The Devil to Pay (11 page)

He knew in his heart he was not fit to be ranked lieutenant; indeed he could not fathom why it was that Sir William Hotham was so insistent he sit the exam. He was, for a start, too young, added to which he lacked the requisite sea time. Not that what was about to take place was unique; shipboard tales abounded of rules being broken by senior officers, of mere lads being elevated due to the level of their interest, normally a blood relationship to an admiral.

The most scandalous had been the well-reported attempt by the late Admiral Rodney to raise his twelve-year-old son to the rank and income of post captain, an act so brazen it had been blocked by the Admiralty. If they had been sharp there enough examples of official laxity existed to give admirals on a distant station good enough reason to chance their arm.

Then there was the feeling that Hotham was using it as another means to get rid of him, something the lad thought he had been trying to do for months, ever since that damned court martial at which he had been obliged to lie on his uncle’s behalf. Obliged was the wrong word, he had been intimidated and had felt insecure ever since, never more so than by the actions of the admiral, who, as he put it, to ‘was determined to give young Mr Burns every opportunity to distinguish himself’.

Translated from drivel it meant constantly putting him
in harm’s way. A dangerous mission in Toulon first had reduced Burns to jelly. Several assignments in Corsica followed before the final defeat of the French, twice under the command of that madman Horatio Nelson, the last resulting in a spell as an enemy prisoner in the recently captured citadel of Calvi. And yet here in this berth, he was envied by his peers for the chances that an indulgent admiral had put his way.

If he did pass he might get out of this stinking hellhole, home to two-dozen midshipmen ranging from a lout in his mid-twenties who would never achieve a step up, to a couple of not long-arrived twelve-year-olds whose main contribution to the berth was the noise of their homesick whimpering, that was when they were not bleating about the theft of their possessions.

In reality he dearly wanted out of the navy, which had turned out to provide a life very far from the romantic notions he had harboured the day he boarded HMS
Brilliant
at Sheerness. He found his uncle by marriage unsympathetic, the duties uncongenial, the risk of death or mutilation terrifying and the company of his fellow midshipmen dire. Such a decision would be easier to justify to his family if he had at least achieved the right to a commissioned rank, something that could never be taken from him, not very grand but grand enough.

To them, following a supposed exploit at the very outbreak of war, he was a hero; the notion that he would not continue to serve would go on to greater feats of glory would be incomprehensible yet there was nothing heroic about any of his actions, quite the reverse; his whole reputation was built on invention.

The pulling back of the canvas screen made Toby Burns snarl; he expected to be confronted by the permanently filthy face of the mid’s berth servant, a fellow who saw soap and water as mortal and who had never been known to use any. Instead there was Mr Toomey, Hotham’s clerk, which left Toby wondering if he had ever seen the fellow so far down in the bowels of the ship before. He thought not.

‘Mr Burns, I have here some letters for you, from your family I would guess. Also the Board of Examination is about to go into session and is awaiting your attendance.’

Toby shot to his feet, as careful as any other tar to mind his head, took the letters and without examining the inscriptions tossed them onto the sea chest he had just vacated. He took more care to lay down his
Vade Mecum
and
Dictionary
before he picked up his hat, gathered up the journals showing his progress in navigation and other common naval duties then stepped out onto the open deck. To call it that was a total misnomer – it was airless, dark and the smell of bilge was strong, which explained the rosemary nosegay that Toomey briefly held to his nose; the clerk was used to better air.

‘Now let us ensure you present them a good figure,’ Toomey said, tugging at Toby’s necktie, then his midshipman’s short blue jacket like a mother sending a child to his first day at a new school. ‘Let us see that hat set on your head, eh?’

Satisfied, he added. ‘You are ready for this?’

There was only one reply, even if it was false. ‘As ever I will be, sir.’

‘The admiral sends his wishes that you do well. Cannot
impart them himself, of course, for that would be seen as prejudicial.’

‘Of course,’ Toby replied, wondering in his innocent way what was not prejudicial about his being fully primed to pass, if indeed that was the case. ‘I do hope I do not disappoint him.’

