A Divided Command (6 page)

‘Are such things to be had here?’ Toby asked as a block of soap was placed in his hand.

‘Oh, yes. The possessions of those who have perished are for sale. I will try to get you a shirt that belonged to a fellow sailor, but I fear you might have to settle for a bit of cambric that was once in the possession of a bullock, or even worse, Frenchman.’

‘Did many of our own perish, Dick?’

‘No more than was necessary, Toby, and if I have not yet made it plain I am glad you were not one of them.’

‘Despite my worries?’

‘Yes!’

The two young men exchanged a look then, regarding the knowledge they both possessed but had no need to openly discuss. Richard Farmiloe too had been a midshipman on
HMS Brilliant
, indeed he had been with Toby’s Uncle Ralph on that ill-fated night when they pressed those men, John Pearce included, from the Liberties of the Savoy. Farmiloe had likewise received a letter from Gray’s Inn, couched differently from that to Toby Burns, merely asking him to confirm his presence at the incident, plus one or two salient facts that were required to be established, careful to point out that whatever else, given his lowly rank at the time, he bore no responsibility for what had occurred.

‘I take it you wrote a reply,’ Farmiloe asked, ‘as I advised?’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘Then you have cleared your conscience, Toby, and no man, or even God, can ask more of you.’

‘How I pray that you are right, Dick, and I know that should matters take a turn to the bad I can rely on you to support me.’

‘Make yourself presentable, Toby.’

In that reply Farmiloe succeeded in keeping out of his voice his true feelings: he had no desire to get involved in the troubles of his one-time fellow midshipman. Toby Burns seemed to have latched on to him as a bosom friend, which was far from being the case; Farmiloe found the younger man an awkward companion at the best of times and a bit of a nuisance at the worst. If there was sympathy for his
plight it came from the kind of fellow feeling that could be extended to anyone with whom he had once shared a berth and not come to actively dislike.

Added to that, Farmiloe knew Burns was not the hero he had been acclaimed; knew the truth of what had happened on the coast of Brittany and who it was responsible for the actions that underpinned that false reputation. In being honest about his lying at his uncle’s court martial, Toby had not seen fit to be open about the previous misrepresentations that were the bedrock of his reputation as a brave and resourceful young fellow who had been hailed as an example to follow.

‘Put all that out of your mind for now, Toby,’ Farmiloe said finally, ‘and get yourself decent. Then I will take you aboard
Agamemnon
where you can dine as my guest in the wardroom.’

The cheering, which resounded around the whole fleet, finally brought Sam Hood onto the quarterdeck of
HMS Victory
, a raucous cacophony that assailed the ears of Admiral Hotham as he barged back to his own flagship. Not every captain had seen fit to man his yards, but none, even those who saw Hood as a bar to their own personal prosperity, had sought to stop their men from letting their commanding officer know how heartily he was regarded and how the success at Calvi added lustre to his reputation.

Aware that on every vessel, every telescope would be employed for a sight of him, Hood, several times, raised his hat and it was a demonstration of the clear-sightedness of those he commanded – young men in their prime mostly – that such an act raised the hurrahs to a crescendo.

‘Damn me, I will miss this, Parker.’

‘I too, milord, since I will be returning with you.’

‘Aye, Hotham will want his own captain of the fleet, but I am sure he will give you a ship and command of the rear squadron if you ask him.’

‘Let us just say, milord, that after so long at sea, I too could use some respite.’

Hat in the air, Hood replied, ‘Best get Pearce away quickly, Parker, I don’t want Hotham to get any inkling that his position is anything other than temporary.’

‘With respect, you are not the only one who receives letters from home.’

‘True, no doubt the likes of Portland will be keen to tell Hotham he has nothing to fear from my return. But I have made it plain that I intend to cause trouble, Parker, and that is also something I will make just as plain to Billy Pitt. Politics is the game that has led to my present position and it will be politics that will reverse it.’

‘A very different kind of battle, milord.’

‘Yes, Parker, but once home I will be a participant, which will make all the difference. Get Pearce away to Leghorn.’

