A Divided Command (11 page)

‘Weapons?’

‘Swords, army issue.’

‘I would prefer a finer blade.’

‘Sadly, John, the choice is not yours.’

‘With your agreement I will take Michael O’Hagan along with me.’

Having been very serious, Henry Digby, who knew what Michael was capable of, sought to lighten the conversation and he spoke more loudly than previously. ‘To start another set of fisticuffs?’

‘No, Henry,’ Pearce replied in a quiet, mordant tone. ‘To carry me back to the ship if I cannot walk.’

‘I have to tell you, John, I made enquiries as to Lipton’s competence with a sword and not only is he that, he is also something of a habitual duellist. I got the impression that he has, at least once, killed an opponent.’

Pearce nodded, and to cover his ruminations on that he poured some more wine, which for a few minutes both men
consumed in silence until Pearce said finally, ‘Henry, if you will forgive me, I do not intend to spend tonight aboard ship.’ The face Digby pulled then meant there was no need for further explanation. ‘I take it the hack you have hired will be on the quayside, so I will find you there.’

‘I am bound to ask, John, if you want a priest to be present. We are in a papist country and as you know there is an Anglican church in Leghorn. The vicar there would be happy to confess you either at the church or the duelling ground, should you desire it.’

‘And what sins, Henry, would you have me open up to him about?’

‘We all carry the burden of sin.’

‘Not all of us allow it to weigh us down.’

It was a discussion they had engaged in before, many times aboard
HMS Faron
, for John Pearce was in this respect his father’s son. Old Adam was a man who, for all his own scepticism, would not deny to others their need for some kind of faith. But he would ask why those who administered to them, in a religion founded on the lack of material greed of their saviour, had priests and bishops who needed to live in such luxury.

If the divines of Britain were not as greedy as their French counterparts, who in pre-Revolutionary time had counted their mistresses in multiples and their incomes in millions of
livres
, it was yet a justifiable question as to why whoever held the See of Canterbury needed £25,000 per annum to live on, when all around his cathedral there were people he was set to administer to who rarely ate meat for the lack of the means to buy it.

‘Your soul is your affair, John, but I will pray for you, nevertheless.’

‘Drink your wine, Henry, and be assured I have bought some spirit also, which if it is not brandy is fiery enough to warm our cockles in the morning.’

Both men knew that the purpose of such a spirit was not for drinking, for it was a handy thing to have along to cleanse a wound or, at the very worst case, to ease into the next life a dying man so he would feel no pain.

When it came to prayers, Michael O’Hagan was the master, crossing himself immediately Pearce alerted him to his duties in the morning, with his friend supposing that he spent the hours in between praying for divine intervention. Not that he knew; he went ashore to spend the night with Emily, who when she enquired about his dispute with Lipton was told that it was, for the moment, in abeyance.

When he rose very early the next morning, while it was still so dark he had to dress by moonlight, he left her abed and happy in her somnolence, she assuming it was because of what he had told her; he must be aboard at sunrise and be seen on the deck. The soft kiss he placed on her brow, just before departure, was responded to by a low and murmured expression of affection.

It was a slow and piecemeal gathering on the busy quayside: the fresh catches from the overnight fishing were being laid out on the trestles. First there was John Pearce wondering at what the day might bring, the letter to be delivered to Emily should matters go awry feeling like a weight in his pocket; it was certainly one on his conscience for she would be bitter at the lies he had told so that she should not worry. Then there was the guilt, the knowledge that in leaving all his worldly possessions to her, as he had done in a final testament, everything he owned did not amount to much, certainly not enough to maintain any kind of independence.

In addition, having been seen with him in Leghorn, there was no chance that their liaison could be glossed over or that it would remain a secret; the navy was a hotbed of gossip and over time it would become public knowledge, which would make life difficult for someone seen as a scarlet woman who had deserted the marital home.

Not that he thought she would ever go back to Ralph
Barclay, even for the purpose of restoring her reputation, for there was a situation in which Emily’s feelings had turned from dismay at his behaviour, through dislike of his character, to an utter detestation of his person.

In his peripatetic wanderings with his father John Pearce had seen, as a growing boy, more of life than most and part of that had been an acute observation of the perils and ubiquitous nature of poverty, a state into which too many were born and never had a chance to escape, which was at the base of Adam Pearce’s so-called ranting about inequalities.

Yet just as obvious was the fact that it was a way of life into which people could too easily fall, folk he had observed who had obviously enjoyed a degree of comfort in their lives forced to become beggars on the street by altered circumstance. The debtors’ prisons were full to bursting with men and women of that ilk, many there not because they were feckless but as victims of chicanery by others or just a lack of luck.

Fate could play anyone a cruel hand and in his mind’s eye it was all too easy to imagine the woman he loved suffering that kind of misfortune. Against that Emily had her own character, strong and resilient, and she also had her obvious beauty, a priceless asset that would remain with her for at least a decade and probably many more years after that. But would she use it to her advantage? There had to be doubt, given her views on morality, so much at odds with his own.