‘Never in life, lad. Sent me special to fetch you so you could sense the high regard he has for you.’

Toomey set off with Toby on his heels, up the companionways to the main deck and thence on to the captain’s cabin, taken over for the examination. He opened the door and led him past the marine sentry and the pantry to the actual entrance to the cabin, this opened by yet another red-coated Lobster. Four captains sat behind a long trestle table covered in green baize and on their faces they wore the kind of expressions that preceded a good flogging, looking so formidable that Toby wanted to run. He could not, of course, but he felt the need to tighten his alimentary organs lest he disgrace himself.

‘Sit down, Mr Burns.’

The voice was somehow familiar and as he peered from his chair he realised this was the same fellow who had sat in judgement at his Uncle Ralph’s court martial. As he sat down and looked at the others present he felt a sense of
déjà vu
: they too had a familiarity to them, not that such knowledge eased his nerves. What followed was an encomium on what he was about to face and the consequences. It was no light matter to seek to qualify as a lieutenant in the King’s Navy; the rank was important and the responsibilities great; was he prepared to fully accept those as well as the honour that went with it?

‘I am, sir.’

‘You have the reputation of being something of a hero, have you not?’

‘An exaggeration, sir,’ was the only reply, now an automatic one.

‘Your modesty does you credit, sir, but if I allude to your exploits it is only to say to you that while commendable that is not enough to justify a positive verdict from this board.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Your journals then, Mr Burns.’

The record of his studies and activities were passed over to be perused and it was some time before the first question was posed by the captain on the far right, this relating to his observations, which he no longer had before him, on the defences of the Port of Toulon. That did relax Toby; it was the question on which he had been tutored to concentrate. Not that he replied with confidence; he had been told a nervous tone would be suitable and he acted as had been rehearsed, pausing to look as if he was searching for the right answer several times. It seemed to work, given the understanding nods from the other side of that trestle.

There were questions on how to take on board and stow stores in a way that kept level the keel of the ship, transgressions of the Articles of War, navigation by compass, charts and his sextant followed by the same in the absence of one of those instruments or all three, all responded to with a decent tremor in his young voice, especially on the article of lunar observations. Then came the last; how would he react to an emergency, this finding himself in command of a frigate in contrary winds on a lee shore?

Out it came as stuttered words from memory; he would have a kedge fashioned and dropped astern to slow the inward progress and adjust the sails to keep steerage way without adding to the problem of drifting. A man would be placed in the chains to take soundings, no two, so he would have some idea of the depth of water under his keel, as well as the consistency of the sea bed, giving him the point at which he could seek to drop a fluke anchor in holding ground. The crew would then be sent to man the capstan to haul the ship off to a position that she could safely lay off.

‘Is there anything else, Mr Burns?’

‘There is one other thing,’ he replied, to be met with a raised eyebrow. ‘I would put a pair of armed guards on the spirit room.’

That got appreciative nods and another enquiry. ‘Marines?’

‘No, sir,’ he replied with suitable gravity, ‘I fear for safety’s sake it would have to be those ship’s officers I could spare from other pressing duties.’

The man chairing the examination looked at his fellows to see if they were finished with their questions, before saying, after each had nodded. ‘Please await our conclusion outside, Mr Burns.’

On deck it took little effort to see that nearly every other midshipman with whom he shared his berth had contrived to get into a position where they could observe the outcome. The youth they were watching had no illusions, wet behind the ears newcomers apart, that they might be wishing him luck for if they had any knowledge of seafaring themselves, they knew how lacking this candidate was in that department.

Called back in to receive the predicted result, when he emerged again it was as if there was some method of verbal transmission that bypassed the laws of nature; it seemed they all knew. But that did not lead congratulations, still less any cheering. The fellow they referred to when he was out of earshot as Hotham’s bum boy had, they knew, got his result through cheating.

Looking around, observing the way they failed to meet his eye, Toby felt a surge akin to pleasure; some of these people had made a life he held to be miserable doubly so. Now, if he was not actually a lieutenant until he was placed in that rank of a ship, he was Toby Burns, passed midshipman and naturally a superior; he had the means to make them pay for past slights and to see that revenge taken it was almost worth staying in the navy!

