An Ill Wind (7 page)

That was a warning even Devenow was not daft enough to ignore: he was being told to hold his tongue or face being chucked overboard, the fate of many a bully that had gone too far aboard ship.

‘An’ I would say, when it comes to grog, a man should be satisfied with his ration.’

The deck was crowded, but there was no doubt who was isolated.

‘Well said, that man,’ called Michael.

That was not the only dispute that took place on HMS
Hinslip
that day. Once the dinner was complete and the cabins put back in place, Ralph Barclay had a chance to berate his wife.

‘You took his part, madam, against me, your own husband. How am I to hold my head up in such a circumstance?’

The voice was slurred due to that combination of liquid opium and wine, and his jaw seemed uncommonly slack as he fixed his wife with a look best described as hangdog.

‘I did not, husband, I merely tried to prevent you from making a fool of yourself.’

‘A fool, damn you?’

‘Moderate your language, sir,’ Emily hissed, ‘as well as the sound of your voice. There is but a thin wooden bulkhead between us and Captain Sidey’s cabin.’

‘Moderate, you say. Am I to be that when you do nothing but traduce me?’

‘You are allowing your imagination to run as fast as your tongue.’

It was with bleary eyes that Ralph Barclay gazed at his young wife, once so obedient, once so in awe of him that she would scarce raise her voice, wondering where it had all gone wrong.

‘You need rest, Captain Barclay,’ Emily insisted. ‘You have overtired yourself.’

‘Damn it, if I only had two arms I’d make that swine pay for the way he insulted me.’

‘Of course you would,’ Emily replied, easing off, with great gentility, his heavy uniform coat, before helping him get into his cot so that he did not trouble his wound. This was no time to remind him that John Pearce had challenged him once already to a duel, and he had used the excuse of his superior rank and a forbidding royal ordinance to avoid it.

‘You must stand by my side, Mrs Barclay,’ he said softly but vehemently, ‘It is nothing but your duty. Love, honour and obey, madam, that is the vow you took.’

‘Rest now.’

Ralph Barclay closed his eyes; he was indeed weary and with his wife watching he quickly fell into a slumber, his face relaxing as he did so, making him look less the stern naval captain and more like a benign uncle. Gazing at him, Emily wondered at what would become of them, for she knew that the way she had behaved in Toulon was challenging in the extreme to the social order of which she was a part. The wound might take him home, her also, and she knew that to do the same in England would damn her in the eyes of everyone in polite society, and that probably would include her own parents. Her now sleeping husband was right about those marriage vows she had taken: they were held to be sacrosanct and to be obeyed.

‘Mr Pearce, I am sorry to call you onto the deck to have this conversation, but I wish it to be a discreet one.’

It was already dark, so Captain Sidey’s square and ruddy face, in the light from the binnacle, had an ethereal quality. John Pearce had a very good idea what was coming and he was not sure how to react.

‘As you know, Captain Barclay holds post rank,’ Sidey said. ‘He is, in short, my superior officer.’

‘And mine,’ Pearce responded, just to add to his thinking time.

‘Of course, as my superior, I am in no position to check him.’

‘I would not say that, Captain Sidey. If a man displays a lack of manners at the dinner table I think any other guest is well within their rights to haul him up with a round turn. Rank bestows many privileges, the freedom to insult is not one of them.’

Even in the faint glowing light, Pearce could see the look of disbelief on the captain’s face: he was employed in a service where rank gave his superiors the right to be as rude as they liked, one they frequently exercised.

‘Perhaps it would help, sir, if I afforded you a little history.’

The affirmative reply lacked conviction: Sidey did not want to be drawn into what smacked of complicity, yet having broached the matter he could hardly refuse this man an explanation. He listened, chin on chest, as Pearce told him the background to his dispute with Ralph Barclay, but not about the case he intended to bring against him: he did not trust him not to speak of it.

‘So you see, Captain Sidey, my position, the method of my recruitment, plus my lack of a desire to advance myself in this profession, gives me the grounds to speak as I find, one I have exercised on men of higher station than our wounded post captain.’

‘Surely you must make allowance for his wound?’

‘You, sir, do not know him and so ascribe his manners to his affliction. I can assure you I do know him and the
loss of his arm and the consequent pain have nothing to do with his behaviour. That is how he is.’

‘Then think of my position, sir,’ Sidey insisted, moving his head further into the light to make his point. His voice had in it a hint of desperation; elderly he might be, but there was still a flicker of ambition in the man, the hope common to all naval officers that by some stroke of good fortune or chance meeting with someone of influence, he might make that great leap from his present rank to the post captain’s list.

