A Divided Command (13 page)

The doctor was already beside Lipton, John Pearce standing back to let him administer the necessary treatment. It was then that the first drip of blood fell from Pearce’s fingertips and onto the grass.

‘Mr Walcott,’ Digby said in a whisper, as the soldier edged round him to go and look at Lipton. ‘Can I suggest we all depart this place now and in peace, for if anyone seeks to take recourse to arms we will end up with a bloody brawl and someone dead.’

The reply was stiff. ‘I suggest, sir, that you get your principal away from here forthwith, for I will not answer for the behaviour of my comrades after such a display.’

‘O’Hagan, get Mr Pearce to our hack.’

Michael, walking backwards so that the pistol was still aimed, closed with Pearce and took his good arm. ‘Come, John-boy, let us see to your wound.’

‘He wanted to kill me, Michael, he said so and I had no choice.’

‘Then only God in heaven knows why he’s still breathing, for it is sure he would not be so if he had been fighting me.’

Digby went to the coach in which the doctor had previously laid out his instruments and from there he took several bandages. Making for their conveyance, and the stupefied driver who had watched these mad foreigners at their games, he found Taberly already there and preparing to clamber aboard.

‘Sir, can I suggest that with Mr Pearce wounded there will not be the same space as there was on the way here.’

‘You’re not suggesting I walk!’

‘No, sir, but unless you intend to take over from me the duty of seeing to Mr Pearce’s wound, I will suggest that standing on the rear rack with his servant might be best.’

Pearce and Michael arrived just as Taberly was about to respond and that had him looking from Digby to the wounded man with distaste for both. John Pearce handed Digby the sword he still had, this as his second handed O’Hagan a bandage.

‘I leave it to you, Henry, to return this to its rightful owner.’

‘If you don’t want it,’ Taberly growled, ‘I will take it as a trophy. It might make up for some of my losses. Mind, there is another way. Lend me your man O’Hagan for a bout or two and I will make us all a pile.’

Digby had taken the sword; Michael was holding and seeking to bandage Pearce’s upper left arm. It was an indication to just how Taberly had got under the skin of a man both wounded and tired that the punch to the point of the jaw was both produced and effective enough to send the premier of
HMS Leander
flying, his hat travelling somewhat further than his body.

‘That’s your reward,’ Pearce spat, ‘and by God I hope you challenge me for it.’

Taberly did not respond; he could not, being out cold.

Michael whispered in his ear, ‘Sure, ’tis a fine thing you’ve done, John-boy.’

He was not talking about the sword fight.

If he had hoped for sympathy from Emily he got none; instead she made no attempt to hide her fury at being duped, which left Pearce stuttering justifications that fell on
deaf ears, this as she stitched his cut, making no attempt at gentility, and these were assertions, as well as the hissed reactions to the needle, that had Michael O’Hagan chortling from the other side of the door.

His friend’s final excuse to escape this physical and verbal drubbing was to say he needed to see to matters aboard ship, and that he would stay aboard overnight, which subsequently allowed the Irishman to relay to his shipmates all that had occurred, a blow-by-blow account that all agreed should have seen a corpse, though it ended in much laughter when they heard how their captain’s lady had reduced to jelly a man who was not the kind to shy away from trouble.

When he went ashore again the next day, it was with an agreement that he would meet up with his leave-taking Pelicans later in the day. They were making ready and prettying themselves up to follow, their rendezvous to take place in a tavern well away from what could be called the fleshpots of Leghorn. These bagnios, much frequented by privateers as well as navy hands allowed ashore on leave, were too raucous and too full of prostitution for the kind of quiet talk Pearce had in mind.

Crossing the harbour he saw that
HMS Leander
was in the process of weighing, no doubt to return to San Fiorenzo and the fleet, which produced mixed feelings; he had clouted the premier and the repercussions of that were an unknown for the swine was well above him in rank, merely by service time, and it was strictly forbidden, for obvious reasons, to strike a senior officer.

Then there was Henry Digby, to whom he owed a great deal and if he had been effusive in his thanks he knew that the affair had left his second in a parlous position
vis-à-vis
Taberly. There was nothing he could do, given comings and goings were the very stuff of naval life. He could only hope that Digby would not suffer too much from the man’s malice.

