Like all ships it creaked and groaned as timbers moved and ropes stretched, perhaps being old and poorly cared for more than most, especially when changing course. Carried out with none of the efficiency of a king’s ship, this tended to be a noisy and shouty affair – certainly enough to wake him from his slumbers and to wonder why what he was hearing seemed to have a note of alarm about it.
In a stilted conversation with the master the following morning he learnt that, under a clear sky and near full moon, a large warship had been spotted sailing south under full sail. Fearing it to be French and afraid to risk being taken as a prize, the course had been rapidly altered to close with the land but the vessel had shown no interest in the small trader and had sailed on without itself altering course.
‘Probably Neapolitan,’ was John Pearce’s opinion, which once it had been understood got him a shrug.
The drill on board HMS Semele was that set by the standing orders. The crew were roused out before dawn to man the guns, which were loaded and run out. Ralph Barclay was on deck as the sky lightened to range around the seascape with a telescope resting on a midshipman’s shoulder. He was not alone; every officer on the ship was likewise alert, for this was ever seen as a time of vulnerability in hostile waters.
Sure that no enemy had snuck up on them in the hours of darkness – the moon state made no difference – he waited till he could, as the mantra had it, ‘See a grey goose at a quarter mile’. There being nothing in sight but the odd fishing boat he could give the order to Mr Palmer to carry on, which began the job of worming and housing the cannon, then swabbing the decks before they were flogged dry.
If Ralph Barclay saw the looks directed at him in his time on deck, or as he departed, none of them friendly, he paid them no heed. He had no desire to be loved by the crew: he wished to be obeyed and promptly, with the requisite punishments available to those who failed to meet his exacting standards.
In his absence the great cabin had been cleaned with watered-down vinegar, as it was every day, and the odour of that stung Barclay’s nostrils as he sat with a cup of strong coffee and contemplated what lay ahead, this as the hands were now piped to breakfast.
Opposite him sat Cornelius Gherson, a man who had been roped more than once into the affair of his captain’s troubled marriage. His solution to the problem of Emily Barclay and her desertion – hinted at, if never stated, but understood nonetheless – was that to seek to repair the union was a waste of time; a permanent end to the problem was the only viable answer.
‘It won’t wash,’ Barclay said, when it was once more alluded to. ‘If the whole fleet does not know what I am about then they soon will, for Hotham will have some explaining to do and I don’t see him being shy in letting on my motives.’
‘Irate captains?’
‘As I would be myself if the shoe was on the other foot.’
Gherson looked over his employer’s shoulder then, out of the salt-caked casements to the startling blue of the sea, his mind on the man’s wife. She was a beauty and would still be that, not yet twenty years old with long auburn hair, fair skin, a delectable figure and a very becoming countenance enhanced by light freckles. What she also had was a waspish tongue and he had been lashed by that more than once.
On initial acquaintance he had made it known that she was, to him, an alluring prospect. Being vain, Gherson had fully expected the woman to be equally attracted to his person – after all, he had enjoyed great success in such matters before – though he was then obliged to recall that his previous dalliance with another man’s wife had come perilously close to getting him killed.
Emily Barclay had rebuffed him in the most vicious and to him unwarranted way, not once but repeatedly, which had turned attraction into dislike and through his own anger into hate. Her husband was being weak in the head to think a woman like that would come back to him, twice her age and not much to look at either, with his heavy dark jowl and ruddy-red cheeks.
‘The task, Gherson, if we find she is in Naples, is to get her aboard the ship. Once I have her confined well, I shall make her see sense.’
‘Indeed, sir,’ came the sceptical reply; Barclay had tried to make her see sense before and failed miserably.
‘And in order to do that you must come ashore with me and put out feelers, for I cannot be seen to do so. Duty demands that I call upon our ambassador but you can act the free agent.’
‘I will be in a place where I lack the tongue of the natives.’
‘I know you will need an interpreter, Gherson, but when you charge me for his services have a care not to try and dun me as you have in the past.’
‘Money will be required to loosen tongues as well.’
‘Some of which your sticky fingers will be reluctant to part with, I daresay.’
Gherson made no protest at this growling accusation; he had long given up trying to persuade Ralph Barclay that he was careful with his money because he had never been believed. That the man had the right of it induced no guilt, yet such a response underlined what he had come to realise quite quickly in their relationship: his employer did not trust him one little bit. This was a fact not to be taken personally for the man was a stranger to dependence, his attitude being, after a life in the King’s Navy, that anyone who could would steal from him and, as long as it was within reasonable bounds, he could let it pass. He was not beyond the odd bit of peculation himself, of the kind that even sharp-eyed Admiralty clerks would fail to spot. It was easy to despise Ralph Barclay, especially for a man who applied the same to most people he met. Gherson was adroit with figures and no more honest than his employer, able to so construct accounts in a way that hid well the minor felonies while diverting some for his own purse. To be insulted, as he regularly was by the man before him, he would abide since he was a source of income that was decent now and could grow to a much more lucrative one if he ever became an admiral and a fleet commander.
