There had never been any doubt in Ralph Barclay’s mind that Hotham would settle with ease into his role as C-in-C Mediterranean. The man had worked for high and independent command all his life. To have achieved it would be, to his way of thinking, nothing but a rightful recognition of his abilities. In his manner and appearance, full uniform with flashing gold epaulettes and a newly powdered wig, he looked very much the part.
‘Delighted to do so, sir. Any word on the French?’
‘Supine, Barclay, supine. I worry that they so fear me they will never leave Toulon.’
It was typical of Hotham to make personal what was collective. The enemy would be in fear of the British Fleet, not its commander, but he let the hyperbole pass without even a raised eyebrow and moved more swiftly than was strictly polite to what he had come to say.
‘While what I fear, sir, is to be so low on victuals and water that it will affect my ability to take part in a chase and an action should they do so.’
The frown was to be expected; how much it was performance and how much genuine Barclay did not know but it indicated a degree of discomfort. The two were very different; the man visiting knew that. For all they had gone to sea at the same age and suffered the rigours of being midshipmen, then lieutenants and finally very junior captains, their lives had taken a very different course.
Hotham had always enjoyed powerful connections and had been many times made welcome at court. Ralph Barclay did not, and had never even been close enough to King George to exchange a single word. He also depended on this man to help him prosper, albeit such a connection was a two-way affair.
That said, it never would do to fully trust an admiral and Ralph Barclay was no different from his peers in not doing so. He had only got his posting to join the Mediterranean Fleet due to his ability to possibly embarrass another even more senior flag officer, Black Dick Howe, who had led the Home Fleet to success against the French on the First of June.
Nor was he convinced that the actions Hotham had taken to get rid of John Pearce had been done in any respect as a favour to him. The admiral had his own reasons, not least the fact that it was he who had set up the court martial to try Ralph Barclay for illegal impressment.
That it was a conspiracy to acquit would never stand up to examination and nor would the fact that Hotham had made sure no hostile witnesses were present to testify. Pearce had been sent away on a voyage to the Bay of Biscay; with him had gone anyone who could have told the truth about that night in the Liberties of the Savoy: Lieutenant Henry Digby, Midshipman Richard Farmiloe and a trio of hands from the lower deck.
Only Toby Burns, Barclay’s nephew by marriage, had been kept back and he, being the weakling he was, had been browbeaten into committing perjury. And there was the nub of it; Pearce had engaged a London lawyer to probe those very same people Hotham had sent away. If the likes of Digby and Farmiloe would be cautious, valuing as they did their careers, the same could not be said of Toby Burns, who would crack under pressure for certain.
There was one other problem not known to Hotham: John Pearce was not whistling in the dark as Hotham thought. He had a full transcript of the court martial, and if that ever saw the light of day in a civil court Hotham would be finished, it being small comfort that Barclay would go down with him.
The admiral, who had been lost in thought, raised his gaze from his red wine as Toomey entered the cabin, bearing in his hand a sheaf of papers. ‘Well?’
‘Captain Barclay is seriously low on water, sir. I would say that his need to replenish is acute. He is not well found in pork and beef either, due to the need to condemn.’
‘Dammit, Barclay, how has this come about?’
‘You know the dockyard as well as I do, sir. The provision of rotten stores is no rare event.’
‘But to this extent?’
‘I admit that carelessness on the behalf of some of my crew has made worse what was merely bad.’
‘Which you let pass?’
‘In no way, sir. You will see from my logs, if you care to examine them, that the miscreants have been punished.’
Men had been flogged, that was true; all Ralph Barclay had done was record the reasons as other than the truth, which was punishments for insubordination, drunkenness or gambling.
Hotham allowed himself a deep sigh as he indicated Toomey should depart and then he was back into his reverie, no doubt weighing up the pros and cons of what he was being asked for. He was no more to be fooled than his clerk and what he had to consider was how others, as much client officers to him as Ralph Barclay, would react to what would be seen as a blatant piece of favouritism.
