A Sea of Troubles (10 page)

Would John Pearce get the note she had left, or would that innkeeper fail to hand it over on his return? Even
then he should go to where she was now headed, for he had kept rooms at Nerot’s Hotel and that was, at least, a place where she was known and could book into under her own name. Pearce had taken a room for her there after that unfortunate fracas with a group of men she had come to understand were smugglers. Even if he failed to get the note, given he must report back to the Government, he would come there regardless.

Pulling into Lyndhurst, Emily guessed that they would stop at the local inn for a fresh team of horses, then wondered if the passengers would change, glad that two of them appeared fidgety enough to indicate that they might alight here, that more obvious as the coachman called down to say they were approaching the Stag and that they should get ready. There was the usual creaking and sudden darkness as they swung under the arch that led to the stables and she too made ready to alight, in her case to take some refreshment and stretch her legs. Such things were the commonality of travel; the surprise was that when the coachman jumped down and opened the door, the first person Emily saw, standing with two well-dressed people, one male the other female, was Michael O’Hagan.

‘Michael,’ she called, leaning out of the door. ‘Is John here too?’

Under his breath, as he turned, O’Hagan was cursing a God in whom he wholeheartedly believed but knew to be fickle. ‘And Jesus,’ he hissed to himself as he hurried to the coach door, ‘Not only what is she doing here, but how do I greet her?’

‘No, John-boy is on an errand.’

‘But he is back from France, he must be if you are here.’

‘Yes, we berthed yesterday.’

The brow furrowed as Emily demanded, ‘And why did he not come to Lymington?’

‘He had some pressing matters to attend to, like those folk you see me with. They are envoys from where we went to, come to talk to the Government, I believe, and I am to get them aboard this Winchester coach and off to London an’ may the Good Lord aid them when they get there, for there is not a word of English in either of them.’

‘Then I must help them, for I speak French and I too am on my way to London.’

That she thought the Irishman confused became obvious as he threw his eyes skywards. It was not that simple question that troubled him but many others, not least the notion of a pair of women John Pearce was determined should never meet sharing near two whole days of intimate coach travel.

‘But were you not to wait in Lymington?’

Emily dropped her head to hide a slight blush. ‘Circumstances forced a change of plan. Now best you introduce me to these people.’

‘Which I will do Mrs … Holy Mary, what do I call you?’

‘Emily will do, Michael; after all, we have seen too much together to be anything other than good friends.’

‘Sure, I thank you kindly for the sentiment, but I am going to have to introduce you and I was told by John-boy to use the name Raynesford.’

‘I am back to being Mrs Barclay,’ she replied rather testily.

‘Strikes me, Mrs Barclay, that you would be better alighting here and going back to where John-boy expects to meet you.’

‘Do not ask me to explain, Michael, but that is not possible.’

‘I am to go there so I could escort you.’

‘No! I will make my way to Nerot’s and have left a note saying so. Are you all right Michael, you look pale?’

‘Perfectly so, Mrs Barclay,’ he lied, for he was feeling that if he had been standing on an insecure trapdoor it had just opened to cast him into a pit of all the snakes the saints had rid his homeland of.

‘Introductions.’

‘Happen, since you have their tongue, you’d be best seeing that yourself, for I am bound to falter over their names, them bein’ hard to pronounce.’

‘Then hand me down.’

Which he did, to lead her over to the count and Amélie, the former getting a half curtsy, the latter receiving a warm smile and a welcome to
Angleterre
. At least, Michael thought, with some relief, Emily Barclay does not recognise the Labordière name. He was not to travel with them, so if the dung did fly inside the coach he would be well out of it.

‘I am going to take our guests into the inn for refreshments, Michael, would you care to join us?’

‘No time, Mrs Barclay, I’ve got to see to certain matters that I am charged to perform for John-boy.’

‘Jean-boy?
Une appellation, très jolie, n’est-ce pas?’

Amélie Labordière, having said this with a warm smile, got a curious response from Emily Barclay, given it hinted at an intimacy that should not have been formed in what could only have been a few days’ acquaintance. Michael watched them as they went indoors, thinking that when his friend next met Emily Barclay, there was going to be hell to pay and no pitch hot.

