By the Mast Divided

by David Donachie

  Nor could he lay any claim to having had, of his three other appointments, a good day. His first port of call had been to the people he wished to appoint as his prize agents. The firm of Ommanney and Druce had impressive offices in the Strand: high-ceilinged rooms with elaborate cornices, heavy crystal chandeliers, excellent furniture, attentive and obsequious clerks and servants who never stinted on the Madeira. The partners themselves were rich men and the atmosphere of calm wealth that pervaded their premises, besides raising a degree of jealousy in their visitor’s breast, stood as ample testimony to the many successful naval officers for whom they had acted. Portraits of some of those lined the walls, admirals, commodores and captains who had earned fortunes fighting England’s enemies, including one by Joshua Reynolds of Ralph Barclay’s late patron, Admiral Lord Rodney.

  The partners had welcomed him as an old if not valued customer. Having commanded a frigate during the last stage of the American war, though without much in the way of distinction, he had put a modicum of money their way. Five years on the beach had frayed things and as men who knew to within an inch the value of a captain’s reputation, as well as the nature of his present commission, they had judged Ralph Barclay to be worth ten minutes of their time. It was ten minutes of unstinting flattery because it was an axiom of the trade that you never knew who was going to be Midas – the most unlikely naval officer could capture a treasure ship and move from poverty to wealth in a blink, lining the pocket of his prize agent along the way.

  Within those ten minutes it had been made plain that the firm of Ommanney and Druce was unwilling to advance him funds upon the expectation of future profit. Had he lined their pockets deep in the past, as had some of his fellow West Indian officers, it would have been seen as a credible risk, but he had not. He could exude as much confidence as he liked and claim that, with orders that would take him to the Mediterranean, the opportunity existed in a war so newly declared to snap up prizes in the Bay of Biscay. Both partners would know that he was short on his complement, they might even know that in the article of hands he had too high a ratio of landsmen to proper seamen, because such men saw it as their job to know everything. And they would know that Captain Ralph Barclay was neither famous enough, rich enough, aristocratic enough nor popular enough to man his ship with volunteers. He depended on the Impress Service and his own efforts, and that was no basis on which to advance large sums of money that might flounder due to the actions of a limited and inexperienced crew.

  He was not a risk they were prepared to support. Let him go to a moneylender and pay his rates. If he had success he would be able to afford them, if he did not, he might end up being chucked into the Marshalsea, had up for debt, but that was no concern of theirs. They had seen him to the door that opened out on to the bustling Strand, an act of courtesy that cost them nothing, but one that should suffice to stop this rather undistinguished officer from taking his business elsewhere.

  The day had not improved. He had to deal with a moneylender who was just as well informed as his prize agents, who knew the value of a year’s sea pay for the captain of a sixth rate at eight shillings a day and that would only be settled by the Admiralty twelve months hence – taking no account of sums that might be wanting from the way Barclay ran his ship, or debts incurred by any number of extraneous factors. He was also a man who could calculate a risk to the point of obscurity, and Ralph Barclay left that office, grim-faced and irascible, with a purse much too light for his needs, and a debt to pay that should he fail to take a prize, would cripple him for years to come. His only comfort was that the queue of captains and lieutenants who filled the waiting room was testimony to the fact that he was not alone in being strapped.

  If there was a naval officer who went to sea without the need to raise a loan he had never met him and he doubted he existed. Even admirals who had garnered riches in their careers could rarely raise the cash to fund the service they undertook in defence of their nation; they would, like him, pledge their plate and their credit then wait years, sometimes a decade, for the sums to be fully reimbursed by the penny-pinchers at the Admiralty and the Navy Board. As Barclay made his way to the Admiralty through the deep stench, streets full of horse dung and runnels of human waste, and the teeming crowds of London, he had reflected that if the whole Great Wen reeked of corruption, he was on his way to an establishment that in every respect outdid the city.

  ‘Lord Hood will see you now, Captain Barclay.’