The sight of Michael O’Hagan climbing onto the quay was not one to lift his spirits, though there was an amused irony to be had when his friend, having handed over fresh linen for the coming encounter, presented him with his sword, showed him the case of pistols he had fetched along
as well, before he produced from inside his short jacket a marlinspike to deal with, as he put it, ‘Anything that might go amiss.’

What would become of the Pelicans without him to offer them some protection? At present he had a ship and could ensure their lives were not made a misery but that would not persist should he perish or suffer a debilitating wound. They were stuck in the navy for the duration and that meant they could be shipped anywhere the whim of the service took them, with all the dangers such a life entailed.

‘If anything happens to me—’

The interruption was quick and, given they were alone, loud as well as delivered in a way that told John Pearce that he was not the only one who had considered the consequences of what he was about to engage in.

‘Now don’t you go concerning yourself about that John-boy. Sure, the Good Lord had mapped out my course afore we met and has done the same for Charlie and Rufus. What that is we are not to know, but live it we must, for it is the Lord’s will.’

Looking beyond him, Pearce saw Digby approaching, but just ahead of him was Taberly and that had him touching Michael so he turned to look, his response a whisper. ‘Sure, there’s a face only a mother could love, and short of sight to boot.’

‘Good morning to you, Lieutenant Pearce,’ Taberly boomed, looking at a sky in which the deep blue was turning to pale, with only the strongest stars still twinkling. ‘We are to have another fine day of weather it seems, perfect for the purpose.’

Taberly then looked up at Michael O’Hagan, whom he
knew well. There was a moment when his expression gave the notion he was about to address the Irishman before he seemed to decide against it, no doubt because his pride did not allow him to do so.

‘However,’ he said instead, ‘before we set off you will forgive me. I have a need to relieve myself.’

Taberly went to the very edge of the quay, walking between two tables laden with fish, and despite the glares of the locals, began to unbutton the flap on his breeches. While he was pissing into the harbour Pearce could engage an embarrassed Digby in a whispered exchange.

‘I tried, John, and made no bones of how reluctant you were to have him along. But he was equally adamant that if he were denied the chance to be a spectator I would not be permitted to leave the ship. I did, however, get an agreement that he would keep his purse in his pocket.’

The sound of iron hoops on cobbles signalled the arrival of their transport and the three officers clambered aboard into what was an extremely cramped space, Michael obliged to stand on the platform at the rear of the hack and to hang on to the frame of the lowered canvas roof.

‘Damn me,’ Taberly cried in a jolly tone, ‘I ain’t been so jammed up since I slept in a mids berth.’ Aware that the men on either side of him, for he had bagged the central seat and the most space, were exchanging gloomy looks, he added in an even heartier manner, ‘Come along, there’s no need to be so down, surely? It is a fine thing to be doing what we are about – manly, don’t you know.’

‘Tell me, Lieutenant Taberly,’ Pearce asked, ‘what is your attitude to a public hanging?’

‘A fine thing, Mr Pearce; I never miss one if it is available
and it is at its best when the miscreant is racked with fear of his fate. Why, I have seen many a victim soil himself before he even had the rope placed round his neck. Not that I am repelled by a pretty speech, you understand, and a degree of indifference in the accused. It is good to watch the ladies when the fellow is a handsome cove and romantic with it, for if they shed tears, I daresay it is not the only part of their being that is dampened.’

Was Taberly being deliberately crude, aware that his inferior, Digby, was squirming at his side, though that could perhaps be put down to the lack of space? In the increasing light his face was red; would that merely be put down to the heat caused by enforced proximity? Pearce was also curious to know if such enthusiastic rejoinders to his mordantly posed question were aimed at him, for he had to assume that if he disliked Taberly, the feeling was probably mutual.

Hanging on to the back of the hack, Michael O’Hagan was sorely tempted to fetch out his marlinspike and, having knocked off the lieutenant’s hat, use it on Taberly’s exposed head.

The sun was up by the time they made their destination, achieved over a surprisingly good road, given it was not something for which the Italians were noted. But it was a main route to Pisa and judging by the traffic well used to bringing goods from the interior to the port for both sale and onward shipping, a fact Taberly commented on in amongst what was a constant stream of inconsequential chatter; if Michael wanted to clobber the man he was not alone, John Pearce was close to creating another duelling partner, so sick was he of the sod’s grating voice.

Walcott had left another officer at the point where they had to leave the road and he led them to the rendezvous, a flat bit of land covered in sunburnt grass, shaded by high pines at this hour of the day. Lipton, it seemed, had brought along the entire commissioned mess of his regiment as well as several servants, for the glade was occupied by a good number of redcoats – all the officers, as Pearce examined them, keen to be seen to be indifferent to the occasion, more than one even going to the trouble of a false yawn as he alighted from the hack.

There were several coaches too: at the door of one a fellow was laying out cloths, bandages and the instruments needed to treat any wounds on the floor. Dressed entirely in black, even to his wide-brimmed hat, with a long cloak that reached all the way to the ground, the medico, only if in half view, showed a hooked nose and a complexion pockmarked and swarthy. The man had a suitably funereal air for the task he had been engaged to carry out.

