. It was a preliminary drawing made prior to a portrait executed by the artist Rigaud, who was
good enough to sell it to me. The actual painting went to his old mentor, Captain William Locker, at present the Governor of Greenwich Hospital.’

‘And you have it on your wall?’

‘I am happy to say that Horatio is not only a client, but also a close friend of long standing, one I have represented for many a year. If anything, I pursue the profession of prize agent due to him, given I was in the general Canada trade prior to this.’ Davidson gave a look of realisation, before adding, ‘But, of course, you would have encountered Captain Nelson in your recent service.’

‘On more than one occasion.’

‘He is an honest fellow, Horatio, and a damned fine sailor.’

Pearce had to stop himself from saying that his acquaintance was slight and also that Horatio Nelson was an absolute booby at times, excessively light-headed in the article of drink and damned silly when it came to the opposite sex, a fellow who caused much anxiety in the breasts of his junior officers, which Pearce had witnessed at a ball in Leghorn. It said much for the man that those same junior officers cared enough to shield him from his own folly, whatever his qualities of command and seamanship.

‘I found him so,’ was what Pearce actually replied, which was nothing but the truth, for there was an endearing openness about the man to modify his faults. He was thinking that, if this Davidson was trusted by the likes of Nelson, he too was probably honest, if anyone could be said to be that in the modern world,
which was important, given he was about to mention another commission.

‘What would another prize agent tell me, Mr Davidson, in such circumstances, that you would not?’