Blown Off Course (11 page)

Devenow, who could not read, had badgered people in the street to tell him what the brass plaque on Studdert’s door said, and being a large brute with an ugly face and a threatening manner he had not waited long to be told. A little snooping had established that the man’s place of business occupied no more than the ground floor and that there was a barred window at the rear to his main office.

‘That does nothing to tell us how she came by them.’

For Gherson the temptation to sigh needed to be suppressed: the captain was being stupid, for matters had moved on. It made little or no odds who had supplied those papers, even if it was Sam Hood himself, and that was very unlikely: if he had been inclined to act he would have done so off Toulon where his authority was near absolute. What mattered was that they existed and were in the possession of someone who could harm Barclay’s career. If he was to prosper he needed to keep the captain out of trouble; in short, Cornelius Gherson had to ensure that nothing blighted his chance of another command.

‘We must wait and see what happens,’ Gherson had insisted. ‘Only then can we formulate a plan to deal with the situation.’

‘It must be resolved before I go to sea. I do not want to be in the position of turning down a plum because of this.’

‘Even, sir, to the point of illegality?’ Gherson had asked.

Ralph Barclay had been about to reply in the affirmative, but he checked himself, looked at Devenow and, despite the fact that he reckoned the man would never betray him, requested him to leave the room, only realising when he did so, that he should have troubled to come up with some excuse, even if it was only to assuage the fellow’s pride. Devenow, in what was a rare event, had given him a look that reeked of disrespect, not that it lasted long, being transferred to Gherson in quick order.

‘Devenow, trust me, man,’ Barclay had said. ‘It is for your own good I desire this.’

That had been received with a growl of, ‘Aye, aye, Capt’n,’ and, shoulders dropping, he had departed.

‘When you say
illegality
, Gherson, what do you mean?’

‘I cannot see how we can come by those papers by honest endeavour, sir, and I would remind you, that as of this moment, our supposition that they are stored in the offices of this Studdert fellow are mere speculation.’

‘Let us then, for a moment, see that as being the case.’

‘The only way to secure them is by theft.’

‘Do you see yourself up to such a task?’

‘God no!’ Gherson protested.

‘Then,’ Ralph Barclay had demanded, far from pleased at the response, ‘how in the name of damnation are we to go about it?’

‘Sir, the requirement is to break into a building without alerting suspicion and once inside to open, if this fellow is anything like his peers, at the very least a well-padlocked strongbox, for if your wife has left those papers with him she will not have done so without saying that they are of value.’

‘I’m waiting,’ Ralph Barclay had growled.

‘There are people who can undertake this, so it is a case of finding them.’

‘A task, I suspect, for which you
are
admirably suited.’

Gherson demurred. ‘Let us say, sir, that I know
whereabouts to look, but, and I say this straightaway, it will take time and, given there is no cash reward for any forced entry, the payment for the services of the kind of fellows we require will need to be a substantial one.’

The two men had locked eyes, Ralph Barclay sure that if Gherson took funds for a payment to some felons, then not all of them would reach the men he needed. Gherson was well aware the captain knew and was not in the least fazed by the direct stare. He was tempted to say their association was one of mutual benefit but that would be too open: as long as it was understood, it did not have to be stated.

‘And who will these fellows be, Gherson?’ Ralph Barclay had asked eventually.

That had got the captain a wry smile. ‘Just as you were wise enough to send Devenow away, so that there would only be me to witness this conversation—’

‘Which I will deny ever took place.’

‘Precisely, sir, and for the same reason, should I be able to find the right person, you will have no contact with those I will employ to carry out the aforementioned task and they, I am sure, will not be able to incriminate a man whose name they do not know.’

A soft knock at the door had Gherson going forward to open it at Barclay’s nod. The small package that passed through was soon opened and Barclay read part of the testimony from his court martial.

‘Is that what we think it is?’ Barclay nodded. ‘And not in your wife’s writing?’

‘No,’ Barclay replied, his face growing furious, for in
his mind he was back in the captain’s quarters of HMS
Brilliant
when she had barely weighed from Sheerness, in his hand then a letter given to him by a reliable member of the crew, a strange letter, not least in its contents but in the singular style of the writing. ‘But, by damn, I recognise the hand, for I have seen it before. This was written by John Pearce.’

