‘And you shall, sir. I see Lord Hood’s clerk frequently, given we have much to discuss, and with what is proposed for his master that will apply tenfold. That gives me an excuse to call upon him and I am sure he will tell me what orders have been issued to HMS Larcher if I ask.’
‘And?’
‘Let us say if he does, they will be routine and then we have nothing to concern ourselves with. If, on the other hand, he does not; if he ducks what is a seemingly harmless enquiry, then it will be enough to put us on our guard, which is all we need to be.’
Even if he had suffered nothing from being anchored within sight of HMS Victory, John Pearce was happy to see her upper poles diminish the further north he sailed; his lack of trust in Hood and his machinations was total and all the time he had been within hailing distance he had conjured up, based on past experience, any number of schemes into which the old sod could embroil him. It had happened too many times in the past to induce comfort, though Pearce had never thought to wonder why he was so often called upon to undertake some delicate or dangerous mission.
A lack of vanity would never allow him to think it was based on trust or his ability; more likely he had certain skills, not least a fluency in French that could be said to be in his favour when that nation was the enemy. In addition, Pearce supposed Old Sam saw him as expendable, not really a naval officer and also a fellow without parents or important connections, thus someone who would not command an explanation should he be lost on what could be seen as some hare-brained adventure.
Yet there was another side to the matter; if he had ever been reluctant to comply with Hood’s orders, John Pearce could not deny that he took some pleasure in the risks involved, as well as the overcoming of them. Running over such missions in his mind, going ashore at Toulon to help facilitate the surrender of the port, the various adventures since, he wavered between a remembrance of how nip and tuck many of the situations had been, mixed with satisfaction at having seen off the various difficulties.
Such self-regard fell apart as he recalled Gravelines and what had come from that escapade, which had nothing to do with Hood or the King’s Navy! He had put his life in danger as well as those of his friends to such an extent that it had come to haunt him after it should have died a death. Stood on the tiny area of planking that made the term quarterdeck risible, his knees giving and straightening with the rise and fall of the ship, he found another reason to rebuke himself.
The one overarching mission he had set himself, namely to get his friends their freedom from the navy had failed, for they were serving under him and doing so as volunteers. That would have been possible to live with if he had not been the cause. They took the King’s bounty that locked them into the service for the duration of the present war to save his skin!
Not being a fellow to excessively berate himself and long before they had raised Cape Corse, his mind had turned to the future not the past, only to settle on a matter that was utterly lacking in certainty, thus no more comfortable in contemplation. First there was the question of Emily Barclay, with whom he envisaged spending that future, for he could not for a moment believe her husband would just accept their affair.
The Ralph Barclay he knew was not that kind of man, this witnessed by the lengths he had already gone to in seeking to secure the copy of the papers from his court martial. If he had not personally broken into the offices of the solicitor where his wife had lodged them, then he had certainly engineered the attempt at recovery.
Added to that there was money, which if he was not on his uppers was not so plentiful that he could provide himself and his paramour with security – her notion that her now well-heeled husband should support her was not something the Pearce pride would countenance.
He was owed some prize money but it was not sufficient to support them both for long and, in truth, the only income he could boast of was his naval pay. The irony that he might need to maintain that was not lost on a man who had stated many times his desire to be shot of the uniform he wore and everything associated with it.
It seemed all his life he had lived on the wing, first endlessly traversing England in the company of his father, aiding him in disseminating his radical message – an end to monarchy and aristocratic privilege, universal suffrage for both men and women and a fair distribution of the wealth of the nation. He could see now, in his mind’s eye, his father on the stump, hectoring his listeners, often berating them for their own apathy, which sometimes was taken as truth but more often went down like a flagon of cold vomit.
He could smile now at the way they had often been obliged to flee, though it had been far from funny at the time, and even if they were still in one place long enough for Adam Pearce to drive home his message, his son, collecting in a hat the contributions necessary for them to eat and pay for shelter, had to keep a lookout for lads close to his own age who had an eye on the takings.
There had been other occasions where some local worthy had been keen to engage Adam Pearce in meaningful debate or even one who saw the radical orator as a soulmate: the latter had often led to a comfortable bed and regular food. Several winters had been spent in such ease, times when, instead of being paternally instructed in his letters and numbers, son John had been sent to a local school to continue his education.
Even being arrested and locked up in the Fleet Prison could be recalled without a true memory of the utter misery such a place represented. Incarcerated by a government who feared his words and ideals – many might have hailed the Revolution in France, but it was not seen as encouraging by those in power – good friends had got Adam and his teenage son free.
If the administration had hoped to silence the man they called the Edinburgh Ranter, they had spectacularly failed: if anything, confinement raised Adam Pearce’s profile more than his numerous and profitably selling pamphlets until eventually the government acted in a way that left no alternative for both father and son.
