The Admirals' Game (14 page)

‘Come in, Mr Glaister, that is if you have executed my orders.'

‘I have, sir. There are marine sentries on the gangways leading to the poop, and I have instructed the man on the maindeck that no one is allowed to approach within ten feet of the cabin bulkheads.'

‘Having moved him well away too, I trust.'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Good. Please be seated while I fetch Gherson and the purser, and help yourself to a glass of wine.'

Those two were sitting in Gherson's hutch, with Shenton standing over them. Ralph Barclay indicated they should proceed to his quarters, and once they had passed he spoke to his steward.

‘No one to pass this way, Shenton, d'ye hear? I don't want any nosy bastards wondering what's afoot.'

‘Aye, aye, Capt'n, 'cepting…'

Shenton could not bring himself to say ‘Mrs Barclay', but his meaning was obvious. Given the need for reconciliation, on whatever terms, barring Emily from her own quarter gallery would hardly serve to ease them.

‘If my wife seeks to get to her quarters, come and get me, but for no other reason.'

Back in his cabin, Ralph Barclay got everyone seated, poured himself some wine, and sat in his own chair. Then he raised his glass. ‘Gentlemen, the ship.'

All four raised glasses were drained, with accompanying murmurs, and refilled before the captain addressed his premier. ‘Mr Glaister, I wish to ask you what you think of the alliance we presently have with the French.'

‘I am from the Scottish Highlands, sir,' Glaister replied in his precise lilt, ‘so the notion of a French alliance is not as strange to me as it might be to others.'

‘Yet?'

The two men exchanged a direct look, which Ralph Barclay hoped would convey his desire to hear his first lieutenant's true feelings.

‘Am I allowed to speak freely, sir?'

Ralph Barclay deliberately glanced at the skylight. ‘Why, Mr Glaister, do you think I have gone to so much trouble to avoid being overheard?'

‘Well, sir,' the premier responded, pausing before continuing in a way that made his superior tense, even though with this fellow it was habitual. ‘I cannot see the sense in not taking the French ships of war under our own hand.'

‘Lord Hood feels we lack the hands to man so many vessels. The whole fleet would be so short-handed as to render it useless.'

‘Then, sir, it would be best to either sink or set on fire those we cannot sail away.'

‘Hear, hear!' cried the rotund little purser, that accompanied by a couple of flat-handed blows to the tabletop; a glare from Ralph Barclay prevented the third.

‘Go on.'

‘Lord Hood has said he has taken the French vessels in trust, which means if the Revolution falters, and we must pray that is does, they will be handed back to a nation which may, once more, become an enemy. That, sir, borders on madness.'

‘Then I am here to say, without equivocation, that I agree with you.'

‘Thank you, sir.'

‘I also wish to bring you into a matter which must be handled with discretion.'

‘I take it,' Glaister replied, in his slow and infuriating manner, ‘you are referring to the stores being brought aboard.'

‘You know about them?' asked the purser.

‘It is my job to know.'

Ralph Barclay smiled. ‘I said you would not miss it, Mr Glaister, if it is of any comfort to you.' That got a nod, but the man said nothing. ‘I daresay you wonder from whence they come?'

‘They could only be from the Toulon Arsenal, sir, given the barrel markings are in French. What is singular is the quantity.'

‘Mr Glaister, I have to inform you they are not being acquired in a manner of which those in authority would approve.'

‘I would have more interest in the reason for their acquisition, sir.'

‘Gherson,' Ralph Barclay said. He had no wish himself to talk about a matter bordering on outright criminality.

‘The intention, sir, is, at a given opportunity, to sell them.'

Six eyes were on Glaister's face, for this was a moment of truth. Barclay had called the three men to his cabin just for this moment. He had occupied Glaister's position and he knew it was near impossible to get much by an efficient premier. The man had seen things untoward and had said nothing. He had waited, which was a positive sign to his captain, an indication he could be trusted.

‘I take it, Mr Glaister, the notion does not disturb you.'

‘I can see no harm in it, sir. These stores are not those of His Majesty, King George. I am, however, in no position to facilitate their movement. I assume that money is changing hands?'

‘In other words, you cannot invest?'

‘No.'

‘Even if you are most certainly due a sum of prize money?'

That brought the habitual look of petulance to Gherson's countenance; he had not been aboard when Ralph Barclay retook a recently captured Levant merchantman off a Barbary pirate. Given it was sailing back from the east, and fully laden, it would be worth a mint of money, none of which would come his way. The only saving grace for Gherson was that one of Pearce's Pelican friends had been lost overboard in the engagement.