‘The best way to avoid compromising that, sir, is never to have us both at the same board again.’ Sidey was relieved, he could see that: Pearce was giving him a way out, but there was a sting in the tail. ‘Mind you, sir, I would be most put out if I discovered that I was the only one whose attention this problem was drawn to. I fully expect you to ask Captain Barclay to mind his conduct. After all, we are bound to meet in places other than your cabin: on this deck, for instance.’

‘I had intended to speak with him, of course,’ Sidey said.

‘Good,’ Pearce snapped, for he did not believe him. ‘I daresay when we are both taking the air on deck, the fact that you have done so will be plain for all to see.’

‘We will be in Leghorn soon,’ Sidey said, with an air that told Pearce he would be glad to see the back of both of them.

The Tuscan port of Livorno had been a base for English sailors for half a century. Why it had been translated into being called Leghorn by those same mariners was lost in the mists of time; John Pearce asked but received no answer that satisfied his curiosity. Built on marshy ground the ancient port was a mass of canals, to rival Venice, running around the fortified walls of the city, the harbour itself dominated by an old red-stone fortress falling into disrepair, with the main defensive bastion long since moved inland, making it less vulnerable to cannon fire from seaborne attackers.

Lord Hood had chosen it as the place to land his refugees simply because it was an Austrian fief: the Grand Duke of Tuscany was the brother of the present Holy Roman Emperor. It was one of the three main trading ports of Italy along with Genoa and Naples, and
had, for decades, in times of war, been used as a base for British privateers, ships and crews granted letters of marque from the Crown to prey on the trading vessels of the enemy.

Naturally, at this time there was a strong, if less than upright colony of fellow countrymen waiting to greet the British elements of the arriving armada, not with much joy since, when it came to taking prizes, the two elements of British sea power, being in direct competition, loathed each other. The privateers’ captains also knew the risks they ran by having so many king’s ships and men close by, even if their crews had protections that saved them from being pressed: those that did not see it as prudent to get quickly to sea would stay out of harm’s way in their own part of the port.

There was nothing elegant about the way the combined fleets entered the anchorage: the wind was foul and the swell heavy enough to make even anchoring the larger vessels a trial, and it was certainly too strong to allow the capital ships, stuffed with so many souls that scarce an inch of planking was free from bodies, to warp themselves into the quays. Added to that there was an element of continued alarm.

Unbeknown to those aboard HMS
Hinslip
, which, bearing wounded, was allowed to tie up to the harbour wall – albeit with a line of marines under the command of Lieutenant Driffield to ensure no desertions – a rumour had circulated that the port was already short of food, so non-military personal would be refused
permission to land. That turned out to be false, leaving as a mystery how such a story had been concocted and, even more puzzling, the notion of how it had swept through a fleet at sea.

The scenes on the quays, as boats plied back and forth with dishevelled refugees, were reminiscent of Toulon, if in reverse, as the exiles taken off by the allied fleet were landed. Many came from British warships, given that, once the soldiers and sailors Hood commanded had been taken aboard, he had opened his vessels to those fleeing the Revolution. Some kissed the stones of the harbour upon landing, never having felt safe afloat, only gaining any sense of security on land. Other frantic souls rushed around asking questions of the newly disembarked or searching every arriving boat for the face of a loved one, a husband, wife or child.

Those who had lost relatives had also lost most of their possessions and were thrown upon the mercy of the young grand duke. Fortunately for them, he was, like his father before him, an enlightened ruler and a good Christian: food was made available and his officials were on hand to seek suitable accommodation for those in distress. Added to that, Livorno had a good, modern hospital, so that the more seriously wounded could be brought ashore to beds, better for recovery given they would not be subject to the vagaries of vessels riding at anchor on a disturbed winter sea.

‘Lieutenant Pearce, is it not?’

Supervising the loading of the less seriously wounded
men onto a sprung cart, which was acting as an ambulance – the more serious cases had gone by boat using the extensive Livorno canals – John Pearce turned at the sound of the high-pitched voice, to find himself looking down at the smiling face and diminutive frame of Captain Horatio Nelson; being very aware of the major difference in height, he took a step backwards before replying, touching his hat to a man he respected.

‘Good to see you, sir.’

‘Not, I think, in these circumstances, Mr Pearce,’ Nelson replied with a pained expression as he looked around him. ‘We are surrounded by tragedy.’