Digby immediately went to consult with Walcott, Taberly making straight for the clutch of army men and engaging them in an animated conversation. Michael, having got down, placed the pistol case on the luggage ledge, then came to help Pearce off with his coat. Lipton himself was close to the trees, his sword in his hand, swinging away and parrying the blows of an imaginary opponent, with one swipe at a trunk leaving in it a deep cut. That done he turned and looked right at Pearce as if to imply he would suffer likewise.

‘Sure, he’s not short of faith, is he?’

Looking at Lipton, and noticing that in his shirt he carried a bit of a paunch, Pearce pulled his shirt over his head. ‘Then let’s hope he’s short on puff, Michael.’

His Irish friend handed him the replacement. ‘I have seen you swing a blade, John-boy, and if it helps I have no fear for you.’

The reply was given in a low voice and it was dismal, made more so by the muffling of fresh linen, this as Digby came back from his talk with Walcott. ‘Then it will not reassure you to know that you are on your own, Michael.’

As Pearce’s head emerged from the garment he noticed his second was slowly shaking his head.

‘He will still not accept an apology. John, he wants your blood.’

Looking past him, Pearce could see that Taberly was breaking his promise; if no actual money was exchanged the slapping of hands indicated wagers were being laid, he assumed by the enthusiasm of the bullocks, against him. Drawing the attention of Digby to this the response was a useless, ‘what could he do’ sort of shrug.

Bets agreed, an unashamed Taberly came to join them, his voice full of faux good spirits, this as he pulled a watch from his coat pocket. ‘I have you down to last at least five minutes, Pearce, the bullocks have you down for a maximum of two, so don’t you go succumbing too quick, d’ye hear?’

‘I will tell you now, Taberly,’ Pearce hissed, ‘that my first act at the conclusion of this fight might be to slice off the hand you would use to collect your winnings.’

It was now Taberly who produced a studied yawn, speaking in a derisory tone as he turned away. ‘Then it is as well my largest wager, Pearce, is that you will not survive the encounter at all.’

‘Sure I’ll see to him afore we depart this place.’

‘Don’t, Michael, he’s not worth hanging for. There’s a
letter in my coat pocket, if the worst occurs make sure my lady gets it.’

Walcott had gone to the centre of the glade; in his outstretched arms lay two swords and it was time, obviously, for the contestants to choose their weapons. O’Hagan crossed himself as Pearce walked towards the spot, Lipton doing likewise. Once there Pearce looked into the man’s eyes and saw there not a trace of emotion; he could only hope he sent the same impression out as that to which he was being exposed.

‘I leave it for you to choose, Lieutenant Pearce,’ Lipton said, pulling a cloth from his waistband and wiping off what small traces of sweat had accumulated from his practice. ‘It is a matter of indifference to me which blade I employ.’

There was no discernible difference between them and as he took the guarded hilt of one, with the royal coat of arms prominently embossed, Pearce felt the weight of the weapon. That told him it was lighter than the naval hanger he was accustomed to employ in the rare training exercises he engaged in aboard ship, but heavier than the rapier on which he had been schooled.

The blade was thicker than the latter and longer than the hanger, coming to a sharp point, and he could see that it had been honed all along the leading edge, as it would be for a fighting engagement. Designed for cutting as well as stabbing, it was very far from the lightweight weapon on which he had learnt swordplay, the sort which he would have expected to employ in a duel, not that he had ever fought one or intended to do so.

But he had received proper instruction in fencing: when his father, lodged safely in Paris, had said he wanted his only
son to be coached in the arts of polite society, it was based on the conviction that such abilities should be gifted to all. This was in addition, of course, to lessons in mathematics, Greek, Latin and French most of all, as well as horse riding, dancing and the skill of conversation.

The city might be in the throes of Revolution but it had yet to descend into the chaos of the Terror and such schooling was still readily available. The whole process of learning had refined a rather rustic John Pearce and, added to his increasingly fine appearance, had made him an attraction in the salon with both men and women. In the latter case it had led to many a bedroom; what it would do on a duelling field had never been part of the exercise.

Lipton had taken a step back and was swishing again, his sword blade hissing as it cut the air, but his eyes never left those of Pearce, who, when he sought to do likewise, was treated to a sort of executioner’s grin. Walcott, with Digby just behind his shoulder, was droning the rules of the encounter: these being simply that the first drawing of blood would be the sign of satisfaction and that the weapons employed were the only ones allowed. Then he produced a pistol and gave it a slight wave.

‘Should either party produce a knife, or any other instrument capable of causing a wound, should they resort to picking up and using a rock, then it will be my painful duty to intervene by use of this, and though I will aim to wound, I will not give a thought to the fact that my intervention might be fatal. Do I have your word, gentlemen, that you will abide by what I say?’

In tight breeches, close-fitting stockings and a loosely flapping linen shirt, Pearce was wondering where anyone
could conceal anything, never mind a weapon, but he nodded and growled his assent, in the corner of his eye observing the medical fellow was now close to the area of the contest, a towel over one arm and a length of leather trailing from his hand, no doubt the latter to be used as a blood-stopping tourniquet.