An Awkward Commission (9 page)

‘Gentlemen,’ said Taberly, holding up a handkerchief, ‘are you ready.’

Both fighters nodded, and the handkerchief dropped, an act which killed off the murmuring that had been rippling through the crowd as the spectators waited for the first blows to be struck. It was Braddock who obliged, catching Michael in the upper rib-cage with a telling right-handed blow that hurt even as he rode it, which brought forth an encouraging yell from his support. The soldier tried to follow that up, with a left, only to find it parried, with Michael feinting to hit him and force him to back off. Braddock did no such thing, he stood rock like, so Michael hit him hard just to let him know he had a fight on his hands. That produced a gummy grin.

Those blows had set the crowd off, with both sets of partisans yelling encouragement as the fighters began to exchange. Braddock seemed content to keep hitting the same spots over and over again, there was no science in his assault, unlike Michael who tried to vary what he did, striking different parts of the body. All the while Clipe was shouting in his ear, ‘Ride it out, ride it out.’ That followed by, ‘Find the spot, Michael, find the spot.’

The man he was coaching thought that easier said than done. Hit the Braddock’s nose hard and it did not bleed, it was too smashed already for anything to break; strike his head and all he did was shake it and swing back a killer blow. Punches to the body seemed useless, the man did not even move at the heaviest delivery, so Michael decided to use time. No man could fight without using up his puff; he must conserve his, and let Braddock squander his own. Then he would get a chance to aim at the target that might bring a result, the point of Braddock’s jaw.

Michael had experienced before that strange clarity which comes when fighting; the heightened awareness of everything
around you as well as that immediately in front. He never took his own gaze off Braddock’s eyes, for in shifting they began to tell him with increasing accuracy where the next blow would fall. He was aware too of his own balance, and how by adjusting it he could weather the storm of the man’s aggression. More tellingly, he could almost feel the mood of the watching crowd, tell that the soldiers were exulting while his own supporters and backers were more muted. There was also the contemplation of losing deliberately, just to infuriate Taberly and his ilk, not to mention that gobshite Gherson, but that had to be put aside; too many of his shipmates had borrowed money riding on his success.

So he took more punches than he gave, which were painful though never hitting anything vital, dropping his head to blunt blows to that part of his body so that it now ached, as did his upper arms and shoulders, where by swaying aside he could deflect Braddock’s intent. And he did strike back, mostly to parry what might be coming, but giving his opponent cause often enough to blink in surprise when he landed a real power punch. Time lost any meaning as thud followed thud, and sometimes the crowd were near silent long enough to allow the sound of bone on flesh to be paramount, for the longer it went on the less sure both sets of supporters were about the outcome.

O’Hagan was not, for in his fierce concentration he knew that Braddock was not only tiring physically, but he was also running out of ideas and that was sapping his will to continue. On more than one occasion Michael could have stepped forward and hit him hard enough to knock him back from his toe line yet he did not do so, and Braddock, who might be as thick as a first-rate’s scantlings, was enough of a bruiser to sense that he was being played with and that added anger to the other dearth he had, of ideas. If the spectators were confused, Clipe was not; he knew enough,
and had seen enough in his own fighting, to read the way matters were going.

‘You will have him soon, Michael. Hold to your method.’

With both bruisers wheezing like prize bulls such whispered encouragement was hard to hear, but Michael was encouraged by the sentiment, even if he ignored it. He did not hold fast, he upped his pace and the power of his response, hitting harder and more often, making the man think, for he reckoned he knew better than Clipe how to play Braddock. If the man lacked brains then the notion was to confuse what few he possessed, to do what was not expected. His tempo was reflected in the power of his support, who were now screaming with blood lust, not sated by the amount already spilt, for around both men’s feet what had been spots had merged by increase, foot movement and sweat into a mess that seeped into the deck.

The blow that finished matters came suddenly, but it was planned. Michael had lined up Braddock to protect one side of his body with a series of hard left-handed blows, for several minutes following that with mere feints to the right, that quickly followed by a renewed assault on the spot between rib cage and breeches that was now black with bruising, and which with each assault became increasingly painful. Three blows there, one parried, one successful, were followed by what Braddock again surmised was a feint. It was not, it was that all-out blow to the point of the jaw that O’Hagan had had in his mind from the very outset of the contest, that punch which sent a message to the top of the man’s head that was lethal in its effect. And Michael got right that most necessary thing to deliver, his balance.

