The Devil to Pay

by David Donachie

  ‘Make it so.’

  Back in the screened-off cubicle that served as his place of work Toomey began to assess what had happened and most tellingly how it affected him. Being clerk to an admiral – and a confidant – was a highly sought-after and well-rewarded position and he was determined to keep it, not least given he too expected Hotham to supersede Hood as C-in-C. This would, at a stroke, increase his stipend by half to £150 per annum, a sum above the pay of the captain of a fifth-rate frigate, very little of which he was required to spend, given the navy fed and accommodated him.

  The position had not come to him without application and effort; he had begun shipboard life as a purser’s mate and after much application became himself a purser, a position he found less than comfortable given it exposed the holder to much financial risk and a real if rare possibility of bankruptcy. It did however show his aptitude for letters and numbers and he had shifted to become clerk to the then Captain Hotham, a much more secure place to earn a wage.

  The Irishman had two burdens; one was his own ambition to comport himself as a gentleman, which he would achieve in time by husbandry of his money, something only broken by his very rare, indulgent runs ashore for a touch of debauchery. The other was a dependant family in Wicklow that, being to his mind idle, saw him as the source of all their needs and complained loudly when he often refused to meet their requests.

  In so readily aiding Hotham he had been, he now realised, seduced by his own abiding desire to be rated as ingenious, writing that letter when he should have been pointing out to the admiral the obstacles Pearce would have in getting Ralph Barclay, as a serving officer in the King’s service, into the dock without any prima facie evidence.

  Did that lawyer have something they did not know of? Toomey ran the thought through his head for, even if his legal knowledge was limited, it seemed to him that this matter would not be progressing unless Lucknor and Pearce reckoned a case could be made. Were there facts of which he was not aware and if there were he had to acknowledge the only time he would be made so was when it proceeded to some kind of indictment and that was a thought to induce anxiety.

  What to do now? The notion of betrayal to save himself could not be included? He had to keep his place for to be dismissed – and he would not put it past Sir William to do so if he thwarted his wishes or failed to aid him – was to be cast into an unknown future. Would another officer employ him when such an elevated personage had clearly found him wanting? They certainly would not if he helped to ruin him.

  There was a very distinct possibility the whole thing could blow up in his face and that of Hotham too, a fact of which the admiral could not be unaware. The three main players in this seedy affair were about to be in the same place. Pearce and HMS Larcher would return to San Fiorenzo Bay and Toby Burns was already here. The only person missing was Ralph Barclay and, according to that despatch, his arrival was imminent.

  ‘Whatever you have in mind, Hotham,’ he whispered to himself, as the ramifications of that combination ran through his mind, ‘it had better be a stroke of genius. Might be best to let Barclay plough his own furrow!’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  If asked, the Captain of HMS Semele would have told anyone who cared to listen that he was not one to enjoy the duty he was now obliged to undertake; it was however one he would not shirk. The whole crew were on deck, here to witness punishment being meted out to one of their number. Some would see it as a travesty, the sea lawyer types that plagued every vessel in the King’s Navy. Others, and Barclay reckoned the majority, knowing the man had got himself drunk, going on to rudely abuse the premier, would reckon him to be getting what he deserved.

  ‘Mr Penny,’ he asked his youngest and brand-new lieutenant, ‘this man serves in your division. Do you have anything to say in his defence?’

  The youngster was as white as a sheet, showing that he clearly did not relish either being on deck or the notion of witnessing what he was about to watch. That for his commanding officer was telling; he held a man who shied away from this might also shy away from a full engagement it battle. Unknown to Penny there was now a question mark against his name for, if most aboard the seventy-four gunner had been in the Battle of the Glorious First of June, he had not.

  ‘Perkins has been diligent in his duty, sir, and this is the first time he has given me cause for concern.’