Sir Phillip Stephens was wondering if that bane of his life, Admiral Sir Berkley Sumners, had gone off his head, for the letter he had sent in this time made no sense at all. What was the old fool talking about with secret missions and his aiding them to fruition? And who was this Lieutenant Raynesford whom he had already told the sod was an officer who did not exist? There was a suspicion that Sumners was just making waves where none were present, but the undertone of his letter was that there was some chicanery afoot somewhere – either this Raynesford was a projector seeking to make some underhand money; the other thought, that perhaps he was a French spy, had Sir Phillip calling in a clerk.

‘I need to send a note to Mr Dundas.’

Freed of the Tolland gang, the eight-oared cutters were much lighter, but against that the tide was still rising, which would make it a doubly long haul back to Lymington, the next destination; from there the ship’s boats could be taken back the relatively short distance to Buckler’s Hard at a time of year when, thankfully, there was no shortage of daylight. The option of waiting in either Gosport or Portsmouth did not appeal, so Pearce aimed for the boatbuilding seaside town of Cowes, which had the advantage, even so close to Spithead, of not being naval in any way; the only military presence resided in the forts built by Henry the Eighth to repel a French invasion and they were manned by soldiers.

Snug in the River Medina they could tie up at one of the many jetties and proceed to a tavern to eat fresh food, albeit the instruction was to go easy in the article of drink, and it was there that John Pearce heard first of the great victory being claimed by the Channel Fleet,
of which the place was abuzz, not that anyone expressed surprise; Britannia ruled the waves and if the French had ever beaten a British fleet – and it had to be admitted that had happened – then it could only be by the employment of low and despicable cunning.

Not only had the King’s favourite admiral, Black Dick Howe, trounced the French battle fleet, but he had sunk – it depended on who was declaiming – anything from a hundred to five hundred merchant ships bringing grain from the Americas. Seeing one of his oarsmen about to respond and put the boaster right, Pearce intervened and ordered him to be silent. His mission had been a secret one and even here it had to remain that. The subject did not arise again until much later, when on a falling tide they were rowing south-west towards the Lymington Estuary and one of his crew raised the question.

‘Savin’ your presence, sir, how can that be, for we saw those very ships an’ too close for comfort?’

‘Simple, is it not? Rumour runs ahead of truth every time. For all we know Admiral Lord Howe has suffered a reverse and is at this very moment sitting in a boat this size wondering what happened to his ship.’

The reaction to that was amusing, so much so that Pearce had to control his features; if the people of Britain held that their ships and men were inherently superior to the French, that was as nothing to the opinion of the men employed to sail them, which never ceased to amaze the man on the tiller. He did not know if any aboard HMS
Larcher
had been pressed, it was not an enquiry any officer made, but he did know that for every willing volunteer going to sea they were far outnumbered by
those who chose to serve as an alternative to a miserable existence ashore, which could extend to downright starvation. It had always annoyed his father that such people carried within them a patriotic attachment to a form of government that served them so ill.

‘But we must assume,’ Pearce added, to restore his own standing as much as anything, ‘that our men had trounced the sods good and proper.’

‘Hear him,’ came the chorus, even from those whose breath must be constrained by the need to row.

‘You’re sure of this, Gherson?’ Ralph Barclay demanded, as he sought to digest the information that his clerk had brought back from
Queen Charlotte
, where he had gone to deliver the ship’s logs and accounts.

‘One of Lord Howe’s fellows chose to confide in me, sir, I daresay in respect to the freemasonry of our occupation. The despatch to the Admiralty was dictated by Sir Roger Curtis in the presence of Lord Howe and it questioned the actions of several of the ship’s captains as to their participation, or not, in the battle. Many, it was claimed, were tardy when it came to obeying what were clear orders. Others were praised for their application and they have been recommended for special favour.’

‘Any names given?’

‘Captain Molloy was particularly censured for inaction it seems, but he was not alone. The general tone of Sir Roger’s communication was that too many officers dithered instead of acting promptly.’