‘They are alive, sir, and there is no certainty they would still be so if they had stayed in Toulon.’

‘Do you think so, Mr Pearce? It is hard to believe the French Jacobins are as barbaric as they say.’

‘They are just that, Captain Nelson, believe me.’

Nelson nodded: he had been gifted a brief outline of the past of the man with whom he was conversing and knew that when it came to knowledge in that quarter he could not gainsay a fellow who had actually witnessed their behaviour at first hand.

‘I have just encountered the Comte de Grasse, poor fellow. He got his frigate out of Toulon but at the price of not knowing what has become of his wife and small children. To think that the grandson of one of France’s greatest admirals could be so distressed.’ Looking along the teeming quay once more, Nelson asked. ‘Was it as bad as they say, Toulon?’

‘I should think worse. What we saw from our boats was terrifying, so ashore it must have been like hell to be amongst it.’

‘I have heard only garbled accounts.’

Pearce left the
Hinslip
’s crew and Driffield’s marines to carry on with the loading while he informed Nelson of some of the things he had witnessed, noticing the pain his tale caused in a man who gave the impression of being too sensitive a soul for the occupation he followed. But then he recalled this pint-sized captain had a reputation for being an ardent fighter, always to the fore if a fight was expected – hard to believe, since looking at him, Pearce was left to wonder if he had the strength to lift a cutlass.

‘The last time I saw you, Pearce, you were bound for Naples.’

‘I was, sir.’

‘And I asked you to convey my compliments to the ambassador, and my letters, of course.’

Pearce kept his face expressionless then: he had garnered at their last meeting, anchored off Tunis, the distinct impression that Nelson was more interested in the beautiful Lady Hamilton than her husband.

‘They were delivered, sir, as you requested.’

‘And Lady Hamilton, you found her well?’

‘I had no opportunity to talk with her, sir. Sir William came out to meet us with a most urgent message for Lord Hood.’ Seeing the crestfallen look, Pearce changed the subject. ‘Your mission in Tunis, sir?’

‘A farce,’ Nelson barked, for the first time showing a trace of that fiery reputation. ‘I am of the opinion that Britannia should negotiate, of course, but I am also of the view—’

‘That a little gunnery concentrates the mind,’ Pearce said, smiling as he interrupted him.

That humoured look did not anger Nelson; if anything it pleased him. ‘You read my thinking most accurately, Mr Pearce.’ Then looking past him to the
Hinslip
’s gangplank he added. ‘This was not the ship in which you last sailed? You are no longer serving on HMS
Faron
?’

‘No, sir, in fact I am, in truth, no longer serving anywhere.’

‘We’s ready to be off, your honour,’ said Charlie Taverner, to Pearce’s back, cutting off any response from the captain and careful, as were Rufus and Michael, to always address him properly when another officer was present. It was only if you looked into the eyes you could discern the twinkle that hinted at something less than outright respect.

Looking past him at the loaded cart, Pearce asked. ‘What of Captain Barclay?’

‘He wishes to travel alone, your honour,’ Charlie replied, ‘or with his wife, not wishing to share the transport with ordinary soldiers.’

Or any transport under my command, thought Pearce.

‘Barclay?’ asked Nelson. ‘He is a casualty?’

‘Lost an arm, sir. Left one, just above the elbow.’

‘Poor fellow, is he still aboard?’ The word ‘obviously’ formed, but sarcasm was inappropriate, so it was the word ‘yes’ that was said. ‘Then I must visit with him.’

‘His mood is somewhat – how should I put it? – truculent, sir.’

If Nelson wondered at the way Pearce said that, or the grin it produced on Charlie Taverner’s face, he was not about to enquire. If he had he might have been told that in refusing to give his true name on being pressed into HMS
Brilliant
, ‘Truculence’ was the name under which John Pearce had been entered in the ship’s muster book and it had been, since that day, a private joke between the Pelicans.

‘Are you advising I should not call upon him, that his wound is too serious?’

‘No, sir. I am saying, however, that his mood is likely to be standoffish.’

‘I can live with that, Mr Pearce. A man has that right if he has suffered such an affliction.’

With that, Nelson, executing quick strides, was off up the gangplank. Pearce was watching him, shaking his head at the notion that anyone would call upon a man like Barclay, when Michael, having crept up behind him, whispered in is ear.

‘John-boy, if you look along the quay you will see that devil Gherson.’

