For Ralph Barclay the actions of his wife were like a running sore and had been for some time. He had manoeuvred to get himself and his ship sent to the Mediterranean knowing she was there, his intention to find her and bring her back to her proper estate. Yet since his arrival he had been stuck in San Fiorenzo Bay with no sign that he would be granted the independence of action required to pursue his goal.
Apart from the misery of rejection, he was sure the way Emily had run off affected him professionally as well as personally. Committed to his career in the navy and, fate notwithstanding, high enough on the captain’s list to feel the time to him getting his own admiral’s flag was on the horizon, any number of things could arise to check him and the state of his marriage fell into that category.
There was fear of then being beached of course: to suffer, even if he was given his flag, the ignominy of becoming a yellow admiral, having the rank but no meaningful employment. To avoid that fate, even with no reputational stains, required interest in high places and Ralph Barclay was poorly placed in that regard. It was also necessary to show no weaknesses, and an inability to hold onto his spouse looked very much like that; could a man who had failed to command one woman take charge of a fighting fleet?
In his favour was his reputation as a forceful sailor, for he had been lucky since the outbreak of the conflict. Even fighting a losing battle, badly outnumbered, against a pair of French frigates, counted in that; the Admiralty looked favourably on captains prepared to do battle when the odds were stacked against them and avoidance was impossible. Since then he had also taken several prizes as well as participating in a major fleet action, the Battle of the Glorious First of June, the first serious contest of the present war, which had produced rich rewards for the participating captains.
Apart from the blot on his marriage everything in his life had progressed well. From being an impecunious officer suffering five years on half pay he was now a fairly wealthy man, able to contemplate the option of buying the lease on a London residence or having, like many a successful naval officer, a home built for him on the Downs overlooking Portsmouth.
Yet the constant socialising of a fleet at anchor counted as torture. Hardly a day went by without an invitation to dine aboard another vessel, and there he would mingle with his fellow captains as well as specially invited lieutenants and midshipmen. No one ever alluded to the folly of a man like him marrying a mere girl half his age yet he was sure such comments were made behind the hand, for what had been a well-kept secret in England was not likely to be that in the Mediterranean.
Emily had fled with John Pearce to reside for a short period in Leghorn, the Tuscan port that was the revictualling centre for the fleet, and had been seen in his company, though he reckoned her gone from there now. The navy was as much a hotbed of gossip as any other profession and he had to assume it was now common knowledge that his wife had run off with another man, and a much younger fellow to boot.
Barclay needed to locate Emily and get her back by kidnap, if no other method presented itself, his frustration at being unable to do so compounded by his situation; as part of the Mediterranean Fleet he was not free to act as he wished, given his C-in-C was waiting for the French to poke their noses out of Toulon. In what amounted to naval indolence he had too much time to think and reflect and to gnaw on what had gone wrong.
He had not seen seventeen-year-old Emily Raynesford as hot-headed when he had first proposed the union to her parents – quite the opposite. She had seemed meek and dutiful, a perfect bride for a man proud of his rank and station, albeit one who had become adept at delaying bills and confounding bailiffs for half a decade. The prospect of war with France and command of a warship, plus full pay, had hastened his wooing and that had been laid upon Emily’s father as much as her.
Ralph Barclay had a family entail on the house occupied by the Raynesford family, one he had subtly hinted he could enforce at will, which would render them homeless. Thus he had allies in both Emily’s father and more particularly her mother, who had sung the virtues of her daughter marrying a full post-captain in the King’s Navy, quite a catch for a girl who would struggle to match such good fortune in her home town of Frome.
Matters had proceeded to a wedding and it seemed as if Emily had happily accepted his proposal, there being no hint of hesitation in her taking of the vows. If the postnuptial congress had been full of awkwardness that was only to be expected, for he was not experienced in dealing with women.
His life in the navy, two and half decades of sea service and consorting with women of low breeding, were a poor preparation for a wedding night with a provincial virgin. Emily had no experience at all, which was only right and proper, and while he may have been a trifle rough, seen as necessary to overcome her maidenly reticence, from that point on matters had become settled as his young bride dutifully fulfilled her role.
Not that she was without faults, mainly follies brought on by her youth, like overspending on his stores and, when he was absent, making an exhibition of herself at a ball in Sheerness, being too exuberant in her dancing. Subsequently he had seen it as a requirement to educate Emily in the responsibilities incumbent upon his station as the man in command of the frigate HMS Brilliant.
