The Perils of Command (12 page)

It was necessary that Gherson reimagine the lubricious thoughts he had experienced in the great cabin of HMS
Semele
, to ensure it was not those that were leading his meditations. Much as he was prey to desire, he reassured himself that what he sought was a solution not personal gratification. Of course if the two could be combined …

Back on his donkey, swaying on its back, Cornelius Gherson was untroubled by his thinking. He had been on the wrong side of virtue ever since he could remember, not that he would have deigned to describe it as such. Like most entirely selfish people he found it easy to attach blame for his weaknesses to others as well as an unkind fate.

His own father had thrown him out of the family home and his mother had done nothing to prevent it when he was still close to being a child. Cast onto the streets and his own wits it was only by the superior employment of those, added to his being unscrupulous in every way, that he had survived, with a particular predilection for soft-hearted women.

His good looks had helped and his sharp brain and skills did the rest until that night on London Bridge when a powerful man he had cuckolded sought extreme revenge. If it had not been for that boat passing under the arches … Gherson shuddered at the memory and even on a warm morning shivered at the recollection of the shock when he hit the icy water of the River Thames.

The wine was so awful he reckoned his palate had been less nasty before it was consumed. His problem was that when he rejoined Ralph Barclay the smell of that was the first thing the captain picked up, which led to another of his irascible reprimands.

‘I take it you breakfasted well, sir,’ was Gherson’s sardonic and ignored response before he informed Barclay of the presence of O’Hagan, though from what he could see no others.

‘Pearce would have passed this way.’ Gherson sought by an enquiring look some enlightenment as to how he knew that; Barclay ignored him. ‘He must have left the Irish bruiser as protection for her and Pearce rarely moves without those other creatures he esteems, so we would be best to assume them present. What instructions did you give to Devenow yesterday?’

‘To return to the quayside at first light.’

‘Right. Get down there now and both of you get aboard
Semele
. I want you to tell Mr Palmer that I have discovered, thanks to the ambassador, rumours of a nest of deserters hiding out in Naples. We need a party suitably equipped to take them up if it proves to be the case, and no brass buttons or bright bandanas either. We can always say it proved false if my wife agrees to acquiesce.’

‘Who is to lead it? Sir, you dare not give the task to an officer or even a midshipman, and you surely know it would be dangerous for you to participate yourself.’

‘In God’s name why?’

‘Things could go awry. O’Hagan is there and we know what a fighter he is.’

‘A marlin spike will see to that,’ Barclay scoffed. ‘And
remember I took the bastard up once before, though I seem to recall he was drunk.’

‘If your wife will not come willingly that implies force will have to be employed, will it not?’ A shrug; the notion of employing physical violence to recover her seemed to Barclay a matter of little concern, which had Gherson pleading. ‘It would serve you best if you were not part of that and can you entrust it to Devenow?’

‘No, he is faithful but lacks acumen,’ came a rather weak protest.

‘If I am along I can ensure matters proceed as they should.’

‘Are you volunteering, Gherson?’ Barclay asked, his look suspicious.

‘Is it so strange?’

‘You’re not the type for such behaviour, very much the opposite I would hazard.’

The clerk put as much feeling into his reply as he thought it would bear and having been something of a player on people’s emotions in his past life that came to no small amount.

‘Would it satisfy you, sir, if I say I wish this matter concluded?’

‘I still do not see why I cannot carry out this task myself?’

‘You, sir, leading a party of armed seamen through the streets of Naples. You might as well run up a signal on the ship to outline your intentions. No, sir, you must act the distraction, for such an attempt must have occurred to the Hamiltons or why remove her from here? Ask to be presented to their Neapolitan majesties, a request the ambassador can hardly decline. With every eye upon you, others can act with freedom.’

The knock at the door of the apartments had Barclay hold up a hand to still Gherson’s pleading. Opened, it revealed a servant with a note, which told the captain that his wife had agreed to meet with him and would arrive at the palazzo after midday.

‘Perhaps there will be a solution after all, Gherson,’ he crowed.

