The anger was no growl now, but loud and continuous protests as Charlie added, his face darkening, ‘Mind, they was of the opinion, and I nearly took issue with them for the way it were said, that all tars were alike in that respect.’
‘What’s this Pensy place?’ called a voice.
‘No notion, but I reckon it must be where they is billeted.’ Charlie’s face screwed up as if he was trying to remember. ‘Yes, I reckon that to be the right of it. I had a mate called Ambrose so I recall the name, though it was said in the local fashion, with bits and bobs on the end.’
‘I say these bullocks need to be minded of their manners,’ said the mid who had collared Charlie, and that turned the growls to cheers, as well as shouts, filled with agreement and deadly threats.
Charlie was free now, and since every eye followed his assailant as he went to accost the man who ran the tavern, he was able to wink at Rufus without being observed. The conversation that followed with the owner, in a combination of stilted English and the local Tuscan, was not swift, but it must have been fruitful, because the midshipman was able to announce that he now had the location of a place called the Pensione d’Ambrosio with the added information that it was no more than a few streets distant.
‘Now, I am minded, and I know my fellow mids will back me in this, to teach these bullocks a lesson and it would do us no harm to find out which of them can swim. You here who are Agamemnons, I leave it to you to decide if you will hear of your commander being so traduced or follow us to set the men who insulted him straight.’
The man closest to Rufus turned to ask what traduced meant; the youngster was not able to tell him. ‘But it can’t be good mate.’
‘So who’s with me?’
That got a roar of approval as he led the way to the exit, followed by nearly everyone in the tavern, which brought a gloomy look to the swarthy face of the tavern keeper, who saw his profits for the night disappearing through the door. Michael, slightly bewildered, was swaying in the middle of a now near deserted floor when Charlie took his arm, calling to Rufus to grab the other.
‘Come on, we best get to a boat an’ back aboard Larcher. Last thing we want is to be still on land when the shit flies through the hawsehole.’
O’Hagan was not easy to move and both his friends kept a weather eye on his fists, for in times past they had seen them employed in the hostelry from which they took their soubriquet, and the notion of being on the receiving end was not one to savour. It was a struggle to get him through the door and out into the Italian night.
‘Come along, Michael, keep your feet a’going. Remember John Pearce’s orders.’
The curses that O’Hagan then heaped on that name were foul, insults that his friends would not repeat to the man at whom they were aimed. It was also a good thing he could not hear them either.
The meal John Pearce had consumed, if not spectacular, was pretty good, which proved that either Lepeé, or someone else in the pantry knew their stuff. He had already noted the quality of the wine and when he praised it he was treated to a sly smile and the information that it had been taken out of a prize ship he had taken and not declared as part of the ship’s stores, as it should have been.
‘One thing the French do well, Mr Pearce, is in the article of the grape.’
‘I would be willing to drink to that, sir.’
‘Then let us do so, but add that we must also confound them as our enemies.’
The table talk had ranged over a variety of subjects and with just two at the board it had flowed easily, Ralph Barclay notwithstanding, though the name did crop up on one occasion. Not that the host pressed: the case against the man was none of the commodore’s doing and if he sought to mitigate Pearce’s remarks it was not with passion enough to force a reaction.
Pearce was careful to make no mention of Hotham and his activities on Barclay’s behalf – he did not feel he knew Nelson well enough to confide – though mention of the admiral’s name produced a flash of distaste on Nelson’s face; he was not a man who found it easy to disguise his feelings, which were quickly covered by unstinting praise for Samuel Hood, who was the best sailor and commanding admiral in the whole of the King’s Navy.
‘So you do not hold your five years on the beach against him?’
‘No, Mr Pearce, he would have given me a ship if he could, but I do not ask any man to lay their head on the block for me. The people who stood in the way of my employment I like to think were not navy.’
