Buckler’s Hard was isolated and not surrounded by towns boasting decent hostelries, which narrowed matters down considerably. So starting at the most obvious place, which was Lyndhurst, Hodgeson did that at which he was very experienced: he questioned those who would open up to him about who had stayed in such places.
This was never the owner: all they ever cared about was protecting their establishment against any hint of scandal that might affect future trade. But all coaching inns needed servants, lots of them, and some of the tasks were so menial, like emptying the night soil, it meant they were not filled with folk brimming with loyalty to the person who paid their meagre wage.
Indeed, often it was not a money payment but given in kind, in the form of a bed and food, so that such creatures were obliged to carry out other duties, such as sweeping away equine ordure or carrying bags in the hope of a tip, to fund a tankard of ale. The offer to buy for a bit of information was thus usually more than welcome.
‘All servants talk, Mr Druce,’ Hodgeson said, ‘and the meaner their reward the more they are inclined to open up. If they did not, then the thief taker’s job, which has got hard enough over the years, anyway, would become impossible.’
If Druce was nodding in agreement, he was also wondering at the nature of his own household. Was it secure, or as this man was implying, leaking like a sieve? Should he admonish his own servants to keep their tongues or would such an act imply to them there were secrets to sell? The notion that he might pay them better to ensure their loyalty did not enter into his ruminations.
‘I worked my way down from Lyndhurst to the coast at Lymington and struck gold, though not with Mrs Barclay’s name, nor that of John Pearce, but by a description of the pair. She was staying in the King’s Head right enough, but under another name.’
‘Which is?’
‘Raynesford,’ Hodgeson replied, with his employer noting that down. ‘Both were registered under the same name and they occupied the same set of rooms.’
The sigh from Druce was audible and had him once more reflecting on the suitability of young women as wives to men old enough to know better.
‘There is no doubt?’
‘None, sir, for I cornered the owner and overcame his reluctance with threats.’ Seeing the look of enquiry he added, ‘It is easy to spread a rumour, Mr Druce, and the last thing the man who owned the King’s Head needs is that his establishment should be known as a place for illicit trysts. Lymington is not London, sir, and such stories being abroad would ruin his trade.’
‘So there is no doubt that there was lubricious activity?’
‘No need to be a fly on the wall, Mr Druce, is there now? If two lovebirds share a bed then there is little doubt of what they get up to. Besides, proof of an act of adultery is not required for Captain Barclay’s purposes, he merely has to show the evidence I have gathered for him to take any course of action he likes.’
‘This is not a letter he is going to enjoy.’
‘With respect, Mr Druce, if he has not made the connection by now, and understood what is going on between his wife and this John Pearce, he is living in a fool’s paradise.’
‘For all that is true, Hodgeson, it does not make dealing with the man any the more simple.’
Throughout the journey back to Torbay and now in his cabin aboard HMS Semele, Ralph Barclay had been gnawing on that very problem, for he had made what Hodgeson called ‘the connection’ all too readily. What neither Druce nor the investigator he had hired knew, was the other connection he had to Pearce, one that had nothing to do with his wife. They were certainly unaware of the man’s attempts to get him into the dock on a charge of perjury.
The letter he had received from Admiral Hotham’s clerk left him in no doubt that the situation was serious and if he praised the actions that had been taken on his behalf, it did not induce any feelings of security. His wife had threatened him with the same revelations as those being sought by the lawyer Pearce had engaged and, added to the worry of what that swine was doing with her, was concern at their present location. He had to assume their journey had been without mishap for there were people out there who could sink him without trace, most worryingly Toby Burns.
Gherson had watched him closely over the same period and if his expression betrayed nothing of his feelings, he was taking some pleasure in his employer’s discomfort. Nor would he offer any verbal sympathy, for that would merely expose him to a blast of abuse, it being he who had undertaken to get hold of the copy of Barclay’s court martial papers so they could be destroyed, a document which should never have existed in the first place.
That he had failed to do so was bad enough, yet Barclay had no idea how close Gherson had come to his own personal nemesis at the hands of one of London’s most notorious villains, a slug called Jonathan Codge as well as the Bow Street Runners, this for the initiation of the burglary carried out on behalf of Barclay.
He had come close to being had up by the very same Runners, escaped by the merest fluke, then been forced to lie about the destruction of the document, claiming it had been destroyed by fire. When it transpired it was still in existence it had led to a blistering explosion of rage – his employer was prone to that – in which Gherson had been torn to shreds.
Part of Barclay’s problem, as he filtered various courses of action through his mind, was the lack of anyone in whom to confide. Not much given, through a lifetime of experiences, to trusting his fellow humans in the first place, his present position as the captain of a seventy-four-gun ship of the line did not ease matters for it carried with it isolation.
None of his inferior officers were close enough to him to play the devil’s advocate, and even if they had been he would not have suffered to engage them for the sheer loss of face such an encounter would entail. How could he command men who knew his inner turmoil? Nor was he – and he would, like all such people, deny the truth of the fact – open to taking advice, however sound or well intentioned.