‘I meant me,’ Barclay snapped, ‘as you damn well know.’

‘Your name was not mentioned, sir,’ Gherson replied, leaving his employer in limbo.

Sitting on the cushioned casement at the rear of his cabin, injured and bandaged leg stretched out, Ralph Barclay was back in that action, examining his own behaviour and wondering if it could be interpreted as sluggish? He recalled that the flagship had ordered him to close with the enemy several times before he actually did so, but he was sure he could justify those actions on the grounds of a crew not fully worked up, with the added problem that being so close to
Queen Charlotte
as she engaged –
Semele
was the next vessel astern – he knew, as she put down her helm to close, he stood a chance of being a victim of her shot as much as the enemy; thus he had held off until that threat had diminished.

Yet he had fought hard once he met his opposite number, having let the one he was ordered to engage go by. That had come about because he had really been given no choice as their forward rigging became entangled. Only superior gunnery, the rate of fire of his cannon, had saved HMS
Semele
from a severe mauling. After a long pounding it was
Vengeur
that had suffered and, added to that, damn it, he had taken a serious wound.

‘I daresay a good dinner and a few bottles of claret could tell us more.’

That got Gherson a very cold stare; he no more trusted his clerk than the man trusted him, not that Ralph Barclay was much given to reposing faith in anyone. If he did not quite see himself as alone against a hostile world he did know that there were forces extant who seemed to have it as their aim to do him down and it had been like that
since his first day of service as a midshipman. It had come home to Ralph Barclay very early in his naval career that no man got anywhere lest he had on his side someone with more weight. Thus he had always attached himself to men with power, first senior lieutenants, later captains and finally admirals, the most potent of whom had been Lord Rodney, a man who knew his responsibilities to his followers: he saw to it that if there was a plum going it went to them.

Rodney’s death had been a setback compounded by the elevation of Lord Hood to the Board of Admiralty. Hood had little regard for Rodney and he had no inclination to promote those who had depended on a deceased superior, which had left Ralph Barclay, a very outspoken and loyal follower, on the beach for five whole years until the outbreak of the war, and even when he had been employed it had not matched his place on the captain’s list. The likes of Nelson, one of Hood’s favourites, got a ship of the line; he had been given a frigate and one that only just made its rating as a post captain’s command.

‘Do you wish for me to arrange to meet with the said clerk, sir?’

That brought Barclay back to the present and his original thought that Gherson probably already knew the answer to the proposed question and was just seeking to dun him for a good meal ashore. Not that he felt he had much alternative but to agree: slippery Gherson, who now had on his absurdly handsome face that knowing smile which so irritated his employer, would never let on lest he was indulged.

‘Very well, but before you go I want you to read back
to me that repeat letter I composed to my wife. I want to make sure it leaves her in no doubt of her choices now that circumstances have altered, then it can be sent.’ The voice changed, becoming harsh. ‘Which are to return to the marital home or damn well starve.’

How do I tell him, Gherson was thinking, that he is in no position to make demands? In his mind he imagined Emily Barclay reading such a letter, which would be passed on by a solicitor called Studdert she had engaged. It was not so very different from those that had preceded it except it did allude quite openly to her having nothing now with which to threaten him, which she would almost certainly know to be false. He had arranged for the solicitor’s offices to be burgled by a low character called Codge but they had not found the copy of the court martial record, leaving the only possible alternative that Emily Barclay had retrieved it before the break-in.

She would thus be well aware that she had no need to pay any heed to his instructions, so much so that she had refused to even reply to the previous communication he had sent before HMS
Semele
sailed to join the Channel Fleet. Was now the time to be open and save his employer from making a fool of himself, to tell him the robbery had gone wrong? Never one to leap before it became imperative, Gherson held his tongue and went to Barclay’s desk, there to retrieve and read out what had been dictated, aware of the change in his employer’s demeanour each time he espoused the more threatening passages.

The knock at the door led to a command from Barclay to wait until Gherson had finished. The cry that the visitor
could enter brought in a midshipman with a message from the officer of the watch to the effect that there was boat alongside with an invitation from Captain Molloy to dine, the name making Barclay frown and raising an amused Gherson eyebrow.