  A well-worn mantra, Barclay thought and one I have used myself but it will not serve. He replied to Penny but the message was for all assembled. ‘If a man transgresses, Mr Penny, then he must be brought to a reminder of his duty, for if he is not bad behaviour is prone to become a habit. Bosun, seize him up!’

  It was the bosun’s mates who did the seizing, taking some delight in a dramatic ripping of the man’s shirt, the replacement for which he would have to pay the purser, which thus added an additional punishment to what he was about to endure. By the time he was lashed to the grating, one clear fact had been established; this was not his first flogging; his back bore the scars of previous chastisement and that got Penny a jaundiced look from his captain; diligent in his duty, is he?

  ‘Carry on.’

  The bosun stepped forward and loosed the cat, freshly made for this day’s work, which had Barclay eyeing it to see if it was of the right quality and would be painful when employed. He knew that it was possible to be humbugged by the instrument, for the bosun’s mates to manufacture one that scarce marked the skin; indeed he had been so mocked in the matter on one occasion.

  Given the man at the grating on that instance had been John Pearce, more trouble than any common sea lawyer and the swine, moreover, who had run off with his wife, he felt the bile rise in his throat as the first crack of the whip hit flesh. Six times this was repeated and with commendable gusto on behalf of the bosun; he laid in with a will to create huge red weals. The skin broke of the third lash and in his mind’s eye Barclay envisaged a different back to that actually before him. Then he glanced sideways at Penny, to see the man’s eyes closed.

  ‘Attend to it, Mr Penny,’ he growled softly. ‘If you serve long enough in the navy you will witness much worse than this.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir,’ the lieutenant replied, opening his eyes, but raising them high over the scene before him.

  ‘Take him down,’ came the order as the last of the six hit home, sending blood spraying in several directions, some of it far enough to carry beyond the canvas spread to catch it. ‘And I would like my deck pristine, as it should be!’

  This order, delivered to no one in particular, was sent out as Barclay made his way to his cabin, Perkins being carried below to be attended upon by the surgeon. Right behind the captain came Devenow, a huge and brutish fellow who had endured more floggings than most, some of them wished upon him by the man he so slavishly attended upon. He was rated as a servant, if that was the correct word for a man who could not serve a tureen of soup without spillage, nor let a bottle pass out of the pantry from which he had not taken a swig.

  Devenow always stayed close to Ralph Barclay and not just through admiration for man he held as near a father to him. The captain, with only one arm, even with his very good sea legs, was at risk of a fall if the deck shifted suddenly and with unexpected strength; his servant was there to steady him. On the rare occasions it happened, such a stumble usually got Devenow a mouthful of abuse.

  ‘The Master has just informed me we will raise the mouth of the Tagus tomorrow.’

  This observation, delivered as he entered his great cabin, was barked at Cornelius Gherson, his clerk, who lifted his head in response to reveal his absurdly handsome, almost girlish face, which, topped as it was with fine blond hair, had led many a woman a merry dance. Given his preference for the married kind this had usually an expensive one for both her and her cuckolded spouse.

  ‘Then let us pray, sir, there is something for us.’

  ‘My coat, Devenow.’

  That had the servant step forwards to take his hat then help his master remove th
e heavy blue garment, tipped with the twin epaulettes that told all that its owner was a full post captain on more than three years’ seniority. Gherson had ceased to look at Barclay, instead to cast his eye on Devenow and the change in his expression was striking, going from supplicant to distinctly malevolent which changed what was handsome to one unattractively surly.

  The pair loathed each other, which suited the man who employed them right down to the deck planking; sure that everyone in the world was capable of conspiring against him, including his inferior officers and his naval peers and superiors, Ralph Barclay preferred those who served him to be so disunited for they would never combine in any way that would be detrimental to him.

  ‘You’ll boat ashore as soon as we anchor off Lisbon, Gherson.’

  ‘Surely we would want to see if there are any plate ships in the roads, sir.’

  ‘There may be specie destined for the fleet that we can carry that has not come in from the Americas.’

