On deck, Lieutenant Palmer sensed the diminution in the rate of fire all around him, small but significant. It seemed odd to consult his watch but in doing so he realised this fight had been in progress for well over two hours and it was obvious that his guns crew would be tiring. Did that apply to the French or did they have full complements of men? Perhaps fresh from port they even had an excess, which they could carry on sorties that were of short duration. If they did, then they could relieve tired gun crews with fresh bodies.
Palmer had been twenty years at sea, yet this was his first experience of battle and he wondered if he was up to the standard required to do what was necessary. The other thought was just as troubling: would he keep fighting in order to save his own reputation, sacrificing men’s lives so he could claim to have conducted a proper contest?
Very apparent and impossible to gainsay was the plain fact that HMS Semele was not going to be able to break off the fight. What was left aloft would not draw any wind, which in any case was still foul. To come about required new canvas aloft and he reckoned that would be fatal. To take men off the guns would reduce his rate of fire even more, while the number he might lose in rigging being shot through with chain and bar did not bear thinking about. That was before the enemy guessed what was being attempted and sent case shot into the same area.
It left him nothing more than to stay and pound it out, hoping the French would tire before Semele. That showed no sign of being a present possibility and Palmer knew if he was wrong about the prospects the butcher’s bill on board what was now his ship would grow and grow. Could he, in all conscience, take responsibility for that?
‘All officers to the quarterdeck,’ he commanded.
This sent a fourteen-year-old midshipman running off to effect the delivery. It took time for him to get round, more for them to gather from their stations and his first words were to make sure they knew that Barclay was no more. If it seemed odd to be holding a conference on a deck that had seen their senior officer killed and was still exposed to enemy fire, no one mentioned it as Palmer outlined the situation.
‘So, gentlemen, I ask you for your opinion on what we must do.’
The smoke-blackened faces before him showed varying degrees of reaction, ranging from shock to surprise, for the question would not have been posed if Palmer was determined to continue fighting. He knew that, which had him say a few words more.
‘I know the ultimate decision rests with myself, but I am not prepared to act without your backing. Can we continue this fight with any prospect of being able to defeat the enemy? I repeat that we lack enough intact canvas to provide steerage way and what we will lose if we seek to alter that.’
Just then a blast of case shot swept across the foredeck, sending many of the men working the 18-pounders spinning away screaming, while their mates looked on in stunned inactivity until reality intruded and they rushed to take the wounded below to the surgeon. Two bodies were left; there was no time to worry about the already dead.
‘We must strike our colours,’ Palmer said.
If it sounded harsh it was because his throat lacked fluid, not because he was either angry or heartbroken. Those before him nodded, some immediately, the marine captain the last.
‘Then, gentlemen, I suggest you find anything you have of value to keep about your person, for it will be needed in captivity.’
‘The crew?’ asked the third lieutenant.
‘Will have time to do likewise before the enemy comes for my sword.’
The midshipman messenger was behind the assembly, his eyes beginning to wet with tears that would soon produce streaks on his face. The only answer to his misery was activity.
‘The private signal book, fetch it – a sack, as well as a lead weight. Gentlemen, go to your divisions and give the order to cease firing. Then join me in what was Captain Barclay’s cabin.’
Then he hauled out his sword for the last act it would perform before he was relieved of it, stepping to the mast and slashing at the halyards holding aloft the battle flag of his ship. Cut through, it fluttered down as the guns close by fell silent. It took several minutes for the enemy to do likewise and when they did the sound that floated across the water was not one to lift the spirits, being loud cheering.
The only other noise was of the private signal book splashing into the sea.
‘Jesus, they’ve struck!’ shouted Tucker, as they saw the Union Flag disappear into the rapidly clearing smoke, a cry that brought howls from his mates.
John Pearce was just as stunned; this he had not expected and it presented him with a dilemma. If Semele were now a French prize, Hotham’s order to Ralph Barclay would be redundant. It also seemed to him to obviate any need to continue on to Naples, much as he was longing to do so. The quartet he commanded were still looking at the scene unfolding before them, four vessels in various states of damage, but what would they say if he ordered them to just proceed on as though nothing had occurred?
His duty was plain; Hotham needed to be told of this loss and quickly, which might afford him a chance, if he moved swiftly enough, to reverse it. He owed a duty to the service as well as to the crew of HMS Semele that transcended his private desires or his hatred of the man who commanded her. So it was with a heavy heart that he issued his orders.
‘Tucker, get that sail aloft at the double.’
‘Back to Leghorn, Your Honour?’
‘As fast as this wind will carry us.’
Which will not be at the pace with which we got this far, Pearce thought, as he sank back into his seat in the stern, and it would be laboured tacking and wearing sailing into the wind.
Down below the sound of battle had been muted by the sheer quantity of timber, only the occasional bang as a French ball struck Semele’s hull causing a brief lifting of the head. It was the lack of juddering from their own cannon that alerted those dealing with the wounded to the fact that the fighting had ceased and that did not tell them if it pointed to victory or defeat. That only came with the arrival of Palmer, who delivered it with gravitas.