‘My compliments to Captain Molloy and I fear my injury prevents me from acceptance.’

‘Aye, aye, sir,’ said the mid prior to his exit, which left the two men looking at each other, for both knew that had he so wished, Barclay was healed enough to cross to another ship and back without danger to his wound. But Molloy was under a cloud, the flagship clerk had named him, so he was not a safe person to associate with, regardless of long acquaintance.

It was impossible to invest Calvi purely from the sea; the castle which guarded the bay sat on a high and rocky promontory right above the only deep-water channel into the harbour, while the rest of the wide cove was cursed with extended shallows that precluded a ship of any draught from taking up a position to bombard the town from anything like a reasonable distance, which was in itself dangerous against shore-based fire. Likewise the coast to the east was low-lying, and while eminently suitable for landing by boats, did not put the attacker in any position to use their own artillery to subdue the defences, which would have to be completed before any actual assault could take place and even then that would be bloody.

Thus, after much discussion, it had been decided to land at a bay a little down the west coast then seek to take
the high ground above the town itself, which would at least give the guns parity with the defenders, the caveat to that being the need to get the cannon off the warships and ashore, then up the steep escarpments to where the battery positions would be constructed, something the defenders might well think impossible. For all the jocularity and keen anticipation of the forthcoming battle, there was an undertow of hidden concern throughout the fleet. They would be landing on a hostile shore from boats – never easy, and if the garrison of Calvi was limited and insufficient to hold the beach they were still numerous enough to inflict heavy casualties prior to withdrawal.

Thus, with the fleet hove to and Lord Hood’s permission to proceed, there was a final conference aboard HMS
Victory
, anchored off San Fiorenzo, really an excuse for a capital dinner at which the commanding admiral could praise those like Nelson whom he admired and do his very best to make sure that all knew it was not an emotion he extended to his second in command. If he and Hotham were naval rivals that extended to their politics, for Hood was a Tory and Hotham a Whig. Hood’s problem was Prime Minister William Pitt’s lack of a binding majority; while he could master the domestic agenda he needed the support of what were called the Portland Whigs to successfully prosecute the war. Hotham was of that faction and in constant communication with the Duke of Portland, and every letter did nothing to praise the abilities of his commanding officer, not that such an opinion was a secret.

All around the fleet, flagship included, those who could write home were composing their final letters, the ones
that would be sent to their loved ones should they expire in the coming action. In reality naval letters read like a chronicle; they were often written with no knowledge of when they would be sent, for even in such a well-ordered fleet as Lord Hood’s they would wait for the arrival of a packet bearing despatches and letters from home. So they tended towards a lengthy tale and most were only adding to what they had already composed and were penning sentiments that, regardless of the truth, sought to reassure their relatives of their happiness and good cheer, while inserting what should happen if anything should befall them.

Toby Burns was bent over his own letter, but it was not to his family. These were communications he found hard to compose, not being as willing as his peers to disguise his loathing of a service that had him existing on a diet of foul food, often near to rotten in the cask, in the company of people with whom he shared at best mutual disinterest, and under the command of men whose soul aim was to make his life a misery. Occasionally he summoned up the will to lie, but always he really wanted to write home to say that his only wish was to get out of the navy and back to a school he had, at one time, desired to get away from with equal passion.

Writing in reply to Lucknor was not easy and he had to remind himself that paper on which to do it was not in great supply, so he ended up with a set of corrected scrawls that would have taxed one of those coves that sought to decipher ancient languages. Toby did not want to blame himself in any way, yet even he could see that to plead outright coercion would not wash on the page, for
it smacked of a weakness of personality that he did not recognise and was certainly not prepared to commit to paper even if it was designed to make him look innocent. Once again family obligation came to his rescue, and taking a fresh sheet he composed the best of what he had penned and scored out before sanding the letter, folding it and applying sealing wax, then penning the address.

‘Damn me, Burns,’ cawed one of his fellow midshipmen as he waved it to ensure the wax had dried, ‘I reckon the time you’ve been at it you have told your life story.’