‘Sorry mate,’ he called as he slipped by, looking for Michael O’Hagan, who would be bound to be in the thick of things.
The Irishman was not hard to spot, standing near the ship’s wheel, head and shoulders above those trying to contest the deck with him. He had eschewed a weapon, and was merely fending off his attackers, one of them the blond fellow called Sam, with his huge open hands, causing no pain and laughing out loud, calling to them to come at him again. Pearce’s sword was required again, this time to fend off a fellow with a similar weapon. The sailor clearly thought himself a swordsman, for he took on a fencing posture. That lasted only a second as Pearce, who had been properly taught, whipped his weapon up, slid his underneath, and jabbed him in the solar plexus, a blow that, winding him, had him doubled over on his knees.
Pearce tapped the lowered head he as made his way towards Michael, who spotting him called out, ‘Come on John boy, and see if you can better these spalpeen fools, not one of whom is of any use in a scrap.’
The truth of that was in the way that Michael managed both to say those words and continue to fend off four men.
‘Michael,’ Pearce said, coming close, weaving and ducking as his friend tried to slap him. ‘I want you to fall away slowly, as though we are driving you backwards.’
One of the things Pearce liked about the Irishman was the way he reacted to a request without demanding to know why. He had done so before on more than one occasion and he did so now, making it look as though Pearce and the others were besting him. They, not aware that Michael was only pretending, got bold, which earned the blond Sam a head-ringing clip.
‘I am going to push you, Michael, and when I do I want you to fall back until you hit something.’
Pearce got a huge open-handed slap on the forehead that stopped him dead, giving him some idea of how much O’Hagan could have hurt him if he so desired. ‘As long as it’s not solid, John boy.’
‘No brother, it is as soft as you sometimes are in the head.’
Michael grabbed Sam and his other attacker, one in each hand, and lifted them bodily off their feet. They still tried to club him, blows which when they landed made the Irishman laugh. ‘How can you say that and me not even had a drink?’
‘Now!’ shouted Pearce.
Getting both hands in between the struggling pair he gave Michael the heaviest shove he could manage. O’Hagan, laughing even louder, staggered backwards at increasing speed, taking his assailants with him. Colbourne, who had not really been watching those right before him, instead looking beyond to see how Bailey and his party were faring in the bows, was too slow to react. Michael’s back hit him foursquare, and the combined weight of the trio knocked him right over to land on his back on the deck. His body tripped Michael and he and the others fell in a heap behind him. Pearce, yelling blue murder, had the pleasure of standing on and pinning to the deck his commanding officer as he repeatedly jabbed his wooden sword. Having despatched Michael in dumb show he stepped off Colbourne, put his wooden sword to the other man’s neck, and looking directly at him, said breathlessly, ‘I think we might have taken the ship.’ Then with just the right length of pause to rob his accolade of any truth, Pearce added, ‘Sir.’
CHAPTER FOUR
‘Welcome aboard, Captain Gould, on what I think you will agree is a most providential day.’
Davidge Gould, dripping water off the hem of his boatcloak, raised his hat as the whistle blew to pipe him on board, surprised that someone as tetchy about prerogatives as Ralph Barclay should have come on deck in full uniform to greet him; he was, after all, only a titular naval captain as opposed to a real one. A rather small file of marines, with no sign of a marine officer, stamped to attention as his foot hit the deck, making him feel as if he were the superior, and vastly so, while Barclay was the junior. It was all a bit much, especially since he had not come voluntarily. Gould had been ordered aboard, cursing his commanding officer on receipt of a summons that obliged him to cross from his own ship to this deck on a stretch of sea disturbed enough to ensure he arrived damp.
‘You know my acting Premier, Mr Digby.’
‘Good day to you, sir.’
Acknowledging Henry Digby begged several questions, not least his acting rank and the absence of two of HMS Brilliant’s more senior lieutenants, that added to the observation Gould had already made that there was no marine officer. Looking for damage he could observe none, the frigate was in all respects sound. Full of curiosity as to why such men were missing, he was obliged to observe the courtesies and reply to Barclay’s opening remark.