The King’s Bench Warrant for seditious libel had forced them to flee to Paris, for that was an offence which, with malice, could end up at Tyburn. Initially hailed by the men who had toppled their king, those who assumed power in France found Adam Pearce just as much trouble as King George and his ministers, for he was as keen to remind them of their failings, not least their recourse to the guillotine.
For all his ranting against privilege Adam had never advocated that anyone, monarch included, should die to see a more just world, for it could never be that if stained with blood. His growing son, taking the pleasures of Paris in his stride as he turned from youth to manhood, held even more jaundiced views on the fallibility of the human race, so that the admiration of childhood had morphed into that period when the child rarely agrees with the parent about anything.
A distance had grown up between them that John Pearce now deeply regretted, for he had loved his father deeply and respected him, even if he had disputed with many of his Panglossian notions of the innate goodness of their fellow man. Time and circumstance had put paid to the kind of relationship they might have enjoyed as adults and that was regrettable. Yet if old Adam had now gone, nothing seemed to have changed for his son: he was still living from day to day without any kind of settled future.
‘Sure that’s a brown study you’re in, John-boy.’
Pearce lifted his chin from his chest at the sound of that soft remark, to where it had sunk in contemplation, aware that his worries must have been evident in his expression. Habit, the need to hide those feelings even from his closest friend, made him force a smile.
‘How good it would be, Michael, to be able to see a clear path ahead.’
‘Me, sure I put my faith in God, and let him see to it.’
There being no reply to that, which would not cause an upset, religion being a thing they fundamentally disagreed about, Pearce cast his eyes over the prow, to see that they were about to come abreast of Cape Corse so it was nearly time to change course: how easy it was to do that on a ship and how difficult in life.
John Pearce was not the only one thinking on the future; Emily Barclay was wondering where life would take her now that she had made such a dramatic and irreversible choice, this driven home forcibly by being alone in a foreign city. In the world in which she had been raised a woman did not leave her husband and certainly never for a lover, which could only lead to her being ostracised by decent society; that there was another assemblage, a demi-monde who would turn a blind eye to such a state, was poor compensation for a girl brought up by respectable parents and inherited standards.
Set against that was the fact that she had decided to elope with John Pearce, and the happiness to which such an association had introduced her – the truth that it was possible to love and be loved and take pleasure just as much in the physical manifestation of same as the emotional. There was a time, not very far past, when such lubricious thoughts would have brought Emily to the blush but she was a fully grown woman now.
Long gone was the naivety that had led her into matrimony with a man twice her own age, along with the notion that he might be a person of some honour to go with his status as a post captain. The more she thought on Ralph Barclay the more she saw a beast instead of the being she was thinking of on the day of their nuptials, a man of parts who would give her a life of respectability and comfort.
He was a person of mean spirit, a captain who flogged his men with what she saw as scant justification, as well as a conspirator prepared to stoop to any level to gain his ends. But more than in any other sphere she rated him as a beast when it came to claiming his matrimonial rights. Disenchanted prior to the demonstration of that characteristic, Barclay had provided the final straw needed to break with him, though not for another – there had been no John Pearce; indeed, that she had been attracted to him was a mystery.
Walking the quayside under a floppy bonnet, very necessary to keep at bay the glare from an early morning sun, she was examining the endless tables full of the fruits of the sea, wondering if she should buy something to take back to her lodgings; would the woman who owned them be offended and if she was would it be obvious or disguised?
If her hometown of Frome was inland, it was yet provided with fresh fish, so Emily knew to look at the eyes, which would tell her how long the creature had been out of the sea. These examinations were, at each display, accompanied by a pitch from the vendor that the bella signorina must buy and the price would be special because of her beauty – or so she assumed, given they spoke a local Tuscan dialect incomprehensible even to their fellow Italians. If they comprehended her refusals in Inglese they were very adept at pretending they did not.
When it came to the heaped crustaceans, still alive and crawling over each other, their bodies shiny from the water with which they were periodically doused, she saw in the lobsters and crabs – and she admitted to herself it was fanciful – something of her own dilemmas: they were unsure of which way to go in an environment utterly alien to them; even those remaining still waved their claws in seeming despair.
‘Can I help you, Miss?’
The voice slightly startled her, first speaking English, being mixed, as it was, with yet more exhortations from the man selling the seafood. Then there was the appellation itself for she was in truth a Mrs, not a Miss. In the act of turning to face the enquirer certain impressions emerged: the fellow must have been observing her to know she was entitled to be addressed as a young Englishwoman, and since she had removed her wedding band long ago it was possible to assume that the lack of that had added to the way he had addressed her.
‘These fellows will dun you as soon as look at you, I’m afraid.’
The bonnet Emily was wearing flopped to the sides, which did much to hide her face, so that it only became truly identifiable full on. The moment when that happened shocked both her and the speaker, he the first to react.
‘Mrs Barclay?’
‘Lieutenant Digby,’ she replied, certain the nervous tremor would be obvious in her voice.