  Fat chance of that, Gherson reckoned, and if it had some other sod would have got the passage of it and thus the reward of a percentage of the value. A greedy fellow himself, and not an entirely honest one, Gherson was quick to lay the label on others for faults he himself had but would deny. Ralph Barclay and he formed a strange combination; the clerk had scant respect for his employer’s intelligence and not much more for him as a person, albeit with the full realisation that the man did not care.

  Being loved figured low on Barclay’s list of priorities; what mattered to him was his career; that he should suffer no blemish on his record, should rise in the service, in time to hoist his own flag and profit from it on the way. There lay the glue that bound the pair together, for Gherson was just as eager that Barclay should prosper as was the captain himself, for he too would profit by it.

  If Ralph Barclay was hurt by his wife’s desertion – and he was – it was as much to do with the potential dent to his standing as the loss of her connubial affections and added to that he felt cheated by her ingratitude. Had he not taken a slip of a girl from a provincial background and opened up to her a world of opportunities. She had rewarded him by taking up too much of what was on offer, not least the freedom to criticise his actions both as a husband and naval officer.

  ‘I will want a letter composed to be sent off to Ommaney & Druce. They need to be reminded to keep me informed of what they are up to and such types are over prone to think that out of sight is out of mind.’

  ‘Already partly composed, sir,’ Gherson responded.

  He lowered his head to hide a thin smile as his employer sat down on the well-cushioned casement lockers, Devenow having disappeared to the pantry. The firm served as Barclay’s prize agents and looked after his investments, quite substantial now that he had garnered a great deal of prize money since the start of the war. There was a merchant ship taken off Brittany at the very outbreak, still in dispute at the Admiralty court and another rescued from Barbary pirates on his last visit to the Mediterranean, both deep laden with valuable cargoes.

  But the greatest boost to his funds came from his very recent participation in the Battle of the Glorious First of June, a fleet action that had led to several enemy capital vessels being taken captive. When the various sums were added up – the value of the hulls, guns and head money for captured sailors, he and his fellow tars, down to the meanest waister, had shared in rewards in excess of £200,000. If he had subsequently fallen out with Lord Howe, the man who commanded the battle, he had been entitled to his share of the proceeds.

  Condescended to by those very same Prize Agents at the outbreak of the present conflict as the impecunious captain of a frigate – Barclay had been on the beach for five years and was in straitened circumstances – he was now treated like royalty when he called upon them to see how his investments fared. Not that he deigned to examine the accounts himself; that was left to his clerk, while he consumed the best claret Ommaney & Druce could provide.

  Unbeknown to Barclay, Gherson was working on their behalf, on a commission basis, to ensure their firm made maximum profits from the captain’s money, sometimes in very speculative investments that they would hesitate to risk with their own money. What Gherson told his employer – that most of his funds were in safe Government Consols, and what was imparted to him by Edward Druce the partner he dealt with, were never quite the same.

  ‘I’ll be glad to be in the Med, I must say,’ Barclay sighed, in what was for him near to a confidence. ‘Not only has it been a happy hunting ground in the past, but I will be able to settle my domestic affairs once and for all.’

  There was no need to refer to Emily Barclay; Gherson knew all about the captain’s troubles in that area and had acted to aid him recover his wife on more than one occasion, not without risk to his own person. This was not undertaken out of regard; Gherson had started his naval life as a pressed seaman, only gaining his present position because of his obvious head for figures. It was one he had every intention of holding on to, for a clerk to a successful ship’s captain could find many ways to ensure that when any sums were expended, a certain amount, admittedly small, would be diverted in his direction.

  But it was the long-term aim that really mattered. Ralph Barclay was not far off the top of the list of post captains and in time, death and disgrace notwithstanding, he would rise to the rank of admiral and, being an active officer would likely be given some kind of command. These could be exceedingly lucrative – the two West Indies station and the Far East were worth a king’s ransom. None were without reward and regardless of those postings there was a war on and it looked set to last. There was a great deal of money to be made and Gherson reckoned that he could siphon off enough to set himself up for the rest of his life; the notion that he would spend it bowing the knee to Ralph Barclay was not one he envisaged.