Tough Braddock might be, big and larded with muscle, but on the receipt of that punch he dropped like a stone.

With the shoreline in view, no great feat of navigation was required to bring HMS
Brilliant
to a rendezvous with Glaister and Farmiloe and the fishing boat they had taken in to look over the enemy, the sight of which brought everyone on deck. However, the news he brought, that a large element of the Toulon fleet was ready to weigh, did nothing for the comfort of the captain. Ralph Barclay, as he paced up and down the windward side of the quarterdeck, was torn between two alternatives. He could up his helm and head east hoping to intercept and alert his admiral – he had to assume Hotham was now on his way; or he could stay on station and keep the French in view, for the very obvious reason that, if they were to put to sea, there was no telling in which direction they would sail and that was something his commanding officer would want to know.

The latter required him to make immediate if long-range contact, and to maintain it in the face of any escorting frigates, and no doubt sloops and corvettes, which would definitely try to head him off. He would have to close at night to have any chance of maintaining his vigil, with the concomitant risk that at first light he might find that he had either lost them, or that they were close enough, both frigates and ships-of-the-line, to overwhelm him. Duty was one thing, risk to reputation another and it was that which decided him on the latter course, despite its attendant
dangers. No one would condemn him for shadowing the enemy, or, should the worst happen, being taken by a superior force in an attempt to do so, and he would fight them before he would strike his colours. But if he ran east and missed Hotham, leaving him blind with an enemy fleet at sea, he would very likely face censure, for it was only a meeting of capital ships that could resolve the issue of who controlled the Mediterranean.

Challenged, he would have vehemently denied that his own personal standing in the Navy had anything to do with his choice – that he craved to be known as a bold and aggressive commander, yearned to be lauded for carrying off some stroke that would make him famous – like victory in a single ship action – the acme of achievement in his chosen profession. Nor that the previous act of running from his enemies still rankled, and was still, he was sure, to be seen in the attitude of his inferior officers. It was one of the benefits of captaincy; the decision was his, and no one on his deck had the right to question it.

He turned to face a quarterdeck full of people pretending not to keep him in the corner of their vision. The only man actually looking at him directly was the surgeon, Lutyens, but he had become so accustomed to scrutiny from that quarter that he hardly noticed. As he began to issue his instructions, it was to others that Lutyens turned, whipping out one of his little notebooks, eager to record their reactions to the news that they were to sail into an area which even to a lubber like him was clearly one of danger.

‘Mr Collins, set me a course to close Toulon once more, though as far south as is consistent with the need to be able to spot their topsails once they have cleared inshore waters. Mr Glaister, I want as many bulkheads as we do not absolutely require out of the way, as well as all unnecessary furniture struck below. Make sure the gunner has enough
cartridges filled for a running fight and that the small arms are ready for use with everything sharpened. I want every moment used to practise clearing for action and getting the guns run out. The time that takes has to be shaved if we are to have any chance should it come to a contest.’

The dirt on the man’s face, streaked as it was, heightened the look in his pale blue eyes, one of eager anticipation at the prospect of action. Looking around Lutyens could see that expression was present in nearly every countenance, from common seaman to officer. He had seen it before, that keen anticipation of a contest, which seemed quite capable of ignoring the fact that it was of necessity bloody, and that in such an encounter men could die.

‘The manger, sir?’

That, after weeks at sea and a number of Emily’s dinners, was not as full as it had been. ‘It will have to stay were it is for now, but if we face action what we have left must go overboard. We cannot risk the ship for a pig and a couple of goats.’

Barclay paused for a moment, to consider the next step. ‘Mr Farmiloe, prepare the pinnace. Step a mast, and take aboard men to sail her, as well as stores and a water barrel which will hold enough for a week. That you will have to take ashore and fill as soon as the light begins to go. I leave it to you how you accomplish that. Once you have water aboard you are to hold to this station and keep a lookout for either the fleet or any ship sent ahead with despatches and orders.’

