The Perils of Command (13 page)

‘It is necessary you know the truth.’

‘I should have known it before I ever allowed myself to be seduced into marrying you.’

That brought up Emily’s head and instead of looking abashed, which her previous spoken words had indicated, her green eyes were flashing and now it was her voice that would carry beyond the closed door, this as he moved to one side of Michael O’Hagan.

‘You seduced, sir! Never. You went about acquiring me as your wife with the same lack of honesty that is your abiding trait by implying a threat to my parents that they would be rendered homeless.’

‘Which they will be forthwith, I assure you. As for you, the gutter will serve for I will deny you bed and board. As for your bastard, I will take it from you, as is my right, and dump it in the first workhouse I encounter. With luck, disease and deprivation will serve to wash clean the stain you have put upon my good name.’

‘Which is one of the things you singularly lack, sir, along with kindness, compassion and any notion of how a real man should behave.’

The spittle flew then. ‘Don’t tell me who you consider to be a real man, I can guess, though I will no more name him than you. God grant that I should get him at a grating a second time.’

‘Your answer to all your faults, cruelty.’

Barclay was looking at O’Hagan, his eyes full of hate. ‘You! I will certainly flog you should the chance present itself – that is, if I don’t grant you a rope.’

It was the wrong thing to say to such a man. Michael stepped forward at a speed Barclay had not anticipated and grabbed him by his stock, to physically lift him from the floor, the Irishman’s threat softly issued but more deadly for that.

‘I’ll break your neck if you try and long before any hand can stay mine.’

The man he was holding was having trouble breathing, for Michael had twisted the stock into a tourniquet. With an elbow in Barclay’s chest and a forearm on his ribs the captain’s feet were dancing in thin air.

‘Put him down, Michael,’ Emma Hamilton, ‘for his corpse in our residence would be hard to explain.’

‘For you, milady,’ came the reply as, let go, Ralph Barclay fell to the floor from where, after a short series of inhalations to recover his breath he looked up at his assailant.

‘Touch a King’s Officer, would you, cur? Now you will most certainly swing.’

‘Did you see him touched, Emily? It is my impression he slipped.’

‘Not far enough for me, Lady Hamilton. The only fit place for such a creature to slip into is the public latrine.’

‘Sir, I request you vacate my house, forthwith, while I assure you a report of your insulting remarks made to me will be reported to my husband and by him to those in authority. As for any alleged assault, it will be denied that it ever occurred.’

Ralph Barclay looked from one face to another and worked hard to compose his features into indifference, but it was to Emma Hamilton he responded.

‘Insulted? You? For that I would anticipate the gratitude
of decent society even if I am as obvious a dupe as your husband.’

Then he picked up his hat from a small table where it had been laid, and for all his attempts at evenness as he addressed Emily, the strain in his voice was obvious.

‘As for you, I never wish to see you again. I will have your bastard, make no mistake, for the only thing I now wish to give to you is a future full of grief.’

The hat was jammed on and, forced to walk round O’Hagan, he made his way out. Emily waited till his footsteps faded on the marble floors before she allowed herself a tear.

The journey between Leghorn and San Fiorenzo Bay was not one of long duration if the wind was fair, which meant that HMS
Agamemnon
was taking its anchor station before the sun went down, not that Nelson could hang about. It was a requirement of any captain that he report to the flag officer immediately on joining, even if he had only been absent for a period of days, and there was a pennant with
Agamemnon
’s number at the masthead of the flagship. With Nelson went his logs and reports on both the vessel’s condition as well as her stores and water.

It often seemed to John Pearce that the King’s Navy ran on the use of the quill more than guns or cutlasses. Everything was recorded: course, speed, what sails had been set to achieve that and any sightings made on the journey, however trivial. Food in the barrel used by the cook, each with its own unique identification, as well as peas and duff had to be set down as having been used and its condition, as well as the precise level of wastage or condemnation for being unfit to consume.

Minutely recorded were the quantities of small beer and rum allotted to the crew. The master kept his logs, the purser a set of his own, while the warrant officers reported on their areas of responsibility on an equally regular basis. The gunner was required to account for his powder, shot and slow match, both used and in hand, the carpenter for the state of the hull and decks as well as his level of timber held in reserve.

Canvas had to be accounted for as did masts and spars, cordage especially, since it was at the mercy of wind, weather and poor usage and difficult to quantify. It was also valuable; there were ever masters of merchant vessels eager to buy it, even if it had an identifying red thread running through it to say it came from the royal rope works. A coat of tar soon disguised that and few naval officers had ever been had up for selling it.

If a hand was to be shifted or promoted that had to be noted so that his pay warrants were for the correct grade, added to the names and punishments issued to transgressors, from stopping grog, stapling to the deck or a flogging, the number of strokes administered included. The ship’s surgeon, if they had one, was obliged to list the names and ailments of those he treated, the venereals especially, since he was allowed to charge for the service of treating that particular affliction. He was a busy man after a stay in port.