If the journey to Portsmouth had been full of discomfort it had, at least, been made in a spirit of hope; the return, no better, was made in a very low state of mind indeed, given he now had three cases in dispute for prize adjudication. Yet, that was not his main concern: in his mind’s eye he could not avoid the recurring picture of his friends being taken by either a press gang or as the result of a hue and cry. In the wild imaginings which plagued him, the very least they suffered was a sound beating; at worst they were shot by musketry or dangling from ropes hastily thrown over a tree branch. There was also the nagging fact that he was not as well off as he had supposed himself to be, one that came back with full force when he finally entered the lobby of Nerot’s Hotel; would he be forced to once more run from a bill?

‘Lieutenant Pearce, sir, there are several letters for you.’

Anticipating William Pitt, he was disappointed: two were from Davidson, one regarding the lack of a settlement yet with Captain Benton’s widow, the second referring to the
Guiscard
. But the one that intrigued him most was a note from Emily Barclay, requesting a
meeting, at his convenience, but as a matter of some urgency.

What, in the name of creation, he asked himself, can she want to talk to me about? A silly question really, since it could only relate to her husband. Then the thought occurred that, if she named it as urgent, then he was master of how it should proceed, and it was not just curiosity which had him pen, in his reply, that if they were to meet and talk, it should, at the very least, be over dinner, which would not be taken at the ungodly hour employed by the navy but at a later time, when with candles lit and time to converse, perhaps John Pearce could go some way to mitigating the impression Emily Barclay had of him and damn the expense.

There was another thought, but that had to be suppressed as too fanciful.

Sometimes the right thing to do was to let Charlie Taverner take the lead in things and this was one, he being a fellow who had spent his life seeking to outwit the law. If he was troubled by what Michael admitted he had done in that tumbledown hut, he hid it well, merely acknowledging that if it had needed violence to get clear, so be it, though he knew and said plainly that it increased the danger they faced, which gave extra impetus to the rowing that went on throughout the rest of the day. They remained offshore even when the light began to fade, though they closed to within sight of the breaking waves.

What followed was a cold and dispiriting night afloat, each taking turns to snooze, with only the light from a weak moon to show them the white line of the shore, wondering if the calm sea on which they were bobbing up and down would stay that way; they knew the English Channel for what it was. Daylight
came and breakfast of a shared bottle of beer, bread and cheese, did little to lift their spirits. Having been in a brown study since then, taking his turn both rowing and bailing the boat, for it was indeed a leaky one, Charlie announced, very emphatically, they must abandon it and get back on dry land.

‘Why?’ Michael asked.

‘It be about odds, mate, and I don’t reckon this weather to hold all the way to the Thames. We might find we’re bein’ driven on to a beach where we don’t want to be. Best to pick our spot to go ashore. Apart, think where we are and the direction in which we is going.’

If Rufus looked confused, Michael was not. ‘Soundings.’

There was a death knell quality to the words, though in peacetime it meant a happy return: in war it was the hunting ground of both naval vessels and floating press gangs, the place where most sailors were taken, because the law stated that, once a cast lead found the seabed, then they were within the limits that they could be legally coerced into naval service. For all the brouhaha about innocent landsmen being pressed ashore and with violence – true, as the Pelicans knew to their cost – most hands, real seamen of the kind needed to properly work the ships of war, were recruited out of merchant vessels returning to these shores from foreign parts, and their destination was the same as their own: the narrows between France and Dover, the anchorage at Deal and finally the River Thames and London.

‘And what happened to us the last time we was in
such waters?’ There was no reply necessary to that: they had been pressed for a second time.

‘What do you suggest, Charlie?’

‘We keep going till the tide is low, Michael, then we should look for some rocks by which we can land without leaving a trace and sink this bugger so it stays on the bottom when the tide comes in.’

‘Why not just leave it?’ Rufus asked.

That got a sharp response. ‘You might as well hang a flag. What do you think anyone looking out for us will say when they see an empty boat bobbing about?’

Michael responded more gently. ‘Sure, we need them to be confused, boy.’

‘Agreed?’ Charlie, demanded, looking at the Irishman, satisfied when he got a nod. ‘Those pistols you got loaded?’

‘No, Charlie, ’cause I don’t reckon to use them.’

‘Why ever not? From what you told me about the way you dealt with them two buggers in that hut, there’s precious little to lose.’

‘Sure, doin’ murder won’t help us.’

‘Might scare some fool off.’

‘No, Charlie.’

‘Suit yerself, Michael. That you’re here at all is good, ’cause I ain’t sure you needed to be.’

‘Why Charlie Taverner, you’re goin’ soft.’

‘In the name of Christ, row,’ Charlie growled.