His hat was in the air now and he could not help but look out to sea at the various British men-o’-war that lay in the offing, as well as numerous transport vessels. ‘Forgive me, madam, I did not know Captain Barclay was even in the Mediterranean.’
In an act of physical defensiveness Emily had crossed her hands over her stomach, left fingers hidden by right, so that when Digby’s eyes dropped the lack of a wedding band was hidden. Had he observed that before he spoke to her? She did not know, but Emily was aware that however it was phrased the mention of her husband was a question and one demanding an answer.
‘You are, I assume, here with a ship, Mr Digby?’
The deliberate prevarication worked, for he was obliged to reply. ‘I am, HMS Leander, here from San Fiorenzo to revictual.’
‘And how do you find service in her?’
That creased Digby’s features somewhat and Emily guessed why. Was she asking in comparison to his time of service with her husband? She must be aware that had been a less than wholly edifying experience for a newly employed lieutenant, not too long in that rank, nervous and unsure of his abilities, these not being traits that brought much sympathy from Ralph Barclay. When he did reply it was with something of a stammer.
‘Let us say that service aboard HMS Brilliant was easier.’
‘Pray, Lieutenant Digby, replace your hat. The sun.’
He had been unaware of his still raised hat and it was to his credit that, found looking foolish, he laughed. Thinking back to the times she had previously met Digby, Emily reckoned that this signalled improvement for he had struck her as too serious a fellow, especially when he had dined at her husband’s table; shy, nervous and seemingly terrified of making some gaffe. Then, of course, there was the man at whose table he was eating: Ralph Barclay tended to make many people anxious.
‘If your husband is here, Mrs Barclay, it would be only fitting that I pay him my compliments.’
There was no getting out of that enquiry, though she had looked into Digby’s eyes to seek to discern if it was as innocent a comment as he had made it sound.
‘He is not.’
‘Ah!’
The sound was singular, especially after the slight pause that preceded it, suggesting that if he were not here, then it would have been natural for her to have continued and said where he was. For Emily Barclay, and Digby could not know this, meeting him had created for her a moment of truth.
Up till now she had never had to confront anyone who knew both John Pearce and Ralph Barclay, never had to admit to the true situation in which she found herself. If Leghorn was full of English sailors, and it was, they were strangers to her, and if that had led to admiring glances over the last few days, as well as deliberately flirtatious passing comments, it had not been taken to a point of proper conversation.
Finding that she was biting her lower lip, Emily immediately desisted and then, with a voice as strong as she could make it, issued what sounded like a declaration. ‘I must inform you, Mr Digby, that Captain Barclay and I no longer live under the same roof.’
That got another slowly delivered, ‘Ah!’ and she searched his frozen face to see if such a statement made sense. Had Digby thought them a mismatch aboard her husband’s frigate? Had any of the officers and mids thought that she, being half the age of their captain, closer to their years than his and given his character, reckoned it was a relationship doomed to be unhappy?
‘Would I be allowed to refer to that as unfortunate?’
That surprised her. ‘Why, pray?’
‘It is never a happy state of affairs when a man and his wife are …’
He could not find the word he wanted so she supplied it for him. ‘Incompatible?’
‘Unable to stay within the bounds of their vows, was what I was seeking to say. Do I take it you are alone here in Leghorn?’
How should she reply? Tell the truth, or would the God in which she utterly believed forgive a lie to sav
e her face and blushes? The sound of signal guns was no less rare in the roads of Leghorn than they were in the Bay of San Fiorenzo and the boom of that now had them both looking out to sea, over the tables of shiny fish, at the outline of the tiny ship coming in under topsails.
If it was an unknown quantity to Digby, it was not to Emily, who had sailed in HMS Larcher from England. It was one of the only two ships in the world she could have positively identified and the sight meant that there was no point to even thinking of lying.
‘No, Lieutenant Digby, I am not alone. A comrade of yours from a previous commission brought me here.’ That confused him until she added, ‘I believe you are very well acquainted with Lieutenant John Pearce.’
Digby went bright red then, for the implications were obvious. ‘Forgive me, Mrs … Madame, I must be about my duties.’
‘Lieutenant Digby,’ she said as he turned away, ‘I would be obliged if you would treat what I have just told you with some discretion.’
His reply was too indistinct to be easily heard.
CHAPTER SEVEN
There were two people at the wardroom table who were drinking too much: Toby Burns was one of them and it was moot, when they were called upon to speak, who made the greater exhibition of themselves, he or Horatio Nelson! In the case of the captain of HMS Agamemnon, the senior of the guests, it was partly due to the need he had to dull the continuing pain he felt from his wounded eye.
This, weeping slightly, was under regular attention from a large handkerchief. Yet there was another element to contend with: pure mischief on the part of his officers, Nelson being a well-known lightweight in the article of drink, a trait they acted upon for the enjoyment to be had from his behaviour. There was no lack of respect in this – to a man they esteemed him highly – but such tomfoolery was the very stuff of life to young men of high spirits engaged in a dangerous occupation.
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