Barclay realised now that he should have left Emily in Frome, where she could have been housed with his two sisters, yet he had feared extravagance from a trio of women who would overrate his position. Five years on the beach had left many bills to be settled and he needed time on full pay to repair his situation.
So to save money he had decided to take his new wife aboard his ship. Such an act was against the rules but it was also far from uncommon in a service where such matters were more often observed in the breach.
Ralph Barclay knew that all his problems had stemmed from that decision. Naval life was harsh and he was determined to run a tight ship. Short-handed and ordered to set sail he had been obliged to venture out and press men to sea service, forced to show scant regard for the location from which they were taken or their fitness for the tasks they would be required to perform.
It had ever been thus at the outbreak of war; the navy needed men and the number of seamen never matched the requirements of the fleet. To compound his problems, Lord Hood, then the Senior Sea Lord of the Admiralty and no friend to Ralph Barclay, was holding a host of volunteers at the Tower for his own selfish ends. Of all the men he had pressed, the one that had brought him most grief was none other than John Pearce.
‘Compliments of the officer of the watch, sir, your barge is in the water and manned.’
Barclay thanked the midshipman and rose from behind his desk, Devenow appearing for once, hat in hand, without having to be called and obviously stone-cold sober. The brute had a look of concern on his face, one that was habitual when dealing with his captain, who was never sure of the reason. Was it concern for his well-being or fear of his all-too-common wrath?
The call into Cornelius Gherson’s cubbyhole was to collect the latest figures on the stores held within the holds of HMS Semele, these handed over with that infuriating air of superiority that his clerk could not seem to keep hidden. Such an expression was compounded by the man’s looks; he was handsome, with a fair to girlish countenance and fine blonde hair. To a dark and brooding presence like Ralph Barclay it was a constant irritation.
‘I have done my best, sir.’
‘I damn well hope you have, Gherson.’
The growling response had no effect on his clerk, who was safe in the knowledge that as of this moment his captain depended on him. Barclay lacked the numerical skills to play ducks and drakes with the level of the warship’s stores. Just like in his financial affairs he had come to depend on Gherson, though not with any degree of trust. It amused the clerk, even with that lack of faith, just how easy it was to hide from his employers how much was being siphoned off into his own pocket.
‘I have had condemned as much as I could so we seem lower on victuals than we are in truth, but your real hope is us being so low on water that it needs proper hoys to replenish us.’
There was no need to tell Ralph Barclay that such a commodity was, unlike everything else the seventy-four carried, unquantifiable. They could top it up from the Corsican wells but not to the level that existed on paper, for it would have to be fetched from the shore in barrels, time-consuming and often less than a day’s expenditure.
Water, or the lack of it would, the captain hoped, be the lever that would get him away from his present berth and at the very least to Leghorn where he could begin his search, mostly to find a clue as to where Emily had gone. Rowed across the bay, Barclay knew he would have to be subtle, for that which he planned carried a risk. Hotham was no fool and given it was he who had told of Emily’s presence in Leghorn he would be quick to smoke Barclay’s motives.
Against that Ralph Barclay was a client officer of the admiral, entitled to expect preferential treatment. In addition, he was fully aware of the machinations Hotham had engaged in, aided by his senior clerk Toomey, to rid himself of the menace of John Pearce – an intrigue of which Ralph Barclay thoroughly approved, albeit he had been careful to avoid personal involvement.
Piped aboard HMS Britannia he inspected the marines as was required before making himself known to Holloway, the flag captain – a necessary courtesy, Devenow dogging his heels to ensure that his one-armed master did not suffer a fall on a moving deck. Before he could enter the admiral’s great cabin he encountered Toomey, from whom he could quietly enquire, with bowed head and a soft tone, if there was any news of John Pearce and HMS Flirt.
‘No news is good news, Captain Barclay, is all I can reply.’
That came as a whisper. The clerk knew why he was being asked; the question was not one that could be put to William Hotham, even if he was the man ultimately responsible for what had been implemented. Commanding admirals saw the need to shield themselves from such matters.
‘Let us hope that remains the case,’ Toomey added.
‘Quite. Can I proceed?’
‘Sir William is awaiting you.’
‘Did he ask why I requested an interview?’
‘No, but I will say he is curious as to the reason you wish to see him alone.’
‘A list of my stores, Toomey. You will see we are severely short on beef and pork, much of which has had to be condemned, and our water is critical.’
Toomey raised an eyebrow at that; he had been a naval clerk for many years and before that a purser. There was not a trick in the naval book of which he was not aware and, as the man who took in the daily reports on the fitness of the fleet to operate, even if he gave the perusal to his underlings, he could take a fair stab the ploy Barclay was seeking to execute.