  That request had broken Ralph Barclay’s somnolent train of thought, the umpteenth rehearsal in his head of what he was going to say to the man who ran King George’s Navy, a way to convey the parlous nature of his situation without in any way forfeiting the dignity that went with his rank. In his imaginings sweet words had flowed, convincing statements to sway even the most jaundiced soul – Hood would see his case as one requiring succour, and lift from his shoulders what he knew to be his major concern. But the sliver of confidence his reverie had engendered had been checked somewhat by the looks he had received from the other officers crowding the waiting room, one or two of envy, several of blatant fury that he was being favoured over them.

  Hungry, it being well past his three o’clock dinnertime, Ralph Barclay had stood and nodded to the group, some of whom had been there when he arrived an hour and a half before. He had left behind numerous lieutenants and a pair of grey-haired captains desperate for a ship, a party for whom the fleet could not expand fast enough. Each would have, like he had in the past, bombarded Lord Hood with letters, backed up by pleas from anyone of influence they could muster: a senior officer with whom they had served who remembered them with warmth enough to put pen to paper, their sitting MP if they shared his politics, relatives and connections however distant and however light they stood in the counsels of government. Now they were on their last throw; the hope that a personal plea would gain them employment. They would sit here all day if necessary, and the following day as well, some fated never to gain entry.

  Hood had not looked up as Ralph Barclay entered, which had done nothing for his mood, already unsettled from hunger and impatience. Instead he had riffled through a stack of letters, reading swiftly and briskly dictating to a secretary, each letter being added to a second pile as a decision was arrived at. With lamps lit due to the fading outside light, he had examined the admiral’s face and demeanour. Having met Samuel Hood on quite a few occasions the reddish-cratered skin, the heavy brows over direct and intolerant eyes and the voice, full of sibilants from his ill-fitting teeth were familiar, though the bulbous nose was somewhat bigger than Ralph Barclay remembered. Hood had been dressed in a blue coat edged with gold braid, with a puffy lace ruff at the neck, which had seemed a touch dandified for a man of his age and appearance.

  ‘Regrets that I cannot oblige Captain Stoddart at present, but I am in anticipation that the expansion of the fleet will see his obvious merit rewarded, though a ship-of-the-line may be beyond my power to grant. This one to the Duke of Grafton. Your Grace has been practised upon. I fear the officer who sought your intervention has shown great economy in providing you with details of his career, which as a measure of character leaves much to be desired. I hope that I will not be brought to write to you again on this, but I assure you that should any officer of merit seek your assistance, I would be happy to have you plead in the future on his behalf.’

  Hood had then looked up and said, ‘Captain Barclay.’

  ‘Milord,’ Ralph Barclay replied, ready to continue, only to be rudely checked as Hood went back to another letter.

  ‘This one to Mr Dundas. It has been my intention to provide for Lieutenant Macksay as soon as a suitable place can be found. I abjure you to be patient as I know him to be an excellent and competent officer worthy of your recommendation.’

  Hood’s tone was at odds with the words, but then Henry Dundas was a powerful man, head of a clutch of Scottish MPs and close to the Prime Minister, William Pitt; someone too puissant for a request that a man he favoured
be denied. Lieutenant Macksay might be a donkey with two left feet, half blind, incompetent and a danger to any vessel in which he sailed. With a sponsor as powerful as Henry Dundas he would certainly get a place.

  Ralph Barclay had then experienced a slight sinking feeling, for that thought had brought home to him his own paucity in that area. In the world in which he lived influence was everything, and that was a commodity of which he was very short. It galled him because he had realised that he must, in this room and in his situation, plead for help, and that was an act for which he was, by nature, unsuited. Nevertheless it must be so, and Barclay steeled himself to the task.

  Samuel, Lord Hood, had sat back suddenly, waving away the secretary, in what Ralph Barclay had suspected to be a deliberate act of dramatisation – the message: I am seeing you because I feel I must, not because I would choose to do so.

  ‘I am plagued by correspondence, Barclay. I swear most of my day is taken by it.’

  ‘The burdens of rank, sir.’ Ralph Barclay had meant that as a sympathetic remark, a platitude to soften Hood up, but his empty stomach had worked upon his natural irascibility to make his voice sound grating and unsympathetic.

