The Perils of Command (5 page)

Having been coached for a decade by a succession of tutors provided by her husband, she spoke Italian, French and German, played the harpsichord with some facility and was a confidante of the Queen of Naples, an Austrian princess and the real ruler of the kingdom, her husband being a man of severely limited mentality.

‘If you really wish to take ship for home, Emily,’ Lady Hamilton said, the subject once more raised, ‘I would not do anything to stop you, though I will opine that my husband would be sorry to see you go.’

That made Emily blush and drop her head, for she too was a beauty but with none of the confidence in that estate as Emma Hamilton. Sir William, the Chevalier to his wife and friends, should have been, in his seventh decade, well past the age at which to engage in seductive verbal dalliance that bordered on the risqué, but he did so frequently.

Kindness dictated that his sallies be seen as mere raillery from a man whose manners came from a different age, for he was ever thoughtful, but much prone to the production of a blush. With his sallies he was forever causing a reddening of Emily’s pale cheeks.

They were coaching through the city on the way to the English Garden, with Emma Hamilton acknowledging the cries of ‘Madonna’ by which she was frequently
greeted, with Emily wondering whether to impart to her the reasons for her revived determination to return to England. She decided against it for it was not germane to what had become, if not a true friendship – Emma was not good at holding close female company – more than just acquaintance.

At least she had the blessing of not having to face John Pearce, but that was a parting reckoned not to be of long duration. He was on a mission to some place in Dalmatia and had sworn he would not be gone long. He would certainly call into Naples on his way back to the fleet, so if she was going to take passage, and there was more than one reason for haste, she knew she had to do so soon.

The afternoon walk in the English Garden was near to being a ritual for Emma Hamilton, only broken when she attended upon Queen Maria Carolina. She was popular in the royal palace for her ability to entertain the queen’s children and it was said, not least by her husband, that the Maria Carolina paid more attention to Emma’s advice than she did to his or that of her English First Minister, the courtier and military advisor, Sir John Acton.

It was pleasant on what was a calm and unseasonably warm day to promenade in such a place, personally designed and planted by the Chevalier. He had laid out flower beds, planted trees native to his homeland, now maturing to provide shade, and created arbours each with its own small classical temple, ideal for semi-secret trysts.

Yet there was too often an abiding risk and that came from the known presence in Naples of King Ferdinand, who had broken off from his annual hunting trip and was back resident in the Palazzo Reale, Ferdinand being a monarch
with dull to non-existent wits and only two passions: hunting and copulation.

He had brought his poor queen to child sixteen times, the most recent being not much more than a year past, this despite her constant attempts to divert his attentions elsewhere. The porcelain manufactory at Capodimonte was a happy hunting ground for the king, given the number of country girls brought in to decorate the pottery, but he was such a satyr even that was scarce enough.

The danger in the garden he often visited occurred when he encountered any woman to whom he was attracted, and his tastes were eclectic. Not only would he confront them, and this had happened to Emma Hamilton, he was given by way of invitation to exposing himself, impossible to ignore since he was extraordinarily well endowed and seemingly in a constant state of arousal.

John Pearce was fond of pointing out only partly as a joke, though not in the hearing of the Chevalier or Emma, that such behaviour was a standing argument against the hereditary principle.

The promenade passed off pleasantly and without incident, so it was one woman in a benevolent mood who returned to her home at the Palazzo Sessa, while her companion was plotting how to take passage and the dangers therein. Such a journey was a far from trouble-free voyage even in Italian waters, which Emily had already experienced, and it did not diminish once any vessel she was on cleared the narrows at Gibraltar. The sea between there and England was full of French privateers as eager to snap a prize as their British counterparts.

Deep in contemplation of that as the coach entered the
gates of the Palazzo, it took some time for Emily to see that there was a small knot of men sat in the shade of a lemon tree, ditty bags at their feet, one of such a height and build even seated that identified him as Michael O’Hagan.

All three were known to her and they stood up quickly to doff their hats and smile, perhaps brought to wonder by the fact that a woman they saw as generous of spirit did not respond in a like manner. If they were here, so was John Pearce so it took a moment for Emily to react, while out of the portico that covered the doorway her man emerged, his grin as wide as the seas he sailed.

‘My dear Emily,’ said Emma Hamilton. ‘I fear your plan to escape must be put on hold.’

John Pearce handed her down from the coach and made to kiss her, that avoided as she turned her head away. ‘We are in a public place, John.’

