An Ill Wind (8 page)

‘He supported you, husband, when you demanded it of him. Perhaps if you trained him more assiduously for the duty you say he failed to carry out he might have done better.’

The look of confusion on Nelson’s face was obvious: he was in the middle of a family spat with no way to politely leave without making the knowledge obvious. It was Barclay who saved him by continuing his tale, suddenly more willing to talk of that than whatever was the cause of the dispute with his wife. He also put his good hand to his stump and let a look of pain suffuse his face.

‘I am tiring you, sir.’

‘No, Captain Nelson, allow me to finish my tale.’
Knowing Emily was glaring at him he was in no position to further damn her nephew. ‘I went forward to do the spiking, with the lad, who may have got lost on the way.’

‘More likely, you must admit, Captain Barclay,’ Nelson proposed with some feeling, turning to look at his fellow captain’s wife with some appreciation. ‘I am sure that any sprig of your tree, Mrs Barclay, would be a stout one indeed.’

Emily had to just nod at such idiocy, much as she wanted to do otherwise, given she was not fond of this little fellow either, seeing him as given to tittle-tattle of the kind that had got her into trouble in Sheerness. She had gone to an assembly dance the night her husband was out hunting for men and had taken pleasure, as she had all her life, in the dancing. This Captain Nelson had told her husband how much she had enjoyed it and, given he was not one to take pleasure in such pursuits himself and given to jealousy, had caused her no end of trouble.

Ralph Barclay was annoyed at being interrupted, and spoke tersely. ‘Do you wish, sir, to hear this tale?’

‘Forgive me,’ Nelson responded, turning back, while cursing himself for so openly admiring the man’s wife, a fault to which he knew he was prone, and not just here in this cabin.

‘Well, we did as was required, then General O’Hara, who planned the assault, came up and, stupidly to my mind, went too far forward. Anyway, he was wounded—’

‘I heard he was taken prisoner.’

That got Nelson another hard look: he had ordered Devenow, who was with him, to take the wounded general back to safety. The man had ignored him and saved his comatose captain instead, leaving O’Hara to be taken by the enemy.

‘He was, but I took a musket ball from the French counterattack just as I exited the redoubt, which, we having set charges, was blown to perdition. I was saved from capture myself by one of my own ratings.’

‘Who is to be commended, sir.’

‘Of course,’ Barclay replied, totally unaware he had signally failed to do anything of the sort. Suddenly he wanted shot of Nelson, so he said, ‘You must forgive me, Captain, I am somewhat fatigued.’

‘Of course, Captain Barclay,’ Nelson replied. ‘It only remains for me to wish you a speedy recovery and a return to service soon.’

The stump moved. ‘This may hinder any employment, sir.’

‘Nonsense, Captain Barclay, I am sure you will soon be in command of a ship once more. Mrs Barclay, I bid you good day.’

‘You could not wait to shame me, could you?’ Ralph Barclay said, as the sound of Nelson’s heels faded.

‘In that, sir,’ Emily snapped, going out of the door, ‘I cannot begin to compete with you.’

She ran straight into Cornelius Gherson, with a sheaf of papers under his arm, who gave her the kind of smile
with which she had become familiar, one that told her she was an object of his unwanted attention, and not just that, desire.

‘What do you want?’

‘Ah, Mrs Barclay, we could perhaps stand for some time to outline that, but I fear I would keep your husband waiting.’

‘I certainly have no yearning to delay you!’

The calculating look on the face was infuriating and she would have been even more upset if she had known the train of his thoughts. Cornelius Gherson saw himself, and in truth with some evidence, as an accomplished seducer. Was it not that very ability which had got him chucked off London Bridge by the thugs hired by an irate and cuckolded husband, who just so happened to also be his employer? To him, the likes of Emily Barclay presented a challenge, one he felt certain he had both the charm and the looks to overcome and, once he had achieved that, to make her his willing slave. That she had rebuffed him so absolutely turned attraction into deep dislike, while his spiteful nature looked for revenge.

Emily Barclay loathed him and had done from the very first time he had sought to use her husband’s empty cabin to carry out his clerkish tasks. Annoyingly he did not move to let her past, but forced her to squeeze past him, feeling her body through both their garments and emitting a soft sigh that made her want to turn and slap his face.

‘Gherson,’ she heard her husband bark as the man went in to him. ‘You took your damn time in coming.’