Each report went through the ship’s captain, on to the executive officer of the fleet – passed to his clerks, of course – to be subsequently available to the commanding officer so he could assess the state of his fighting vessels. Finally these logs, along with his assessments, were despatched to the Admiralty itself where the minions there, better paid than most sailors
and by reputation notoriously indolent, scrutinised them for discrepancies.

Anything seen not to add up was passed back down the chain. Much of a captain’s time was taken up accounting for matters long in the past and that could only be achieved because he had a copy of everything that had ever been written. In theory it was impossible to cheat or to hide various misfortunes from the Navy Office. That it happened, and frequently, was a credit to naval ingenuity. If a rising officer learnt to sail and fight a ship of war, he also in his progress was tutored in the very necessary skill of how to muddy the handwritten waters.

Horatio Nelson had his barge in the water before the ship was secured, John Pearce with him and they were soon rowing towards
Britannia
at speed. It mattered not how many times he had been in a cutter, barge or even a small jolly boat, Pearce found himself impressed by the skill and strength of the oarsmen. With expressionless faces they employed their heavily muscled arms to propel with seeming ease a craft made of heavy timber that took several dozen men and the employment of the capstan to get it in and out of the water.

Their strokes were even so no orders were required to be issued until they approached their destination, on this occasion the gangway that led to the entry port in the side of the flagship. Quietly instructed by Nelson’s coxswain, the barge swung in a smooth arc to come to rest right by the sea-level platform, John Pearce pulling his hat low to ensure no one looking over the bulwarks would spot an arrival in which he hoped to employ the element of surprise.

Nelson came out of the barge briskly, he being a man who did anything that could be observed by his peers or superiors
at pace. It was therefore odd that he stopped on the stairway and turned to face his passenger with a look of deep curiosity, his countenance made pink by the setting sun.

‘It occurs to me, Mr Pearce, that I never got round to asking you how you came to be in Leghorn. Admiral Hotham is bound to enquire and I would look foolish if stuck for a reply.’

‘You intend to mention my name?’

‘I fear I must, if only to offset some of the opprobrium that arose from our last visit there.’

‘Is that not a subject rendered dead by the passage of time?’

‘Most certainly not. My crew labour under the shadow of what occurred, Mr Pearce, and it is my duty to see that thinned if not shifted. Indeed I may ask that you be brought in to explain yourself what took place and to be more honest with Sir William than you have hitherto been with me.’

‘Sir?’

‘Come, Mr Pearce. I was watching you when my youngsters were explaining matters to you. Something they said, and I reckon it comes down to descriptions, triggered a response in your features which means there are facts you know but have not shared. I am sure our C-in-C will be as eager to hear from your lips what they are, just as am I.’

‘Then I beg you take note of Sir William’s expression when you mention my name.’

‘Why are you grinning, sir?’ Nelson asked, slightly piqued.

‘I think you’ll find it can be noted as unusual.’

Someone banged an object against the interior scantlings to advise Nelson that he was keeping waiting the reception party and that had him moving, to be greeted by the
required bosun’s call and the stamp of marine boots in a ritual that was replicated a dozen times a day or more as ranking officers came to visit their commander. Pearce reckoned it to be, like the endless gunfire salutes, nothing more than flummery.

‘Captain Nelson, sir, welcome aboard.’

As he nodded to the premier – no mere officer of the watch would suffice for a senior post-captain – Nelson raised his hat to the invisible quarterdeck and the flag that hung on the mizzen mast. Below their feet the men on the lower deck had raised their heads as the marine shoes landed with a collective thud, some to wonder who was coming aboard now, others to curse the noise.

Cole Peabody was one of the latter; he hated anything that smacked of order. That was doubly so when it was naval and he was not shy of saying so and less guarded on the ship than the previous one. In the short time he and his mates had been aboard
Britannia
it had become clear that Captain Holloway was not Captain Barclay. Not that the flagship was slack, but there was none of the tension of mistrust that had existed aboard HMS
Semele
and hung between the lower decks like a miasma.

The way Ralph Barclay ran his ship ensured that few trusted any other and most granted that to no one at all. The lieutenants ran their division competitively, always seeking approval from the quarterdeck and in doing so they bore down on the hands, more on those who could not be counted amongst their favourites, and Barclay kept them at odds with each other to ensure efficiency.

‘Flag’s been at anchor, Cole, who’s to say Holloway won’t be a right tartar once we is at sea?’

‘If we ever raise sail,’ moaned Dan Holder. ‘We’re stuck here in a mess of our own shit.’

‘Suits me,’ Cole responded, his voice as usual rendered hiss-like through the lack of teeth. ‘Can’t think why any bugger would be at a rush to get into a fight for some other sod’s glory.’

‘Winnin’ lines the poke, Cole. We never heard the end of how much the swabs aboard
Semele
made under Black Dick Howe.’

‘Pennies, when you might get your head blown off. Not for me, mates – if I is going to risk my person it will be for a decent reward like we used to get.’

A hoot came from Cephas Danvers. ‘Then find where the admiral keeps his coffer, for that will be stuffed with gold, fer certain.’