‘Behind closed gates and amongst friends,’ he replied, unable to keep the irritation out of his voice. ‘Surely I deserve a warmer welcome than that.’

‘Let us go inside.’

‘Not before you acknowledge my Pelicans.’

‘Of course, not to do so would be remiss.’

‘Lady Hamilton, I give you good day and hope you are well?’

‘In full blossom, Lieutenant Pearce, despite the season and awaiting a bee or two to propagate my stamens.’

As always with this lady there was a look to accompany the response and one that annoyed every woman who knew her. Whatever Emma said it always seemed close to vulgarity. With it came an expression that hinted that a bit of flirtation would not be unwelcome. Having been exposed to it many
times, Pearce merely beamed and, holding Emily’s hand, took her over to greet his friends as the hostess went indoors.

Pleasantries were exchanged – they were happy to see her again and she feigned the same emotion, though her heart was in turmoil. Finally, Emily was led into the house and being they were lovers, obliged to lead Pearce to her private apartment. As ever, parting had made him impatient and when he was pushed away from a quick clinch the hurt was obvious.

‘What in heaven’s name is the matter?’ he demanded as she put distance between them.

‘You invoke the heavens, John? That is unusual.’

‘Is it untoward that I have missed you?’

The ‘No’, was close to a whisper.

‘And yet to rebuff my embrace.’

‘I do so because I must part from you, John, even if it breaks my heart to do so.’

‘What are you talking about, Emily?’

She spun to face him, her voice cracked. ‘I am with child. Would you have me bring into the world a baby tainted with bastardy?’

‘I fail to see how you could avoid it, unless—’ The penny dropped and it was not a pleasant experience. ‘Surely you cannot propose to go back to your husband?’

‘Do I have a choice?’

For Ralph Barclay the actions of his wife were like a running sore and had been for some time. He had manoeuvred to get himself and his ship sent to the Mediterranean knowing she was there, his intention to find her and bring her back to her proper estate. Yet since his arrival he had been stuck in San Fiorenzo Bay with no sign that he would be granted the independence of action required to pursue his goal.

Apart from the misery of rejection, he was sure the way Emily had run off affected him professionally as well as personally. Committed to his career in the navy and, fate notwithstanding, high enough on the captain’s list to feel the time to him getting his own admiral’s flag was on the horizon, any number of things could arise to check him and the state of his marriage fell into that category.

There was fear of then being beached of course: to suffer, even if he was given his flag, the ignominy of becoming a yellow admiral, having the rank but no meaningful employment. To avoid that fate, even with no reputational stains, required interest in high places and Ralph Barclay was
poorly placed in that regard. It was also necessary to show no weaknesses, and an inability to hold onto his spouse looked very much like that; could a man who had failed to command one woman take charge of a fighting fleet?

In his favour was his reputation as a forceful sailor, for he had been lucky since the outbreak of the conflict. Even fighting a losing battle, badly outnumbered, against a pair of French frigates, counted in that; the Admiralty looked favourably on captains prepared to do battle when the odds were stacked against them and avoidance was impossible. Since then he had also taken several prizes as well as participating in a major fleet action, the Battle of the Glorious First of June, the first serious contest of the present war, which had produced rich rewards for the participating captains.

Apart from the blot on his marriage everything in his life had progressed well. From being an impecunious officer suffering five years on half pay he was now a fairly wealthy man, able to contemplate the option of buying the lease on a London residence or having, like many a successful naval officer, a home built for him on the Downs overlooking Portsmouth.

Yet the constant socialising of a fleet at anchor counted as torture. Hardly a day went by without an invitation to dine aboard another vessel, and there he would mingle with his fellow captains as well as specially invited lieutenants and midshipmen. No one ever alluded to the folly of a man like him marrying a mere girl half his age yet he was sure such comments were made behind the hand, for what had been a well-kept secret in England was not likely to be that in the Mediterranean.

Emily had fled with John Pearce to reside for a short period
in Leghorn, the Tuscan port that was the revictualling centre for the fleet, and had been seen in his company, though he reckoned her gone from there now. The navy was as much a hotbed of gossip as any other profession and he had to assume it was now common knowledge that his wife had run off with another man, and a much younger fellow to boot.

Barclay needed to locate Emily and get her back by kidnap, if no other method presented itself, his frustration at being unable to do so compounded by his situation; as part of the Mediterranean Fleet he was not free to act as he wished, given his C-in-C was waiting for the French to poke their noses out of Toulon. In what amounted to naval indolence he had too much time to think and reflect and to gnaw on what had gone wrong.