‘If there is, you are to be congratulated, sir,’ he said, with faux enthusiasm. ‘The order to Mr Palmer?’

‘That can wait.’

Being at sea and with no duties to perform allowed John Pearce to gnaw on how he was going to proceed once HMS
Agamemnon
raised San Fiorenzo Bay, thoughts that seemed impossible below in a busy wardroom, easier when pacing a small section of the quarterdeck and with an ample supply of the fresh air which was driving the sixty-four along at a fair lick. Nelson was proud of her as a fast sailing vessel; what he could see if he looked over at the bow wave only confirmed he was right.

The notion of bearding Hotham, his original thought, might backfire; a commanding admiral could pretty much do as he pleased within his own area of responsibilities and the man who wished to accuse him of conspiracy singularly lacked allies with the fleet. Even Nelson, seemingly well disposed towards him, would be wary of taking sides and even if he did the effect would be minimal.

There was also a need to be careful in what he divulged regarding that court martial and possible witnesses; to let on that Henry Digby would support his efforts or that Dick
Farmiloe had already related the truth of deliberate and illegal impressment in his reply to London would do no good. To do so would only put both individuals in jeopardy.

As for the mission on which he and Digby had been despatched, Hotham, or more likely Toomey, had been cunning. The actual written orders had not been composed by either; that had been delegated to John Holloway, the captain of
Britannia
acting as temporary executive officer pending the return of the man who had held the appointment of Captain of the Fleet, Admiral Sir Hyde Parker.

There was thus no evidence on paper of any involvement by the pair who had cooked up the shameful plan and Holloway, as was common on a flagship, a quite junior post-captain, was not going to risk the wrath of a vice admiral in order to support a lieutenant of whom he very likely had a very low opinion. The conclusion was stark: brute behaviour would not serve. In order to achieve his object and get back to Naples subtlety must be employed.

Easy to deduce but not that in execution. Lacking a court to try him, and that had to be a civil one, Hotham seemed proof against anything Pearce could chuck at him. He had high-level partisan support and an institution, the King’s Navy, that would rally round to protect him even if in person many disliked him. Lord Hood, too, would do all in his power to ensure the service was not brought into disrepute.

The key had to be Toomey. Pearce reckoned Hotham was the type who would sacrifice anyone to protect himself. Did that leave his chief clerk exposed? It mattered not if he was, as long as he thought he might be. Pearce recalled the soft words the Irishman had used to seduce him into
accompanying Digby, the almost throwaway mention of despatches for Naples.

How foolish he had been not to spot that ploy and the implication, to not fully realise his relationship to Emily Barclay had been key to drawing him in. There was, too, the crew he had commanded aboard the armed cutter, now without a ship. He had requested they be transferred as a body and that had been acceded to, unprecedented as a step in a service wont to treat the lower deck as chattels.

Toomey must have been central to the whole enterprise, while the supposition reached, that he had dictated the reply Toby Burns sent to London, might well put him in commission of a deliberate crime. Pearce, after much thought and not a few imagined irate conversations reckoned that to be his best line of attack. The mere fact that he had survived an attempt to be rid of him would, on its own, serve to induce disquiet.

‘Mr Pearce, sir.’ Turning he saw a dwarf midshipman lifting his hat. ‘The captain wishes me to inform you that we are going to practise clearing for action and that a position on the poop might best serve as a place of safety.’

‘Meaning the position least likely to allow me to be a nuisance?’

The lad grinned in response to the demeanour of cheerful acceptance displayed before him. ‘Weren’t put like that, sir.’

He was up the companionway in a flash to take up a position between the mizzenmast and the poop fore rail, for Nelson had come on deck and already had his watch in his hand. The officers were all assembled, which was to be expected given such an order would only be issued when a known threat was in the offing. Even the hands were alert to
the need and happy to rehearse that which might make them more effective in a real battle.