‘It is a most auspicious day, sir. The sun not only shines on the sea around us but on our endeavours.’
It sounded crass in his ears, pure hyperbole, but it clearly pleased Barclay, who positively beamed at him. ‘Nobly said, Mr Gould, nobly said. Mrs Barclay has prepared us a decent dinner. You are already acquainted with my wife, are you not?’
‘I am that, sir, since you were gracious enough to introduce me when she arrived in Sheerness. We last met at the Assembly Room dance the night before we weighed.’
‘Quite. Captain Nelson informed me that you were most attentive.’ Barclay’s tone had changed as he uttered that, being close to a growl, and Gould got the feeling it was inadvertent, because his superior suddenly, in a forced manner, smiled again. ‘You boarded the prize Captain Gould. Is she as fine close up as she looks from here?’
Both men turned to look over the ship’s side at the barque they had just taken, wallowing on the waters of the Bay of Biscay alongside Firefly, beyond that the sails of the Gibraltar-bound convoy spread over the horizon.
‘She is a splendid capture, near new. Her name is Chantonnay. I have taken the liberty of ordering my Premier to stay aboard, pending your approval of course.’
‘Make it so, Mr Gould. How was she in the article of hands?’
‘Stuffed to the gunnels, sir, so much so that I was at a loss to know where they all slung their hammocks.’
‘Then I will have some of those bodies aboard Brilliant if I may. I am deuced short-handed, as you well know, and I am afraid to say in the recent recovery of the Lady Harrington…’
‘Recovery?’
‘The ship was taken, Gould, and by that very French dog you saw me chase. He…’
‘But you took her back.’
If Barclay was disturbed to be so rudely interrupted by a junior officer he did not show it. Truly, Gould thought, this is a different creature to the one I first met at Sheerness.
‘I did, as it was my duty.’ Barclay looked hard at Gould then, as if challenging him to disagree. ‘As I was saying, the action was not without loss, so let us get some of those French dogs on board so they can haul on a rope and earn their keep. You may take some aboard yourself, which will create room for your prize crew and relieve the anxieties of your Premier that so numerous a body of men might try to take back the ship.’
‘I am to provide both my Premier and the crew, sir?’
‘Why of course, Gould. Do you not deserve it? It would have been a damned difficult capture without you coming to my aid. I would have struggled to take her before nightfall in a stern chase.’ Barclay, having delivered what Gould thought a palpable exaggeration, turned towards the doorway to his cabin, with his guest tripping in his wake. ‘Mr Digby, you have the deck. Signal Firefly and the prize to resume their course, Captain Gould’s vessel to take station at the front of the convoy.’
The smell of food wafted into Gould’s nostrils as they passed the steward’s pantry, and he had a brief sideways glimpse of chafing-dishes sitting in hot water to keep warm the food inside.
‘Shenton, Captain Gould’s cloak.’ As his steward obliged, Barclay added, ‘See that it is brushed and dried, will you, and send someone to relieve Mr Gould’s coxswain of his ship’s papers. I will look at them after we dine. Now Gould, a glass of champagne.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Emily Barclay entered from the side cabin as her husband wa
s pouring the wine, giving Gould a radiant smile that made his heart beat a little faster. She was a beautiful creature, clear skin, set off by naturally rouged cheeks and bright eyes under a mass of shiny auburn hair. He could remember the touch of her hand as she had danced with him at the Assembly Rooms the night before they weighed from the Nore, as well as the gaiety with which she had undertaken the various routs and reels. With her husband away in London it had been possible to indulge in a little raillery, perfectly innocent of course – one did not try to seduce the wife of a fellow officer – but more fun than if dour Ralph Barclay had been present. Davidge Gould knew he was not alone in wondering what a young beauty like Emily Barclay was doing married to a curmudgeon so many years her senior.
‘Captain Gould,’ Emily said. ‘It is so good to see you again.’
He took her hand to kiss it, feeling the cool skin, smelling the Attar of Roses she used as a gentle fragrance. ‘And you Mrs Barclay. Might I be permitted to say the sea air obviously suits you. I swear, if it is possible, you are blooming.’