‘I had some difficulty, sir, in getting away.’

‘Is Glaister still in temporary command of my ship?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Gherson replied, pulling an unhappy face, ‘and awaiting a new captain.’

‘And our little enterprise?’

If Ralph Barclay had been glum before Gherson entered his temporary quarters he was a sight more so once he heard what had happened in Toulon harbour. The scheme he and Gherson, anticipating a forthcoming evacuation, had concocted to sell supplies stolen from the French warehouses had come to naught. His premier, Glaister, who had been brought into the scheme, seemingly fearful of being found out, had thought it best to rid the ship of a dangerous cargo worth several hundreds of pounds.

‘Tossed in the harbour, you say?’

‘They were, sir, down to the last tub of nails and length of cable.’

The very idea of going aboard HMS
Victory
was not one John Pearce had ever liked. On the maindeck, having given in his name, he joined what seemed like a whole crowd of folk seeking an interview with Lord Hood. There were British and French officers of several different ranks and services, men who looked to be local traders who would be seeking contracts to supply the fleet, as well as civilians recently forced to become émigrés in the Toulon evacuation, who no doubt wanted to know how they were going to get from this Italian port to some other part of Europe more congenial.

In his previous dealings with Hood, John Pearce had often bypassed the endemic queues his office attracted, but on those occasions the admiral had urgent need of his services. Now he did not, the task he was being asked to perform was not pressing, so he knew he was
in for a long haul, yet hang around he must, and it had nothing to do with Hood’s private correspondence. He needed passage home for his friends, and the only man who could give the Pelicans permission to sail on some returning naval vessel, in company with him, was the commander-in-chief.

He sought to remain unobserved, not easy on an open deck: he had been found waiting once before and that always led to an invitation to the
Victory
’s wardroom. Though the occupants were kind, they were avid warriors who would oblige him to tell his tales of action even if he had done so before: repetition of exploits never troubled the naval mind, they were the staple of conversation.

Added to that, they would be bound to enquire as to the purpose of his calling and he was in no mood to explain to a group of committed naval officers – who thought him a heroic fellow for the actions in which he had taken part, albeit leavened with a touch of jealousy for the luck he had enjoyed – why he was seeking to get out of a service they held in high regard and a theatre of operations presenting such glittering opportunity.

The day dragged on, new bodies joined the queue and one of Hood’s lower clerks, a scrub-wigged tub of lard sitting at a desk before the great cabin doors, called out the relevant names. Someone entered and remained there for as long as it took to transact their business, and as they exited the next name was called, obviously from some kind of list, with Pearce having no idea of
the relative importance of the interviewees or where he stood in relation to them. Occasionally the pipes would sing out at the entry port, the marines would gather and someone of a superior sort would arrive to be ushered through the throng and, as soon as the cabin was vacated, sent straight in to meet with the admiral.

For the fourth time in as many hours, Pearce approached the desk to seek some information on how long he would have to wait, finding himself standing before a fellow who could barely contain a sneer when he replied to such a request from a mere lieutenant. He was of the sort John Pearce had met many times in his life, more often than not in the company of his late father, and the man did not know how close he came to having his ears boxed, being saved by the two marines standing guard outside the great cabin: it was their presence and the fact he would probably have to fight them too which saved the neck of this unctuous little toad.

‘His Lordship has a list of who is seeking an interview and he decides who he shall see and in what order.’

‘I do not ask to jump the list, merely to know whereabouts I am upon it.’

‘That I cannot tell you.’

‘Cannot, or will not?’ Pearce demanded.

Getting no reply, and thinking a trick might work, he asked for use of the clerk’s pen and paper; judging by the look that received it was as if he had asked for permission to sleep with his mother.

‘I am not at liberty—’

Pearce leant over the desk, speaking quietly, but with passion. ‘If you do not do that, or find out from within that cabin how long I will have to wait, I will inform everyone on this deck of something the admiral would not want them to hear, and for that he will blame you.’

‘Such as?’ the clerk scoffed.

Pearce pulled Hood’s letter from his pocket and shoved it under the fellow’s nose. ‘Do you recognise that seal, even broken?’ A nod. ‘Then if you do not wish me to make public the contents of what is a private and embarrassing communication, go through that door and tell Lord Hood I will not wait another bell. And I assure you, if you do not do as I have asked, the price to me will be nil, while the price to you will probably be the loss of your position.’