He found Emily, if not in tears, with clear evidence that she had been crying. Naturally assuming it to be because of his duel he did not enquire too much, only doing so when, having suggested that they go for a promenade and perhaps to seek out the tavern where he could meet his friends, she flatly refused to leave the lodging house. When he pressed for an explanation that was when tears flowed again and the tale of what had occurred was dragged out of her.

‘Who insulted you and what did they say?’

‘Best you do not know, John.’

‘It is vital that I do, Emily.’

‘Why, so you can risk your life again?’

‘Tell me.’

‘No.’

It took time and much persistence, plus pleading and many a reassuring hug, but eventually the story came out, in fits and starts and only on the condition he would not react to it. Pearce said little as she relayed the tale, seething as he was; to allow Emily to see that would not serve so he had to be content with an agreement to return from meeting his Pelicans to dine with her. He departed carrying with him her good wishes; however, instead of searching for Michael et al, he headed for another destination entirely.

The Pensione d’Ambrosio was in the old quarter of the town, in a narrow alleyway of high buildings that cut out the sun, the sign above the entrance naming it, Pearce assumed, as that of the owner. Once through the low doorway he found himself in a room stained dark with years of smoke from pipes added to that from the huge fireplace which, at this time of year, was redundant, given the one used for cooking seemed to be located elsewhere.

That such an activity was in progress seemed obvious from the smells that hit his nostrils: fresh bread mixed with the odour of a dish flavoured with much garlic, something of a surprise given the English aversion to the ingredient.

The army officers, a dozen in number and of varying ages and ranks, were in the lantern-lit room he assumed to be used for dining, for it was a narrow space. They were sat, in shirtsleeves, at a long oak table covered with their breakfast – flagons of wine, filled glasses and an abundance of food: beefsteaks, game birds, a nearly empty tureen of soup and a
platter of that fresh bread, the smell of which he had picked up on entry.

The sight of him filling the doorway had a good half of them rising to their feet until a sharp command made them sit down. At the far end of the table sat Major Lipton, his arm in a sling and his face drawn from the pain he must be feeling. He was the man who had issued the order and Pearce assumed him to hold the senior rank present. Having exchanged the appropriate glare with his late opponent Pearce looked around and into the faces of everyone else present.

‘A trio of you bastards insulted my lady yesterday, loudly and in public, calling her by a name I will not use, which was overheard by half the local population.’

It was Lipton who replied, his tone jocular as he made a point of addressing the whole table. ‘Do the Tuscans know the meaning of the word “trollop”?’

The reply came from one of his inferiors, a young fellow with a crop of blond hair and a plump fresh face, probably no more than an ensign, his words accompanied by a hoot, ‘I daresay, sir, they are akin to us in that. They know one when they see one.’

Another officer spoke up, this time with mock seriousness, so grave was his tone. ‘The expression they use locally, Major Lipton, is “
puttana
”.’

‘Which I believe,’ another interjected, ‘refers to the part of their body by which they ply their trade.’

‘I want their names, Lipton, and I want them to know the next person they’ll talk to will be acting on my behalf.’

‘Good Lord, gentlemen, this fellow means to issue us all a challenge.’

‘Can he do that, sir,’ asked the probable ensign, ‘him being such a low-bred scully?’

The remark was greeted with general laughter and agreement, which left Pearce wondering if this had been rehearsed; it was almost as if the whole thing, including insulting Emily, had been set up to draw him into ridicule. He had to fight to stop himself from yelling insults at them; it took a real effort to keep his voice calm.

‘I think your Major Lipton will attest that before you is a man who can fight.’

‘I have seen cats in alleyways get into the kind of fighting you practise, Pearce.’

‘Lieutenant Pearce!’

Lipton raised his good hand and yawned to imply the barked response had no effect.

‘A rank open to any low-born peasant in the navy and for free, which we do not allow in the better service, where it is incumbent that you be a gentleman and have some means in order to gain entry. Be assured Pearce, we would not welcome you into our mess even if you had money, for you lack the attributes as well as the birth to qualify.’

‘Give me the names of the culprits and I will show them what a blue coat can do with any weapon they care to choose.’

‘I do not think you have yet caught our drift, Pearce; we do not see you as a man entitled to anything other than our contempt. It may be that you are fit to be horsewhipped but there is not a man present in this room who thinks his own reputation would not be sullied by contesting with you in an arena reserved for gentlemen.’