‘Has he spotted us?’

‘Sure, he’s staring hard enough.’

Pearce turned slowly and nonchalantly, seeking out Gherson’s face in what was a crowded vista, but the man was easy to spot, as much by his faux discreet manner as anything else. Then there was his absurdly handsome face, under that near-white hair and the very obvious glare of dislike. They had been boating down to Sheerness that night they were pressed when they first met the lying, toadying swine, if ‘met’ was the right word for a body in nothing but a long, flapping shirt coming off London Bridge, tossed over by human hands, Charlie reckoned. He landed right by the cutter as it was negotiating the strong currents created by the bridge pillars, to be hauled in by his collar, saving his life, if not pleasing him by the outcome.

‘He’s dressed in gentleman’s garb, Michael, those clothes he is wearing are of fine quality.’

‘Would be, John-boy, given Barclay took him on as his clerk.’

‘Then he best watch his funds, for if Gherson is close to his strongbox they won’t be his for long.’

‘Why’s he a’hoverin’ round here?’ asked Charlie, speaking out of the corner of his mouth.

‘Maybe he still has business with Barclay.’

‘Then it’ll be bad business with that shite,’ Michael spat.

‘Whatever business it is, lads, it is none of ours. Our task is to get our wounded to the hospital.’

As soon as he showed a sign of moving, Driffield appeared and signalled to some of his marines to
accompany the cart: with so many privateers’ vessels in the port, the temptation to run was a strong one for tars, known to be a body of men given to going absent without any excuse.

Ralph Barclay did not have to be in a bad mood to be short with Horatio Nelson, given he despised the man. Standing before him, looking sympathetic, was a fellow post captain whom he saw as damn near an enemy, and certainly a rival. Where he had been obliged to press men to man his ship, Nelson, who arse-licked Hood, to Barclay’s way of thinking, had been gifted a full complement of hands from the volunteers gathered at the Tower of London. Worse than that, the pint-sized poltroon, barely ahead of him on the captain’s list, had been given command of HMS
Agamemnon
, a line of battleship of sixty-four guns, while he had been given the smallest frigate commensurate with his post rank.

Resentment came easily to Ralph Barclay: he begrudged the fact that Nelson was held in high regard by Lord Hood while he was not, resented that his previous patron, Admiral Sir George Rodney, had died and left him without a senior naval sponsor at a critical time, albeit he was now well in, he thought, with Admiral Hotham. He and
Brilliant
had been tied up to the quay at Toulon, like a damned guard ship, while Nelson went a’whoring all over the Western Mediterranean on special missions and no doubt got a chance to line his pockets by gathering in a few valuable prizes.

‘You must tell me how you got your wound, Captain Barclay.’

The reply was very nearly a snapped ‘Fighting the enemy while you were swanning around as Hood’s bumboy.’

But his wife was present and, given he was between doses of laudanum, and thus in pain, he took part of his ire out on her, once he had given Nelson the bare bones of the event. A force had been assembled to attack one of the French batteries that was causing too much trouble, given it had an especially large cannon that could land its balls in the harbour. He was looking past Nelson to Emily when he spoke on, outlining with one hand where the nuisance lay and also the position of the redoubt in front of the one he commanded, which he had been exchanging fire with for weeks.

‘The assault took my opponents in flank, drove them from their position and the troops moved on to the major target. My wife’s nephew, Midshipman Burns, had brought up from HMS
Britannia
a party of tars to spike the abandoned French cannon once captured, but when it came time to do his duty he failed to carry out his orders.’ Seeing that his wife was stung, for he had not told her of this, he added, ‘And not, I am sad to say, for the first time. The boy is shy.’

‘Shy?’ Nelson asked, as if the notion that a midshipman might not do his duty was unbelievable.

‘He is too young to carry such responsibility,’ Emily protested, though she did wonder why she was
defending a relative she now sought to avoid. Toby was her nephew, but what her husband was saying was no less than the truth. Then she realised what he was about: paying her back for the slights she had laid upon him by attacking her blood relative. That she would not let pass, and it was with a biting tone she continued.

‘He was forward enough, husband, when it came to doing your bidding.’

That gave Ralph Barclay pause: he had coached Toby Burns to lie at his court martial, to take upon himself the blame for the fact that the crew from HMS
Brilliant
had pressed men who were not seamen by profession, as they should be, but had been in a part of London on the River Thames, the Liberties of the Savoy, where to press anyone was forbidden by ancient statute.