‘With their charges ashore they will stay snug in their quarters, or mix with the rest of the crew.’
‘The marine guard?’
‘I know Daws to be lax in the article of women at anchor. With the wardroom empty all the lobsters will be occupied making sure the whores don’t bring illicit drink aboard.’
‘Still, sir—’
‘Gherson, I cannot do it and you know why. If you are to have a future with me this is a deed that must be done, otherwise I might as well call upon Captain Daws and tell him he has a new hand for the lower deck.’
Cornelius Gherson, while thinking he had no choice, was also thinking that one day he would make Ralph Barclay pay for that threat.
‘Devenow will help you, by keeping watch, and if you wish, I will walk the main deck and seek to engage the wardroom servants in conversation should they show themselves.’
In the end the boats had to be used to warp HMS Grampus into Algeciras Bay, the great bight of water which housed Spanish warships on one side and a British squadron on the other, from where they had eyed each other, and occasionally fought each other, since the Treaty of Utrecht, which ceded the rock to the first King George, not surprising since his forces had possession of it and were not about to relinquish what was, after all, the key to the Mediterranean. Besieged several times, possession had often been hanging by a thread, but it was a central plank of British maritime policy, second only to command of the Channel, that it must be held whatever the cost.
Ninety plus years of occupation had turned it from a Spanish entity to a mixed one, for, while it had a strong garrison and many British officials, the place could not have functioned without the aid of the indigenes, happy to accept a steady wage and ignore whatever it was they owed to the Spanish Crown. The taverns looked, in all respects, as if they could have stood close to the hard of Portsmouth harbour, but the women who served the ale were as dark skinned as they were buxom. Every sort of vice was, of course, catered for and hardly had Grampus dropped her best bower anchor than the boats were in the water, to carry ashore those who desired to partake of the many pleasures Gibraltar had to offer.
That included trusted members of the crew, and given the Pelicans were not on the ship’s muster, it was not surprising they too were intent on going ashore. But it was officers and warrants first, obliging them to wait for a boat, since they were unwilling to pay for their transport. The last person in the wardroom, Pearce, stood in his tiny cabin weighing in his hand the fair copy of Barclay’s court martial report, a loose, bulky, sheaf of papers, wondering whether to take it ashore and deciding against it, yet being unsure if it was safe here. Lutyens he knew to be staying aboard, so he opted to leave it with him.
There was also Hood’s letter, sealed and still in its oilskin pouch, something the surgeon knew nothing about and it would be best kept that way, so he left it behind, along with the order releasing his friends from the service. Padlocking the chest did not occur to him: the only things he feared to lose were in his hands and any money he had was in his purse. His last act was to open the lantern that lit his cabin and extinguish the flame.
Bumboats surrounded the ship, trading through the gun ports and since, as Ralph Barclay had said, Captain Daws was no prig, women had come aboard to turn the lower decks into a scene of music, singing, and a fair amount of indiscreet carnality. Every one had been searched by marines for illicit spirits, rum and gin, a lot of which, given the cunning of the carriers, the lobsters failed to find, meaning that a degree of drunkenness was added to the mix. Such activities confined Emily Barclay to the quarters she had taken up, next to those of Heinrich Lutyens. She could hear the noise of merriment but would shudder to walk through it, just as she could also hear, through a very thin partition, the request that the surgeon take care of a package Pearce did not want to leave unattended while he was off the ship.
‘The transcript of the court martial, I presume?’ the surgeon enquired.
Pearce’s reply was soft, so low she had to struggle to hear it and was ashamed of herself for her eavesdropping, even more so for moving closer to do so more effectively.
‘Heinrich, I have never mentioned aboard this ship that I have possession of these papers and I would be grateful if you would avoid mentioning it too. Ships are not places to discuss secrets, something you have already alluded to.’
‘I am being admonished.’