‘If you do not grant me the names I will challenge you all.’

‘Which, at best, will get you some spittle in your face. I
think I speak for the service to which I belong when I say that no officer, certainly none in my regiment, will accept a challenge from a swine like you for fear of having to resign their commission in disgrace.’

‘I see I am amongst cowards.’

The ensign piped up again. ‘Don’t just stand there, man, do what you were bred to and pour us out some wine.’

‘Damn you,’ Pearce responded, moving towards the speaker through a gale of amusement. ‘If you care to step outside the door, you insolent pup, I’ll teach you a lesson with nothing but the toe of my boot.’

His way was barred by the men between him and the speaker, so Pearce had no option but to stop.

‘Get out of here,’ Lipton yelled, half standing too and wincing as he moved. ‘For if you do not I will instruct these fellows to beat you like the product of the gutter that you are. Be assured, that horsewhip I mentioned is to hand and will be employed. Then, following a good drubbing, perhaps you will be tossed in the harbour like a bit of offal as a fitting response to the liberty you took against me.’

They were all standing now bar one, and that was Walcott, who had the decency to look downcast. It was obvious to Pearce that if he persisted the threat would be carried out; just as clear was the fact that he could not fight them all with any chance of success, which left him at a stand. He was not prepared to let go what had happened to Emily, who had been accosted in public. She had endured catcalls not only regarding her relationship with him, but with the added insult that her accusers were happy to spare a coin for a bout, though not much, given she was such damaged goods.

‘Gentlemen,’ Lipton said quietly, ‘I believe it would
be best if we resumed the consumption of our breakfast.’

‘Gentlemen,’ Pearce spat in reply. ‘I have seen things floating in my chamber pot more fitting for the title than you lot.’

The way they ignored him was harder to take than if they had reacted with violence. With no alternative to feeling foolish, Pearce turned and left. But he heard Lipton call to his fellow diners in a voice so loud that he obviously wanted their visitor to hear.

‘Should any of you come across that piece of ordure in the street, you may feel free to belabour him with anything that comes to hand, though I forbid weapons that can mortally wound. Good God, how our regimental honour would be stained by the demise of such a fellow.’

It took an effort to proceed straight to his rendezvous, the temptation to return to comfort Emily being great, and as he made his way his head was full of images in which he bloodily chastised those he had just left, both individually and collectively. Yet underlying that was the obvious truth that there was little he could do if they would not accept his challenge. Could he turn the tables on them and expose them to like ridicule?

There was another point: the information he finally extracted from Emily had been that the insults to which she had been exposed were quite specific and not just a general reference to her being a woman of the brothel, for her husband and the abandonment of him had been mentioned. On consideration of that the only person he could think of from whom such information could have come was Digby, yet he struggled to believe that he, upright by habit, could be guilty.

He was back on the quay now and a minor distraction was caused, with all the usual nonsense of signal gunnery, by the arrival of the very distinctive
HMS Agamemnon
, no doubt to take the place of the now departed
Leander
, and in her wake a couple of frigates and that produced another bit of reflection.

He had to assume Nelson, in a vessel he knew was mainly manned by volunteers, to be a man who would grant his crew leave, so it promised to be a night full of incident ashore, and in cogitating on that he wondered if this was the right time to let the likes of Michael O’Hagan loose on Leghorn.

It was too late to change that; his friends were awaiting him and no doubt wondering where in hell’s name he had got to. Turning his back on the sea he made his way out of the old part of town along one of the numerous canals that led to and surrounded the star-shaped fortress built earlier in the century in the style first established by Louis the Sun King’s favourite builder of defences, the Marquis de Vauban.

Gravelines came to his mind again here, for the heat of the sun apart and the sense of much colour this gave to his surrounding, the two places were very similar, with the main point of defence located away from the shore along a series of narrow waterways leading to a deep moat. In the case of Leghorn the old fortress still stood on the seashore, but would not hold out against a determined assault by modern ship-based gunnery.

