The Admirals' Game (6 page)

‘Why Martin Dent, how do you fare?'

Martin did not like Gherson, indeed he thought there were few souls born who did, he being what was termed a treacherous sod. He had been pressed into the frigate at the same time as Pearce and his mates, though no man could be said to differ more. Martin had hated Pearce to start with, for his ill-formed nose was a direct result of a punch from that source, yet the man had turned out to be a gem of a fellow, unlike the bugger now grinning at him.

‘I's all right, Corny, and how are you?'

The face closed up; Gherson hated that nickname, but he fought to look pleasant again. ‘What's afoot with the captain's lady?'

‘Nowt.'

‘Must be something, Martin, you being called to the cabin. First time you've been in here, I would guess.'

‘Happen,' Martin replied, using the back of his hand to wipe his nose.

‘So, are you going to enlighten an old shipmate?'

‘You ain't no shipmate o' mine, Corny, wi' yer fancy togs and airs, an' in truth I don't think you ever was.'

Cornelius Gherson's face went from pretty to downright spiteful. ‘While you turned out to be Pearce's little playmate.'

Martin Dent spat back at him. ‘Watch your tongue, bastard, or you'll get a clout wi' a marlinspike one dark night.'

‘I'm shaking in my shoes.'

The head disappeared; obviously, by the crash of the marine sentry's boots, he had heard the imminent return of Emily Barclay, for she appeared moments later, approaching close again and speaking softly. ‘Martin, Mr Glaister has agreed that you may leave the ship.'

‘Ma'am.'

‘He may enquire of you what you were asked to do. It would be doing me a service if that was kept to yourself.'

‘I dunno as I can do that if the premier demands to know.'

Emily was thinking hard; she could mention John Pearce, for she had the impression that young Martin would do anything for him, but that would open up a can of worms, so she decided to take the same line as she had with Glaister.

‘The matter relates to something the admiral wants to do for my husband.'

Hang the bugger, thought Martin, for what had happened at the court martial was common gossip.

‘He wants it to be a surprise, which is why I asked for you. To request that either Shenton or Gherson carry out this task would put them in an invidious position.'

‘Invi what, ma'am?'

‘Sorry, false is a better word.'

Martin had another thought then, that it was a good word to apply to that pair. Emily put up her hand and asked him to be still, while she went into one of the side cabins, a sleeping place Martin saw through the open door, with a swinging cot and a sea chest. With her back to him he did not see her extract a coin from her chest, but it was clutched in her hand when she returned.

‘Martin, I want you to take this as reward.'

Their hands met and he looked down to see gold, half a guinea, and he knew without being told that this was no reward for the errand, but the price of his silence. He also knew questions would be asked about what was afoot, and not only by the likes of Gherson; every one of his shipmates would be at him. Emily was watching him closely and could see in his face the confusion as he held out the coin to her.

‘Best I don't take this, ma'am, though it is kindly meant, I's sure.'

‘Why, Martin?' she asked softly.

‘Not a soul aboard will trouble me for an answer in just doin' such an errand,' he lied. ‘But if'n they sniff I was paid a reward, they will be at me for a reason like hounds after a hare.'

‘Surely they will only know if you tell them.'

Martin grinned, and that lifted Emily's heart for it was more like the cheerful lad she knew, the one who never stopped talking as he worked his oar. ‘You don't know much about tars, ma'am, they's got eyes in the back of their heads, and as like as not gold would be spotted before I could get it into my dunnage. And if'n I get set to spend this, an' there be little point in owning it other, I will get no end of enquiry, leastways till they forget all about this day.'

‘Then, Martin, would you permit me to keep it for you, to claim whenever you like?'

Martin Dent liked Emily Barclay, and was much given to speculate, like everyone else aboard HMS
Brilliant
, what she was doing wed to a sourpuss old goat like Ralph Barclay. He also guessed she had a soft spot for John Pearce, which she had made plain when he was up to be punished. Anybody who had a good opinion of him was all right as far as Martin Dent was concerned. Christ, the man had saved his life, and even although Martin had done his best to see the bugger off at the very start of this commission, by trying to drop a heavy block on his head, he had found himself easily forgiven.

‘It be like a bit o' saving, then?'

‘Just that, Martin.'