‘I have to say, Barclay, the temptation to issue a public reprimand is very strong. You may say there are men responsible for this, but—’
‘I know, Sir William,’ Barclay replied, with mock humility, the space being left for him to do so, ‘that the responsibility lies with me as the captain.’
Looking directly into Hotham’s rather weak blue eyes Ralph Barclay reckoned Hotham was working up to a refusal. He would do that by taking stores from other ships and employing the boats of the entire fleet for water, which brought matters to the crunch as far as he was concerned; he had to be granted the independence to cruise and Leghorn was only the first step. Barclay wanted to go to Naples and possibly Palermo. Time to muddy the waters.
‘I wonder, Sir William, if there is any activity at all in our area of operations?’
‘A certain amount of piracy and the odd roaming French frigate.’
‘I believe our ambassador in Naples, Sir William Hamilton, has asked for a show of force in the Straits of Messina.’
‘Which is a damned insult to our Neapolitan allies. The waters between Naples and Sicily are their bailiwick. We cannot just go sending in vessels without upsetting them.’
‘I believe the excuse would be the delivery of despatches. Perhaps, instead of a sloop, a seventy-four would serve a dual purpose? Given permission to revictual in Leghorn, I could then sail south and show the flag, your flag.’ The voice dropped to a low growl. ‘It pains me to allude to the fact that we have a common interest but that is so, is it not?’
That made Hotham sit up as he suddenly realised he was being coerced; if the Pearce name was unmentioned it was as clear as Banquo’s ghost. Ralph Barclay was engaged in a risky business; to upset this man could rebound badly. Would the admiral smoke that it was not only John Pearce and his doings that could sink him, nor Toby Burns? This captain before him was better placed than any to achieve that, even if he would likewise go down and might even hang, perjury – which he too had committed – being a capital crime.
Hotham knew all about his wife and it would be no mystery to him why this proposition was being advanced; the question was how he would respond to what was nothing less than a veiled threat. The mystery for the admiral would be how far Ralph Barclay was willing to go in seeking to find her.
‘I suggest you return to HMS Semele, Captain Barclay, while I ponder on this.’
The tone of warmth had gone; if he was furious – and he might be – Hotham masked it well, his dignity being important to him and his courtier experience coming to his aid.
‘As you wish, sir. About my need for stores?’
‘That, too, must be considered, of course. Now I wish you good day.’
Hotham did not stand, which would have been a common act of civility. Ralph Barclay tried to read his features but there was nothing there to see; indeed, before he turned to depart Hotham had lowered his head to the papers on his desk in what was a clear dismissal. It would be necessary to have a word with Toomey on the way back to the entry port.
‘I fear, Toomey, I have created a doubt in Sir William’s mind regarding my loyalty to his flag.’
‘Indeed?’ replied the perplexed Irishman.
‘I wish you to convey to him that which our respective ranks do not otherwise permit: I refer of course to the voyage of HMS Flirt and the reasons it was found to be nece
ssary.’
Toomey looked as though he was in fear of losing his watch, so anxious was his expression, for he was as much in the steep tub when it came to John Pearce as anyone.
‘I wish to stress that my need is great in my personal affairs and the only man able to grant me succour in my situation is just beyond yonder bulkhead. You will know I cannot make a direct request, but I have done so obliquely.’
‘For what, Captain Barclay?’
‘The right to cruise and perhaps bring back to the fleet a prize or two, given I have been lucky in the past.’
‘You asked for this?’
‘Hinted, Toomey, no more, while adding that despatches for Naples could be carried by Semele, but if you could see your way to easing my concerns, well …’
Toomey was even quicker than Hotham to see the point of that and just as quick to avoid commitment. ‘All I can do, Captain Barclay, is give an honest opinion if asked. My position precludes anything else.’