Pearce had no idea how often other navies practised their drills but the Royal Navy, unless they were at anchor, never ceased to do so on a daily basis. From sword drill to battle drill it was a common occurrence and the one that gave British warships the advantage they always enjoyed against an enemy; they simply did that which was necessary at a greater lick than their enemies.

‘Clear for action,’ was the quiet command from Nelson to his premier.

To say
Agamemnon
came alive was an understatement. The continuous drum roll began, nets being rigged immediately to protect the heads of those on deck from falling debris, while felt ‘fearnought’ screens were rigged and hammered home across the companionways that led to the lower deck.

Below, wooden bulkheads and canvas screens would be disappearing as all the furniture was struck into the holds, to leave the gun decks clear from bow to stern, this while the gun ports yawed open, the cannon behind them being loosed and drawn in below the mess tables that had hastily been triced up to the overhead beams.

The galley fire being doused sent a column of thick steam up the chimney, this as the fighting decks were being sanded and water buckets, as well as swabs and tourniquets, were laid in precise locations. The hands working the cannon were now shirtless. A musket, splinter or case shot wound was made a thousand times more difficult to treat if they took a wad of dirty cloth into the skin.

The gunners, with silk bands round their heads, would be hauling in the heavy cannon to load and then run them
out, with the gunners’ mates fixing flintlocks and powder monkeys distributing cartridges of gunpowder to the gun captains. A steady stream of messages came to tell the captain that each division was in place and ready, that the carpenter and his mates were below to plug any leaks, the last to report the surgeon who had taken up his station on the orlop deck with his saws and knives.

‘Six and a half minutes, gentlemen,’ Nelson announced when the last of the reports came in and that had him examining his watch again. ‘We have mislaid thirty seconds somewhere, which I would see recovered on our next drill. I wish you to consider that such a thing might take place under the eye of an admiral and with a French fleet in sight. It would not be fitting that we should grant another vessel any advantage, even one of our own.’

What ensued was apologetic murmurs; his officers felt they had let him down.

‘Well, let us pretty the old girl up.’

If the pace of return to normality was slower, HMS
Agamemnon
was back to a proper state in very short order.

Both Emily and Ralph Barclay were at a loss as to how to greet each other, more like a couple first introduced in a parental match than a pair married. As much to do with time spent apart as their differences, neither wished to be the first to speak and when her husband did so it was not to refer to Emily but to object to the presence of Michael O’Hagan, stood by the door to the salon, his eyes fixed on a point above his onetime captain’s head.

‘I refuse to be embarrassed before a creature from the lower deck. While Lady Hamilton is here at your request, and I
respect that, I have some concern for my dignity, Emily.’

‘I am obliged to reply that he is my friend and besides, his being here is an insurance against any acts of violence.’

‘You think I would resort to that?’

‘Past behaviour indicates the risk does exist.’

‘I have wronged you, I know, but allow me to plead that I was a man ill prepared for the life I needed to live.’

The excuses were trotted out, the very same he had related to the Hamiltons; life at sea was no preparation for domesticity, the service hard for a fellow not much above a boy, only getting more so as he progressed. If repetition made it easier to get the words out Ralph Barclay lacked the manner to make it sound truly convincing.

‘What I am saying, Emily, is this. I have erred in my treatment of you in the past but I will bend every effort to do better in the future.’

‘Do you really think we have that?’

‘You are my wife until, in the words of the service, death do us part. I am obliged by my vows to provide for you, care for you and cherish you and it is that that I wish you to accept will now be my mode of behaviour.’

Barclay looked at Michael O’Hagan and scowled, which was more in character than his less than sincere supplications. ‘There are matters I would blush to discuss with you in private, Emily, let alone …’

He could not bring himself to refer to O’Hagan by name or rank and even Emma Hamilton got a despairing look.

‘If you refer to the brute treatment you meted out to me in the cabin we shared aboard HMS
Brilliant
, Husband, then your behaviour is not much of a mystery.’

Dark-skinned it was hard to see the face flush but suffused
with blood it was. ‘You have discussed intimate details of our relations with that fellow!’