The screen that had allowed Pearce and his crew to get off HMS
Larcher
provided only partial protection from what had followed; a continuation of grape shot being fired though a vessel totally consumed by flames as well as a near impenetrable black cloud of pitch filled smoke. Progress up an already difficult slope was hampered by the need to take cover, their captain trying to time each salvo from what he had previously experienced of the rate of fire, which was no more than guesswork.

‘You know, Michael,’ Pearce imparted with a grim laugh, as they cowered behind a new boulder. ‘I forgot, as a captain should, to mark the time of the first Barbary salvo or anything that followed. When I face a court for the loss of
Larcher
that will not sit well with the judges.’

‘Sure, it’s a blessing for you to know you’re useless, is it not?’

‘Never cease to remind me, friend,’ Pearce responded, while looking at his watch as the hand ticked round, first
one minute then two, with no further salvo. ‘I think our Barbary brigand has decided he is wasting his shot.’

‘So we’re free to move?’

‘Give it a time yet, it may be a ruse to catch us in the open.’

‘And that would not bar him from any other ideas he has, John-boy.’

Pearce had no need to respond; he knew what Michael was driving at, that a man who had pursued them so relentlessly might not give up easily. There were bays within less than a mile to both east and west of the narrow inlet into which they had driven the armed cutter and there had to be a route to the crest from both. If he chose to land men upon them there was nothing that could be done to prevent it.

‘Let us move then.’

It was not just the increasing height that opened up a better view of the Gulf of Policastro; the conflagration consuming their ship had peaked and was dying down, while at the same time the sun was going with it. From the first sight of the enemy’s upper masts, both brigantines now, they knew them to be still hove to offshore and stationary. Pearce reckoned they had dropped anchor, which did not bode well. Had they sent out boats with a shore party, something that would still be hidden from view?

Scrabbling up through rocks and scrub brush, with loose screed underfoot and only one good arm, Pearce needed Michael O’Hagan more than once help to prevent a fall but at least he was better off than the one-legged Bellam, whose loud cursing filled the air, and he was being matched by the fellow from the
Lazaretto
who needed to use his stick
to progress. It was also exhausting work for all, the air being still and hot; if there was a breeze it was not playing on this section of the coast.

In his frequent stops to draw breath Pearce could see how spread out were most of those for whom he was responsible. If they were subject to a pursuit being in the open was not going to serve so he shouted to those furthest ahead that they should aim to their right and make for the tower that stood at the highest point of the hills that skirted the shore.

The closer he came the more he reckoned his first thought, that it was abandoned was correct. A man standing on it uppermost battlements could not have failed to see what had happened with
Larcher
nor the figures making hard work of climbing the slope. But being empty did not render it useless as far as he was concerned; even in a poor state it could provide a place in which to mount a solid defence for it would not be gunnery but musket against musket and cutlass against scimitar. Even badly outnumbered, behind any kind of stonework they could make the cost of continued battle too high.

Emily, with Charlie Taverner and Rufus Dommet to one each side, was well to the fore, though they had been overtaken by the most fleet of foot, the armed cutter’s topmen. He yelled for them to wait but to no avail, either because they could not hear or because they chose to ignore him. By the time he and Michael got onto the flat ground before the tower everyone but Bellam and those aiding him were there, most milling around with no common purpose, which led to a sharp command to cease behaving like headless chickens. If there was a clear pause before that was acted upon at least the instruction was obeyed, which
allowed him to go to Emily and check she was all right.

‘Hot,’ was all she said, adding a wan smile. ‘And with badly torn stockings.’

‘You are not unique in that,’ Pearce replied, with a glance at his own shredded calves.

There was no wind up here either, which was surprising: Pearce had assumed that it was the hills cutting it off and there were higher massifs not far off, but there should have been something. Looking north-east towards what were distant mountains he saw their tops shrouded in dense and billowing clouds, which indicated there might be a change in the weather on the way; shelter thus became doubly necessary.