As for his fellow captains, some of whom were under that same cloud with Lord Howe as he, talking to them risked the same end result as talking to his inferiors. Really there was only one person who he could use as a sounding board, and distasteful as he found it to give the role to his clerk, there was no choice.
Gherson’s opening gambit posed the obvious question and it was done with a look of deep concern, one that belied the man’s true feelings: he was enjoying himself. At one time he had harboured designs on Emily Barclay, for she was a tempting morsel. She would have said she rebuffed him; such was his vanity that Gherson thought of it as stupid self-denial based on her county morality. But in doing so she had crushed a vain man and created an enemy who was eager to pay her back for the way she had treated him.
‘I am bound to ask, sir, what is the outcome you seek?’ Getting no reply, which was what he had expected, he had the pleasure of laying out a set of equally unpleasant alternatives. ‘Do you wish, as you have often stated, to force your wife back to the marital abode, or do you intend to cast her aside? In that case, how far do you want to take matters? For instance, though such a course would be horrendously difficult, would you aspire to seek a bill of divorce?’
There was a certain amount of goading in this; Gherson was not going to mention the very obvious solution to Barclay’s dilemma and one, though it had never been openly stated, he knew his employer had considered. The captain of HMS Semele cared for only two things, his future in the navy and that he should not be made a laughing stock by the actions of others, and that was doubled in spades when it came to being exposed as a cuckold.
The response was slow to come, Barclay being patently uncomfortable. ‘I have thought on all of these till my head spins, man, you know that.’
‘Sir,’ Gherson said with silky insincerity, ‘I am as much at a stand myself, for I am, as you know, attached to you in a way that makes your wife’s actions painful to me.’
Barclay wanted to yell at him then, he being not in the least degree foo
led; he knew Gherson for what he was and he trusted him not at all. He was just as deceitful as Emily and his supposed loyalty was based on self-interest, which was at least something he could understand. But having him as a sounding board forced Barclay to hold in his anger, which allowed Gherson to continue.
‘How do you act when someone has so utterly betrayed you and threatens to destroy every achievement for which have given your life? Mrs Barclay’s actions do not only expose you to ridicule as her husband, but they also affect your stature as a senior post captain, the respect of your peers and certainly, in the case of Admiral Hotham, a superior who is in no doubt of your gifts?’
‘By God, Gherson, if the truth ever gets out about my court martial he will be as damaged as me.’
‘A fact of which, it would be safe to assume, the admiral is fully aware.’ Gherson sighed then. ‘It makes one wish for the gods of ancient times, who could strike people down with bolts of lightning.’
‘I don’t recall any gods, ancient or of our own time, ever coming to my aid. The trouble with you, Gherson, is that you have no idea of how I have had to struggle just to get to where I am. You have never been bullied in a mids berth, as I was, treated like a fool and openly insulted by senior lieutenants when I got my elevation. And even when I was made post those gods of whom you speak took away the one man who might have aided me and kept me in employment.’
‘Lord Rodney.’
Gherson had replied by stating the obvious, this being a good way to mollify his master, though the temptation to respond by detailing the vicissitudes of his own life was tempting. His upbringing had been no bed of roses, either, with pious Huguenot parents who had chucked him out of his family home at a young age for nothing more than a few minor transgressions.
How would Barclay have coped in the rookeries and alleyways of London as a stray waif without a roof, a good-looking youth trying to make his way while avoiding all the traps into which such as he could fall, not all of which he managed to evade? A life of petty crime was full of danger but in the end it was those looks that brought salvation, that added to being supremely adept at numbers, added to the easy charm of a fellow who could lie without a twinge of conscience.
The regard of women had lifted Gherson out of paucity and he had targeted those who had a telling age difference with their spouse, added to which the man had to have some wealth, be in need of a numerate clerk and not too sharp at seeing exactly where his money was going. It was one such, Alderman Denby Carruthers, who, having realised his wife’s infidelity, had hired thugs to throw him off London Bridge, only for Gherson to land alongside a passing boat carrying pressed men to be taken into the navy.
One of the men in that boat had been John Pearce, and if Gherson carried a grudge against Emily Barclay it was as nothing to the way he felt about that arrogant sod, and the fact that Emily Barclay had succumbed to him did not help. He would never admit, of course, to jealousy, but then he did not need to with a man who had provided him with enough reasons for hate without it.
‘So far,’ Barclay growled, when his clerk’s silence had lasted too long, ‘you have been very good at listing my difficulties. I do not hear a word of solution from your lips.’
Gherson’s chin went to his chest, as if he was cogitating on a set of problems new to him. They were, of course, not that: he had spent nearly as much time thinking on the conundrum as had the captain and the conclusion he had come to was unassailable in argument. The answer could not be found here, while the threats were a thousand miles away. Nor could they be satisfactorily solved by any legal means he could think of and that left only the one option.