‘I see you as wise counsellor to Sir William. I seek that you act in that capacity.’
In other words, Ralph Barclay thought as he walked away, Devenow falling in close behind him, tell the sod which side his bread is buttered on. Tell him he needs to care for me in order that he will care for himself.
As he was rowed back to his ship he needed to breathe deeply; sailing close to the wind was one thing, a threat – however oblique – to a senior flag officer quite another. If Hotham declined, then he had forfeited his good opinion: if he acceded to the request there had still been made a serious breach in what had been a favourable relationship.
CHAPTER SIX
‘I suspect you are now aware that your life has become more complicated? A child does that even to the wedded, I am told.’
Pacing on the terrace that overlooked the Bay of Naples, John Pearce had been ruminating on that very thought and he was far from welcoming to Lady Hamilton and her reference to his new-found dilemma. That was until he recalled Emily saying that her condition had been kept a secret.
‘You know?’
‘My mother is very experienced in such matters. As she manages the household and is often in places where not to overhear a woman regularly evacuating her innards of a morning is impossible.’
Pearce had met the lady in question, a woman with a rather formidable visage held in much fear by the rest of the palazzo servants. How she could eavesdrop without being detected he could not fathom, for she patrolled the corridors with a huge and rattling bunch of keys at her waist that sent a warning ahead of her approach.
Called Mrs Cadogan, though there was no sign or reference to a mister, she ran the establishment for the Chevalier in a way that occasioned from him much praise. Prior to her arrival as escort to Emma, he was open in his admission that those he employed to care for him had, since he had become a widower, run rings round his attempts at husbandry.
The temptation to snap at Emma Hamilton and berate her for stating the obvious had to be concealed; both he and Emily were still in her house and her debt for the level of hospitality they enjoyed. Added to that, Pearce was never going to accede to his lover going back to her husband and he might need the good offices of another woman to make his case.
‘The law leaves us both in a parlous state.’
‘It does indeed: paternity is no match for conjugal rights.’
The way that was imparted hinted at some past sadness, lacking as it did her usual ability to manufacture a double entendre. There was also no gainsaying what she had stated: it mattered not who was the actual father of Emily’s child, Ralph Barclay had privileges that transcended bloodlines. As her wedded husband he could take the child from its mother and do with it what he wished, while in the process denying Emily bed, sustenance and a roof over her head.
Marriage was an estate that massively favoured the male. If a man managed to wed a wealthy woman, her money, unless special entails had been placed upon it in inheritance, became his to do with as he wished. The gossip of the town was replete with tales of seedy rakes gambling away a wife’s fortune at the card table.
That it was a bad thing seemed beyond doubt yet, standing on this balcony now, it seemed absurd to recall that when his father had called for equality before the law regardless of gender and the denial of rights, much of the howling in protest came from the women he wished to help. Right of this moment it seemed he was faced with some of the same kind of stubbornness.
‘I need to persuade her that what she proposes to do is folly.’
‘While a woman carrying a baby is not always in a position to be wise.’
‘You do agree, milady?’
‘I did think we had progressed beyond such formality.’
That got a nod but no name; Pearce was cautious of being too intimate with this woman, who took pleasure in ensnaring men which she then displayed as trophies, though there was no more than that in his reluctance. Emily had been quite explicit: accounts of infidelity to the Chevalier, in a city where to indulge in extra liaisons would have been simple, were notable by their absence even as rumour.
For all her flirting and the attentions she received on a daily basis there was not even a hint of scandal attached to her name. It was something to be remarked upon that a woman with such a chequered reputation was by all accounts utterly faithful to her much older spouse.
‘I need to formulate some plan to confound her intention.’
‘Do you look forward to the birth of the child?’
‘Who could not?’
‘You will smoke why I ask the question?’ A sad nod. ‘There is a certain type of creature in a place like Naples who can facilitate a solution.’
‘Something to which Emily would never agree. Neither, I think, could I seek to change her mind for my heart would scarce be in it.’