Certainly in his daydreams Gherson looked forward to the day when he could tell Barclay what he really thought of him, but such a dawn was a long way off. That accepted it was common for him to ponder on things that might go some way to redress the imbalance between them and such a possibility occurred to him now.
If he found Emily Barclay in Naples, perhaps the chance would arise to take from her that which she would not surrender willingly, a thought that had him wriggling uncomfortably in his chair. Barely aware of the shouts aloft and the sound of running feet, he was brought to the cause of the commotion as a midshipman knocked and entered.
‘Mr Palmer’s compliments, sir, but two sail have been spotted on the horizon and the lookout reckons them to be warships by their canvas.’
‘Nationality?’
‘Not yet established, sir, all we have is a sight of their topgallants.’
The yawn from the captain was both studied and deliberately theatrical and if it impressed the midshipman as a sign of sangfroid it failed to fool Gherson. ‘Ask Mr Palmer to alter course to close and please let me know when that has been established.’
‘We know they cannot be ours, sir, given there are none of our vessels in these waters.’
Gherson saw Barclay swell up. But before he could issue a sharp reprimand to the cheeky youngster the lad was gone, with the captain saying, ‘Pound to a penny they are out from Naples.’
It took a whole glass of sand to disabuse Ralph Barclay and take him onto the quarterdeck with Devenow right beside him, for there was a fair swell and he risked a fall while using a telescope. The sightings were hull up now and many an eye was ranging over them.
He had aboard men who had served a long time in the navy and they knew the lines of the vessels they had spotted. They were French by design and, having identified HMS Semele as British, if not by name, they soon put up their helm and ran for safety, having seen her flags and reckoned on her size and armament.
Duty demanded he give chase. He commanded a well-found vessel and one that could be said to be fast for a seventy-four,
being very fresh of the stocks and he commanded a crew that had already tasted prize money and were eager enough for more. If frigates, which they were, could normally outsail a ship of the line, luck might come to their aid and carry away something on an enemy vessel, canvas or a spar, perhaps one in panic bearing too much aloft.
Added to that they were running from safety; there was no harbour or bay outside of the southern French coast where they could anchor and not be vulnerable. The meanest tactical mind had to reckon that they would seek to come about and reverse the course in the hours of darkness and that, with luck and the right course, might put the seventy-four within long range of their decks.
‘An opinion, Mr Palmer?’
That made the premier blink; his captain was not one to seek the views of others.
‘We have no notion of their qualities, sir.’
That required no further explanation: were they well manned, for the French Navy had suffered much from the Revolution, most tellingly in its upper ranks? Many vessels seemed now to be commanded by men who had not previously been ships’ captains. How long had they been at sea and where had they sailed to, for warm Mediterranean waters were faster to foul a hull than the cold Atlantic?
If HMS Semele could get close enough by a well-worked chase, would a pair of frigates reckon that to fight gave them a chance of glory – not in terms of gunnery but by being able to manoeuvre more quickly and sting a larger opponent?
‘I think we know the calibre of our enemies, Mr Palmer. They are inclined to avoid battle are they not, which we can see before our very eyes?’
‘True sir.’
‘I think we must pass on what would be a fruitless chase that might take days. We shall raise Naples before we lose daylight, so let us resume our course and rue the fact that we did not come upon yonder fellows close to and at first light.’
The feeling of anticlimax was palpable and even an insensitive soul like Ralph Barclay could feel it, which had him step before the binnacle and glare along the deck as if to challenge anyone to speak or even scowl. That he held while the orders were being given to resume their original course, the sails hauled round and sheeted home, no one willing to catch his eye.
The smirk on Gherson’s face as he passed his tiny cubicle infuriated Ralph Barclay, but the reprimand died on his lips; with what he was about he needed this man too much to chastise him now.
John Pearce was landing at Leghorn by the time HMS Semele raised the channel running between the Isla Procida and the promontory of Bacoli, the sun sinking to the west, which meant any attempt to land would have to wait till morning. Such a vessel could not come close to Naples without it caused excitement and long before she dropped anchor in the wide bay word had been sent to the British Ambassador to tell him that a capital ship of his nation’s navy was in the offing.
‘Emma, my dear, we must prepare to receive the man in command.’
‘Do we know of him?’
‘How could we?’
‘A stranger, then. Let us hope that he is of the entertaining variety. Too many of these naval fellows are dullards.’
The Chevalier smiled. ‘I have known you to find one or two entertaining, my dear.’
‘One or two, yes, but no more than that.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
It was a wary, rather than a weary traveller who landed at Leghorn; given the trouble he had previously encountered in the Tuscan port that was to be expected. There was a strong naval presence to support the commissary needs of the fleet but at present no warships in the roadstead, which was a disappointment and led him first to the pensione in which he and Emily had previously stayed to leave there his sea chest.
