‘Tossed in the harbour, you say?’
‘They were, sir, down to the last tub of nails and length of cable.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
The very idea of going aboard HMS Victory was not one John Pearce had ever liked. On the maindeck, having given in his name, he joined what seemed like a whole crowd of folk seeking an interview with Lord Hood. There were British and French officers of several different ranks and services, men who looked to be local traders who would be seeking contracts to supply the fleet, as well as civilians recently forced to become émigrés in the Toulon evacuation, who no doubt wanted to know how they were going to get from this Italian port to some other part of Europe more congenial.
In his previous dealings with Hood, John Pearce had often bypassed the endemic queues his office attracted, but on those occasions the admiral had urgent need of his services. Now he did not, the task he was being asked to perform was not pressing, so he knew he was in for a long haul, yet hang around he must, and it had nothing to do with Hood’s private correspondence. He needed passage home for his friends, and the only man who could give the Pelicans permission to sail on some returning naval vessel, in company with him, was the commander-in-chief.
He sought to remain unobserved, not easy on an open deck: he had been found waiting once before and that always led to an invitation to the Victory’s wardroom. Though the occupants were kind, they were avid warriors who would oblige him to tell his tales of action even if he had done so before: repetition of exploits never troubled the naval mind, they were the staple of conversation.
Added to that, they would be bound to enquire as to the purpose of his calling and he was in no mood to explain to a group of committed naval officers – who thought him a heroic fellow for the actions in which he had taken part, albeit leavened with a touch of jealousy for the luck he had enjoyed – why he was seeking to get out of a service they held in high regard and a theatre of operations presenting such glittering opportunity.
The day dragged on, new bodies joined the queue and one of Hood’s lower clerks, a scrub-wigged tub of lard sitting at a desk before the great cabin doors, called out the relevant names. Someone entered and remained there for as long as it took to transact their business, and as they exited the next name was called, obviously from some kind of list, with Pearce having no idea of the relative importance of the interviewees or where he stood in relation to them. Occasionally the pipes would sing out at the entry port, the marines would gather and someone of a superior sort would arrive to be ushered through the throng and, as soon as the cabin was vacated, sent straight in to meet with the admiral.
For the fourth time in as many hours, Pearce approached the desk to seek some information on how long he would have to wait, finding himself standing before a fellow who could barely contain a sneer when he replied to such a request from a mere lieutenant. He was of the sort John Pearce had met many times in his life, more often than not in the company of his late father, and the man did not know how close he came to having his ears boxed, being saved by the two marines standing guard outside the great cabin: it was their presence and the fact he would probably have to fight them too which saved the neck of this unctuous little toad.
‘His Lordship has a list of who is seeking an interview and he decides who he shall see and in what order.’
‘I do not ask to jump the list, merely to know whereabouts I am upon it.’
‘That I cannot tell you.’
‘Cannot, or will not?’ Pearce demanded.
Getting no reply, and thinking a trick might work, he asked for use of the clerk’s pen and paper; judging by the look that received it was as if he had asked for permission to sleep with his mother.
‘I am not at liberty—’
Pearce leant over the desk, speaking quietly, but with passion. ‘If you do not do that, or find out from within that cabin how long I will have to wait, I will inform everyone on this deck of something the admiral would not want them to hear, and for that he will blame you.’
‘Such as?’ the clerk scoffed.
Pearce pulled Hood’s letter from his pocket and shoved it under the fellow’s nose. ‘Do you recognise that seal, even broken?’ A nod. ‘Then if you do not wish me to make public the contents of what is a private and embarrassing communication, go through that door and tell Lord Hood I will not wait another bell. And I assure you, if you do not do as I have asked, the price to me will be nil, while the price to you will probably be the loss of your position.’
The eye contact was an attempt by the clerk to discern if this lieutenant was bluffing. Perhaps it was the steadiness of the gaze or the sheer fury that suffused the face that persuaded him to rise slowly and enter the great cabin. He was gone for half a minute and when he returned he tried, by adopting a superior tone, to retrieve his position.
‘I have told Lord Hood you are waiting, Lieutenant, and he has said he will see you shortly.’
Given Lord Hood was seeking his services, any hope that his welcome might be couched in polite terms was immediately dashed. They had never been good in each other’s company but there was some grudging respect for an older man who declined to play the hypocrite.
‘God, it’s the bad penny, Parker. I prayed the last time we met I’d seen the back of you, Pearce.’
‘While I would have been content never to lay eyes upon you at any angle, milord, and since I have spent several hours standing outside your cabin and I am here at your express request, I rather think something to eat and drink might be in order instead of insults for a greeting.’
‘We’re not a coffee house, damn you.’
‘I think you have forgotten, milord, that you have requested something of me.’
‘I have not forgotten, Pearce, but given the favours I have done you I think I deserve some repayment in kind, like a modicum of courtesy.’
‘Favours? All I can ever recall is your putting me in mortal danger.’