‘You know I trust you of all people, so silence on this is mere precaution. Only you and my friends know Lord Hood let me copy the transcript of Barclay’s court martial and I would like it kept that way. If he knew of its existence, who knows what he might resort to in order to stop it reaching London.’
‘I shall put it in the case with my bone saws. No one will lay a hand on those for a superstitious fear that to do so might see them lose a limb.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You are going to enjoy the fleshpots of Gibraltar, I take it.’
‘I am going to share a drink with Michael, Charlie and Rufus, something I cannot do aboard ship. Fortunately Gibraltar is so awash with taverns we should have no trouble finding one where we will not be observed. I have some questions I need to put to them, questions to which I badly require answers.’
‘For instance, what you and they are going to do when you reach England?’
‘It is that obvious?’
‘To anyone with half a brain.’
‘A question, my friend, which applies equally to you.’
‘Odd, is it not, John? We have a ship full of people who fear going home as much as they yearn for it.’
That hit Emily hard, making her recoil from listening, so the last exchanges were nought but a murmur, making her wonder if they were about her.
Devenow was not pleased at being denied the pleasures being enjoyed all around him, both women and drink, but if Captain Ralph Barclay commanded, he would obey. Loitering near the wardroom doors, now without a sentry, his broad back covered the ingress of Cornelius Gherson, who called softly to cover his entry as, carrying a shed lantern, he slipped through one of the double doors, lest there be someone who had remained behind. The pantry, where the servants might loiter, he had checked first.
The main cabin was empty, as Barclay had predicted, the octagonal table that dominated the centre of the room – really a panelled and painted cover to hide the head of the rudder – and the chairs set by it, showing evidence of the hurried departure of those who messed here: working coats and hats slung off, brushes and the like that had been used to clean their best uniforms, a smattering of powder over the places where a wig had been carelessly dressed, for the master, older than the others, still adhered to that old-fashioned habit. Given the disorder, it was obvious what Barclay had said about the servants was true.
‘There are seven cabins,’ Barclay had informed him. ‘You can avoid the accommodation of the premier, his second lieutenant and the master, which are on the larboard side. There are four smaller cabins to starboard and Pearce will not be gifted anything approaching the best. The one you want will likely be that nearest to the quarter gallery that serves as the wardroom privy. I made sure Daws was aware of the poison he was carrying and I know that was a message he passed on to his officers. Pearce is lucky not to be bedded in the privy itself, but he will be close to the stink of the place, which serves him well.’
The space was tiny, painted white and barely big enough to sling the cot that filled it. The lantern, unshaded, revealed Pearce’s sea chest, with his initials upon it, parked beneath. Lifting the lid, the first thing Gherson saw was the oilskin pouch and that went straight into his coat pocket. Rummaging around, all he could discover were spare shirts and stockings, plus an old battered tin which, when he prised it open, revealed compacted, dry earth, a bit of which fell to the floor and had to be hurriedly brushed into the planking.
Satisfied he might have what he was looking for, Gherson shaded the lantern again and made his way back out on to the main deck, nodding
to Devenow to tell him that he could go and indulge himself with the rest of the crew. Then it was back to Ralph Barclay to open the pouch and see what it contained. The folded but unsealed order releasing the Pelicans, signed by Parker, was of interest, causing Barclay to curse both the captain of the fleet and the man he served.
It was also a strong indication that, despite Hood confirming the verdict of his court martial, he harboured doubts about it, which made Barclay wonder what that might portend, though he was quick to dismiss any worry. The trio named were lowly seamen so any threat they might present would be minimal. The response was different when he examined the letter.
‘The Right Honourable William Pitt MP,’ Barclay said, in a hushed tone, when he examined the superscription. Then he turned it over to look at the seal, catching his breath as he examined it. ‘Damn me, that’s Hood’s seal.’
‘May I?’ Gherson asked, holding out a hand, taking the letter and examining it when Barclay did as he was bid. ‘I take it you would wish to know the contents, sir?’