‘Perhaps you could persuade her that a sea voyage risks harm to the child and may bring on that very result.’
‘At such an early stage?’
The response was snappy. ‘How ignorant you men are! That is the time at which a pregnant woman is most vulnerable. Coax her to wait on those grounds, which will give you time to perhaps change her mind.’
In his pacing Pearce had not been idle and that conclusion he had already arrived at. Emily was unaware that Ralph Barclay was in the Mediterranean, a fact he had deliberately kept from her so as to avoid her worrying that he might turn up in Naples. It could not be that he was in these waters by accident – the coincidence would be too acute – which meant that he could be present for the express purpose of searching for her.
Pearce had good cause to worry, as well. Ralph Barclay had proved already that he would stop at very little, possibly nothing, to get her back. There had been threats aplenty delivered by that slimy article Gherson, and there had even been criminality when the office of Emily’s solicitor was broken into and all his papers stolen.
It took no great imagination to see what Barclay was after on that occasion: the copy of the transcript of his court martial, a list of damning perjuries that could ruin him. It was that document which had held him at bay, for he had the law on his side when it came to the forceful return of his wife.
John Pearce was then obliged to recall that Emily was not herself beyond subterfuge. The transcript should have been lost at sea and he had spent much time thinking it to be so, only to discover that she had stolen it from where it had been stored for safekeeping, this when the ship on which they were travelling back to England was engulfed in flames prior to being abandoned.
She had lodged it with her solicitor not to aid him – that came later – but to protect her from a man with whom she no longer wanted any truck. How, given such actions in the past, could she possibly consider going back to him now? How could he, who could not face that such an outcome could be allowed, stop her?
Admiral Sir William Hotham was reading the orders, composed by Toomey, that would send Ralph Barclay away from the fleet and he was far from happy at the contents. Such an act would
have repercussions and he was searching his mind for some way to balance that which he reckoned he had to succumb to. He needed to find a way to remind Barclay that he was the C-in-C and not someone to be trifled with.
‘Toomey,’ he called towards the open cabin door, as enlightenment struck. ‘Do you have the fleet muster rolls?’
‘Of course, Sir William.’
‘I seem to recall that HMS Semele is well found in the article of hands.’
The answer was delivered as Toomey entered the great cabin. ‘Fresh from home, sir, she is bound to be.’
‘While even Britannia is short.’
‘Wear and tear, sir,’ Toomey replied wearily, wondering where this was heading.
The fleet had been in the Mediterranean for coming up to two years and there had been the usual losses to attrition, added to those who had been either wounded or perished at the Siege of Toulon. Endless requests had been sent home for drafts of seamen to be sent out and all of them had been ignored, the Channel Fleet and an expedition to the West Indian Sugar Islands taking precedence. Hood had undertaken to press the case once back in England but so far nothing had come of it.
‘Then I think we must strip Mr Barclay of his good fortune and balance it with the needs of the fleet as a whole.’
That still left Toomey in a state of wondering. First as to why Hotham was indulging Barclay, and then this, for he had not been privy to their private conversation and his employer had not enlightened him. That it had upset Hotham he knew, sensitive as he was to the admiral’s moods, yet as of this moment the gloom seemed to have lifted.
‘Write an order stripping out of HMS Semele one hundred and twenty men to be distributed throughout the fleet to those captains who plague me for their lack of hands. The lucky recipients we will grant twenty apiece, the flagship being first in line, which will please Mr Holloway.’
‘You had in mind to shift him sir, I recall?’
‘In time, Toomey, we must wait till Hyde Parker is back with us.’
The clerk hated to be in the dark and he justified his need to know as being essential to the well-being of his employer. There was a touch of the weathervane about the admiral and the Irishman was convinced he needed sound advice to act in his own best interests. It was a risk to ask for elucidation but one he felt he had to take.
The Perils of Command Page 6