John Pearce could see Admiral Parker looking at the deck beams above his head, this while he tried to recall a time when he and Hood had ever exchanged a pleasantry. As for those previous favours, they had reeked more of blackmail than anything else and had, in truth, seen him nearly killed in the execution of one of them. Hood was accustomed to deference; the snag with the man before him was his congenital inability to defer to anyone, however elevated their rank.
‘Mortal danger is not uncommon for naval officers.’
‘You want me to deliver some letters?’
‘Of course I do,’ Hood barked. ‘I would not have written to you had I not.’
‘Then you must provide me not only with them but with the means to get myself and my companions back to England.’
‘I must?’ the older man demanded, that before he realised Pearce was speaking nothing but the truth. His tone did not modify much, but it did a little, becoming affirmative in place of angered. ‘I must.’
Parker intervened. ‘You can take passage on the next ship returning home.’
‘And when will that be?’
‘It will be when I say it will be,’ Hood insisted.
Parker stopped another objection from their visitor, acting, as he always seemed to do, as Lord Hood’s more emollient half. ‘When His Lordship decides on the next course of action we will be sending despatches back to England. There are several ships in the fleet in need of repair and since, without Toulon, we lack a dockyard, they will have to take turns to return home to be refitted.’
‘We held Toulon for several months.’
‘We held it under siege. You do not put vessels into dock if you might have to abandon them there.’
‘Sit down, Pearce,’ Hood growled, which had John Pearce looking at him defiantly. ‘Damn it, man, can you not even respond to a civility?’
‘I don’t recall receiving one.’
The next words were softer, if not more respectful. ‘Sit down, damn you, and Parker, ring for my steward and get this rascal some provender.’
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br /> ‘Milord, we have a list of people waiting to see you.’
Hood sounded weary as he responded to that. ‘Are you going to argue with me as well?’
‘No, milord.’
Sat at the table opposite Hood and thus closer to him than hitherto, Pearce saw that the lines in the older man’s face were etched more deeply than he had realised. It was with some insight, and one he had not previously truly considered, that he realised the weight this septuagenarian carried. He was far from London and was required to make instant decisions that might or might not be approved by his masters back home, the burden carried by every commanding officer on foreign service.
It was almost as if Hood read that thought, for he referred to the very thing when he spoke and, when he did, it was in a weary voice that reflected his age. ‘I doubt you can even begin to comprehend, Pearce, what I have to deal with.’
‘You forget I have seen the number of supplicants outside your door.’
That produced a soft and humourless laugh. ‘They, boy, are not the half of it, are they, Parker?’
‘No, milord,’ his junior admiral replied, as he too sat down.
‘I have a far from perfect fleet in which every vessel is short of its complement of hands. I must find and hold a base in the Mediterranean, and given we have lost Toulon and elements of the French fleet are still intact, the closer to that port it is the better, but it will not, under any circumstances, have a dockyard.’
Parker cut in. ‘If you knew the state of repair of some of our ships, Mr Pearce, it would make your hair stand on end.’
‘I have to deal with my enemies and my allies,’ Hood continued, ‘one of the latter knowing they very likely deliberately frustrated my aims when we evacuated Toulon. You went to Tunis, so you know I have to keep the ruler there neutral. I must deal with the Austrians, our present hosts, who, if they had sent the five thousand men they promised, might have allowed me to hold on at Toulon until enough troops arrived from England. Then there are the Italian states, Genoa and Naples, the Ottomans and half a dozen other powers who must not be driven into the arms of the French, and I find every decision I make questioned by a man, Sir William Hotham, who has the task of supporting me and signally fails to do so.’
‘Milord,’ Parker said.
‘Help yourself to wine, Pearce,’ Hood said, as his steward placed a decanter and some fruit on the table. As the man departed, he added. ‘I am going to take you into my confidence.’
‘Milord.’
‘Parker, do stop saying that.’
‘I feel you are being incautious.’
‘Odd, is it not, Pearce?’ Hood said. ‘You are such an argumentative sod I actually think I can trust you.’
‘I don’t seek your trust,’ Pearce replied quietly.
‘No, and it might turn out to be a burden, but I fear the letters I will give you might not convey the true import of what I want to say, letters never do. I want Hotham removed and I want it done with despatch, for I cannot continue in command with him as my leading subordinate. You know, we both know, he set up Barclay’s court martial to fail…’
‘Which may bring him down, milord.’
‘You have more faith in politics and the law than I, young fella. What I want you to do is to back up what I have written.’
‘In what way?’
‘You do not see that Hotham will go out of his way to bring you harm?’
‘You’re sure he will do that?’ Pearce asked.
‘He has, to mollify Barclay, put you in mortal danger more than once, and if you can think of another reason why he delayed my orders for HMS Hinslip to evacuate the St Mandrier hospital I cannot. He knew you were there.’
‘So was Captain Barclay. Would he abandon him too?’
‘I doubt he knew that he was even wounded, let alone where he was, but does it occur to you that Barclay himself may have become a threat to Hotham?’ Parker gave a hearty cough. ‘My captain of the fleet thinks I speculate too far but believe me, Pearce, if he knew what you were planning to do regarding Barclay he would seek to stop you and I think he would go to any lengths. I cannot say that in my despatches, nor can I be that open in a letter, which could very well be read by others, but you can say it in private. You can drive home just how pernicious is his influence and help Billy Pitt to make up his mind.’