‘He cannot stay there for ever, milord.’

‘We need not issue any order for his return and, who knows, perhaps Hotham will forget about
HMS Larcher
, for I cannot think either the vessel or the person who commands it are of much import to him.’

Hood replaced his hat and looked at the somewhat pinched face of his executive officer, his face breaking into a wide grin. ‘No need to look like that, Parker; if anyone knows me for a devious sod it is you.’

‘There, milord, I cannot but agree.’

The grin settled into a frown. ‘No need to be so hearty in that, is there?’

Quite unknown to Hood, his second in command had asked that
HMS Larcher
be kept under observation, an instruction seen as odd by the ship’s officers, but not one to ignore with such an irascible superior. When the deck of the armed cutter turned from celebration to the kind of activity that preceded departure, Hotham was informed and was on deck with a telescope to his eye as she was hauled over her anchor.

In the glass and at no great distance the admiral could examine quite easily the face and features of John Pearce standing by the binnacle. He was certain he could see endemic malice and rank self-interest, this against most folk – there were some very notable exceptions – who took him to be a fellow who could be termed handsome and, if they had dealt with him, fair of mind.

Pearce was tall, which to a man of truncated height like Hotham, was enough alone to induce a degree of resentment, but harbouring such feelings would not answer the pressing question of what to do about him. And why, having just
arrived, was he being sent away? There seemed no apparent reason for his not remaining in San Fiorenzo, yet, flying a flag that identified
Larcher
as now being part of the fleet Hotham was about to inherit, he was preparing to weigh.

Hood had employed Pearce in some questionable undertakings before and seemed to repose some kind of trust in his abilities. Hotham wondered if he was on some kind of mission and, if so, could the purpose be detrimental to him? Such a possibility had him call into his cabin, once he had returned, his clerk Toomey.

‘I have a need to know where Pearce is going and, if possible, why.’

Toomey needed no telling of the kind of trouble Pearce could cause and his presence here was just as unwelcome to the clerk. But he was quick to tell the man he served, and on whose good fortune his own prosperity depended, that he had less to be concerned about than he thought.

‘Without Burns, and with the reply I sent on the young fellow’s behalf, there is good reason to hope that the matter will be closed.’

‘And if not?’

‘The case requires a willing witness.’

‘You do not see the possibility of others coming forward?’

‘Might I remind you, Sir William, of your rank and station, soon to be enhanced by the titular command of the fleet—’

‘Once in my hands, Toomey,’ Hotham growled, ‘it will not be wrested back, take my word upon it!’

‘And I heartily hope that to be the case, sir, and much honour to follow. But to continue, now Burns is no longer with us the only credible witnesses Pearce could call forward
have to be serving officers and ones with no known bias, for who would believe any of those lower-deck fellows that he calls his Pelicans? A cursory examination would show their attachment to Pearce personally and thus render their testimony suspect. Now, for a serving officer to risk traducing the name of an admiral—’

‘Hold on, Toomey, it is Barclay who is at risk here!’

The clerk had to suppress a sigh; his master was a sailor and confident in his nautical abilities, about which the clerk was willing to admit to ignorance. In Toomey’s experience sailors were, as a breed, less secure once they let their feet touch land, and the case being outlined fell into that category.

‘And he, Sir William, is a client officer of yours and known to be so. To seek to impugn Barclay is to do the same to you.’

‘They would fear to risk it?’

‘If they care about a career in the service, they most certainly would, especially if the risks they were embarking on were pointed out to them. I would also add that the only two we need be now concerned about, Lieutenants Digby and Farmiloe, are both serving in what is soon to be your command.’

‘You’re sure they can be silenced?’

‘It is my business, Sir William, to be diligent on your behalf, so yes, I am sure.’

Hotham nodded slowly as he digested that and it was pleasing to Toomey that he saw the sense of what was being advanced; he was in little danger now. ‘I still wish to know what Pearce is doing.’

