The Perils of Command (22 page)

Orders were called down to the lower gun deck and when that broadside was fired it reverberated through the whole ship, shaking timbers and knocking some of the surgeon’s instruments off the one-time door on which he would treat the wounded. Emily picked them up and replaced them, smiling at a fellow clearly nervous of what he was about to face.

It was all very well signing up for naval service, his expression seemed to imply; as he then explained to her, the pay was adequate and drowning apart, the risk small, but he had been in a sea fight before and knew that if blood was spilt it would be very messy.

‘If you think you will find that hard to bear, it might be best to avoid the sight.’

‘Fear not, sir, I too have been in battle before.’

If he was tempted to enquire that was stopped by another broadside.

Ralph Barclay had turned his attention to
Minerve
and
Vestale
, noting that the former had shortened sail less than her consort, which would bring her, in time, to lay off the larboard quarter where she would hope that the 74-gunner would be so reduced by her companions as to get across
Semele
’s stern and seek to deliver a killing blow through the casement deadlights.

Alceste
was closing, risking destruction as she fired bar shot at the rigging. That was only alleviated by Barclay needing to shift gun crews from larboard to starboard and engage the
other two, who had now opened up at a cable’s length with round shot. Soon all three vessels were shrouded in smoke as the cannon fire steadied to salvo after salvo, the rate from the British vessel faster by far.

If
Semele
suffered, and she did, the 74, with her superior firepower, was inflicting great damage to the enemy scantlings. In the moments when the smoke cleared enough to give sight to those on board, they could see the shattered woodwork and the rigging hanging loose. Yet that was replicated on
Semele
. The mainmast was wounded, the stays and shrouds in tatters, while the deck was littered with what had been dislodged from aloft, especially heavy wooden blocks. They had fallen with enough weight and pace to slice through the netting.

All battles resulted in a sense of chaos, but that was the apogee of naval captaincy. Ralph Barclay stood, with his two supporters either side, as if he was on a peaceful heath enjoying the fresh air, issuing orders only when necessary, exuding the required calm. Nothing about his presence hinted at the danger of being on a deck enfiladed by shot from a trio of enemy vessels.

What commands he did give out were shouted, certainly, but the midshipmen he instructed carried them out, even if they had to be in terror of that which was going on around them, and did so with aplomb. The cannon were being well worked, even if some were idle, and the rate of fire from his ship was being maintained.

A salvo of bar shot, fired from
Alceste
, now within musket range, sliced through the upper rigging and shredded the topsails as well as the falls that held it. Men had to withdraw from the guns to reset it, for should he wish to come about
lacking working sails he would struggle to do so. In holding his course he had very nearly got to the position he had long sought and orders went below that saw sweating men haul out of the sail locker a new bit of canvas for his intended manoeuvre.

To bend a new topsail on in the midst of a fight was hard but not impossible, and Barclay knew that
Semele
would suffer as it was carried it out. But he had passed his enemies by and if he could come about he would have stolen the weather gage, which would allow him to close with any one of the three. Once upon them he could ensure their utter destruction as a fighting entity by concentrating all his fire temporarily on a single foe.

Success might provide the chance to engage another in the same manner, though he suspected the consorts, seeing the loss of one of their number, would break off the action and seek to put blue water between him and themselves. He shouted to Palmer, for the noise made it essential. He had been a coming-and-going presence throughout the battle, as he did what was required to shore up his inferior officers struggling to carry out their duties.

‘We are coming upon the moment of truth, Mr Palmer. In ten minutes from now I want the gun crews sent to other duties. I sense a prize waiting to fall like an overripe plum into our hands.’

Palmer’s face was filthy from the smoke-blown black powder, which made more obvious his smile, for he too knew the value of confidence. That was applied to Barclay as well as Devenow, who was holding his captain’s good arm in one hand and his telescope in the other. Palmer had to bend
his head to extend it to Gherson, who was hunched up and sobbing at the mayhem around him.

The bar shot took off Palmer’s hat and he was unsure if he still had the top of his crown. When he raised his eyes with some trepidation he realised his captain did not; Ralph Barclay was no more than a pair of shoulders bereft of a head, a figure that seemed able to remain upright as if nothing had occurred to dent his abilities. That did not last, with Devenow yelling and a blood-soaked Gherson screaming like a terrified girl; the legs folded and the trunk sank to the deck.

‘Get that body below,’ Palmer shouted, as inured naval discipline immediately took over.

It was necessary to slap Devenow’s head to get him to respond and then the premier obviously had a thought that made him hesitate, but only for a second or two.

‘To his cabin, not to the orlop deck. The man’s wife cannot be allowed to see this.’

Ralph Barclay had not shared his tactical intentions with Palmer, holding it to himself and that left his first lieutenant, now in command, at a loss as to what to do next. His sole aim thus became survival, a gunnery duel in which he pitched
Semele
against the trio of French frigates who now seemed collectively intent on disabling the 74. There was little round shot slamming into the hull now: it was chain and bar shot of the kind that had decapitated his captain and it was shredding the rigging.

News of Barclay’s demise spread rapidly even in what was a maelstrom of furious action, and if there had been little love lost between commander and crew his demise dented the morale of those he had led. The captain of a ship of war, any vessel for that matter, carried with him an aura of authority that was hard to quantify; all anyone knew was that it existed and that it counted.

Semele
was firing on both sides now with every man, officers included, working as many cannon as possible, especially the 32-pounders that would do the most damage.
But it had long ceased to be broadsides: now it was ragged firing at will or as soon as a weapon was loaded, and in that method aim came second to discharge. The red-painted decks had plenty of blood shining on the planking, albeit the number of fatalities was small; it took more than a 28-pound cannonball to smash through several feet of stout oak; vulnerability lay at the open gun ports.

The youngest powder monkeys were dashing to each gun team with cartridges, those slightly older fetching balls from the depths of the holds while others wetted the cannon with buckets of seawater to cool what was becoming metal hot enough to burn skin. At a distance it was black smoke shot through with the orange flash of the exploding powder, each salvo cheered by the men in the pinnace, Pearce excluded, till they were hoarse from their shouting.

An occasional increase in the strength of the wind showed the damage done to
Semele
and Pearce wondered how long it could go on. Every bit of canvas was now in tatters and if he could not see the detail he knew that would apply to the rigging, for it was the French habit to seek to disable an enemy and prevent them from being able to sail clear of the action.

In what had been the great cabin, Devenow was kneeling over the remains of the man he had faithfully served while Gherson, crouching and choking from the smoke, was huddled by a casement trembling like a leaf. Below on the orlop deck the surgeon worked on the wounded with knife, saw, needle and thread, with the three limbs he had been forced to sever at his feet.

Emily, still in ignorance of what had happened on deck, was assisting, bathing and bandaging, on one occasion
employing only words of comfort aimed at the terrified eyes of a young topman on the verge of passing away, this while the ship’s chaplain mumbled prayers over those already gone to meet their maker. The loblolly boys and the surgeon’s mates brought in the latest casualties.

If she saw the midshipman with the filthy face arrive and whisper in the surgeon’s ear, or noted the quick alarmed look aimed at her, she gave it no heed for it was brief; the man was too busy amputating a leg.

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.