They had to bypass the first set of rocks – black, low and slime-covered: there were womenfolk with children crabbing in deep pools, and further on the shore opened out into the strong outflow of a river and that required
some hard rowing to get clear. Then the sea state got up, creating a heavy swell, and with the tide starting to make enough to cover the low strand of sand, Charlie settled for shingle, backed by flat ground. He insisted that the boat be sunk as far out as they could manage, so it was a soak to the waist they got, in freezing sea, on a far from warm day.

Even then it took many blows with the butt ends of the oars to make holes big enough to let water flow in at speed, added to downward pressure from all three to take her from wallowing to sinking, this while waves came in to hit them chest high, with the wind chilling them even more. The oars were just as much of a problem: they would float whatever they did, so they had to be taken ashore and hidden.

‘We need a fire,’ Rufus moaned as he sat on the shingle, dripping water.

‘What we need and what we get are two different things,’ Charlie insisted, though he was shivering as much as the others. ‘Now, let’s get shod and away from this shore; happen when we find some shelter we can light a fire.’

‘Has anyone got flints?’ Rufus asked.

Michael laughed as he crunched his way up the bank of stones. ‘Holy Mary, flints! Do you not know how to get a fire going with two sticks?’

‘I was born in a house, not a cave.’

‘Rufus,’ Michael joked, ‘we are in need of someone born in a manger.’

‘You’ll do if you can make a fire.’

As they walked inland, Michael gathered the
wind-dry 
tops of the marsh grass for kindling and had his friends pick up old and dry twigs. They found, not far from the shore, a deep series of connected copses bordering fields both fallow and tilled, then a clearing where the light could penetrate the tree cover and still hide them from view. Michael used his knife to make a point in a finger-thick piece of straight wood, and with patient spinning into a second bit of dry timber, accompanied by the careful laying of cracking leaves and dry grass, got first smoke and eventually a glow from the dried grass, gently adding the tiniest spills as he blew on air.

A hint of flame allowed him to add the spills, then twigs and finally bits of wood, albeit thin. It took an age to get anything like a real fire going, and a lot of hunting about by the others to find the means to keep it fed, but in time the trio were sat round a blaze, feeling truly warm for the first time in two days.

John Pearce was happily warm, standing legs spread and back to a glowing coal fire, looking around the private dining room he had booked, though there was a wonder at what it might cost when he got the bill. The table was set with an excellent display of fine crockery, silver cutlery and crystal glasses, set off by the deep-mahogany colour of a round table large enough to accommodate eight people. To one side there was a narrow board of the same wood, with water-filled hotplates in the middle, a decanter of wine at one end. He was dressed in a
dark-green
coat, which had taken a great deal of effort to
acquire in time – and a handsome tip to Didcot – for he had no notion to appear before Emily Barclay in naval uniform.

He had checked both the setting and the menu – careful, in the way the seating was arranged, to avoid any hint of intimacy: they were set as far apart as the table would allow, though there were two deep and comfortable chairs on either side of the fireplace for a more relaxed conversation, and a long settle against the far wall which, Pearce was sure, had witnessed much activity of a carnal nature in the past. He doubted there would be any of that tonight.

‘Your guest, sir,’ Ezekiel Didcot intoned from the doorway, as he showed the lady in. As she passed him, and as Pearce moved away from the fire, the servant threw the kind of look one man affords another when he is in the presence of a rare beauty.

‘Good evening, madam,’ Pearce said evenly. He did not wish to use her name, or allude to her married status and he waited until Didcot had taken her cloak, hat and muff, then exited, closing the door behind him, before apologising for the formality of his greeting.

Her reply was pointed. ‘I hope, sir, it will set the tone of the evening, for this is far from a social occasion.’

‘Mrs Barclay, I had hoped that by taking dinner together we could perhaps show each other the degree of courtesy we once enjoyed.’

‘I agreed to dinner, Lieutenant Pearce, because you insisted you would not see me otherwise.’

Pearce could not avoid a slight smile. ‘So you doubt my motives?’

‘After your disgraceful behaviour in Leghorn, sir, how could I do otherwise?’

‘I am curious to know by what means you arrive at the conclusion that my actions are any of your concern.’

Emily reddened a little, and it had nothing to do with the heat from the fire, which highlighted her eyes. That same fire, and the candles all around the room, were picking up the colour of her hair too, which, given her slightly arch mood, made her look stunning.

‘Sir,’ she responded, ‘if a man is found in the streets of an Italian city in nothing but his smalls, having been obliged to flee from a lady’s bedchamber, I cannot see how it is not the concern of any right-thinking person. You shamed your nation, sir, and your colleagues serving in the British Fleet.’