‘Champagne, Gould.’ Turning to face his superior, Davidge Gould was made very aware, by a rather pointed look, that flattering the man’s wife was not a good idea. Barclay handed a second glass to his wife. ‘And you my dear.’ Picking up a third glass he raised it. ‘Let us toast the success of our voyage which, though troubled, has, till now, been equally blessed.’
The toast was made in loud unison, accompanied by a wine that had been chilled in a bucket lowered into the sea, one which Gould observed held more than one bottle.
‘I say, sir, this is a very fine. Might I ask the name.’
Barclay acknowledged the compliment to the wine, but threw his wife a somewhat curious glance. ‘Supplied by the House of Ruinart, which I daresay will be deuced hard to come by now that we are at war with the makers. We have to thank Mrs Barclay for it being available to serve.’
The words ‘as wise in choice as you are beautiful in the flesh’ formed in Gould’s mind. He was prudent enough to leave them there.
‘The same will apply to the food we eat, all chosen by my wife from the very best chandlers in Sheerness, though I think she would acknowledge that she had some assistance from quite a few wives of the other officers.’
Those cheeks rouged by the sea air deepened a tad, with Emily Barclay declining to meet her husband’s eye, leaving Gould with the impression that he was witness to some private dispute between them. Whatever it was, enlightenment did not follow.
‘I think we should eat, don’t you,’ Barclay said, ‘for I am sharp set. Nothing like a bit of powder and shot to give a sailor an appetite, eh?’
Gould sat down, wondering at Ralph Barclay; his moods had in the space of seconds swung from being hearty to being grizzled, then back again. The thought occurred that dining at this board he had better be on his mettle.
‘Fish soup to start, sir,’ said Shenton, as he led in a group of sailors, neatly dressed in checked shirts, with red bandanas tied round their necks, one placing the tureen on the table, the others taking station against the bulkheads. The steward, a lugubrious-looking fellow with bent shoulders, took station behind his captain.
‘The fish are fresh of course, Gould, but the stock is a concentrate from that newly-opened shop in Piccadilly. What is it called, my dear?’
‘Messrs Fortnum and Mason, Captain Barclay.’
‘That’s the fellows. Used to be valets to the King, you know.’
‘Indeed.’
‘Bit of a come down, what, from flunkeying at Windsor Castle to being mere shopkeepers.’
‘I’m not sure, sir, that service in the royal household is such a good billet. I had the good fortune to attend a levee at Windsor Castle in the company of my uncle, and the way the royals treat their servants would make it a good place to seek volunteers for the Navy.’
Barclay had frowned again, but whatever was troubling him was not reflected in his words. ‘Maybe you’re right, Gould, what with Farmer George dipping in and out of being batty.’
That topic carried the conversation on; the King’s disturbed mental state, in abeyance now but always threatening a recurrence, the difficulties that presented to a government trying to prosecute this new war with France with an opposition and an elder son, the Prince of Wales, desperate to force a Regency. That subject was treated delicately, for it touched on politics and it was a tenet of naval life that there were two subjects best avoided in a ship at sea, the other being religion.
The tureen was removed, to be replaced by a whole turbot, with dishes of anchovy and lobster butter, lemons and a tub of horseradish.
‘I am agog to hear of the retaking of the Lady Harrington, sir.’
‘A bloody affair Gould, very bloody.’
The story Barclay told was succinct, very noticeably and unusually so, for naval officers were not noted for brevity when recounting tales of actions in which they had participated, this explained as he concluded, ‘You will forgive me, Gould, for not covering all the details, but my dear wife has heard it all before, and the casualties were heavy.’
‘I noticed the absence of several persons on coming aboard, sir, but one does not like to remark on such matters.’
‘Quite.’
‘Lieutenant Roscoe lies in the surgeon’s berth,’ added Emily. ‘We pray to heaven that he will come back to full health.’
Barclay’s voice suddenly became angry. ‘That damned Frenchman humbugged me, Gould, not once, not twice, but three times.’