That got Gherson a hard look. ‘Am I right in thinking you can open this?’
‘Not only open it, but reseal it so no one would know it has been tampered with.’
‘I am forced to ask what it was you did to earn a crust prior to joining the navy, Gherson?’
That got a terse response. ‘I think you of all people, sir, know I did not join, I was pressed.’
‘That is all water under the bridge,’ Barclay spat, before laughing as he saw the horrified look on Gherson’s face. ‘An inadvertent pun but, by the devil, a good one.’
‘Let me take this to my berth.’
‘No. Whatever you do must be done in my presence.’
‘You do not trust me, sir?’
‘Nonsense,’ Barclay lied, ‘of course I do, but I want to see how it is done.’
Unconvinced, Gherson gave him back the letter and exited, to return in a few minutes carrying a knife so thin the blade appeared too flexible to wound. He also had a shaker of wig powder and a square of cloth.
‘Where did you get those?’
‘In Toulon, sir, where else? Please be so good as to fetch over that lantern and open the door.’
That done, Gherson lifted a cushion off the stern locker and smoothed the cloth over the bare wood, then he laid the letter on that and very carefully sprinkled a little powder around the seal. He indicated to Barclay to put the lantern down, heating his thin knife blade over the tallow flame, turning it this way and that until it glowed, then took it off the flame and allowed it to cool.
‘It must be hot, but not so that it will burn the paper on which the letter is written, which is fortunately of a very high quality.’
‘That makes a difference?’
‘Very much so, sir, given this would be much more difficult with paper of poor quality. That marks more readily.’
Kneeling down, Gherson spread his index finger and thumb and pressed down on the paper, peering close to slip the hot blade under the very edge of the seal, flattening it, then making a gentle sawing motion as he worked the wax loose.
‘The powder takes the heat not the paper, so there is no burn mark.’
Barclay reached for the now open letter, only to have Gherson knock his hand away. ‘You must wait till the wax has completely cooled.’
Ralph Barclay had to stop himself from swiping him with his one good hand: no one treated him with such contempt, but he was too curious about the contents of the letter to do so. Gherson closed the lantern door and, once he had unfolded the letter, he held it over the writing so that both Barclay and he could easily read it.
‘By damn, he’s trying to ditch Hotham, the old fraud.’
‘I see no mention of you, sir, and that I think is more important.’
‘Are you sure this was all you could find?’
‘Yes,’ Gherson snapped.
‘Do not get above yourself, Gherson, I won’t stand for it.’
‘What do you want to do with this?’
‘Can you reseal it?’
‘Of course.’
Ralph Barclay had to restrain himself again: no one talked to him in such a manner, damn near to sneering, regardless of their nefarious skills.
‘Then it needs to be copied, resealed and returned to Pearce’s sea chest.’
‘What?’
‘Which, Gherson, means you best get about it.’
He had to take it back to his berth, carefully refolded and hidden inside his coat. There he quickly copied what Hood had written and took it back to Barclay’s cabin, where, blowing off what powder remained, he reheated his knife and ran it over the exposed back of the seal, taking care to keep his other hand underneath the wax to ensure it did not drip. The act of resealing was carried out quickly, pressure applied to allow the melted wax to congeal. Having waited to make sure it was solid, Gherson slipped it back into the oilskin pouch.
‘You will have to aid me, sir.’
‘What!’ Barclay exclaimed, lifting his head from Gherson’s fair copy.
‘Devenow went to join his kind. If he is not astride some whore he will be in drink and I would not trust him in that state to keep watch for me.’
‘No, Gherson, I cannot be seen to be complicit. This is a task you must carry out alone.’
‘What if I were to suggest, sir, that it need not be returned?’
‘You’re not shy are you, man?’
‘No, sir, I am at risk, while you are not.’
‘In a good cause, Gherson,’ Barclay replied, trying and failing to suppress a yawn. ‘Best, I think, you do what must be done quickly.’