The marines dispersing were as noisy as they were assembling, which had Cole Peabody lifting his head and swearing, as Fred Brewer enquired as to who it might be coming on board.

‘It will make no odds to us, mates, so best not hark to it.’

John Pearce had received a look from the premier, one he had come to recognise on the face of many of his fellow officers. It spoke of an attempt to mask with a carapace of good manners the disdain they felt for his person and the way he had acquired his rank without going through the rigours of years at sea and the hard-to-pass examinations.

There were others who were less troubled by the fact that King George had jumped him from midshipman to lieutenant by royal dispensation as a reward for an act of outstanding bravery. Pearce had saved a ship of the line, albeit
a small one, from certain capture and they were fair-minded enough to rate his elevation deserved. Yet in a service rife with competiveness they were in a minority and the object of most folk’s contempt had learnt to ignore both opinions.

Nelson was striding towards the great cabin with Pearce at his heels, hunched in an attempt to stay unremarked behind the much smaller captain. If his efforts failed with one lieutenant they passed, it kept it from anyone dead ahead, which allowed him to get close to the cubbyhole Toomey used as an office without the clerk being forewarned.

Toomey greeted Nelson by half rising from his seat and informed him that he could go right in for the admiral was awaiting. Pearce had half turned to look down the main deck as the clerk did so to remain mysterious.

‘You will wish to leave me your logs, of course, sir.’

The thud as the heavy ledgers were dropped on the clerk’s desk was very obvious as he heard Nelson acknowledge Toomey’s instruction. As soon as the marine sentry came to attention he turned to face the admiral’s senior clerk and spoke in a clear and carrying voice.

‘Mr Toomey, I bid you good evening.’

The head shot up; clearly he recognised the voice and his face suffered a complete loss of blood as what he had hoped was an error turned out to be fact.

‘I daresay you are surprised to see me?’

Toomey had not got to his present position without ability and that extended beyond numeracy and the skill to compose clear orders. If his shock was palpable even in the glim of a pair of lanterns it was swiftly masked to be replaced by a rictus-like smile.

‘Surprised and delighted, Mr Pearce,’ he croaked. ‘To see
you here implies what? That the mission on which you set out was aborted, perhaps?’

‘On the contrary, Mr Toomey, it was carried through to a conclusion and was an outstanding success and led, I have to say, by a most gallant officer.’

‘Mr Digby is …?’

That was prevarication; Toomey did not want to hear about any successes.

‘Recovering from a wound that with an inch of difference might have killed him. But he will soon be whole again and therefore not be a burden to your conscience.’

The few moments of talk had allowed Toomey to recover some of his poise and that came out as a skill at deflection. He puffed his chest out to protest. ‘I cannot imagine why such a thing should be implied, sir.’

‘Do not seek to avoid your misdemeanours, sir, and I might add the chicanery of the swine you serve. You have been cunning, I will grant, but there is not a shred of doubt in my mind that you contrived with Hotham to dispose of both Digby and myself, while the fate of the whole crew of HMS
Flirt
was a matter of utter indifference to you both.’

Was it genuine anger or fear that had Toomey come near to an explosion? Pearce did not know and nor did he care.

‘How dare you, sir! I will not sit here and listen to such base and wayward accusations. I rate you as mad, sir, and I have a mind to call for a file of marines to confine you.’

‘There is one by the admiral’s door who can hear every word. It will make for a fine tale once he is back at his mess table. Prepare yourself to be confined, Mr Toomey, but only for a brief spell until you are led to Tyburn and your just deserts.’

Pearce pointed to the cabin door and played what he reckoned to be his best card. ‘Do not doubt that somewhere on those orders we received is your imprimatur, while I seriously doubt that Hotham’s part could be so easily discovered, and even if it were he would deny it.’

The face lost blood again.

‘Nor, I suspect, do you have a moment’s doubt of this. That if his position is threatened then yours will be forfeit. I would reckon the mere sight of me, Mr Toomey, renders you a threat to your admiral even greater than the transcript I have of Captain Barclay’s court martial and the blatant perjuries it contains.’

‘Transcript?’ Toomey demanded, obviously confused; so, for a moment, was John Pearce until enlightenment surfaced, the realisation Barclay must have kept that bit of information to himself.

‘Now, here is me reckoning Hotham and Barclay to be two cheeks on the same arse. But by your reaction I am led to suspect that the good captain has not informed you of that which I have in my possession.’

‘Transcript?’ Toomey asked again, albeit in a fearful whisper.

Pearce put his fists on the table and rested his weight upon them. ‘Every word said at Barclay’s trumped-up court martial, and that is before we come to the forgery of certain correspondence supposedly from Midshipman Toby Burns.’

A hand went to Toomey’s brow, to be run across it, making truth of what had been no more than a guess.

‘What a tangle you have become engaged in, sir. It is one that will most certainly be taken amiss by the two gentlemen who sent me out with letters to Lord Hood. I refer to the
First Lord of the Treasury, Mr William Pitt and my fellow Scotsman and Minister for War, Henry Dundas.’