The eye contact was an attempt by the clerk to discern if this lieutenant was bluffing. Perhaps it was the steadiness of the gaze or the sheer fury that suffused the face that persuaded him to rise slowly and enter the great cabin. He was gone for half a minute and when he returned he tried, by adopting a superior tone, to retrieve his position.

‘I have told Lord Hood you are waiting, Lieutenant, and he has said he will see you shortly.’

Given Lord Hood was seeking his services, any hope that his welcome might be couched in polite terms was immediately dashed. They had never been good in each
other’s company but there was some grudging respect for an older man who declined to play the hypocrite.

‘God, it’s the bad penny, Parker. I prayed the last time we met I’d seen the back of you, Pearce.’

‘While I would have been content never to lay eyes upon you at any angle, milord, and since I have spent several hours standing outside your cabin and I am here at your express request, I rather think something to eat and drink might be in order instead of insults for a greeting.’

‘We’re not a coffee house, damn you.’

‘I think you have forgotten, milord, that you have requested something of me.’

‘I have not forgotten, Pearce, but given the favours I have done you I think I deserve some repayment in kind, like a modicum of courtesy.’

‘Favours? All I can ever recall is your putting me in mortal danger.’

John Pearce could see Admiral Parker looking at the deck beams above his head, this while he tried to recall a time when he and Hood had ever exchanged a pleasantry. As for those previous favours, they had reeked more of blackmail than anything else and had, in truth, seen him nearly killed in the execution of one of them. Hood was accustomed to deference; the snag with the man before him was his congenital inability to defer to anyone, however elevated their rank.

‘Mortal danger is not uncommon for naval officers.’

‘You want me to deliver some letters?’

‘Of course I do,’ Hood barked. ‘I would not have written to you had I not.’

‘Then you must provide me not only with them but with the means to get myself and my companions back to England.’

‘I must?’ the older man demanded, that before he realised Pearce was speaking nothing but the truth. His tone did not modify much, but it did a little, becoming affirmative in place of angered. ‘I must.’

Parker intervened. ‘You can take passage on the next ship returning home.’

‘And when will that be?’

‘It will be when I say it will be,’ Hood insisted.

Parker stopped another objection from their visitor, acting, as he always seemed to do, as Lord Hood’s more emollient half. ‘When His Lordship decides on the next course of action we will be sending despatches back to England. There are several ships in the fleet in need of repair and since, without Toulon, we lack a dockyard, they will have to take turns to return home to be refitted.’

‘We held Toulon for several months.’

‘We held it under siege. You do not put vessels into dock if you might have to abandon them there.’

‘Sit down, Pearce,’ Hood growled, which had John Pearce looking at him defiantly. ‘Damn it, man, can you not even respond to a civility?’

‘I don’t recall receiving one.’

The next words were softer, if not more respectful.
‘Sit down, damn you, and Parker, ring for my steward and get this rascal some provender.’

‘Milord, we have a list of people waiting to see you.’

Hood sounded weary as he responded to that. ‘Are you going to argue with me as well?’

‘No, milord.’

Sat at the table opposite Hood and thus closer to him than hitherto, Pearce saw that the lines in the older man’s face were etched more deeply than he had realised. It was with some insight, and one he had not previously truly considered, that he realised the weight this septuagenarian carried. He was far from London and was required to make instant decisions that might or might not be approved by his masters back home, the burden carried by every commanding officer on foreign service.

It was almost as if Hood read that thought, for he referred to the very thing when he spoke and, when he did, it was in a weary voice that reflected his age. ‘I doubt you can even begin to comprehend, Pearce, what I have to deal with.’

‘You forget I have seen the number of supplicants outside your door.’

That produced a soft and humourless laugh. ‘They, boy, are not the half of it, are they, Parker?’

‘No, milord,’ his junior admiral replied, as he too sat down.

‘I have a far from perfect fleet in which every vessel is short of its complement of hands. I must find and
hold a base in the Mediterranean, and given we have lost Toulon and elements of the French fleet are still intact, the closer to that port it is the better, but it will not, under any circumstances, have a dockyard.’

Parker cut in. ‘If you knew the state of repair of some of our ships, Mr Pearce, it would make your hair stand on end.’