‘And you shall, sir. I see Lord Hood’s clerk frequently, given we have much to discuss, and with what is proposed for his master that will apply tenfold. That gives me an excuse
to call upon him and I am sure he will tell me what orders have been issued to
HMS Larcher
if I ask.’

‘And?’

‘Let us say if he does, they will be routine and then we have nothing to concern ourselves with. If, on the other hand, he does not; if he ducks what is a seemingly harmless enquiry, then it will be enough to put us on our guard, which is all we need to be.’

Even if he had suffered nothing from being anchored within sight of
HMS Victory
, John Pearce was happy to see her upper poles diminish the further north he sailed; his lack of trust in Hood and his machinations was total and all the time he had been within hailing distance he had conjured up, based on past experience, any number of schemes into which the old sod could embroil him. It had happened too many times in the past to induce comfort, though Pearce had never thought to wonder why he was so often called upon to undertake some delicate or dangerous mission.

A lack of vanity would never allow him to think it was based on trust or his ability; more likely he had certain skills, not least a fluency in French that could be said to be in his favour when that nation was the enemy. In addition, Pearce supposed Old Sam saw him as expendable, not really a naval officer and also a fellow without parents or important connections, thus someone who would not command an explanation should he be lost on what could be seen as some hare-brained adventure.

Yet there was another side to the matter; if he had ever been reluctant to comply with Hood’s orders, John Pearce could not deny that he took some pleasure in the risks
involved, as well as the overcoming of them. Running over such missions in his mind, going ashore at Toulon to help facilitate the surrender of the port, the various adventures since, he wavered between a remembrance of how nip and tuck many of the situations had been, mixed with satisfaction at having seen off the various difficulties.

Such self-regard fell apart as he recalled Gravelines and what had come from that escapade, which had nothing to do with Hood or the King’s Navy! He had put his life in danger as well as those of his friends to such an extent that it had come to haunt him after it should have died a death. Stood on the tiny area of planking that made the term quarterdeck risible, his knees giving and straightening with the rise and fall of the ship, he found another reason to rebuke himself.

The one overarching mission he had set himself, namely to get his friends their freedom from the navy had failed, for they were serving under him and doing so as volunteers. That would have been possible to live with if he had not been the cause. They took the King’s bounty that locked them into the service for the duration of the present war to save his skin!

Not being a fellow to excessively berate himself and long before they had raised Cape Corse, his mind had turned to the future not the past, only to settle on a matter that was utterly lacking in certainty, thus no more comfortable in contemplation. First there was the question of Emily Barclay, with whom he envisaged spending that future, for he could not for a moment believe her husband would just accept their affair.

The Ralph Barclay he knew was not that kind of man, this witnessed by the lengths he had already gone to in seeking to
secure the copy of the papers from his court martial. If he had not personally broken into the offices of the solicitor where his wife had lodged them, then he had certainly engineered the attempt at recovery.

Added to that there was money, which if he was not on his uppers was not so plentiful that he could provide himself and his paramour with security – her notion that her now well-heeled husband should support her was not something the Pearce pride would countenance.

He was owed some prize money but it was not sufficient to support them both for long and, in truth, the only income he could boast of was his naval pay. The irony that he might need to maintain that was not lost on a man who had stated many times his desire to be shot of the uniform he wore and everything associated with it.

It seemed all his life he had lived on the wing, first endlessly traversing England in the company of his father, aiding him in disseminating his radical message – an end to monarchy and aristocratic privilege, universal suffrage for both men and women and a fair distribution of the wealth of the nation. He could see now, in his mind’s eye, his father on the stump, hectoring his listeners, often berating them for their own apathy, which sometimes was taken as truth but more often went down like a flagon of cold vomit.

He could smile now at the way they had often been obliged to flee, though it had been far from funny at the time, and even if they were still in one place long enough for Adam Pearce to drive home his message, his son, collecting in a hat the contributions necessary for them to eat and pay for shelter, had to keep a lookout for lads close to his own age who had an eye on the takings.