Suddenly Hood stood up. ‘Find yourself some accommodation ashore, send word to my clerk where you are, and as soon as we know which vessel will be going home to refit we will put you and those fellows you have fought so hard to free aboard her.’
‘Thank you, milord, and the letter I came to collect?’
Hood growled, showing something of his former mood. ‘I think it best if I hold on to my correspondence, don’t you, given the way you just used my seal. Can’t have you carrying them around, can we, never knowing who you might threaten.’
Sir William Hotham was writing a personal letter of his own, not to William Pitt but to his own political patron, the Duke of Portland, leader of the faction of Whigs who voted under his banner and supported the Tory government in its pursuit of the war with France. Highly unpopular in many quarters, the war was most vehemently opposed by the main section of the Whigs under Charles James Fox. He was supported, more for personal advantage than from any deep conviction, by the Prince of Wales. Like most heirs to a throne, Prinny was at loggerheads with his father, King George, and, conscious of the state of the parental health, sought a Regency.
This not being the first letter he had composed questioning Samuel Hood’s dispositions as C-in-C of the Mediterranean fleet, he nevertheless felt it necessary for the sake of clarity to reiterate some of his previous objections to the way the present campaign had been run, not least in the way Lord Hood had made accommodation with the French Royalist naval officers over the occupation of Toulon. It was to his advantage that not all of their capital ships had been destroyed in the recent evacuation, though in his letter, as opposed to Hood’s despatches, there would be no mention of the Spanish reluctance to see Britannia too dominant.
Even though it was months since he and Hood had fallen out over that subject, the mere recollection was enough to make Hotham flush angrily: his sound advice had been overruled and ignored. Toulon had been at their mercy, but his commanding officer, instead of sending them an ultimatum, surrender or be destroyed, had sent them an offer of accommodation, allowing them to become allies of the pan-European anti-revolutionary cause. They should have taken Toulon by force, destroyed every ship they could not man and every facility in sight, then withdrawn, leaving the place to the Jacobins to do with what they wished.
It was, as all his previous letters had been, a critique of the way things were being run by a man well past his prime, the obvious concomitant being that matters would have progressed better under his own hand. At no time did he mention the strained personal relations between himself and Hood, nor his manifest attempts to modify his clearly stated orders: this was a more-in-sorrow-than-anger type of letter. Sanded and sealed, he held it in his hand for a moment, before calling for his steward to order up his barge.
‘I am going to call upon poor Captain Barclay, who is, I believe, bound for the shore hospital. Send for Mr Burns to accompany me.’
Poor Captain Barclay was seething and in pain; the man before him, Lieutenant Glaister, already lambasted for his manifest failures, sat stony faced and, in his case, it made him look barely alive. Glaister would, by a kindly observer, be called fine-boned; the less well disposed would describe him as skeletal, with his pronounced cheekbones, high forehead, delicate, if pronounced, nose, none of which was well defined by his pallid skin, wispy fair hair and pale eyebrows. He even spoke like a corpse, in his slow Highland way. Behind Glaister stood Cornelius Gherson, relieved that it was now the Scotsman getting it in the neck, not, as previously, him.
‘I might remind you,’ Barclay spat, doing just that, given he was repeating himself, ‘that we are in the very place where such as
we gained from the Toulon arsenal might have been usefully disposed of.’
Slowly, Glaister looked at the bulkhead separating the convalescent space from the rest of Captain Sidey’s cabin, a silent plea for Barclay to lower his tone. Not a wealthy man – most of his pay was remitted to his father and his worthless Highland estate – he knew to nearly the penny the value of that which he had seen tossed into the harbour at Toulon, but he also knew the penalty for discovery. What he had become engaged in was illegal and criminal but it stood a chance of turning a profit, and while his captain had command of the ship and all the responsibility, he was all for it.
But with Barclay wounded and him in temporary command of HMS Brilliant, he had become exposed. What if a new captain was appointed? It was a situation in which he would bear the brunt of any opprobrium and he was half sure that Barclay, personally threatened, would deny all knowledge of what the bulging holds of the frigate contained: stores stolen from the French warehouses with the contrivance of the fellows who worked there, payment being a promise to evacuate them in case Toulon was abandoned, not an undertaking ultimately fulfilled.
‘We would have had every privateer captain in Leghorn begging us for those supplies,’ Barclay whispered, at least taking cognisance of the dangers of being overheard, then wincing as he moved his arm. ‘A mint of money, Glaister, and all in hard coin.’
‘Have you heard yet what is to happen to the command of HMS Brilliant, sir?’
‘No.’
That was another cause for concern to the wounded man: Hotham had hinted at Ralph Barclay shifting to a ship-of-the-line, a seventy-four, but that had gone from being a promise to a possibility, the whole notion now complicated by his aching wound. There would be no new command till he was fully recovered.
‘I wondered if we would be seeing a new commanding officer aboard,’ Glaister added.
An Ill Wind Page 9