The canals were there to narrow any assault and make it easier to repel but they had an added advantage in that, unlike the alleyways of the old town, full of drinking establishments and brothels which only differed in the degree to which they were disreputable, the air was better, for the open space of the waterways created a wide avenue through which it could easily blow. On top of that, few men of the sea, whether of the
service or privately employed – Leghorn was home to a whole fleet of privateers as well as a revictualling base for the fleet – ventured this far into what was a more settled part of town.

Thus the place he had chosen to meet his Pelicans was one used by locals and not by British sailors, who might have been called upon to remark on an officer sharing a wet with common seamen. But just in case, and for the heat as well as discretion, Pearce removed his hat and coat and carried them over his arm.

Sat at a shaded table outside, he could see before he got close that the trio were subject to many a glance from the passers-by, no doubt wondering what fellows who normally came ashore to roger a woman and get drunk not far from the seashore were doing in such a quiet location; they were not alone.

‘You certainly picked a right spot here,’ Charlie Taverner moaned as his captain sat down, an apron-wearing servitor appearing immediately to take, as much by sign language as words, a new order. ‘There ain’t a sign of diversion in sight.’

‘You’ll get your chance for that, Charlie, when we have finished our wet. You must realise that I cannot do this in plain view and I very much want to.’

Rufus, at one time too young to ever cast an opinion, spoke up; he had matured since that night he had been pressed, even if in his freckled face and ginger hair he still looked too young.

‘I might not have an hourglass, or for that matter a ship’s bell, but I reckon on the last score you are a good two strikes late.’

‘Which I will make up to you with as much drink as you wish to consume.’

‘It’s not where we want to be, John-boy.’

‘Michael, can it truly be said that it’s a place any of us want to be?’

The wine arrived and was poured, in the case of the others into vessels that had been already emptied more than once. Pearce wondered as silence fell if they were thinking, as he was, of the place where they had first met? It had not been like this, where the shade was necessary for comfort. It had been a cold, windswept night and the Pelican had been a crowded, noise-filled tavern instead of a quiet backstreet affair, part of that clamour coming from folk placing bets on Michael’s ability to lift a table using only his teeth.

He had been wildly and blindly drunk that night and he had tried to remove Pearce’s head with one of his massive fists, which was a strange way to begin a friendship. The others Pearce had met he recalled, the now departed Abel Scrivens and Ben Walker, lost to Barbary and slavery.

They had been, like Charlie and Rufus, short on the means for a tankard of ale that night and Pearce gathered many another. It was smooth Charlie, who had the skills of a man who could live within or without the law, who had dunned – he would have said persuaded – John Pearce into buying them pots of ale, and as they talked it became clear that they did not reside here entirely out of choice.

The Pelican Tavern lay within the Liberties of the Savoy, a stretch of land beside the River Thames, a one-time part of the Savoy Palace of John of Gaunt and still part of the Royal Duchy of Lancaster, into which those on the run from writs various could take refuge, for no bailiff or tipstaff was allowed to exercise warrants of apprehension within its narrow confines, though that would not have served if the men pursuing John Pearce had followed him into the Pelican, for a King’s Bench Writ was a being of a different order altogether.

He had sat with those he had met and mostly evaded
their enquires about where he had come from and where he was going, learning a little of the life they lived, which was one of casual and itinerant employment as well as hot-bedding in a crowded rookery for the lack of the means to pay rent for a space of their own.

Even if they did not list their various offences, it was clear each of his accidental drinking companions were in the Liberties for a good reason, unlike the very noisy Michael O’Hagan. He was a well-paid day labourer who could dig ditches at speed in a city where building was in boom, a man who could spend his wages freely and replace them the next day. He could also afford, and this piqued Charlie Taverner no end, to attract the affections of buxom Rosie, the lady serving their ale.

Then Ralph Barclay had sent in his press gang and all their lives had been altered in that instant; the people with whom he had been drinking went, like him, from free men under a cloud to virtual prisoners of the King’s Navy and with no seeming redress. This was the case even if Barclay had broken the law.

‘I am bound to ask you what you want for the future?’ Pearce said to kill a silence that had lasted too long.

‘Christ, John!’ Charlie exclaimed, happy to be as familiar as he had once been when they had shared the lower deck. ‘Is that not decided?’

‘We volunteered, remember,’ Rufus added.

‘To save me,’ Pearce replied. ‘What I mean is that things have altered, as no doubt Michael has told you.’