He had not seen seventeen-year-old Emily Raynesford as hot-headed when he had first proposed the union to her parents – quite the opposite. She had seemed meek and dutiful, a perfect bride for a man proud of his rank and station, albeit one who had become adept at delaying bills and confounding bailiffs for half a decade. The prospect of war with France and command of a warship, plus full pay, had hastened his wooing and that had been laid upon Emily’s father as much as her.

Ralph Barclay had a family entail on the house occupied by the Raynesford family, one he had subtly hinted he could enforce at will, which would render them homeless. Thus he had allies in both Emily’s father and more particularly her mother, who had sung the virtues of her daughter marrying a full post-captain in the King’s Navy, quite a catch for a girl who would struggle to match such good fortune in her home town of Frome.

Matters had proceeded to a wedding and it seemed as if Emily had happily accepted his proposal, there being no hint of hesitation in her taking of the vows. If the postnuptial congress had been full of awkwardness that was only to be expected, for he was not experienced in dealing with women.

His life in the navy, two and half decades of sea service and consorting with women of low breeding, were a poor preparation for a wedding night with a provincial virgin. Emily had no experience at all, which was only right and proper, and while he may have been a trifle rough, seen as necessary to overcome her maidenly reticence, from that point on matters had become settled as his young bride dutifully fulfilled her role.

Not that she was without faults, mainly follies brought on by her youth, like overspending on his stores and, when he was absent, making an exhibition of herself at a ball in Sheerness, being too exuberant in her dancing. Subsequently he had seen it as a requirement to educate Emily in the responsibilities incumbent upon his station as the man in command of the frigate HMS
Brilliant
.

Barclay realised now that he should have left Emily in Frome, where she could have been housed with his two sisters, yet he had feared extravagance from a trio of women who would overrate his position. Five years on the beach had left many bills to be settled and he needed time on full pay to repair his situation.

So to save money he had decided to take his new wife aboard his ship. Such an act was against the rules but it was also far from uncommon in a service where such matters were more often observed in the breach.

Ralph Barclay knew that all his problems had stemmed from that decision. Naval life was harsh and he was determined to run a tight ship. Short-handed and ordered to set sail he had been obliged to venture out and press men to sea service, forced to show scant regard for the location from which they were taken or their fitness for the tasks they would be required to perform.

It had ever been thus at the outbreak of war; the navy needed men and the number of seamen never matched the requirements of the fleet. To compound his problems, Lord Hood, then the Senior Sea Lord of the Admiralty and no friend to Ralph Barclay, was holding a host of volunteers at the Tower for his own selfish ends. Of all the men he had pressed, the one that had brought him most grief was none other than John Pearce.

‘Compliments of the officer of the watch, sir, your barge is in the water and manned.’

Barclay thanked the midshipman and rose from behind his desk, Devenow appearing for once, hat in hand, without having to be called and obviously stone-cold sober. The brute had a look of concern on his face, one that was habitual when dealing with his captain, who was never sure of the reason. Was it concern for his well-being or fear of his all-too-common wrath?

The call into Cornelius Gherson’s cubbyhole was to collect the latest figures on the stores held within the holds of HMS
Semele
, these handed over with that infuriating air of superiority that his clerk could not seem to keep hidden. Such an expression was compounded by the man’s looks; he was handsome, with a fair to girlish countenance and fine blonde hair. To a dark and brooding presence like Ralph Barclay it was a constant irritation.

‘I have done my best, sir.’

‘I damn well hope you have, Gherson.’

The growling response had no effect on his clerk, who was safe in the knowledge that as of this moment his captain depended on him. Barclay lacked the numerical skills to play ducks and drakes with the level of the warship’s stores. Just like in his financial affairs he had come to depend on Gherson, though not with any degree of trust. It amused the clerk, even with that lack of faith, just how easy it was to hide from his employers how much was being siphoned off into his own pocket.

‘I have had condemned as much as I could so we seem lower on victuals than we are in truth, but your real hope is us being so low on water that it needs proper hoys to replenish us.’

There was no need to tell Ralph Barclay that such a commodity was, unlike everything else the seventy-four carried, unquantifiable. They could top it up from the Corsican wells but not to the level that existed on paper, for it would have to be fetched from the shore in barrels, time-consuming and often less than a day’s expenditure.

Water, or the lack of it would, the captain hoped, be the lever that would get him away from his present berth and at the very least to Leghorn where he could begin his search, mostly to find a clue as to where Emily had gone. Rowed across the bay, Barclay knew he would have to be subtle, for that which he planned carried a risk. Hotham was no fool and given it was he who had told of Emily’s presence in Leghorn he would be quick to smoke Barclay’s motives.