The mutual eye contact was far from friendly, but both men knew that there was little choice in the matter.
‘After all,’ Barclay added, ‘we would not want you caught in the wardroom once our stalwarts come back from their revels. It is not unknown for officers in drink to be free with their fists.’
Sat anxiously, with the book she had been trying to read in her lap, Emily Barclay prayed that Lutyens would leave his part of their shared berth, while also alternating between determination and apprehension. There was also the problem of justifying her intention, rationalised on the grounds that, with difficult decisions to make regarding her own future, she needed to know what Pearce’s words portended for the man to whom she was married. Every time she tried to read, the words ‘perjury’ and ‘court martial’ played on her mind and it was with a panicked reaction she got the book up to her nose as the screen twitched before being hauled back.
‘I must walk the deck and see what is going on,’ Lutyens said.
‘Hardly necessary, Heinrich,’ Emily replied automatically, before cursing herself. ‘You can hear enough to guess.’
‘A picture paints a thousand words.’
‘The picture of which you speak requires only one – disgraceful.’
That got her a wan smile. ‘We must not be too quick to judge.’
Then he was gone and she strained to hear his receding footsteps before pulling back the curtain once more to ensure he had truly departed. Seeing no one, she slipped quickly into the other berth, kneeling before the chest in which he kept his instruments, many secured to the lid of his chest. The case with the bone saws she recognised immediately, having seen it too many times since her first experience of helping him treat the wounded.
The papers were not hidden, they lay instead on top, and a quick perusal of the first sheets told her precisely what they contained, though her heart skipped a beat to read the words, written in a fine sloping hand, which opened her husband’s trial. Leafing through she came to the parts at which she had been present, the words, or to be more accurate the lies, familiar from memory. There was no time to read them all and no need: she knew what they were and that sufficed.
When Lutyens returned, looking in to say he had done so, she was still holding the book, but reading it, difficult before, had become impossible now.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
With a great deal of shipping in Gibraltar, finding a quiet corner to talk was not easy, that made doubly difficult by the obvious desire of his trio of friends to visit the more interesting fleshpots. Rufus in particular, having dipped his wick in Leghorn, was afire to compare where they were now with what he had experienced there, and it took damn near an order from John Pearce to get them to allow him the time he thought he needed.
‘Sure,’ Michael O’Hagan said, ‘the navy all comes down to where you are serving and who you are under, John-boy.’ Then he grinned. ‘And I’d add to that the number of heathens you have to mess with.’
‘Dogs lead a better life,’ said Charlie, leaving Rufus, who had been nodding at Michael’s opinion, half shaking his head at the same time.
‘Like the one you led when we met?’ asked Pearce.
‘I was my own master, John,’ Charlie insisted, before looking around, he being sat on the very edge of the booth they were occupying, to ensure he had not been overheard.
‘Holy Mary, Mother of God,’ Michael swore, crossing himself out of habit. ‘You as a master of anything makes a soul shudder.’
Pearce looked at him hard. ‘You were damn near starving, Charlie, and I recall your tankard was empty and I had to fill it.’
‘I had my mates,’ he replied, suddenly looking wistful. ‘Old Abel, God rest his soul, was a good friend, and Ben.’
‘I wonder whether he is still in the land of the living,’ said Rufus, his gaze on John Pearce.
‘Don’t look at me like that, Rufus. There was nothing I could do that would not get us all killed.’
That had them drinking silently and thinking about Ben Walker, who, for reasons of his own, had declined to leave HMS Brilliant and the command of Ralph Barclay, off the coast of Brittany, when given the chance. Pearce knew that to be a better vision of him than the last time he had clapped eyes on him, toiling as an emaciated slave, burdened by grain sacks and being whipped to move faster by a pitiless overseer on the Barbary shore. Ben had recognised John Pearce, blue coat and all, which had led to a confrontation with the whip-bearing overseer, and a noisy one at that, only to find himself surrounded by the quick arrival of armed men.
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