Seeing Emily frown at the sudden bitter tone, Gould interjected to lighten the mood. ‘But it ended successfully, sir, did it not?’
‘Aye. But the losses bear down heavily upon me.’
‘Your attitude does you credit, sir.’
‘It is hard to see it so,’ snapped a surprised Ralph
Barclay, for he had been meditating on how such losses could affect his career, not on the actual people who had suffered injury and death.
Emily Barclay immediately stepped in to change the subject. ‘Captain Gould, you are I believe from Wiltshire.’
Discussions of family, localities and the foibles of locals kept the conversation flowing through the courses that followed, which were of a consistently high standard; a fricassee of sweetbreads followed by a leg of mutton with currant jelly, onion sauce, salad and potatoes. Likewise the wines were splendid, a fine white burgundy from that bucket of cold seawater to go with the fish course and a very decent claret with the meat and cheese, that followed by a Château Y’Quem to accompany the sweet plum pudding which Emily Barclay was keen to inform their guest was entirely the idea and creation of the ship’s cook. It was a meal fit for an admiral.
The cloth was drawn, and Emily, who knew her place, rose from the table to leave the men to their affairs.
‘That was a damn fine dinner, Mrs Barclay,’ said Gould, half out of his chair. ‘Had I known you were such a dab hand at provender I would have engaged you to provide my own stores.’
‘Have a care of your purse, Captain Gould, for my wife is a dab hand at disbursement too.’
‘I thank you for the compliment, Captain Gould,’ said Emily, her face set. ‘I have to admit to a certain amount of nerves, this being the first occasion on which Captain Barclay and I have entertained. Such a pity that I did not get to know so many of the ship’s officers before we lost them.’
‘Then I am flattered,’ Gould replied, aware that there had been a rebuke to her husband in her words.
‘If you will permit, husband, I think I will go and sit with Mr Roscoe.’
‘My dear.’ Both men half stood as she left, Barclay saying as the door shut, ‘She reads to him out loud, but I doubt the poor fellow can hear.’
‘If anyone can stir some life in his breast, sir, I am sure it is Mrs Barclay.’
‘That’s an odd notion, Gould. Personally, I put more faith in the surgeon, though he is such an odd fellow I would be forced to qualify any confidence. Now, let me oblige you with a mo
re fulsome account of the action.’
Which Ralph Barclay did: but it was not the truth, it was a version highly edited to flatter him and his actions, while at the same time diminishing the activities of anyone else, especially a pressed seaman called John Pearce and the useless midshipman, his wife’s nephew, Toby Burns, an account he could never have delivered with Emily present.
The maindeck fell silent as she emerged, book in one hand, nosegay in the other, each sailor stiffening in whatever pose he held, except those immediately encountered, who all touched a forelock as she passed. Emily had, she knew, to move slowly, so that word of her presence could spread ahead to the areas of the ship that were very much the preserve of the crew, this to avoid embarrassment to men who might well be partly or wholly undressed, or indulging in some activity they would not want her to see. It had been explained to her by other naval wives who had sailed with their husbands as the blind eye, a quite conscious attempt to avoid embarrassment, not confined to women but used by officers to avoid inflicting an endless stream of punishments for minor infractions of the far too comprehensive regulations which governed life aboard ship.
Sailors diced and played cards, both forbidden; sometimes they fought, well out of sight of anyone in authority, or got together in combinations to discuss grievances, and that left out women smuggled aboard and practices never mentioned in polite conversation. Petty officers who lived in close proximity to their fellow crewmen had authority over them, but had to show sense in how it was applied, for it would never do to be over-zealous when a body thrown overboard at night would be lost forever. Strictly speaking, her own presence aboard was forbidden, but admirals had been captains once and knew what to see and what to ignore. A ship was a world apart as soon as the anchor was fished and catted, governed officially by the Articles of War, in truth presided over by her husband, who had much say in how such rules were applied. The only plain fact, explained to her, was that they could not be applied in total at all times, otherwise the captain would have more of the crew in chains than he would have left to sail the ship.
A Shot Rolling Ship Page 5