There was gloom in the boy’s positive reply, for if there was a successful action, he would miss out, and perhaps on the rewards or any glory that would accrue.

‘If your water runs low, you will have to replenish that again from the shore, and for food, you can live off the fishermen, who I am sure will be happy to sell you the
contents of their cooking tubs. Take a copy of the signals for compass headings as well and keep a sharp lookout, for once we have discerned the course of the enemy, I will try to close with you and give you what I know of their intentions.’

He did not add that he would be back on this same station and facing censure if he lost them.

Below he was brusque, quite sharp in the way he told his wife that there would be no more formal dinners for a day or two, and that they would be obliged to live on the same food as the rest of the crew.

‘Likewise I intend that the main cabin bulkhead is to be hinged up, and the pantry done away with, though our sleeping quarters will remain. You may wish to sort out some clothing for a few days, which should be practical. Everything that can be done without will go into the hold.’

Emily just nodded, and went into their sleeping cabin to comply.

‘Shenton,’ Barclay shouted, ‘I want a couple of fresh shirts and a pair of clean breeches, then strike my chest below. Once that is done prepare the lady hole. Give it a good clean with fresh vinegar, and make it comfortable for my wife.’

HMS
Brilliant
was round and on her new course, and above his head Barclay could hear the running feet of the men manning the falls as Collins sent aloft sail after sail, just as he could feel the increase in the heel of the ship as that extra canvas worked on her trim. The pinnace, towed astern to keep her seams tight, for the weather was hot and dry, was being hauled in, this while Farmiloe picked his men, four at most, in case they needed to row, and took aboard biscuit and some grog, for men deprived of their daily beer would be crabbed without it, as well as some funds borrowed from the purser to purchase fish. He was back on deck again as the midshipman prepared to go over the side, into a boat
that now had a mast and a furled gaff sail, with a block at the masthead to run it up and down as required.

‘You have a timepiece, Mr Farmiloe?’

‘I do, sir,’ the boy replied, tapping his waistcoat pocket.

‘Then use it, as well as the sun, to aid you in fixing your position and nurturing your stores. Always make sure you have the shore in sight at first light, but if you have not, at that time of day any drifting that has taken you off is easily corrected. Put one man to lookout to the east, for sight of the fleet, and another looking west for me. And Mr Farmiloe, keep moving. Do not be tempted to just drift, for that will do nothing to keep either you or your men sharp.’

Farmiloe wanted to ask what to do if no one came, fleet or messenger, but he reckoned that would not elicit an answer that included any instructions. Subject to the vivid imagination that went with his age he had a vision of drifting around in these waters forever, broiled by the sun, if he was not capsized by a sudden squall or taken by an enemy cruiser. Instead, he lifted his hat, tried to pretend that he was pleased by the responsibility being entrusted in him and prepared to go over the side. The voice that came then, did something to lift his mood.

‘Mr Farmiloe,’ called Emily Barclay, who had followed her husband on deck. ‘May I wish you safety, and say that we all hope to see aboard again soon. Until then, if you have no objections, I will include you in my prayers.’

That made Farmiloe smile, puff up slightly, and produce a brave statement. ‘Then I feel sure that no danger will threaten me, Mrs Barclay.’

‘On your way, boy,’ growled Ralph Barclay, ‘and pay attention to your orders.’

‘Aye, aye sir.’

The boat, on the lee side of the frigate, was bucking along lashed to the ship, so that he had to jump aboard,
only saved from the indignity of ending up in the thwarts by the strong arms of Dysart, who did not wait for the nominal officer to issue orders to cast off. By the time Farmiloe had taken station on the tiller, turning it sharply to starboard, the sail was run up and the cutter was sailing away.

‘Mr Glaister, when all else is completed fetch out the boarding nets and lay them along the bulwarks. I want them shipped as night falls and lookouts with muskets set at ten foot intervals on both sides of the ship. I have no notion to be taken by an enemy boarding party during the hours of darkness.’