  ‘As you will find should you ever get your flag,’ Hood had growled, before adding, ‘but now that you have seen how occupied I am, perhaps you would do me the honour of coming to the point of why you have called, given that, unlike all the officers in this pile of correspondence, and that throng of ne’r do wells crowding my waiting room, you already have a ship.’

  Ralph Barclay had fought to compose his features into something approaching empathy, difficult given that it went so much against the grain. He didn’t like Samuel Hood and the man knew it, and it was a sentiment he suspected was heartily reciprocated. Barclay had been a client officer of Hood’s one time superior George Rodney, and he was very partisan in support of the man Hood hated, and held to be the singly most corrupt officer he had ever had the misfortune to serve with. To Barclay Rodney had been a genius – if he was flawed, inclined to play ducks and drakes with official funds and a touch prone to promote undeserving officers – that was part of the estimable whole. Hood was a plodder, with none of the gifts of leadership that Rodney had displayed – the ability to inspire seamen to a superior order of courage in battle, to smell out his enemies and bring them to a fight.

  With the sudden feeling that such thoughts might be reflected on his face, Barclay had blurted out, ‘Hands, milord.’

  ‘Hands, Barclay?’ Hood had responded, voice grave and eyes enquiring under heavy grey eyebrows.

  Ralph Barclay had finally found the tone he was seeking – of camaraderie – that of one serving naval officer sharing a worry with another. ‘I am likely to be ordered to sea shortly, milord, to escort a convoy to Gibraltar.’

  Those words, delivered with a wry smile, had done nothing to dent Hood’s testiness; he had replied with an air of studied impatience that Barclay found infuriating. ‘I have a vague recollection of your orders, Barclay, since it was I who signed them.’

  Ralph Barclay had found it necessary to take a deep breath before replying. ‘Well, milord, you may also be aware that I have scarce a dozen hands to send aloft on a topsail yard.’

  ‘Do you want your orders changed, or is it that you wish to decline the duty?’

  Hood, in his expression, had made no attempt to hide the fact that he would be pleased to see Barclay take the second route. He had appointed him to Brilliant, not through any appreciation for either his personality or his reputation, but merely because his claim to preferment, the accumulation of past service and the letters he had received reminding him of it, had been too strong to deny without facing accusations of bias against officers who had been attached to George Rodney. Powerful he might be, but in the tangled skein of present day politics he had a requirement to be careful. Not that he had over-indulged Barclay, who had sent in a list of subordinates he wished to take with him, a list Hood had taken some pleasure in refuting with the reply that HMS Brilliant ‘would be provided a very decent set of officers’ with which he was sure Captain Barclay ‘would be most content’.

  ‘I do most emphatically not want my orders changed, sir,’ Barclay had replied, trying again for a comradely tone, ‘but I’m short of my complement to such a degree that I fear it will render my ship ineffective should I come face to face with the enemy. Should fortune favour me with the opportunity, my natural inclinations would encourage me to be bold, to go yardarm to yardarm. It would be a great sadness to have to let an enemy sail by for want of the men with which to engage.’

  Hood had frowned, heavy eyebrows coming down to cloud those direct blue eyes. ‘Let an enemy sail by? That, sir, I find a startling statement to hear from the lips of a serving officer.’

  ‘I have heard that the Impress Service is holding volunteers at the Tower of London.’

  Hood had picked up another letter then, with the intention, Barclay reckoned, of avoiding looking him in the eye. ‘Have you, by damn. I must say this is not something that anyone has seen fit to tell me.’

  The word ‘liar’ had filled Ralph Barclay’s head, but he was not fool enough to mouth it. Like most other officers short of men, he knew the truth. There were two fleets assembling, one for the Channel and one for the Mediterranean. Hood wanted the Channel Fleet, the premier naval command, which would keep him close to home and politics. Service in the Mediterranean would oblige him to relinquish all the perquisites of patronage that went with his office as the senior serving sailor on the Board of Admiralty – the ability to advance officers who were his followers.