Being close to his master, Toomey also knew why he was being handed the list, just as he knew that it provided, if accepted, an excuse for the admiral to grant HMS Semele permission to depart ahead of vessels more in need of revictualling. The two exchanged a non-committal look before Barclay proceeded past the marine sentry to the cabin door, opened for him by a second guard.
‘Captain Barclay, you are most welcome even if your request intrigues me. I take it you will join me in a glass of this Tuscan wine, which I can assure you is more than a match for claret.’
Sir William Hotham was smaller than his visitor, slightly pink of face, the skin smooth, with none of the rough, red visage common to sailors. As much a courtier as a navy man he had come to his present position through the powerful patronage of the Duke of Portland, now a member of the Pitt administration, having split with his faction from his Whig colleagues to support the prosecution of the war.
There had never been any doubt in Ralph Barclay’s mind that Hotham would settle with ease into his role as C-in-C Mediterranean. The man had worked for high and independent command all his life. To have achieved it would be, to his way of thinking, nothing but a rightful recognition of his abilities. In his manner and appearance, full uniform with flashing gold epaulettes and a newly powdered wig, he looked very much the part.
‘Delighted to do so, sir. Any word on the French?’
‘Supine, Barclay, supine. I worry that they so fear me they will never leave Toulon.’
It was typical of Hotham to make personal what was collective. The enemy would be in fear of the British Fleet, not its commander, but he let the hyperbole pass without even a raised eyebrow and moved more swiftly than was strictly polite to what he had come to say.
‘While what I fear, sir, is to be so low on victuals and water that it will affect my ability to take part in a chase and an action should they do so.’
The frown was to be expected; how much it was performance and how much genuine Barclay did not know but it indicated a degree of discomfort. The two were very different; the man visiting knew that. For all they had gone to sea at the same age and suffered the rigours of being midshipmen, then lieutenants and finally very junior captains, their lives had taken a very different course.
Hotham had always enjoyed powerful connections and had been many times made welcome at court. Ralph Barclay did not, and had never even been close enough to King George to exchange a single word. He also depended on this man to help him prosper, albeit such a connection was a two-way affair.
That said, it never would do to fully trust an admiral and Ralph Barclay was no different from his peers in not doing so. He had only got his posting to join the Mediterranean Fleet due to his ability to possibly embarrass another even more senior flag officer, Black Dick Howe, who had led the Home Fleet to success against the French on the First of June.
Nor was he convinced that the actions Hotham had taken to get rid of John Pearce had been done in any respect as a favour to him. The admiral had his own reasons, not least the fact that it was he who had set up the court martial to try Ralph Barclay for illegal impressment.
That it was a conspiracy to acquit would never stand up to examination and nor would the fact that Hotham had made sure no hostile witnesses were present to testify. Pearce had been sent away on a voyage to the Bay of Biscay; with him had gone anyone who could have told the truth about that night in the Liberties of the Savoy: Lieutenant Henry Digby, Midshipman Richard Farmiloe and a trio of hands from the lower deck.
Only Toby Burns, Barclay’s nephew by marriage, had been kept back and he, being the weakling he was, had been browbeaten into committing perjury. And there was the nub of it; Pearce had engaged a London lawyer to probe those very same people Hotham had sent away. If the likes of Digby and Farmiloe would be cautious, valuing as they did their careers, the same could not be said of Toby Burns, who would crack under pressure for certain.
There was one other problem not known to Hotham: John Pearce was not whistling in the dark as Hotham thought. He had a full transcript of the court martial, and if that ever saw the light of day in a civil court Hotham would be finished, it being small comfort that Barclay would go down with him.
The admiral, who had been lost in thought, raised his gaze from his red wine as Toomey entered the cabin, bearing in his hand a sheaf of papers. ‘Well?’
‘Captain Barclay is seriously low on water, sir. I would say that his need to replenish is acute. He is not well found in pork and beef either, due to the need to condemn.’
‘Dammit, Barclay, how has this come about?’
‘You know the dockyard as well as I do, sir. The provision of rotten stores is no rare event.’
‘But to this extent?’
‘I admit that carelessness on the behalf of some of my crew has made worse what was merely bad.’
‘Which you let pass?’
‘In no way, sir. You will see from my logs, if you care to examine them, that the miscreants have been punished.’
Men had been flogged, that was true; all Ralph Barclay had done was record the reasons as other than the truth, which was punishments for insubordination, drunkenness or gambling.