Ralph Barclay went back to his captain’s walk, feeling the warm southerly wind on his face, bracing himself against the heel of the now racing frigate, going over in his mind every scenario he could think of that might bring danger to his command, trying to foresee ways of countering them. That was when the thought came to him, that the French would not have seen the fishing boat and might not know that their state of readiness had been compromised. In his mind he formulated a plan to discomfort them; to either keep them in place or hurry them to sea before they were fully ready.

‘Mr Collins, a change of course. Take us in closer to Toulon. Mr Glaister, prepare the signal flags for the message, “Enemy in sight”, that followed by a Blue Peter to denote they are preparing to weigh, then repeated, and get some powder charges up to the signal gun, which we will be firing at regular intervals.’

The desire to seek an explanation was plain on the Premier’s face, but he had the good sense not to ask for one, or to question whether the proposed signal would be understood. The order went out to trim the yards as the rudder brought
Brilliant
round on a more northerly course, which took her off her very best point of sailing and cut her speed.

‘We just raised the tip of Mont Faron, your honour.’

The lookouts up there would have him soon, and there was no way to bluff, given that every feature of the frigate would be known to them. He anticipated that those enemy frigates would intercept again, seeking to drive him off, indeed he was somewhat surprised that they had not been set further out to sea for the purpose. Speculation about that produced several possibilities; over-confidence that they had driven him off station, or what he hoped was the cause, that they were too fearful of being caught in a single ship action by a well worked-up British opponent to close with him unless they could guarantee each other support.

‘Dinner for the men as normal, Mr Glaister, the officer to take theirs at the same time. Once that is over we may fully clear for action.’

Below, Shenton was standing beside the cook, much to the man’s annoyance, as he tagged the pieces of salted pork he was taking from a barrel, each required to have the messnumbered metal tag attached. None could be given out until the captain’s steward had examined it, his aim to find the leanest piece for the main cabin. If he was going to be forced to eat seamen’s food, then he wanted the cut with the least gristle.

‘That one,’ he cried, as a slightly over-sized portion of leg came out, adding with a leer. ‘And we’ll want some scouse, Cookie. Can’t wait to see Mrs Barclay’s face when she has to pop that and a biscuit full of weevils into her ever-so delicate mouth.’

His last task was to pass over a bag filled with a mixture of suet and raisins, which would be boiled to provide a pudding. ‘Don’t go putting it too close to the burning wood, Cookie, it has a fair bit o’ brandy mixed in.’

‘And no doubt you’ll be havin’ more’n your share o’
that, Shenton,’ moaned Devenow, a burly brute of a fellow, waiter for the day to his mess, one of the sailors forced to linger for his portion.

Shenton blew a soft raspberry. He was not cautious with Devenow, unlike most of the crew, his station as the captain’s steward protection enough. The man was a bully who used his size and if necessary his fists to get what he wanted, usually a share of someone’s grog ration, husbanding that to be consumed in a binge. This had seen him at the grating three times already this commission, for he was not a quiet drunk. Not that Devenow complained; he took his dozen without a murmur, and was never absent from duty for more than a couple of hours after that. He was, in many ways, one of the banes of Ralph Barclay’s life, for he deeply admired his captain – in fact he had come aboard as a volunteer as soon as he heard of the commission – a feeling not reciprocated in the slightest measure.

‘Goes wi’ the station,’ Shenton added, ‘Has to be some perks to make up for being on the rough end of Barclay’s tongue, day in, day out.’

‘Like we ain’t, brother,’ growled Martin Dent, a spotty youth with a badly set broken nose, not long moved from being a marine drummer – really a ship’s boy – to being a topman, one of the ship’s elite. He could speak up because at his age all he would ever get from Devenow was a slap, and being a cheeky bugger he had had a rate of those in his few years, none of which had stilled his tongue. The sentiment was taken up by the rest of the people waiting with their mess kits, which manifested itself as an angry ripple of discontent.

‘Belay that,’ Devenow shouted, before glaring at Martin, who dared to glare back. ‘I won’t hear a word agin the captain. The man might be hard, but he be fair.’

That brought immediate quiet, with no one prepared
to challenge a statement they believed to be untrue, for Devenow would mark the speaker, and there would be a price to pay.