  Emily Barclay had made that dream more taxing so he would do anything necessary to thwart her. Added to his financial considerations, he had once harboured designs on the lady himself only to be rudely rebuffed and, unaccustomed to having his advances checked that rejection, as well as her subsequent attitude of open dislike, had her marked in his mind as an enemy. Aware that his employer was looking at him and that some of the thoughts regarding the man’s wife might be apparent on his face, he sought to divert any suspicion by his usual method – sycophancy.

  ‘It is to be hoped we find more prizes in the Mediterranean, sir, to add lustre to your already sterling reputation.’

  That got Gherson a sour look, the flattery being so excessive Barclay knew it could only be deliberate, seeing it wrongly as his clerk’s preferred way of redressing what he clearly reckoned to be a false imbalance in their respective places. He was about to check him when Gherson added, in a less unctuous tone.

  ‘Speaking of your domestic affairs, sir, it may be a place to achieve a solution more difficult to manage than in England.’

  That had Barclay’s chin slump to his chest, for he was not unaware of what the man was driving at, hardly possible since Gherson had made little secret of the solution he advised to a problem that to his mind was intractable. With his past, which had involved a fair amount of criminality, how to resolve it was as plain as day and notions of morality could not be allowed to interfere. Emily Barclay should be got rid of!

  Her husband shied away from such extremes; he wanted his wife to return to the marital home – the bed was less important – for he feared loss of face more than a denial of his rights as a husband; the notion of men laughing at him behind his back as a cuckold ate at his very soul.

  ‘All to be considered, Gherson,’ he sighed, for he had not utterly discounted the possibility of what was being proposed, ‘all to be considered.’

  ‘It will also be interesting to see how your nephew Toby has fared.’

  ‘One of these days, Gherson, you will take your teasing too far. It is nor beyond the bounds of discipline to see a clerk tied to the same grating as the one from which I just departed and for the same reason.’


  ‘It was well intentioned, sir.’

  Gherson had replied quickly, having gone pale at the obvious threat and one he could not be sure was false. Ralph Barclay responded with a smile to the man’s obvious discomfort, content that he believed him.

  ‘Personally I hope the little turd has been chucked over the side by his shipmates, with a cannonball down his breeches.’

  Toby Burns was hunched over his books in the midshipman’s berth of HMS Britannia and he was worried; it seemed the more he read the less he recalled, for there were few words in his Seaman’s Vade Mecum or his Faulkner’s Dictionary that he had not studied a hundred times yet now it was as if he had never seen them before. He might have been told that the answers he had been given were those to the questions he would be asked but fate and his fellow humans had, to his mind, played so many false tricks the youngster had serious doubts they could be true.

  He knew in his heart he was not fit to be ranked lieutenant; indeed he could not fathom why it was that Sir William Hotham was so insistent he sit the exam. He was, for a start, too young, added to which he lacked the requisite sea time. Not that what was about to take place was unique; shipboard tales abounded of rules being broken by senior officers, of mere lads being elevated due to the level of their interest, normally a blood relationship to an admiral.

  The most scandalous had been the well-reported attempt by the late Admiral Rodney to raise his twelve-year-old son to the rank and income of post captain, an act so brazen it had been blocked by the Admiralty. If they had been sharp there enough examples of official laxity existed to give admirals on a distant station good enough reason to chance their arm.

  Then there was the feeling that Hotham was using it as another means to get rid of him, something the lad thought he had been trying to do for months, ever since that damned court martial at which he had been obliged to lie on his uncle’s behalf. Obliged was the wrong word, he had been intimidated and had felt insecure ever since, never more so than by the actions of the admiral, who, as he put it, to ‘was determined to give young Mr Burns every opportunity to distinguish himself’.