Against that Ralph Barclay was a client officer of the
admiral, entitled to expect preferential treatment. In addition, he was fully aware of the machinations Hotham had engaged in, aided by his senior clerk Toomey, to rid himself of the menace of John Pearce – an intrigue of which Ralph Barclay thoroughly approved, albeit he had been careful to avoid personal involvement.

Piped aboard HMS
Britannia
he inspected the marines as was required before making himself known to Holloway, the flag captain – a necessary courtesy, Devenow dogging his heels to ensure that his one-armed master did not suffer a fall on a moving deck. Before he could enter the admiral’s great cabin he encountered Toomey, from whom he could quietly enquire, with bowed head and a soft tone, if there was any news of John Pearce and HMS
Flirt
.

‘No news is good news, Captain Barclay, is all I can reply.’

That came as a whisper. The clerk knew why he was being asked; the question was not one that could be put to William Hotham, even if he was the man ultimately responsible for what had been implemented. Commanding admirals saw the need to shield themselves from such matters.

‘Let us hope that remains the case,’ Toomey added.

‘Quite. Can I proceed?’

‘Sir William is awaiting you.’

‘Did he ask why I requested an interview?’

‘No, but I will say he is curious as to the reason you wish to see him alone.’

‘A list of my stores, Toomey. You will see we are severely short on beef and pork, much of which has had to be condemned, and our water is critical.’

Toomey raised an eyebrow at that; he had been a naval clerk for many years and before that a purser. There was not a
trick in the naval book of which he was not aware and, as the man who took in the daily reports on the fitness of the fleet to operate, even if he gave the perusal to his underlings, he could take a fair stab the ploy Barclay was seeking to execute.

Being close to his master, Toomey also knew why he was being handed the list, just as he knew that it provided, if accepted, an excuse for the admiral to grant HMS
Semele
permission to depart ahead of vessels more in need of revictualling. The two exchanged a non-committal look before Barclay proceeded past the marine sentry to the cabin door, opened for him by a second guard.

‘Captain Barclay, you are most welcome even if your request intrigues me. I take it you will join me in a glass of this Tuscan wine, which I can assure you is more than a match for claret.’

Sir William Hotham was smaller than his visitor, slightly pink of face, the skin smooth, with none of the rough, red visage common to sailors. As much a courtier as a navy man he had come to his present position through the powerful patronage of the Duke of Portland, now a member of the Pitt administration, having split with his faction from his Whig colleagues to support the prosecution of the war.

There had never been any doubt in Ralph Barclay’s mind that Hotham would settle with ease into his role as C-in-C Mediterranean. The man had worked for high and independent command all his life. To have achieved it would be, to his way of thinking, nothing but a rightful recognition of his abilities. In his manner and appearance, full uniform with flashing gold epaulettes and a newly powdered wig, he looked very much the part.

‘Delighted to do so, sir. Any word on the French?’

‘Supine, Barclay, supine. I worry that they so fear me they will never leave Toulon.’

It was typical of Hotham to make personal what was collective. The enemy would be in fear of the British Fleet, not its commander, but he let the hyperbole pass without even a raised eyebrow and moved more swiftly than was strictly polite to what he had come to say.

‘While what I fear, sir, is to be so low on victuals and water that it will affect my ability to take part in a chase and an action should they do so.’

The frown was to be expected; how much it was performance and how much genuine Barclay did not know but it indicated a degree of discomfort. The two were very different; the man visiting knew that. For all they had gone to sea at the same age and suffered the rigours of being midshipmen, then lieutenants and finally very junior captains, their lives had taken a very different course.

Hotham had always enjoyed powerful connections and had been many times made welcome at court. Ralph Barclay did not, and had never even been close enough to King George to exchange a single word. He also depended on this man to help him prosper, albeit such a connection was a two-way affair.

That said, it never would do to fully trust an admiral and Ralph Barclay was no different from his peers in not doing so. He had only got his posting to join the Mediterranean Fleet due to his ability to possibly embarrass another even more senior flag officer, Black Dick Howe, who had led the Home Fleet to success against the French on the First of June.

Nor was he convinced that the actions Hotham had taken to get rid of John Pearce had been done in any respect as a
favour to him. The admiral had his own reasons, not least the fact that it was he who had set up the court martial to try Ralph Barclay for illegal impressment.