‘I think, if you and Admiral Hotham could put your heads together, a workable solution would lead to a compound solution.’
‘I don’t know if you have noticed, Gherson, that such a thing is impossible. He’s off Corsica and I am off Torbay.’
‘It has always been my habit to treat one problem at a time.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Somehow, sir, you must get a posting to the Mediterranean and there you will be in a position to confront your demons in a way that might just provide an outcome that solves all your problems in one fell swoop. I can see no other manner in which to proceed.’
‘Then that merely establishes, Gherson,’ Barclay shouted, ‘that you are a damned fool!’
That being as good as a dismissal, Gherson left the cabin, knowing he had planted a seed. That was what you had to do with the likes of Ralph Barclay, as he had with many of the other supposed men of success he had dealt with in his time. It made him wonder, for Barclay was not alone, how the Royal Navy enjoyed so much success when it was officered by people of such turgid reasoning.
His solution had not gone unacknowledged, but since Ralph Barclay had not thought of it himself he was damned if he was going to praise Gherson for saying it. The problem, once he had accepted the premise, was how to proceed in such a way as to gain the end he required. He could relinquish the command of HMS Semele at any time; God knows there were enough men of post rank who would be eager to take his place.
But that meant funding a trip out to the Mediterranean without a ship or any seeming purpose, which was no more desirable than giving up a command he had worked hard and schemed to get. If he did relinquish Semele, how hard would it then be to get another ship and what effect would that have on his future in the service?
Survive long enough and he would get his flag, but it was no good being an admiral if you were without employment. The country was full of so-called ‘yellow admirals’, flag officers who held the rank but were either not trusted or lacked the influence to get any kind of posting. The notion of being one of those was anathema.
If sailors loved to talk of battle and prize money, they dreamt, whatever their present rank, of being a flag officer on a profitable station, the West or East Indies being at the pinnacle of the dream. Three years on either of those, with your inferior commanders bringing in prizes by the dozen! What followed were riches; you could purchase a country pile of real distinction with high gables, numerous rooms, stables full of horses and a coach house big enough to accommodate more than one carriage.
It would have surprised Ralph Barclay to know that Cornelius Gherson harboured the same vision. He knew who was above his employer on the captain’s list and who would rise to a flag before him. Not that all would get there, disease or infirmity would take some and there was always room for an accident or two on a musket ball or cannon shot from the enemy, war being the best thing to thin ranks. This one with the Revolution looked as if it might go on for years.
If Barclay realised his ambition then his clerk, on whom he was dependant, as long as he stayed with the man, would likewise reach his. An admiral on station or in command of a fleet was presented with chances to line his pockets that were stupendous if properly handled and he saw himself as just the man to do the necessary peculating. It might not amount to a coach and four and a grand country residence, but it would mean independence, which was for Gherson craving enough.
‘Sir?’ Gherson asked, when Barclay called him back in.
‘I need to write to the Duke of Portland.’ That required Gherson to again hide a smile; clearly Barclay had thought on his proposal and seen the sense of it. ‘It will have to be carefully worded, for he is an arrogant sod, and I will require you to hand-deliver it to him and him alone.’
‘Am I presuming, sir, if I ask, that the contents might spell trouble for the present administration?’
‘We may have to work on it to make it so, without it being too obvious. If the Duke is upset in any way he can cause us a great deal of nuisance.’
‘Perhaps if I prepare a few drafts, sir, templates that you can consider?’
‘Good idea, but it needs to be quick. God knows the French fleet may exit from Brest again and if they do we will be got out to engage them. Once we are at sea, or as long as they are seen as a present and immediate threat, nothing will get us posted elsewh
ere.’
‘Might I suggest, sir, that you write a letter to Lord Howe, in which you allude to the way he missed the grain convoy.’
‘He is as aware of that as anyone.’
‘I would be inclined to say that you have, from your own resources, suppressed a pamphlet which questions the glory of his achievements and was due to be circulated widely.’
‘No such pamphlet exists.’
God in Heaven, Gherson thought, how slow can this man be?
‘I thought I might draw one up, to be included in the correspondence. It seems to me that if Lord Howe was amenable to you being shifted to the Mediterranean Fleet, it would be in our favour.’
Barclay was as aware as his clerk that he had missed a trick, so his response was, as was his habit, to be brusque. ‘Then can I suggest you get on with it, man!’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Letters travelling to and from the Mediterranean ran many risks and not just from foul weather. The Admiralty used postal packets to send fleet despatches on from England and vice versa. That such missives rarely contained anything approaching decisions of a strategic nature did not dent their value. In addition, packets carried everyday mail, the letters of sailors and soldiers penned to their loved ones. These could be a mine of information and that made the ships that carried them prime targets.
Given the route by which they travelled was a certainty, it was a miracle that more were not intercepted; but the ocean is vast and not every day is sunny and clear, especially in the Atlantic, so the privateers and the occasional roving vessels of the French state had to be lucky to even see one, never mind effect a capture.
A Divided Command Page 18