‘Ain't never had nowt saved afore, allas spent whatever I had, first chance.'

Emily put the note in his hand. ‘For the admiral personally.'

‘Don't you fret, ma'am, I'll see to it, and…' He put his finger to the side of his broken nose. ‘…not a soul will get out of me anything, I promise.'

She wanted to kiss his cheek then, but that would be going too far.

As Martin passed the canvas screen that shielded Gherson's hutch, he saw through the gap that the clerk was in deep conversation with Shenton, the captain's steward bent over a piece of paper both men were studying. Barefoot, they would not have heard him on the deck planking, so he stopped to listen. They were speaking so quietly it was hard to make out anything but the odd word, but he did hear clearly, ‘cable, canvas and powder', along with some reference to a contact at the arsenal.

‘Ain't natural,' insisted Rufus Dommet, as he watched John Pearce energetically stroke his way through the seawater, before he took a deep breath and went under. ‘If'n God had intended man to swim, he would have favoured him wi' gills.'

‘I wish I had a shilling piece for every time you've said that, Rufus.'

Rufus looked at Charlie Taverner with something approaching surprise, for he was sure he had never said anything of the like before, but he did not argue; Charlie had a habit of being right, and an even more annoying one of being convincing even when he was in the wrong. Pearce's head came up right beside the boat, lashed to the side of HMS
Faron
, and with one heave he lifted himself clear of the sea and threw a leg over the gunwale, balancing there until Charlie
grabbed him and helped him over the rest.

‘Obliged, Charlie,' Pearce gasped, shaking his head and covering his helper in water.

‘Well I see I has no need to go a'dipping. All I has to do is wait till you comes back inboard.'

‘The tribulations of being a servant, Charlie.'

‘I reckon I is supposed to be thankful, an' all.'

Taking a towel off Rufus, he grinned at Charlie, who was looking a damn sight more querulous than he truly was. ‘At least, with me as your master, you can curse me at will.'

Michael O'Hagan's head came over the ship's side. ‘Mr Harbin has sent to say dinner is about to be served, and since the captain is invited you might like to shift.'

‘Ask him for time to change my breeches. I can hardly sit down to eat soaking wet.'

‘Then move, John-boy, for sure I am as sharp set as ever I was, an' thanks to me partaking of this servantin' lark, my dinner is awaiting also.'

Pearce was mock-serious as his head came level with that of the Irishman. ‘One of these days I must experiment with flogging to see if I can gain a little respect.'

‘How many lashes would a “bugger off” earn?'

‘Round the fleet, Michael, at least.'

Looking past O'Hagan as he was helped over the bulwark, Pearce saw Henry Digby pacing the tiny quarterdeck, clearly in range of that exchange, but studiously looking at some distant object. On a small
deck it was hard to be out of earshot and often necessary to pretend otherwise.

‘Digby's behind you,' Pearce whispered.

Michael winked, and responded in an overly solicitous tone. ‘Ease yourself over, your honour, and mind your jewels. We would not want you unmanned by a splinter, now would we?'

Henry Digby tried, but his shoulders began to shake; he knew well the close relationship Pearce had with these men and the depth of it had been made plain on the journey to the Bay of Biscay and back. When it came to risk and danger – and there had been enough for any man in La Rochelle – Pearce was like a magnet, yet he had these men loyal enough to follow him anywhere.

Discipline was one thing, and they all had a care to pretend it was as formal as it was supposed to be when he was nearby, but O'Hagan was larding the solicitations, and it was too amusing not to react.

‘Forgive me, sir,' Pearce called to him. ‘I spent too much time in the sea.'

‘Accepted, Mr Pearce, but I should be more worried about Mr Harbin's approbation than mine.'

‘Now you be after comin' along, your honour,' said Michael, still in that unctuous and lilting Irish voice, while leading a laughing John Pearce aft. ‘An' me and your other boyos will see you dressed and fit for decent company in a trice.'

To call the cramped space in which they were eating a wardroom was to gild matters. HMS
Faron
, so recently captured from the French, was not a large vessel, and if there was any comfort aboard, it was for the captain to enjoy. Having originally brought the prize into Toulon, Pearce had occupied a similar cabin aboard the ship which had captured the one he now served on, and sitting here now he was reminded how much he missed the luxury of space and solitude.