Moving on, it was obvious Nelson hated the Revolution with a passion, born of his love of country and the stability of the English nation, added to which he blamed them fair and square for the loss of the American colonies. This being declaimed, Pearce was obliged to ask how he would have held on to them in the face of their intransigence, only to find his host short on a practical answer. But given the vehemence of his opinion, it seemed best for Pearce not to come out, as had his father very vocally, in support of their claim to liberty.
Nelson was doing most of the talking, but it was not one-sided and he had the good grace to never raise an eyebrow at disagreement. His guest soon realised he was in the company of a committed warrior, a man keen to discuss battle tactics in a way that seemed to fly over his head, but he made what interjections he could, of a bellicose nature, which brought praise.
‘I see you and I are of one mind there, Mr Pearce, but I wonder if we could move from shot and shell to your forthcoming mission?’
When Pearce nodded, it seemed to place some constraint on Nelson, who paused for several seconds before he continued.
‘As well as the despatches I will give to you before you depart, I wonder if you would oblige me, as you did previously, by carrying some personal letters.’
‘Of course.’
‘There is one to Sir William Hamilton.’ Nelson actually blushed then and his voice lost any assurance. ‘I have written, too, another letter to his wife, Lady Hamilton.’
‘Which I will happily deliver,’ Pearce responded, failing to pick up on Nelson’s discomfort.
‘Without, I hope, troubling Sir William regarding its existence?’
That had Pearce pausing, but only for a brief period as he sought to fillet the bones out of what had just been said. Nelson wanted a letter delivered to a woman who was somewhat notorious in terms of gossip at home, without letting know her husband, who the same tittle-tattle had as a credulous old fool who had been ensnared by a beautiful Circe, which made him wonder at what might be the contents. On only a brief acquaintance he himself had seen that she was something of a temptress and was certainly attractive. Having thought that through, he was swift to conclude it was none of his concern.
‘I will, of course, be happy to oblige, sir.’
‘I hasten to add there is nothing untoward in this, Mr Pearce. It is merely that any man might object to another fellow communicating openly with his wife.’
But you wrote to her before, Pearce was thinking, and there were no instructions then requesting discretion, which begged the question of what had changed since? These thoughts had to be put aside, as Nelson was praising Emma Hamilton to the deckbeams.
‘Lady Hamilton is as much an aid to our cause as is he. I swear when I asked for aid to support us at Toulon it was her intervention that caused it to be provided so speedily. When it comes to royal influence, she is the one to apply to, for she has the ear of the Queen.’
‘A fact, sir, of which I was made aware when I met her.’
‘And I am sure she made an equal impression on you, sir, as she did on me.’
Pearce remained silent, though still pondering on his host’s now very apparent feelings of awkwardness; in Paris he had enjoyed conversations with the husband of his then mistress without experiencing the least awkwardness. Why would he not when the man’s own mistress was in the same salon? How different was France from rural England, the society from which Nelson came, and Emily likewise; not London – it was as lax as any capital city would be about such
relationships and Naples was even more so.
He was also thinking that Nelson, being in Leghorn and certain to go ashore, was bound to hear about Emily and him. Was this an opportunity to confide in a man who might be less quick to judge? After all, he seemingly held another man’s wife in such high regard that he was cautious about her husband having knowledge of the depth of it?
It was a possible chance to counter any malicious tales Nelson was bound to hear, a chance to put the case for the triumph of love over duty. The chance came and then went; he had thought too long and he felt the moment to speak had passed again because Nelson was still praising.
‘I have met them but once, though that was enough to have me esteem them both highly.’ The emphasis was on the both. ‘King George could not have a more accomplished representative in Naples, and Sir William would be the first person to tell you what a helpmeet she is even within the palace. The royal children are very fond of her.’