‘Has anyone found the entrance?’

‘Round the back, Capt’n, there’s a blocked off doorway.’

The speaker, one of those fleet-footed topmen, was on his way without waiting, Pearce following to be shown that which he had described, a stout door set in a stone arch, with a trio of heavy baulks of wood across, several feet off the ground, higher than the height of a man, with no steps leading to it. Given that the rest of the crew had followed his next command was to the men carrying axes to find some timber with which to construct a rough ladder, not too major a task given at this height there was an abundance of trees.

‘And we will need a stout lever to get those baulks off.’

Being resourceful was the natural habit of the British tar: aboard a ship each man absorbed so much in the way of varying skills that the order Pearce had issued was not long in being completed. He was soon provided with a set of short rough branches lashed across two long narrow poles,
the risers secured with bark stripped from tree trunks with knives. If it looked makeshift and rough it did the job and the carpenter Brad Kempshall, who had obliged his mates to carry his tools, had overseen the cutting of a thicker piece of wood long enough to act as the lever. It therefore came as a real surprise when the first of those stout baulks, subjected to the required pressure, came away with no trouble at all.

Ten feet of timber and as thick as a lintel beam, it nearly knocked the man sent up the ladder off his perch, which he only maintained by pushing it to one side and letting it fall, sending scattering those below, which was just as well; crowned it would have been mortal to the victim

‘They’s not fixed proper, Capt’n,’ he cried, ‘just sat in holes.’

Pearce went to examine the fallen beam and saw at once that it had four stout and protruding dowels set into it at the corners. He then looked up to where his crewman was balancing and was shown the holes in the brickwork in which they had sat, so he ordered him down and had everyone stand back as the other two beams were levered off with the same ease, to crash to the ground. Everyone was looking at him, requiring their captain make sense of this, in which they were disappointed; he had no more of a clue than had they.

‘The door?’

A sailor ran back up the ladder and reached out to push, but to no avail. ‘Big lock, your honour. Take some effort to shift.’

‘Best you have a look,’ Pearce said to his carpenter.

Brad Kempshall called the man down and replaced him, his opinion being that they only way to get past it was to
chisel the frame, which he pronounced as near to rotten. Looking at the sky and realising how soon it would be dark, Pearce ordered him to forget a chisel and employ an axe.

‘Mr Bird, you and a couple of men with muskets to the other side to keep a lookout. You will not be able to see the actual shore, but anyone making their way up the slope, even taking frequent cover, must give a sign of their presence. Look for a sudden flurry of birds, for any that had been nesting in the bushes will have settled again now the gunfire has ceased and Mr Bellam has finished his cursing.’

The joke being taken with grins cheered him and with nothing to contribute he went once more to check on Emily, sat in the shade of a gnarled olive tree, their quiet talk made over the sound of a flailing axe as Brad Kempshall and his mates took turns to hack at wood that could have been in place for centuries and had been put there to keep out marauders.

‘Once we are inside I will feel safer,’ he explained. ‘We have food, water and are well armed. Even if they do chase us I would say they will see it as useless to try an assault.’

‘And then?’

‘Once we are sure it is safe to do so, we must find a road to the north that will take us to Naples.’

‘You are sure there will be one John?’

That got a smile. ‘This is the old Roman Empire we are sat in, Emily. Were they not famous for their roads?’

‘I am never quite sure John, if I find your being sanguine reassuring or irritating.’

The sound that came then was not of the axe, but a distant rumble of thunder, which had Pearce standing and peering at the clouds he had spotted earlier, which had
thickened and darkened. ‘We’re in for a storm, but not for a while yet.’

‘Doors open, Capt’n,’ came the cry.

‘See anything?’

‘Place is full of big clay pots, stacked high and full judging by my push.’

It took Pearce time to climb the ladder, having to hook his slung arm on each rung before he could move his feet up, but when he got there he saw the truth of what he had been told. It was obviously being used by the locals as a storehouse, which went some way to explaining those loose baulks; they would need access on a regular basis but still wanted to deter intruders.