As living and sleeping quarters the wardroom was shared between Pearce, Midshipman Harbin and the elderly master, Mr Neame, and so small that it required their sea chests to be moved out to accommodate a board large enough for four to be seated. The oil lamps were too close, making the whole space excessively warm on a balmy night, and naval convention did not allow for the removal of their heavy broadcloth coats, leaving John Pearce to contemplate another cooling dip in the sea.

Harbin found it difficult to relax, his young face throughout the meal creased in worry, for he had been given the task of overseeing the ingredients and preparation, how the courses would be served, and what wines would accompany them – a trial to a youngster given the responsibility for the first time – albeit he was spared any personal expense. Digby had taken it upon himself, while he was in temporary command of both this vessel and the mid, to ensure the youngster learnt not only proper manners, but also how to act as a host. When the cloth was drawn and the port decanter
produced, happily for him, Harbin's guests pronounced themselves well satisfied.

As was normal after any dinner, the adults fell to discussion, the shared memory of all being the recent voyage to and from the Bay of Biscay, and they commonly wondered at the fate of those five thousand French sailors they had returned to near their home ports, but particularly the officers Pearce had saved from the guillotine. Had they made it home? Did they still have their heads on their shoulders?

‘A toast to them all,' boomed Neame, who was much given to downing bumpers in such a fashion; the red in his countenance was not all from the warmth of the cabin.

‘And damnation,' Pearce added, ‘to the curs who sent me away so they could rig their court.'

Digby frowned at that, a clear indication he regretted mention of the subject, even if he was obliged to respond, being of the opinion Pearce was ramming his head against a brick wall. He would struggle to bring a case, never mind win it: the Navy would close ranks to protect its own. Disapproval notwithstanding, Pearce was not to be deflected when Digby outlined the all too obvious problems.

‘But I must try. I don't think you understand the depth of my attachment to these men. If it is a brick wall, I must see it demolished. By taking them on as servants, I have, at least, made it hard for those who see me as trouble to send them where they like.'

‘I hardly need remind you, Mr Pearce,' Digby responded, ‘of the temporary nature of my command. There are any number of officers ahead of me on the lieutenant's list serving ashore, and I suspect they eye our ship with envy coupled with hope. I expect to be shifted any day and should we all be ordered to transfer to other vessels, it could well include the break up of the crew. You might struggle to hold on to them.'

‘I won't if Ralph Barclay has his way.'

‘It is not a sound notion to let your hatred of that man consume you,' said Neame.

‘I am allowed a word, sir?' asked Harbin.

‘Speak up, young fellow,' cried Digby. ‘Are we not obliged to educate you in all things, including the art of conversation?'

‘Well, I had words with Farmiloe…'

Harbin stopped then, because the look in John Pearce's eye was not one to encourage him to continue. Midshipman Farmiloe, seconded from HMS
Brilliant
, had been one of a number of souls who had sailed with them to the Bay of Biscay, shifted out of the way because, as in his case, they had either been present the night the Pelicans had been pressed, or were too likely to speak the truth if called to testify.

‘Go on, Mr Harbin,' Pearce insisted, curious as to what the lad had been told.

‘He did say you put up a hell of a fight, sir.'

Pearce smiled at the recollection, though nothing of that cold and windy winter night could truly be said to
have been amusing. Whatever was known about him, he doubted that many were aware he was on the run when he entered the Pelican, Michael O'Hagan being the only one he had trusted with the whole truth. He could see the Pelican in his mind's eye now: the fug of pipe smoke, the heat of blazing fires and the crowds of people taking their ease in a place they thought free from the fear of intrusion. What had these people known of Adam Pearce, or of radical thinkers in general, of King's Bench Warrants, writs for seditious libel of the kind from which he and his father had been forced to flee? Those he was sitting with now were no different.

Harbin was like Henry Digby, happy in the certainty that England was the land of liberty. Maybe it was, for them, but it had not been that for Pearce
père et fils
. They had been hounded for his father's beliefs, notions like a fairer distribution of wealth and land, education for the lower orders and the kind of universal suffrage – women included – that would see an end to rotten boroughs and a parliamentary system dominated by men, landed interests, city money and an interfering monarch.