‘I fear every penny of that will be needed by my family, sir. I doubt you appreciate how hard things are in the west of Scotland.'

‘Then you will be pleased to know I do not require any input from you. This is a venture I am happy to fund myself.' In telling that lie, it was essential to hold Glaister's gaze, and equally so to avoid catching that of Gherson, the only other person who knew it to be untrue. ‘Naturally that affects the level of reward.'

‘All I can say, sir, is this. I am being offered an inducement for no more than a use of the blind eye.'

‘That is correct, Mr Glaister.'

The premier looked round the others: at Gherson, who looked businesslike, at the purser, who appeared well satisfied, wondering with what they had been bribed. The same as him, he reckoned, a share of the profits with no need to dip into his own resources. He took time to weigh up his situation: he was a first lieutenant on a frigate, a long way from any chance of being made post by the normal channels. A stroke of luck could see him promoted to master and commander, a successful
single ship action might raise him even more, but it was an imprudent fellow who relied on providence for advancement. At even his best calculation it could be years before he got his own ship, and several more before he got his step on to the captain's list, for he lacked the kind of patron, some great Scottish feudal magnate, who would see to his rapid elevation.

In truth, was what Ralph Barclay was about really so reprehensible? He was not stealing from his own king. Was it not that his captain had seen an opportunity quicker than his peers? It was the money which decided him, a sum he could keep to himself rather than sending back home to support a large brood of siblings and an improvident parent who clung to worthless land. The silence engendered by the cogitation had lasted so long, he wondered how the others had managed not to breathe, but they did, when he said…

‘Then, sir, only a churl would refuse.'

‘Good.'

The weather had changed for the worse, low scudding clouds, a heaving sea whipped up by a strong mistral, and that complemented a gloomy atmosphere aboard, which stemmed from the captain of the ship. Henry Digby was such an equable fellow that his closed-up mood of the last forty-eight hours affected everyone. When he appeared on the quarterdeck, he merely acknowledged the raised hats of whoever had watch and wheel, yet spoke with no one. Having examined the slate bearing course and speed, he then moved to commandeer the windward side of the ship on which to walk, as was his prerogative. After a silent quarter of an hour, he went back to his cabin.

The crew could not work it out; they knew something was wrong but not the cause. The master, Neame, was old enough to ignore it but young Harbin was at a stand
how to respond. The person who suffered most from the lack of communication was the man who suspected he was the cause.

‘The trouble is, Michael, I can do nothing to change matters.'

‘Jesus, John-boy, the man is old enough to care for himself.'

Finding a place to unburden himself was not easy on so small a ship. His excuse to inspect the gammoning on the bowsprit, given it was taking a pounding from the sea, was just that, a chance to get as far away from ears as he could, with really the only person in the world he trusted absolutely.

‘I would be thinkin' if I were you,' O'Hagan added, ‘that what cannot be changed must lie as it likes.'

‘If I succeed in this mission, and we are sent home, it is unlikely to be in this ship, and once I am off the deck, I can't see Digby keeping his place. He is too junior, and I would wager what he has enjoyed so far has made him an enemy of everyone in the fleet who thinks they have a better claim to promotion.'

‘You did not bring this about. That was done by others.'

‘True, but I think our esteemed superior blames me.'

‘Then put him straight, John-boy.'

‘And wound him even more by telling him a truth he already knows?'

O'Hagan grinned, and looked up from where he had been tugging with a lever on the thick ropes that bound
the bowsprit. ‘Sure, you're a bit of a mix, an' no mistake. Barclay you would shoot on sight, an' half the Navy I should not wonder. But someone you like…'

‘He has been good to me, Michael, helping me with mathematics and seamanship.'

‘To what purpose, given that you want nothing more than to be away from this?'

‘To make me less of an embarrassment.'

‘Waste of time, would you not be sayin', John-boy?'

Looking into that square face, and the huge grin, John Pearce could only agree. A cry from the masthead had him heading back to the quarterdeck, as first one sail was sighted, then three. By the time that had been established, Henry Digby was on deck, giving orders to close. Pearce was about to mention his mission, which brooked no delay, and certainly, if those sails turned out to be enemy vessels, no diversion for either action or avoidance, but the set look on his superior's face, and the deliberate lack of eye contact, left him in no doubt such an opinion would be unwelcome.

Naturally Midshipman Harbin was afire, and he could not wait to be sent aloft with long glass to report on the nature of the sighting. Digby did not oblige the boy, instead he addressed his premier.

‘Mr Pearce, aloft if you please and tell what you see.'

