An Ill Wind

by David Donachie

  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 l
ying, 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.

  ‘He supported you, husband, when you demanded it of him. Perhaps if you trained him more assiduously for the duty you say he failed to carry out he might have done better.’

  The look of confusion on Nelson’s face was obvious: he was in the middle of a family spat with no way to politely leave without making the knowledge obvious. It was Barclay who saved him by continuing his tale, suddenly more willing to talk of that than whatever was the cause of the dispute with his wife. He also put his good hand to his stump and let a look of pain suffuse his face.

  ‘I am tiring you, sir.’

  ‘No, Captain Nelson, allow me to finish my tale.’ Knowing Emily was glaring at him he was in no position to further damn her nephew. ‘I went forward to do the spiking, with the lad, who may have got lost on the way.’

  ‘More likely, you must admit, Captain Barclay,’ Nelson proposed with some feeling, turning to look at his fellow captain’s wife with some appreciation. ‘I am sure that any sprig of your tree, Mrs Barclay, would be a stout one indeed.’

  Emily had to just nod at such idiocy, much as she wanted to do otherwise, given she was not fond of this little fellow either, seeing him as given to tittle-tattle of the kind that had got her into trouble in Sheerness. She had gone to an assembly dance the night her husband was out hunting for men and had taken pleasure, as she had all her life, in the dancing. This Captain Nelson had told her husband how much she had enjoyed it and, given he was not one to take pleasure in such pursuits himself and given to jealousy, had caused her no end of trouble.

  Ralph Barclay was annoyed at being interrupted, and spoke tersely. ‘Do you wish, sir, to hear this tale?’

  ‘Forgive me,’ Nelson responded, turning back, while cursing himself for so openly admiring the man’s wife, a fault to which he knew he was prone, and not just here in this cabin.

  ‘Well, we did as was required, then General O’Hara, who planned the assault, came up and, stupidly to my mind, went too far forward. Anyway, he was wounded—’

  ‘I heard he was taken prisoner.’

  That got Nelson another hard look: he had ordered Devenow, who was with him, to take the wounded general back to safety. The man had ignored him and saved his comatose captain instead, leaving O’Hara to be taken by the enemy.

  ‘He was, but I took a musket ball from the French counterattack just as I exited the redoubt, which, we having set charges, was blown to perdition. I was saved from capture myself by one of my own ratings.’

  ‘Who is to be commended, sir.’

  ‘Of course,’ Barclay replied, totally unaware he had signally failed to do anything of the sort. Suddenly he wanted shot of Nelson, so he said, ‘You must forgive me, Captain, I am somewhat fatigued.’

  ‘Of course, Captain Barclay,’ Nelson replied. ‘It only remains for me to wish you a speedy recovery and a return to service soon.’

  The stump moved. ‘This may hinder any employment, sir.’

  ‘Nonsense, Captain Barclay, I am sure you will soon be in command of a ship once more. Mrs Barclay, I bid you good day.’

  ‘You could not wait to shame me, could you?’ Ralph Barclay said, as the sound of Nelson’s heels faded.

  ‘In that, sir,’ Emily snapped, going out of the door, ‘I cannot begin to compete with you.’

  She ran straight into Cornelius Gherson, with a sheaf of papers under his arm, who gave her the kind of smile with which she had become familiar, one that told her she was an object of his unwanted attention, and not just t
hat, desire.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Ah, Mrs Barclay, we could perhaps stand for some time to outline that, but I fear I would keep your husband waiting.’

  ‘I certainly have no yearning to delay you!’

  The calculating look on the face was infuriating and she would have been even more upset if she had known the train of his thoughts. Cornelius Gherson saw himself, and in truth with some evidence, as an accomplished seducer. Was it not that very ability which had got him chucked off London Bridge by the thugs hired by an irate and cuckolded husband, who just so happened to also be his employer? To him, the likes of Emily Barclay presented a challenge, one he felt certain he had both the charm and the looks to overcome and, once he had achieved that, to make her his willing slave. That she had rebuffed him so absolutely turned attraction into deep dislike, while his spiteful nature looked for revenge.

  Emily Barclay loathed him and had done from the very first time he had sought to use her husband’s empty cabin to carry out his clerkish tasks. Annoyingly he did not move to let her past, but forced her to squeeze past him, feeling her body through both their garments and emitting a soft sigh that made her want to turn and slap his face.

  ‘Gherson,’ she heard her husband bark as the man went in to him. ‘You took your damn time in coming.’

  ‘I had some difficulty, sir, in getting away.’

  ‘Is Glaister still in temporary command of my ship?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Gherson replied, pulling an unhappy face, ‘and awaiting a new captain.’

  ‘And our little enterprise?’

  If Ralph Barclay had been glum before Gherson entered his temporary quarters he was a sight more so once he heard what had happened in Toulon harbour. The scheme he and Gherson, anticipating a forthcoming evacuation, had concocted to sell supplies stolen from the French warehouses had come to naught. His premier, Glaister, who had been brought into the scheme, seemingly fearful of being found out, had thought it best to rid the ship of a dangerous cargo worth several hundreds of pounds.