‘I do not wish to allude to her reputation, sir—’
‘Tripe, and uncooked at that,’ Nelson snapped. ‘Rumour of the most pernicious kind set against a lady those who speak of her have never met. You would struggle, sir, to find a kinder and more generous soul, who takes under her wing any of the waifs and strays who end up in Naples, for it is, as I am sure you are aware, a stop on the Grand Tour for those interested in classical Rome.’
‘Sir William is certainly an avid collector.’
‘He digs with gusto, that is true.’ Nelson essayed another pause and a deep intake of breath. ‘I am sure you found in him and his wife two people of a stock to make you proud. For the people who traduce them, well, I cannot tell you, Mr Pearce, how I abhor such talk.’
‘It is not something of which I am fond, either, sir.’
‘Naturally,’ Nelson responded before reacting to a raised Pearce eyebrow. ‘If I may make so bold, I have heard something of the same aimed at your person.’
He let that sink in, then took up again his refrain.
‘And what do I find when I take the time to discover for myself what the truth is? I find an agreeable companion who, if he holds opinions with which I very much do not agree, has served as I once did before the mast and is, to my mind, a fellow of some presence and good conversation.’
‘You flatter me, sir,’ Pearce replied and he meant it; he also suspected he knew why.
Nelson grinned. ‘There you go being modest again, Mr Pearce, which I have no hesitation in telling you will do you no good in the service. While I do not advocate the blowing of your own trumpet, it does no good to hide your light under a bushel.’
Shall I count the clichés, Pearce was wondering?
‘I myself have ahead of me a notable destiny.’ It was impossible not to react to such a statement and Pearce did not try; nor did it go unnoticed. ‘Oh, I know it is not the done thing to talk in such a fashion, but I have had the certainty of that since I was relatively new to the navy and I had a dream that told me so.’
‘You served before the mast, sir?’ Pearce asked; he did not want to go to where Nelson was leading, being unsure if he could keep his face straight when presented with the outpourings of dreams, which to his mind tended to be claptrap whoever was talking. ‘I find that odd.’
‘Why so? I was sent on a voyage as a stripling, just after I took service with my Uncle Suckling. You may have heard of Captain Suckling, he was quite famous for a battle fought off Cape St Francis …’
‘I am sorry to admit, sir, his name is not known to me.’
‘Matters not, but my uncle sent me on a voyage aboard a merchant vessel, six months on the Triangular Passage in which I learnt to hand and reef if not to steer, to go aloft in foul weather and fair, to set and take in sail. More than that, Mr Pearce, I spent time with the kind of men I now command and I will tell you, sir, I find I understand them better than many of my fellows, which leads to fewer problems of discipline.’
‘Which can only be a good thing.’
‘I am no lover of the cat.’
Yet you can sympathise with Barclay who is your polar opposite; that thought had to be put aside as Nelson stood and went to his writing stand, returning with two sealed letters and an oilskin pouch.
‘I entrust these to you, Mr Pearce. The pouch contains both your orders and Lord Hood’s communication to Sir William, the others … well, we have already spoken of them.’
Since he remained standing Pearce had little choice but to do likewise.
‘Once your mission is complete I wish you to join my squadron off the coast of Savoy – you will find the rendezvous with our man in Genoa. I intend to put you and HMS Larcher to close-inshore work, for we must find out what the Revolution is up to.’
‘Sir.’
‘So, until then, God speed. I expect you to sail at first light, given I am sure you are fully victualled. Forgive me if I do not see you to your boat, but I have a rate of paperwork to attend to, the downside, I must tell you, of the pennant Lord Hood granted me.’
The torch-bearing mob that descended on the Pensione d’Ambrosio were in no mood to talk, or even to wonder if there was anyone who needed to be spared from their wrath. The only admonishment that the man leading them had made, and this was to his fellow midshipman, was that they should avoid using their dirks, for if knives were drawn then more blood might be spilt than was wise.