‘For someone raised in the service you show a disturbing lack of knowledge of the obvious fact that there are no secrets aboard ship. Do you think our relationship, or rather the way it deteriorated, was not remarked upon by your crew?’

‘I would have dared any man to refer to it.’

‘What is it about the navy that it supposes it can flog opinion?’

‘I will not try to justify the practice to you since you so obviously abhor it, but I will say that the navy would be at a loss to be effective without it. Anyway, that is beside the point. I have come to Naples, and have done so at some risk to my prospects, to try and effect a reconciliation. I am not fool enough to think such a thing does not come with strings attached, which I assume relate to the way I will behave in future. You will have conditions and I assume you have agreed to meet with me to lay those out. I ask that you do so now.’

‘While I am bound to wonder if you can change, for mere words will scarce serve to reassure me.’

‘What do I have but words and my own sincere desire?’

‘Is it to protect what you call your prospects, Husband?’

‘I will not deny it has a bearing. No man enjoys being subjected to behind-the-hand denigration and nor will a troubled private life be entirely lacking in any consideration of future employment. But that is, I assure you, secondary so I reiterate, madam, lay out your terms and let me see if I can meet them.’

‘I will not embarrass you by open explanation,’ Emily said, coming close for the first time.

Emma Hamilton, watching closely, saw Ralph Barclay’s nostrils twitch as he picked up the scent of Emily’s body. His reaction was all-consuming to her, for she knew what was being demanded of him, the points raised between the two women in the coach, imparted in low tones to not include the Irishman stood on the back.

They were laid out in the knowledge that he was now a wealthy man and could afford a style of life that would never have pertained when they were first wed. The looks such conditions received were instructive and it was a good game to try and guess which brought the most awkward response: a slight nod, a seriously deep frown or a look of surprise that what was being asked for should be part of the arrangement.

But it was the final requirement that was most eagerly awaited. Emily had to tell her husband she was carrying another man’s child, one he would be required to acknowledge as his own, to be raised without equivocation in that manner. In consideration of the hurt that might cause immediately, and the continuing anguish to come, she would do her best to provide him with a child or children of his own.

The shock induced by what had to be the first admission was enough to induce a degree of sympathy even for a man Emma Hamilton held in scant regard. The eyes opened wide, the eyebrows nearly hit the hairline and Ralph Barclay took on the appearance of a man who had just seen a ghost. He might have been aware of being cuckolded, if not he was a fool, but this revelation was of a very different order of magnitude.

His head dropped and a hand went to his eyes. Unable to see Emily’s face it was natural to wonder if that might display a degree of compassion, for she had no doubt of the
seriousness of what she wanted. When his head came up she was still talking to him quietly, no doubt reiterating her own promises.

The push was violent enough to have Michael O’Hagan quickly move forward, his first task to catch Emily Barclay and ensure she did not fall. Once she was steady he closed the gap between himself and a furious post-captain, a man whose face was suffused with deep and angry passion.

‘Don’t come near me, you Irish shit.’

‘Sure that would be no way to calm things now, sir, would it?’

The passionless tone in which Michael said that seemed to enrage Barclay even more.

‘Remember your place. Lay a hand on me and I see you swing.’

‘I’ll lay no hand on you lest you seek to lay one on your wife.’

‘Wife!’

The shout was so loud it must have been heard throughout the Palazzo Sessa, which rendered Emma grateful that the Chevalier was at the Royal Palace to confer with Sir John Acton. She had no desire to involve her husband in this.

‘Sir, I beg you, control your passions.’

‘You dare to
ask
me that, when you—?’ Emma flushed herself but Ralph Barclay was not looking at her. His glare was directed at Emily now stood head bowed as if ashamed. ‘You make a fine pair of whores.’

‘Captain Barclay, I demand you recall who I am.’

‘Fear not, I know you only too well and the stench of your reputation does not inspire me. As for you, madam, for I will no longer refer to you by your given name, you have shamed
your family and what is more important you have shamed me. Raise another man’s bastard, what do you take me for?’