‘I have to deal with my enemies and my allies,’ Hood continued, ‘one of the latter knowing they very likely deliberately frustrated my aims when we evacuated Toulon. You went to Tunis, so you know I have to keep the ruler there neutral. I must deal with the Austrians, our present hosts, who, if they had sent the five thousand men they promised, might have allowed me to hold on at Toulon until enough troops arrived from England. Then there are the Italian states, Genoa and Naples, the Ottomans and half a dozen other powers who must not be driven into the arms of the French, and I find every decision I make questioned by a man, Sir William Hotham, who has the task of supporting me and signally fails to do so.’

‘Milord,’ Parker said.

‘Help yourself to wine, Pearce,’ Hood said, as his steward placed a decanter and some fruit on the table. As the man departed, he added. ‘I am going to take you into my confidence.’

‘Milord.’

‘Parker, do stop saying that.’

‘I feel you are being incautious.’

‘Odd, is it not, Pearce?’ Hood said. ‘You are such an
argumentative sod I actually think I can trust you.’

‘I don’t seek your trust,’ Pearce replied quietly.

‘No, and it might turn out to be a burden, but I fear the letters I will give you might not convey the true import of what I want to say, letters never do. I want Hotham removed and I want it done with despatch, for I cannot continue in command with him as my leading subordinate. You know, we both know, he set up Barclay’s court martial to fail…’

‘Which may bring him down, milord.’

‘You have more faith in politics and the law than I, young fella. What I want you to do is to back up what I have written.’

‘In what way?’

‘You do not see that Hotham will go out of his way to bring you harm?’

‘You’re sure he will do that?’ Pearce asked.

‘He has, to mollify Barclay, put you in mortal danger more than once, and if you can think of another reason why he delayed my orders for HMS
Hinslip
to evacuate the St Mandrier hospital I cannot. He knew you were there.’

‘So was Captain Barclay. Would he abandon him too?’

‘I doubt he knew that he was even wounded, let alone where he was, but does it occur to you that Barclay himself may have become a threat to Hotham?’ Parker gave a hearty cough. ‘My captain of the fleet thinks I speculate too far but believe me, Pearce, if he knew what you were planning to do regarding Barclay he would seek to stop you and I think he would go to any lengths. I cannot say
that in my despatches, nor can I be that open in a letter, which could very well be read by others, but you can say it in private. You can drive home just how pernicious is his influence and help Billy Pitt to make up his mind.’

Suddenly Hood stood up. ‘Find yourself some accommodation ashore, send word to my clerk where you are, and as soon as we know which vessel will be going home to refit we will put you and those fellows you have fought so hard to free aboard her.’

‘Thank you, milord, and the letter I came to collect?’

Hood growled, showing something of his former mood. ‘I think it best if I hold on to my correspondence, don’t you, given the way you just used my seal. Can’t have you carrying them around, can we, never knowing who you might threaten.’

Sir William Hotham was writing a personal letter of his own, not to William Pitt but to his own political patron, the Duke of Portland, leader of the faction of Whigs who voted under his banner and supported the Tory government in its pursuit of the war with France. Highly unpopular in many quarters, the war was most vehemently opposed by the main section of the Whigs under Charles James Fox. He was supported, more for personal advantage than from any deep conviction, by the Prince of Wales. Like most heirs to a throne, Prinny was at loggerheads with his father, King George, and, conscious of the state of the parental health, sought a Regency.

This not being the first letter he had composed
questioning Samuel Hood’s dispositions as C-in-C of the Mediterranean fleet, he nevertheless felt it necessary for the sake of clarity to reiterate some of his previous objections to the way the present campaign had been run, not least in the way Lord Hood had made accommodation with the French Royalist naval officers over the occupation of Toulon. It was to his advantage that not all of their capital ships had been destroyed in the recent evacuation, though in his letter, as opposed to Hood’s despatches, there would be no mention of the Spanish reluctance to see Britannia too dominant.

Even though it was months since he and Hood had fallen out over that subject, the mere recollection was enough to make Hotham flush angrily: his sound advice had been overruled and ignored. Toulon had been at their mercy, but his commanding officer, instead of sending them an ultimatum, surrender or be destroyed, had sent them an offer of accommodation, allowing them to become allies of the pan-European anti-revolutionary cause. They should have taken Toulon by force, destroyed every ship they could not man and every facility in sight, then withdrawn, leaving the place to the Jacobins to do with what they wished.