‘Aye, aye, sir.'

That was the only possible response. Pearce took a telescope from the rack and tucked it into his breeches,
then headed for the windward shrouds, wondering what giving this duty to him meant. Telling Digby about the mission had been a bad idea, and not only because it had angered him. If he did not know what the likely reward was to be, it would not take a genius to guess. Pearce was on his back and working his way past the mainmast cap – the descending lookout used the lubber's hole – so that took all his attention, but on the upper shrouds he was beginning to wonder if Digby, on their return to Toulon, might make common knowledge the secret mission entrusted to him. If he did such a thing, and Lord Hood or Parker got wind of it, their arrangement would be voided. How would he explain that to his Pelicans as anything other than another failure on his part?

At the crosstrees he slung one leg over the yard, hooked an arm round the thin upper mast and extracted his telescope. Given the sea state the ship was heaving into the waves, soaking the bowsprit though not deep enough to send water over the bows. What it did mean was him arcing forward and backwards, as well as side to side through dozens of feet, and variable at that, trying to focus an instrument which was determined to defeat him both in its aim and purpose. Finally he got the horizon and the trio of white topsails, which were closing with HMS
Faron
, without in any way seeking to avoid contact.

They must have seen her topsails; they too would have a man aloft to tell them what he saw, and given the billowing white ensign above him, which was flapping
forward on the strong wind, it must be plain to them they were British and a warship. He had to wait till one of them heaved up on the swell at the same time as the sloop to positively identify them as merchantmen, and it took even longer to get a clear view of the ensign that identified them as Genoese, probably carrying stores to Toulon, all of which he relayed to the deck below.

As soon as he saw a man coming aloft, he assumed his duty to be at an end and, seeking to underline his credentials as a naval officer, he declined an easy descent and slid down a backstay to the deck. Digby was not there, he had returned once more to his cabin, and that was where Pearce went to find him, and to have a conversation, which was damned formal given their previous good relationship, though Pearce was invited to sit.

‘I am concerned about your present attitude, sir.'

‘I think, Mr Pearce, that is none of your concern.'

‘It is very much that, sir, if I feel it affects the running of the ship.'

‘You claim such knowledge?'

‘Sir, you can cut the atmosphere with a knife.'

‘A ship of war does not sail well on atmosphere, Mr Pearce, it sails well on everyone carrying out their proper tasks. I do not think one of your duties is to question my method of command.'

‘This is rot!'

Digby's expression showed how shocked he was. ‘I beg your pardon?'

‘Forgive me, but I cannot go through with this polite farce. I did not ask to be in the Navy, I did not ask even to hold my present position, I had no desire ever to come to the Mediterranean and I most certainly had nothing whatever to do with you gaining command of this ship.'

‘I would ask you, Mr Pearce, to mind your manners, given I am your superior.'

‘Damn me, Mr Digby, if I can be rude to Lord Hood, and I have been, I can assuredly ignore your rank. You are worried about your future, I know that…'

‘Which I sincerely hope will be devoid of any influence you may wield.'

In his irritation, Digby only confirmed that which Pearce suspected. ‘If you feel it damaged in any way I cannot see how you can blame me.'

‘Who am I to blame?'

‘Try Ralph Barclay, try that sod, Hotham.'

Digby's reply was larded with irony. ‘That would be a splendid idea, for me to impugn the motives of two senior officers. I think you have done enough to ensure professional suicide for me without recommending my using a shovel to dig deeper the hole I'm in.' He held up a hand and reluctantly Pearce abided by the injunction to hold his tongue. ‘How do you think I see my future, where once I hoped it was promising?'

‘You cannot know what the future holds.'

‘I can guess, Mr Pearce. In one fell swoop I have made dozens of enemies on the lieutenant's list, men who
would have seen a ship of this size as theirs by right of seniority. To whom will they have made known their disappointment, d'ye think? Their captains, for one, so my name will stink there too, and that does not take into account anyone, either naval or civilian, who has an interest in their advancement and who is in receipt of their letters home. I served on
Britannia
'twixt Lisbon and Toulon, in fact I think Barclay wanted me off his ship even then, and I can tell you I made no friends in that wardroom, so please do not even allude to the idea that my being here does not involve you.'

‘Which anyone with half a brain would have discerned on first taking command of this ship, yet I don't recall your declining the duty.'

Suddenly Digby, who had been sitting bolt upright, let his shoulders sag. ‘I could be done for in the service, Pearce.'

‘I think, sir, you exaggerate.'