It was easier to talk about the Paris to which they had fled, though a jaundiced eye would be raised at his tales of a city in the grip of a joyous new-found freedom. It had been that when they arrived, to be heartily welcomed in a place where Adam Pearce's reputation and ideas had preceded him; to a radical mind the Edinburgh Ranter was a hero. It turned out to be a false dawn; his father would no more bow the knee to a Jacobin than a prince, and
neither took kindly to those who pointed out their failings. Inexorably, Paris became less safe than London so, with his father ailing and in trouble, son John had returned to try and get the sanction on them lifted. What he got was a pursuit that saw him take refuge in the Pelican.

‘I did put up a fight, Mr Harbin, but to no avail, though I broke the nose of someone close to the same age as you. Hardly heroic, wouldn't you say?'

‘I would say it depends, sir. I believe the lad you mention got in your way, and a few others were bruised trying to restrain you.'

‘Mr Farmiloe has a good memory.'

‘He was right scared of you, sir.'

‘Mr Harbin—'

Pearce held up his hand to interrupt Digby; the boy was only speaking the truth, for Midshipman Farmiloe had stayed well out of his way on the journey to Biscay, though he hoped he had put his fear to rest when he took him ashore at La Rochelle. It was a pity for the boy that what they had done there must remain secret; had it been made public, it could only have aided his future career. No doubt he and Harbin had talked much on that subject too.

‘I imagine you were not the only one aboard who was curious?'

‘No, sir, the whole crew wanted chapter and verse of what happened in the Liberties, but your lads would not oblige.'

Neame spoke up again. ‘Whatever occurred that night,
it has led you into some adventure, has it not, Mr Pearce?'

Harbin was looking at him eagerly. Sailors – and age had no bearing on this – loved listening to tales as much as they loved the telling, and pure truth was often the first victim of exaggeration. Given encouragement the boy would want to know every detail of the affair in Brittany, all about the battle at sea, which had resulted in his being commissioned by the direct command of King George. There was, however, one flaw in satisfying the boy's curiosity: he could not do so without sounding boastful, and that was anathema.

‘Have we not all had adventures? Why Mr Harbin, I'll wager every mid in the fleet is jealous of you for Porto Vecchio.'

That started Neame off, for Henry Digby had not been with them on the voyage round Corsica, and the events at Porto Vecchio had been singular, leading to sudden death as well as the taking of the very ship on which they were conversing. Neame had saved the day, and he was not about to let pass an opportunity to tell even those who had been present of his deeds. When they moved on to talking about the action off La Rochelle it was, as a wholly shared experience, more with wonder at the luck they had enjoyed than a gloat at the outcome.

John Pearce was well satisfied; the conversation had moved on from him and his past.

Martin Dent, idling on the maindeck of HMS
Victory
, waiting for a boat to take him back ashore, was much taken with the ceremony attending a visiting admiral, something he had never witnessed. First was the commotion that followed on from the news of the approach of this elevated personage, the rush of officers hurriedly donning their best uniform coats and hats to line up by the entry port, this while a small party of marines were dressed in file and inspected by their harassed officer, behind whom a midshipman ensured that nothing sullied the deck; that included Martin, who was told to vacate his seat on the 24-pounder cannon and at least stand when the admiral went by. The captain of the ship appeared to do the honours of greeting, but not until he had made sure all was in order.

Obliging the nervous mid, Martin was taken with the stiff formality with which they comported themselves as the bosun sounded his call. The man who appeared, though, the second admiral Martin had seen that day, seemed less impressive than the one called Parker, who had a bit of height and meat about him; this one seemed small and pasty-faced, and it was telling that as he greeted each officer in turn, the captain of the flagship included, there was no eye contact. Martin, who liked to look at a fellow direct on first acquaintance, put him down as likely to be a slippery bugger.

Both Hood and Parker heard the commotion which attended Hotham coming aboard – they had been
prewarned
of his approach by the whistles and stamping of
marine boots, all an indication they would be pressed to finish their discussion, for much as he had little time for his second-in-command, Lord Hood could not insult him by keeping him waiting. Parker was waving the note Martin Dent had just delivered, though unwilling to tell his commanding officer from whom it had come.

‘I contend it matters little, sir, if we lack a written deposition – the court martial papers stand by themselves. I urge you to hold to the course on which we decided.'