The next obvious fact was that there was no room for him and all of his men as well as what were substantial ampoules, which posed a dilemma given it was rapidly heading towards nightfall; even if there was no pursuit the rumbling from the east, plus the now heavy atmosphere, presaged rain, which meant he needed to get them into shelter and whatever else it must be this tower had to be sound and sealed to keep out the weather.

Faced with two problems there was only one solution; to move enough of those ampoules to accommodate his crew, so he clambered down and ordered the tower cleared. Immediately his men got to the door one great pot was sent flying, to smash on the ground, sending the oil it contained, the produce of the nearby olive trees, spraying in all direction. Pearce lost his temper then; these ampoules belonged to someone and were obviously valued.

‘Damn you, treat them as if they were your own!’

No one would look at him then, he hoped through
sheepishness so, in a more conciliatory tone he ordered they should be lowered with care and stacked in such a way under the nearby trees, where they would be afforded some protection from the coming downpour, with the additional instruction that it should be well away from the flaring fire that had been started by those not otherwise employed.

Lit in what was still daylight it now glowed, which had Pearce call in Birdy and his sentinels and get everyone up into the chamber, even if enough space had not been cleared; tonight they would have to huddle. Before that had been completed and the rough ladders hauled in, the first sign of lightning ran though the barely visible clouds, soon followed by a roll of loud thunder, which was repeated regularly.

The space was insufficient for all, which led to a deal of complaint and that was not aided when the door was jammed shut by Pearce and O’Hagan and they were plunged into stygian darkness. But if there was much complaint about crowding, odd for fellows who shared a constrained ’t’ween decks, it was very shortly overborne by another worry: bats. The first cry was one of deep alarm, a near scream, which set off many more as the perpetrators felt the swish of something very close pass their heads, that followed by the sound of animal squeaking and Emily, made aware of what was causing the distress, buried her head in John Pearce’s chest with a muffled moan that pushed his back hard into the door.

‘You have nothing to fear,’ Pearce yelled, but not to much avail. ‘They will not harm you.’

‘They’re of the devil,’ came one response, ‘and will suck out our blood.’

‘You’se dropped us in it again,’ called another voice, which was responded to by a number of worrying growls mixed with stifled cries.

In daylight Pearce was sure he could have provided reassurance; in total darkness it was much harder but he tried, telling them how many times he had taken shelter with his father in old buildings and faced the same, even having had such creatures fly around his head on a summer night when sat by the roadside.

‘You will feel their passing but never their touch, for they have a way of knowing exactly where you are.’

‘If they can see in the dark then they are agents of Satan,’ called a voice Pearce recognised as being the one who had cursed him on the deck of HMS
Larcher
, even when it dropped to a low and melodramatic tone. ‘And happen they have come to commune with their familiar, I say.’

‘The door, John-boy,’ came the whisper from nearby, ‘best open it.’

‘Damn me Michael, how? I am jammed against it.’

What followed was a series of curses and sounds Pearce took to be blows, but he did find he had room to move, enough to get the door open a fraction and let in air if not light. It took more effort and forced movement to get it fully ajar and just then the lighting flashed and illuminated for a second the interior, showing Pearce a mass of frightened faces; that was those who were not cowering with their hands over their hats.

Pearce saw it as a blessing that the storm was so fierce; the sky was alive, bolts of lightning were striking the ground with scarcely a pause between them, sending up what appeared to be sparks from anything they struck,
rocks or trees, in a cacophony of thunder. The light created was enough at least to send the bats back to their hanging perches and when the rain came it was even more illuminating; it seemed to magnify the light from the bolts passing through to still strike the ground, now covered with a low layer of steam.

It did not last, passing over and out to sea as quickly as it arrived but, leaving what had been heavy air somewhat cooler and fresher as well as the wind that had driven it. It also let John Pearce with a decision to make; was it better that his men were outdoors or should he seek to keep them cooped up in the tower? There was no sign of a pursuit and surely, had there been one they would have known by now, quite apart from the fact that anyone seeking to come to attack them would have been drenched and so would be their weapons?