‘You do not know it as I do, Pearce. Word gets round, tongues are employed to damn more than to praise. Any discussion in which my name comes up and it will be attached to yours, and even you must admit such an association will do me no favours.'

‘That I cannot help, and neither will I take the responsibility which you seem to lay upon me.'

Slowly Digby shook his head. All his anger at Pearce seemed quite gone now, yet left that person to wonder if Digby was still angry with himself.

‘Neither should you, it is I who have been a fool. I
should have seen this clearly before and sought to shift as soon as we got back from Biscay, but…' Opening his hands, he indicated the cabin in which they sat, a gesture Pearce understood completely. ‘The enjoyment of this goes to the head, making it hard to give up.'

‘And?'

‘As soon as we return to Toulon, I must take steps to vacate this command, and find another in which I can attract less jealousy.'

‘Are you sure such a thing exists?'

A deep breath followed, before Digby added, ‘Forgive me, Mr Pearce, for taking out on you that which is none of your doing.'

‘If it's any consolation, sir, I named you to Lord Hood as an excellent officer.'

Digby's look required no words; any recommendation from such a source was not likely to lead to an advantageous outcome.

The Bay of Naples was reputed to be a sight of great beauty – sailors who had visited praised it to the heavens – but it was apparent, as HMS
Faron
cleared the island of Ischia, it was only true if the sun shone. On this day of heavy cloud and grey-green sea, the famous islands that dotted the bay, jewels of antiquity, were shrouded in fine mist and the buildings that lined the shore, no doubt bright when bathed in sunlight, looked dull at a distance and rain streaked through a telescope. The imposing Castle of Saint Elmo appeared to be
especially forbidding, while behind lay the great volcano of Vesuvius, its cap obscured by low cloud. In the naval part of the anchorage lay several line-of-battle ships, one bearing an admiral's pennant, but it was to the standard flying from the Palazzo Reale, which fronted the harbour all along its great length, that Digby aimed his salute, twenty-one guns, as befitted a sovereign.

Firing the salute had a double purpose, of course: it would alert the local plenipotentiary, Sir William Hamilton, to the arrival of a British warship, so that by the time the ship made her berth, he should be ready to receive them. No approach could be made to the queen without him being on hand to make the introduction. Manners insisted that they show courtesy to the Neapolitan Navy, so without waiting Digby took a boat to the ship anchored on the naval dockyard to present his compliments to the commanding admiral. He returned knowing no word had come from Hamilton; he had been told the minister was away hunting with the king.

‘Yet the Royal Standard flies over the palace,' Pearce said.

‘The queen does not hunt,' Digby replied, and having been well supplied with wine, he continued in a flippant tone, which included the odd slurred word. ‘All she seems to do is bear children. The poor wretch has been brought to bed fifteen times and is heavy with child as we speak.'

‘Then we must get a message to Hamilton, sir,'
Pearce insisted, while wondering what had happened to Digby's gloomy prognostications on his future; the copious consumption of wine seemed to have allayed them somewhat.

Mood swings were not unknown in the inebriated, and one happened now, Digby replying in a prickly way. ‘That, Mr Pearce, falls within your purview, not mine.'

Pearce's response was equally sharp. ‘I see you took pleasure in the hospitality afforded to ship's captains, sir.'

‘What?'

‘Do I have your permission to take ashore a boat?'

‘I cannot see that you
need
my permission, Mr Pearce.'

Seeing no sense in disputing with an inebriated superior, Pearce left the cabin and gave out the orders to man the cutter in which Digby had just returned. Within ten minutes he was heading for the small fishing harbour of Santa Lucia on the northern arm of the bay, the nearest hard landing place to Posillipo where, according to the small hand-drawn map with which he had been provided, Sir William Hamilton had his residence, the Palazzo Sessa.

The harbour was crowded with boats, all of which seemed to be occupied by families, which led to a cacophony of sound, shouts, cries, occasional screams which seemed to be part of the process of dispute, which he would come to realise was endemic to this part of Italy. He had to leave a party to guard the cutter, and he
made sure they had the means to buy some fish from the locals manning braziers on the quayside though, having seen the state of Digby, he felt obliged to caution them about the consumption of wine.

With Michael O'Hagan in tow, as usual bearing a cutlass, he made his way along the crowded wharf, seeking directions which, given he had no Italian, had Pearce waving and gesturing like a Neapolitan, pointing and slapping his forehead in frustration at the seeming lack of recognition that ensued. Michael, shouting in a combination of English and Erse, meant to aid him, but did nothing to facilitate matters, rendering the locals sullen rather than cooperative.