There had been other occasions where some local worthy had been keen to engage Adam Pearce in meaningful debate or even one who saw the radical orator as a soulmate: the latter had often led to a comfortable bed and regular food. Several winters had been spent in such ease, times when, instead of being paternally instructed in his letters and numbers, son John had been sent to a local school to continue his education.

Even being arrested and locked up in the Fleet Prison could be recalled without a true memory of the utter misery such a place represented. Incarcerated by a government who feared his words and ideals – many might have hailed the Revolution in France, but it was not seen as encouraging by those in power – good friends had got Adam and his teenage son free.

If the administration had hoped to silence the man they called the Edinburgh Ranter, they had spectacularly failed: if anything, confinement raised Adam Pearce’s profile more than his numerous and profitably selling pamphlets until eventually the government acted in a way that left no alternative for both father and son.

The King’s Bench Warrant for seditious libel had forced them to flee to Paris, for that was an offence which, with malice, could end up at Tyburn. Initially hailed by the men who had toppled their king, those who assumed power in France found Adam Pearce just as much trouble as King George and his ministers, for he was as keen to remind them of their failings, not least their recourse to the guillotine.

For all his ranting against privilege Adam had never advocated that anyone, monarch included, should die to see a more just world, for it could never be that if stained with
blood. His growing son, taking the pleasures of Paris in his stride as he turned from youth to manhood, held even more jaundiced views on the fallibility of the human race, so that the admiration of childhood had morphed into that period when the child rarely agrees with the parent about anything.

A distance had grown up between them that John Pearce now deeply regretted, for he had loved his father deeply and respected him, even if he had disputed with many of his Panglossian notions of the innate goodness of their fellow man. Time and circumstance had put paid to the kind of relationship they might have enjoyed as adults and that was regrettable. Yet if old Adam had now gone, nothing seemed to have changed for his son: he was still living from day to day without any kind of settled future.

‘Sure that’s a brown study you’re in, John-boy.’

Pearce lifted his chin from his chest at the sound of that soft remark, to where it had sunk in contemplation, aware that his worries must have been evident in his expression. Habit, the need to hide those feelings even from his closest friend, made him force a smile.

‘How good it would be, Michael, to be able to see a clear path ahead.’

‘Me, sure I put my faith in God, and let him see to it.’

There being no reply to that, which would not cause an upset, religion being a thing they fundamentally disagreed about, Pearce cast his eyes over the prow, to see that they were about to come abreast of Cape Corse so it was nearly time to change course: how easy it was to do that on a ship and how difficult in life.

‘Leghorn at sunrise Michael, if this wind stays true.’

John Pearce was not the only one thinking on the future; Emily Barclay was wondering where life would take her now that she had made such a dramatic and irreversible choice, this driven home forcibly by being alone in a foreign city. In the world in which she had been raised a woman did not leave her husband and certainly never for a lover, which could only lead to her being ostracised by decent society; that there was another assemblage, a demi-monde who would turn a blind eye to such a state, was poor compensation for a girl brought up by respectable parents and inherited standards.

Set against that was the fact that she had decided to elope with John Pearce, and the happiness to which such an association had introduced her – the truth that it was possible to love and be loved and take pleasure just as much in the physical manifestation of same as the emotional. There was a time, not very far past, when such lubricious thoughts would have brought Emily to the blush but she was a fully grown woman now.

Long gone was the naivety that had led her into matrimony with a man twice her own age, along with the notion that he might be a person of some honour to go with his status as a post captain. The more she thought on Ralph Barclay the more she saw a beast instead of the being she was thinking of on the day of their nuptials, a man of parts who would give her a life of respectability and comfort.

He was a person of mean spirit, a captain who flogged his men with what she saw as scant justification, as well as a conspirator prepared to stoop to any level to gain his ends. But more than in any other sphere she rated him as a beast when it came to claiming his matrimonial rights. Disenchanted prior to the demonstration of that characteristic, Barclay had
provided the final straw needed to break with him, though not for another – there had been no John Pearce; indeed, that she had been attracted to him was a mystery.