Pearce threw back his head and laughed. ‘Would that include your husband, madam, whose actions are so exemplary?’

‘I have not come here to defend him.’

‘Nor, I hope, the officers and midshipmen you accuse me of dishonouring, most of whom, while I was dallying with a lady of some beauty and high rank, not to mention delightful conversation, were enjoying their time in the whorehouses of that same city of Leghorn. I think, by comparison, given I confined myself to company of some refinement, I come out of the time we spent at anchor there very well.’

‘I find this conversation untoward, sir,’ Emily protested.

‘No doubt, because polite society does not allude to the very common fact that most of my sex find their pleasures in fleshpots, not connubial bedchambers.’

‘I erred in coming here.’

‘You are not my prisoner, Emily.’

That got a full blush. ‘I do not allow you permission to use my given name.’

The gentle knock at the door, to which Pearce responded, brought a halt to their dispute. Didcot entered carrying a tray on which sat an ice bucket, from which protruded the neck of a bottle, wrapped in a linen cloth.

‘Your champagne, Your Honour,’ Didcot said, ‘as you ordered. Would you care to have me serve it now?’

‘Please,’ Pearce replied, quite taken, and in truth, part-amused by the way Emily Barclay was suppressing her fury at his temerity in producing such a celebratory offering.

Part of her wanted to storm out, for the advent of that most inappropriate wine was like a deliberate insult, almost as if he were saying ‘you cannot resist my charm’. Running through her mind she reprised every conversation she had ever had with this man, in not one of which, as far as she could recollect, had she been in control: it had always seemed to be him, and his assurance was infuriating, never more so than at this very moment.

Underlying her anger was the knowledge, regardless of how deep she sought to bury it, of the reason for that. She found John Pearce attractive, had done the first day she clapped eyes on him; not in his behaviour,
which was reprehensible, but in his manner, which was the very antithesis of her husband: Pearce was compassionate where he was cruel, humorous where Ralph Barclay was a grouser, a man dedicated to the pursuit of women, with a very clear idea of how to trigger a compliment and bring on a blush, as against one who had no notion of the workings of the female mind at all.

Emily was not so naive that she would miss an attempt at seduction and she knew Pearce had attempted that more than once, quite ignoring her married estate, in a way so much more assured than that of any man who had ever paid court to her. He had about him a natural urbanity so at odds with the provincial mores with which she had grown up. There was no bumbling shyness with this man – his aims were direct and obvious: she had spotted that in their first exchanged glance, the day her husband had clouted him for that very kind of look.

‘Fill the glasses and leave till I ring for supper.’

Now he was staring at her, not with any trace of wickedness; in fact, his eyes were soft, brown and warm and, if he was not actually smiling, there was nothing strained in his features, underscoring that, if she was nervous, and she was, he appeared not to be. Try as she might, Emily could not avoid thinking he looked both elegant and handsome in that
well-cut
green coat, the concomitant thought, which she failed to stop herself from conjuring up, being that he had looked good in his naval uniform as well. Salvation for the direction in which her mind was
going came from avoiding his steady gaze to look around the well-appointed room.

‘It was unnecessary to go to such trouble, Mr Pearce.’

‘That will be all, Didcot.’

The servant was taking an unconscionable time to pour two glasses of champagne; nosy, as all servitors are, no doubt hoping for a snippet of gossip to take down and share with his confrères in the basement: if he had no absolute knowledge of what was going on, the atmosphere was crackling enough to provide a damn good guess – that settle, which had seen much service, he knew, might see more this very night.

‘Your Honour,’ Didcot replied, gravely. ‘I shall await the bell.’

As soon as the door closed Pearce picked up both glasses and presented one to Emily, who hesitated to accept it.

‘I thought, since we have both survived our recent travails, that a toast to our shared good fortune might be in order. Surely, madam, you would not decline a celebration of being alive after being cast adrift in an open boat?’

Taking the stem, aware that what she had just heard was an excuse, Emily looked into the golden bubbles rising to the surface. ‘Is it not bordering on treachery to drink such an obviously French wine?’

‘This,’ Pearce replied, grinning, ‘is a monarchical pressing. The grapes were no doubt picked when King Louis was still on his throne. So a toast, to you, to all of the crew of the
Grampus
and to a happy
return, excepting, of course, the fool who set the ship alight.’

‘The last time I drank champagne was in Toulon.’