‘You must make preparations for capture,’ he told the assembly.
‘I can only do that when the wounded have been attended to, Mr Palmer.’
‘Of course. I will send a midshipman and you may instruct him as to your needs.’ He then turned to Emily. ‘I am Lieutenant Nesbit Palmer, madam. I have been given to understand that you are Captain Barclay’s wife.’
‘That is so.’
The man blinked, no doubt wondering, Emily surmised, why that fact had been kept a secret. About to provide an explanation that would cover her sudden and peculiar arrival, one she had mentally concocted when shut up in her cabin, his next words stopped her dead.
‘Then it is my painful duty, Mrs Barclay, to tell you that your husband has suffered a gallant death while commanding his ship.’
‘Death?’
What a range of emotions coursed through her mind in a millisecond, some enough to make her feel deeply ashamed.
‘He was on deck when it happened and no officer could have done more than he. I can also assure you he felt no pain.’
‘He was not wounded, then?’
‘No.’ Palmer hesitated, coughed, looked embarrassed and then continued. ‘What occurred was a most unpleasant event and the loss was immediate, so I had your husband laid out in his cabin, which is being put to rights as we speak.’
‘Then I must go and pray for him.’
‘That would, I think, be unwise and troubling.’
‘Mr Palmer, as you will see, this apron I am wearing is covered in blood. I have stood here these last hours as men wounded, some horribly, have been brought in to be treated and many have succumbed even as I spoke with them. It means I am no wallflower, sir.’
‘I accept what you say, Mrs Barclay, but—’
‘Is his condition so terrible that you think I will faint?’
‘No, madam, but you see the fatal wound suffered by your husband was the loss of his
head. Sadly that cannot be found to be rejoined with his trunk.’
Emily had to suppress the thought that then entered her mind: her husband was always metaphorically losing his head, so it was an ironic way to for him to die. Close to mirth she had to drop her head to hide her features and she was fighting to control them when Palmer added, ‘I am having him prepared for a burial at sea. Once he is sewn into canvas, I would suggest that would be an appropriate time to say your prayers. The cabin bulkheads will be put back in place so you can enjoy some privacy with which to mourn. Now, if you will excuse me, I have much to do before our captors come aboard.’
‘Of course,’ she whispered, head still bowed.
‘My condolences once more, madam.’
Emily went back to work, bandaging the arm of a fellow who had taken a ball from case shot in the upper arm. He had heard the whole exchange and, added to that, from his recumbent position he had seen how the woman nursing him had found it necessary to supress amusement. Not that he would say anything now, but it would be a mystery to relate to his mates.
‘Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am, but if we has struck as Mr Palmer says, then I need to get to where I stow my possessions. If I don’t, them French sods will pinch anything they find.’
Emily tore at the ends of the bandage with her teeth to create the means for a knot, tying it quickly. ‘There you are, you may go.’
‘A sad day, ma’am.’
‘Indeed,’ came the reply, from a woman inwardly unsure if that was the truth.
‘Can I suggest, Mrs Barclay,’ the surgeon said, ‘your work is done here. If we are to meet our captors it would be unbecoming that you should do so in such a bloodstained condition.’
‘I would see such garb as a mark of honour.’
‘Which it truly is. But decorum?’
‘When my work is complete.’
‘As you wish.’
Palmer was on deck when the senior French officer came aboard followed by a strong party of armed men, his sword held flat in his hand, subjected to a surprised look as the captain took in his uniform coat, obviously that of a lieutenant. Then his hat came off and he bowed.
‘Capitaine de Vaisseau, Louis-Jean-Nicolas LeJollie.’
‘Lieutenant Nesbit Palmer, First Lieutenant of HMS Semele.’
‘Le capitaine?’
‘Mort,’ Palmer replied, employing one of the few words of French he felt safe to use.
‘Une tragedie, n’est-ce pas, mais la chance de la guerre.’
‘I do not speak your language, monsieur.’
‘Sword, you keep.’
‘Thank you, er … merci. May I introduce you to my officers?’
The mutual lack of comprehension only increased as that was carried out; names were provided and LeJollie muttered to each a few words of encouragement, which mostly seemed to allude to their being gallant. What else he was imparting was a mystery. Finally LeJollie turned to one of his own men, who stepped forward with a folded tricolour flag. As he turned back to face Palmer he looked suitably sad.
‘C’est necessaire, monsieur.’ A sharp order had it attached to the sliced-through halyards, now swinging in the wind, and the French sailor fashioned two swift knots before hauling it aloft slightly, just enough for the flag of Great Britain to be tied on below, the two raised aloft together to an outburst of cheering from the frigates that were now within hailing distance.
Emily, now that all that could be done was over, had come to her resurrected cabin to find Gherson rifling through her possessions. When she admonished him he just sneered. ‘Happen you’ll need looking after now, Miss Nose-in-the-air.’
‘It will be your neck in the air if you do not get out.’
The sneer turned to a bitter laugh. ‘And who is going to haul on the rope now, that turd Pearce?’
‘Get out,’ she yelled, loud enough to bring Devenow out of the main cabin. Not the sharpest of men he blinked a couple of times before it dawned on him what was going on.