Pearce’s reasons for caution centred on redcoats not blue, soldiers not sailors, for he had encountered much grief from contacts with army men here, though there seemed little evidence of their presence now. Enquiries at the office of the Navy Board, and the Captain Urquhart who oversaw their work, provided no information as to when he could expect a ship, while he had to be circumspect as to how he had come to be there without one.
Obliged to identify himself he dare not mention HMS Flirt or the mission on which she had been engaged, while the excuses he provided, hastily conjured up since he had not previously thought of the need – that he had become separated from his vessel by ill health – sounded feeble to his ears and judging by the expression that greeted his explanation was scarce believed.
‘Well,’ the captain said, his manner decidedly unfriendly, that being enhanced by a dour and heavy Scots delivery, ‘your name is known, sir, in these parts and not in a good way.’
‘I am at a loss to know why that should be particular to Leghorn.’
‘Come, sir. You are by common consent not qualified for your rank. Even monarchs make errors. Do not deny that you induced a near riot in the port – one that, fortunately, did not end in fatalities, though it sailed damn close.’
Pearce declined to protest, for the first accusation was something fruitless to respond to, while the other left him genuinely confused. ‘I have no idea what you are talking about.’
‘Come, sir, do you really expect me to believe such a plea? The bullocks you set your men upon made sure the whole town knew who to blame.’
‘For what, sir?’
The tone John Pearce used then, one of rising anger, met with even less approval than his name. Urquhart flushed angrily and his response was spat out with real venom, a hand slapping down on his desk.
‘It pains me to mention, and I would scarce want to allude to it, but I find I must do so: the way you embarrassed the service by your behaviour in a duel. That the mere engagement is reprehensible and forbidden is a matter of fact, sir, but much worse is that you chose a low trick to end matters in your favour. Not content with that you then had the very man you fought and his companions set upon, assaulted by every midshipman and liberty man then in the harbour.’
‘Captain Urquhart, I will acknowledge the former charge and I am not happy at the memory, though I will add that when a fellow sets out not to merely draw blood for satisfaction but to kill you, the rules by which gentlemen engage in such pursuits go by the board.’
Urquhart was not listening; judging by his breathing he was struggling to contain himself, close to an outburst that would pass the bounds of acceptance.
‘You do not seem to observe that I have work before me, which you are preventing me from getting on with. Because of that, Lieutenant, I must bid you good day.’
Once outside the building, standing under the fluttering Union Flag, John Pearce was at a loss to make sense of what he had heard and damned annoyed at the way he had been dismissed. Passing through to get to the street he had been eyed with deep suspicion by Urquhart’s underlings, men who must have overheard the exchange in the captain’s office. Tempted to enquire of them, their expressions did nothing to invite questioning, which left him at a loss as to how to proceed.
That, he felt he must do: some deed was being attached to his name and it was even more annoying to have no notion of what he was accused of, while in a port full of Italians layered with Austrians there was a shortage of places to go where he could seek enlightenment.
Walking along the quay, a possible alternative presented itself. Leghorn, as well as being the revictualling port for the fleet, was home to a fair few privateers, many of them English, given letters of marque by the British Crown to pursue and harass the trade of the enemy for personal gain.
They were a rum bunch held in contempt by their naval contemporaries, which was hypocrisy of the first order. King’s officers chased after prizes with a zeal that matched that of the men they termed predatory wolves. Their objection centred on the freedom privateers had to act at will, their obvious successes adding to the fact that their captures meant fewer opportunities for their naval rivals.
The letters of marque occupied their own part of the port, a small harbour they shared with the larger local fishing boats, well away from the naval
dockyard on the far side of the old castle that had at one time protected the anchorage. It was an area into which naval ratings were discouraged from going, and that was with only the most reliable hands allowed ashore.
Leghorn posed a danger that did not apply to many other ports and for that reason some warships never let a soul below a warrant on to dry land. Privateers required sailors as much as the navy and had a strong preference for their own countrymen, for if they suffered casualties – inevitable when they generally had to fight to take their seizures – they found it hard to procure replacements, which made the proximity of a fleet tempting.
Added to the bounty they might offer to recruit a King’s sailor they were adept at keeping them too, able with a change of name to provide the kind of exemptions from naval service that protected their own crews from impressment; if they were forged, and the navy was sure it was so, it was done with such skill as to be impossible to gainsay. If the stream of recruits was low, men still managed to make the transfer for it mattered not what was put in place to prevent desertion: a few always found a way round it.
Leghorn had been a fortified port since Roman times, laid out with new fortifications in the style of Vauban the previous century, with a star-shaped bastion surrounded by moats and canals, and that forced anyone seeking to capture the new citadel into approaches that could be easily defended. Such features forced Pearce into a long detour and in making it he was aware that he was being eyed by small knots of folk that seemed to have time to lounge on corners.
Such creatures might just be innocent locals yet it was known the navy had set men in place to prevent their crews from disappearing, paid crimps whose task it was to spot a wandering sailor and prevent him from passing through to the privateers’ part of the city, by persuasion if it could be achieved, by violence if not.
The Perils of Command Page 8