  But he had a rival for the Channel in the Irish peer, Admiral Lord Howe, known as Black Dick. Hood’s superior officer on the admiral’s list, Black Dick also happened to be a favourite of the King, who was a strong advocate of appointing him to the Channel, so the matter hung in the balance. Hence the men at the Tower, and Hood’s reluctance to release them for duty; that he would do when he knew which fleet he was to command, and every volunteer would go to man his ships. Let the other lot go begging. It could be decided tomorrow, in a week, or it might take a month; all would be too late for Ralph Barclay.

  ‘As for being short of hands, Barclay, I don’t recall a time when I ever went to sea in any other state than short on my complement. Every other commander would doubtless say the same. Yet I think I can safely say I served country and my sovereign despite that constraint.’

  Aware of the weak and wheedling note in his voice, and damned uncomfortable because of it, Barclay had replied, ‘My deficit is in the nature of near thirty per cent, sir, and I am chronically bereft of trained seamen.’

  ‘Seek volunteers, man.’

  Barclay had glared at Hood then, any attempt at supplication evaporating, for that he had already done, sending recruiting parties out into the countryside, with posters promising wealth and adventure, and spending what little money he had been able to borrow to purchase drink and food as temptation, the only problem being he had to compete with parties sent out by dozens of other captains in the fleet. Every party seeking hands saw it as their duty to tear down each other’s posters; to disrupt each other’s gatherings and in extreme cases to pinch each other’s recruits. Thus the lanes bordering England’s coast this last month had resounded more from blows traded between competing crews than any other noise. His parties, after several bruising encounters with cudgels and cosh had gathered some volunteers, but nowhere near enough for him to both sail and fight his ship.

  Hood had been just as unsympathetic to that explanation. ‘You must, like all other officers, apply to the Impress Service without any excessive leverage from my office.’

  Ralph Barclay had made pleas in abundance to the Impress Service, the official body responsible for naval recruitment, and they had fallen on deaf ears. As the agents of the Navy Board they were supposed to take in the men who volunteered, then parcel them out to the waiting ships by a process that was as mysterious as it was inefficient. They also s
ent out the official press gangs, made up of professional ruffians who would take up wandering sailors in the easiest place to find them, off the coast from incoming merchant vessels or in the ports that ringed the British shore. A bounty per head meant they were dead set against competition. Being both numerous and brutal enough to enforce their claim, it was a brave captain that tried to compete on their turf; he could well find himself losing hands rather than gaining any.

  Whatever men were gathered – by fair means or foul – were sent aboard ships captained by those who knew how to return a favour, usually in coin. So the working officers of the Impress Service, often men of low calibre, got a bribe to go with the cash bounty paid by the government. This was not an option for a man who had lived the five years since 1788 on half pay and had only recently got a ship, a man forced to pay usurious rates to a moneylender just to fund his first voyage. And all of that took no account of a selfish and ambitious admiral like the one before him who could keep the Press Tenders, hulks that should be full of sailors to man the fleet, empty. Indeed, keep hundreds of trained volunteers, prime seamen in the main, unoccupied at a place of his choosing, just so that he could man his own command.

  Ralph Barclay had realised then that no amount of pleading would do him any good. Looking his superior right in the eye he had said, ‘I have brought my boats upriver with me, sir, and if you could write an instruction to the officer in charge at the Tower to release the men I need…’

  Hood had cut right across him, quite unfazed by Barclay’s attempt to embarrass him. ‘I never knew you to be hard of hearing, Captain Barclay. I have already told you I have no knowledge of this. If you take leave to doubt that I would be interested to hear you say so, and having said it I would then ask you to put it in writing.’

  Which would be suicide, you over-braided bastard, Barclay had thought, as he reached into his coat pocket for a document which he hoped would protect from what he intended to do. ‘All I wish to put in writing is in this letter, sir, which brings to the attention of the Admiralty my concerns, given the situation in which I find both myself and my ship.’ Which was as good a way of saying to Hood, as he handed it to him, ‘Court martial me if you dare when I get into difficulties, of whatever nature, and a fair copy of this letter will be introduced as evidence to justify my actions’.