‘Sling your hook, Gherson.’
‘You can’t order me about.’
A fist came up and he closed to tower over the clerk. ‘Can I not?’
The way the clerk sauntered off troubled Emily, smacking as it did of his endemic arrogance, but she could not linger on that.
‘Devenow, I require water with which to wash and the privacy to do so, but first, well you know what I must do.’
‘He held you in high regard, Mrs Barclay.’ It was a lie and both knew it. But this was no time to nail the fact as he stood aside to indicate that she should pass through the door he had used to enter. ‘I will see if the galley fire has been lit.’
Entering the main cabin she saw the bundle of canvas on the floor. The outline was vaguely human and she supposed Palmer must have had this begun before he came to tell her the news. The cabin had been put to rights down to the embroidered cushions being replaced on the casement lockers. Emily took one and put in on the floor, then knelt on it, clasping her hands in prayer, for if she had come to despise Ralph Barclay it was her duty as a Christian to pray for his salvation.
Back on deck, LeJollie had made a move to go to that very place, but a word from Palmer, even in English, stopped him. The stilted discussion that followed took time but eventually the Frenchman understood that the late captain’s wife was on board and as of this moment probably alone with his body. Time for her to grieve would be seen as a kindness.
LeJollie shrugged; there was much to do, the cabin could wait and courtesy demanded he go below and commiserate with the wounded, with whom he would exchange a few words of comfort. If he now served the navy of the Revolution LeJollie had, at one time, been an officer of King Louis and he still abided to the norms of that service.
Palmer went with him as the muster books were passed over to his inferiors; the French would need a list of those they had taken prisoner.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
By the time night fell, HMS Semele was under tow from Minerve. LeJollie had decided that to remain in the same location and effect repairs would risk him being discovered by a British Fleet he suspected was at sea. Prior to moving, the crew of the 74 had been broken up, to be sent to one of the French frigates and replaced by a prize crew drawn from the enemy squadron.
A body of men had been held back: Palmer, the master, as well as the other standing officers with their mates, plus the one favour granted by the Frenchman, that Emily Barclay should continue to occupy the main cabin even after her husband was buried. The lieutenant he put in charge of the prize, as well as one other officer, would use the wardroom.
There had been one unpleasant moment when the crew were being shifted into the waiting boats. Cornelius Gherson had sought to take with him a locked chest containing Ralph Barclay’s papers, only to be stopped by a Frenchman who demanded to examine the contents. Gherson had thrown something close to a screaming fit, which got him a well-deserved clip round the ear from a French officer. That had brought Palmer to the gangway to find out what was happening.
The complaint, that these were private papers and correspondence in his charge cut no ice. The chest was taken from him, as well as the key he carried in his coat pocket. It was then sent back to what was described as the rightful owner, namely the late captain’s wife. Gifted to her, she showed little initial interest.
For Nesbit Palmer it was a strange sensation to be aboard his ship, yet with nothing to do but convey orders to those left behind and they were few. Much time was spent with the surgeon and the chaplain in the former tiny quarters to avoid too much contact with his captors.
His only outright duties were to visit those recovering from their wounds and accompany the carpenter as he traversed his interior walkway to establish damage to the hull. That done and being satisfied, the carpenter was now busy repairing wounded timber, as if the ship was not a capture.
The gunner was updating his records so that he could account properly for what he had remaining in the way of powder and shot, while
the purser likewise counted his stores, for they would have a money value to the enemy, while to him, their loss could presage bankruptcy. The cook was still aboard, for everyone – prize crew included – had to be fed.
With everyone convinced she was deep in grief, Emily was left alone to brood and to seek to work out what the future held. She, too, was a captive and having been in such a situation before it held little terror. Courtesies were extended to captains and their wives that were not given to other officers, and certainly not the men, and she knew that part of her duties would be to alleviate their conditions if at all possible.
The body had been removed at her request – again done willingly on the assumption it was too upsetting to share the cabin with – but in reality she saw it as a malign presence, for death had not removed the malice of her husband, but somehow seemed to increase it.
Devenow had been left behind to care for her and was in constant attendance, being something of a trial in that role, seeking to ingratiate himself by endless enquiries as to her feelings and her needs. Since she knew him to be an endemic drunkard his sobriety was remarkable. It was he who brought her dinner to a table he had set, putting on the polished mahogany board crystal glass, silver cutlery and a decanter of wine, all served with deep humility.
Following on from the meal she finally opened the chest and began to examine the contents: Ralph Barclay’s orders as well as various communications with fellow naval officers on the subject of their treatment following on from the Glorious First of June. Family letters she did not read, they being from his rather silly sisters and thus would be full of local and dull gossip.
There were numerous missives from Ommaney and Druce, oddly addressed to Gherson, detailing various transactions and investments, as well as updates on prize matters still in dispute. A book listed an account of her husband’s holdings, not least in 3% Government Consols, the whole adding up to a sizeable sum of money and given there was no will the conclusion dawned that unless there was one in London she would quite naturally inherit.
The Perils of Command Page 23