To say they burst into the place was only partially true, given the entrance was too narrow, poured being a better description, and they laid about anyone found, be they servants or soldiers, which if it was unfair was the habit of a mob. The officers’ servants sought to come to their aid and got a pounding for their efforts, while the men they attended to were likewise given a drubbing, barring their wounded Major Lipton, of course: no true Briton would assault a man with his arm in a sling.
Bruised and bleeding, the victims were noisily borne out of the smashed-open door to be carried to the harbour where, with a care that made sure they did not drown, and on run-up slings that men of the sea could produce in a trice, they were ducked repeatedly in the harbour until they lay in a dripping heap on the cobbles.
‘And don’t you go bad-mouthing our commodore again, or any other soul for that matter. If you do we won’t haul you out but leave you to sink.’
The hired boat taking the Pelicans back to HMS Larcher had stopped well away from the quay and just as distant from their ship. They could see flaring torches and guess at what was taking place and it was enough to establish that matters had, in the case of John Pearce and the men who had insulted his lady, been settled.
‘That was sharp, Charlie,’ said Rufus softly.
‘More’n one way to skin a cat, mate, but I have to say it was nip and tuck for a while who was going to get it.’
‘You led them right up the garden.’
Their eyes fixed on the quay, they did not see the other boat being rowed beyond them towards the shore, so it came as a shock when they heard the voice of John Pearce calling to the pair sitting upright, just before he ordered his oarsmen to back to a stop.
‘We’s on our way back to Larcher, Capt’n,’ Charlie shouted, he being quicker-witted than Rufus, while Michael could not take part: he was laid across a thwart and snoring. ‘Michael is here with us and set for a sore head of the morning.’
The Pearce tone was mordant. ‘Then I can take it you enjoyed your run ashore?’
‘Had the time of our lives, Your Honour.’
‘Well get some sleep, we weigh at first light. When Michael comes to, tell him to prepare my cabin to once more accommodate Mrs Barclay.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
Then Pearce called to his boat crew. ‘Give away, lads.’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Ralph Barclay had gone into a towering rage on finding the identity of the officer with whom his wife had sailed, as well as the proposed destination of the Mediterranean, information supplied to him by the Admiralty, that made even more galling when he was told there was no pl
an in place for HMS Larcher to return. Such was his passion it nearly brought on an apoplexy, one that alarmed his clerk-cum-secretary.
Cornelius Gherson’s fear that his employer might do himself an injury was not based on any regard for his person, more it was a dread that should Barclay expire so he would be left not only without a job but also without a valuable source of income from his peculations. These he was able to carry out aboard HMS Semele and they were small, but they added to the stipend he was getting from Ommany and Druce for his advantageous – to them – way of scrutinising the use they made of their client’s money. Gherson could read a book of complex accounts; Barclay could not.
They had rushed back to the offices of the prize agent to face an emollient Druce, who sought to calm his irate client and, once he had put a check on the more intemperate outbursts promising foul retribution on John Pearce, then did that which his duties required. He needed to find a solution that would solve Barclay’s problems without causing the company of which he was a partner any of their own. The answer lay, as it had before, with Hodgeson.
While careful not to suggest anything conclusive, certainly nothing that would publicly shame Barclay, Druce had recommended that the thief taker be employed to find out how far this untoward relationship between John Pearce and his wife had gone. In short, was it, even if unlikely, innocent or had it strayed into areas that, while Druce never named them, were obvious to both parties.
‘I am suggesting, Captain Barclay,’ the prize agent put forward, ‘that you need to be in possession of the facts before you can decide how to act.’
As a result, Hodgeson found himself once more in the New Forest enclave of Buckler’s Hard, seeking out more information about the lady who had been observed on the deck of HMS Larcher. Not that he was having much in the way of luck, but local ignorance established one very obvious fact: Emily Barclay had not resided here at the Hard, there being no place in which she might have taken rooms. If you computed the time between her departing Nerot’s Hotel and actually sailing away there was a gap, which implied she must have stayed somewhere.
A Divided Command Page 17