Hotham allowed himself a deep sigh as he indicated Toomey should depart and then he was back into his reverie, no doubt weighing up the pros and cons of what he was being asked for. He was no more to be fooled than his clerk and what he had to consider was how others, as much client officers to him as Ralph Barclay, would react to what would be seen as a blatant piece of favouritism.
‘I have to say, Barclay, the temptation to issue a public reprimand is very strong. You may say there are men responsible for this, but—’
‘I know, Sir William,’ Barclay replied, with mock humility, the space being left for him to do so, ‘that the responsibility lies with me as the captain.’
Looking directly into Hotham’s rather weak blue eyes Ralph Barclay reckoned Hotham was working up to a refusal. He would do that by taking stores from other ships and employing the boats of the entire fleet for water, which brought matters to the crunch as far as he was concerned; he had to be granted the independence to cruise and Leghorn was only the first step. Barclay wanted to go to Naples and possibly Palermo. Time to muddy the waters.
‘I wonder, Sir William, if there is any activity at all in our area of operations?’
‘A certain amount of piracy and the odd roaming French frigate.’
‘I believe our ambassador in Naples, Sir William Hamilton, has asked for a show of force in the Straits of Messina.’
‘Which is a damned insult to our Neapolitan allies. The waters between Naples and Sicily are their bailiwick. We cannot just go sending in vessels without upsetting them.’
‘I believe the excuse would be the delivery of despatches. Perhaps, instead of a sloop, a seventy-four would serve a dual purpose? Given permission to revictual in Leghorn, I could then sail south and show the flag, your flag.’ The voice dropped to a low growl. ‘It pains me to allude to the fact that we have a common interest but that is so, is it not?’
That made Hotham sit up as he suddenly realised he was being coerced; if the Pearce name was unmentioned it was as clear as Banquo’s ghost. Ralph Barclay was engaged in a risky business; to upset this man could rebound badly. Would the admiral smoke that it was not only John Pearce and his doings that could sink him, nor Toby Burns? This captain before him was better placed than any to achieve that, even if he would likewise go down and might even hang, perjury – which he too had committed – being a capital crime.
Hotham knew all about his wife and it would be no mystery to him why this proposition was being advanced; the question was how he would respond to what was nothing less than a veiled threat. The mystery for the admiral would be how far Ralph Barclay was willing to go in seeking to find her.
‘I suggest you return to HMS Semele, Captain Barclay, while I ponder on this.’
The tone of warmth had gone; if he was furious – and he might be – Hotham masked it well, his dignity being important to him and his courtier experience coming to his aid.
‘As you wish, sir. About my need for stores?’
‘That, too, must be considered, of course. Now I wish you good day.’
Hotham did not stand, which would have been a common act of civility. Ralph Barclay tried to read his features but there was nothing there to see; indeed, before he turned to depart Hotham had lowered his head to the papers on his desk in what was a clear dismissal. It would be necessary to have a word with Toomey on the way back to the entry port.
‘I fear, Toomey, I have created a doubt in Sir William’s mind regarding my loyalty to his flag.’
‘Indeed?’ replied the perplexed Irishman.
‘I wish you to convey to him that which our respective ranks do not otherwise permit: I refer of course to the voyage of HMS Flirt and the reasons it was found to be necessary.’
Toomey looked as though he was in fear of losing his watch, so anxious was his expression, for he was as much in the steep tub when it came to John Pearce as anyone.
‘I wish to stress that my need is great in my personal affairs and the only man able to grant me succour in my situation is just beyond yonder bulkhead. You will know I cannot make a direct request, but I have done so obliquely.’
‘For what, Captain Barclay?’
‘The right to cruise and perhaps bring back to the fleet a prize or two, given I have been lucky in the past.’
‘You asked for this?’
‘Hinted, Toomey, no more, while adding that despatches for Naples could be carried by Semele, but if you could see your way to easing my concerns, well …’
Toomey was even quicker than Hotham to see the point of that and just as quick to avoid commitment. ‘All I can do, Captain Barclay, is give an honest opinion if asked. My position precludes anything else.’
‘I see you as wise counsellor to Sir William. I seek that you act in that capacity.’
In other words, Ralph Barclay thought as he walked away, Devenow falling in close behind him, tell the sod which side his bread is buttered on. Tell him he needs to care for me in order that he will care for himself.
As he was rowed back to his ship he needed to breathe deeply; sailing close to the wind was one thing, a threat – however oblique – to a senior flag officer quite another. If Hotham declined, then he had forfeited his good opinion: if he acceded to the request there had still been made a serious breach in what had been a favourable relationship.