By the time night fell, HMS Semele was under tow from Minerve. LeJollie had decided that to remain in the same location and effect repairs would risk him being discovered by a British Fleet he suspected was at sea. Prior to moving, the crew of the 74 had been broken up, to be sent to one of the French frigates and replaced by a prize crew drawn from the enemy squadron.
A body of men had been held back: Palmer, the master, as well as the other standing officers with their mates, plus the one favour granted by the Frenchman, that Emily Barclay should continue to occupy the main cabin even after her husband was buried. The lieutenant he put in charge of the prize, as well as one other officer, would use the wardroom.
There had been one unpleasant moment when the crew were being shifted into the waiting boats. Cornelius Gherson had sought to take with him a locked chest containing Ralph Barclay’s papers, only to be stopped by a Frenchman who demanded to examine the contents. Gherson had thrown something close to a screaming fit, which got him a well-deserved clip round the ear from a French officer. That had brought Palmer to the gangway to find out what was happening.
The complaint, that these were private papers and correspondence in his charge cut no ice. The chest was taken from him, as well as the key he carried in his coat pocket. It was then sent back to what was described as the rightful owner, namely the late captain’s wife. Gifted to her, she showed little initial interest.
For Nesbit Palmer it was a strange sensation to be aboard his ship, yet with nothing to do but convey orders to those left behind and they were few. Much time was spent with the surgeon and the chaplain in the former tiny quarters to avoid too much contact with his captors.
His only outright duties were to visit those recovering from their wounds and accompany the carpenter as he traversed his interior walkway to establish damage to the hull. That done and being satisfied, the carpenter was now busy repairing wounded timber, as if the ship was not a capture.
The gunner was updating his records so that he could account properly for what he had remaining in the way of powder and shot, while the purser likewise counted his stores, for they would have a money value to the enemy, while to him, their loss could presage bankruptcy. The cook was still aboard, for everyone – prize crew included – had to be fed.
With everyone convinced she was deep in grief, Emily was left alone to brood and to seek to work out what the future held. She, too, was a captive and having been in such a situation before it held little terror. Courtesies were extended to captains and their wives that were not given to other officers, and certainly not the men, and she knew that part of her duties would be to alleviate their conditions if at all possible.
The body had been removed at her request – again done willingly on the assumption it was too upsetting to share the cabin with – but in reality she saw it as a malign presence, for death had not removed the malice of her husband, but somehow seemed to increase it.
Devenow had been left behind to care for her and was in constant attendance, being something of a trial in that role, seeking to ingratiate himself by endless enquiries as to her feelings and her needs. Since she knew him to be an endemic drunkard his sobriety was remarkable. It was he who brought her dinner to a table he had set, putting on the polished mahogany board crystal glass, silver cutlery and a decanter of wine, all served with deep humility.
Following on from the meal she finally opened the chest and began to examine the contents: Ralph Barclay’s orders as well as various communications with fellow naval officers on the subject of their treatment following on from the Glorious First of June. Family letters she did not read, they being from his rather silly sisters and thus would be full of local and dull gossip.
There were numerous missives from Ommaney and Druce, oddly addressed to Gherson, detailing various transactions and investments, as well as updates on prize matters still in dispute. A book listed an account of her husband’s holdings, not least in 3% Government Consols, the whole adding up to a sizeable sum of money and given there was no will the conclusion dawned that unless there was one in London she would quite naturally inherit.
The prospect set off a train of thought that she fought to keep sensible, but within those reflections, quite naturally figuring large, was the person of the man she loved. Odd that she cried when it became obvious that all the difficulties under which they had laboured were now no more. Quite possibly the death of Ralph Barclay was going to provide for them both a life of which they could only have previously dreamt.
Pearce was ruminating too, and the cause was that which he had thought on previously: why had Semele been on that course when he had expected at the very best to find her in Naples? Such reflections under a sliver of moon and starlight, in the middle of the Mediterranean, taking a turn on watch while others slept allowed for rife speculation only broken by the need to swing the single sail and alter the rudder to change tack.
Also quick to resurface were his previous conundrums: how to confound Ralph Barclay, how to extract revenge on Hotham for his deceitful plan that could have seen him killed, neither without major hurdles that required jumping to get anywhere at all. Then there was Emily’s pregnancy and the agony that their child, because of her senseless morality, might end up being raised by a man he despised.
Would Barclay agree to accept the child? He might just to save face, so the thinking took ever increasingly lurid turns as the ramifications of such a scenario played out in an increasingly fevered mind, not least in the imagined kidnap he would undertake to gain possession of his own flesh and blood. Double relief came when his time on watch was up, sleep being quick to take him to more pleasant dreams.
They buried Ralph Barclay at dawn with the full honours due to his rank, a full complement of French officers, LeJollie in particular, attending. The sewn canvas cover had been weighted with a 32-pounder cannonball, though one tradition could not be implemented; there being no head they could not put the thread through the nose, a way of ensuring the victim was dead.
It was brought on deck by Semele’s warrant officers on a board, both covered with the flag of his country and, at Emily’s request, with his sword laying on his chest. Lined up by the gangway the chaplain intoned the Anglican service of burial while the French behaved with exemplary courtesy by standing heads uncovered throughout.
Naturally, Emily was the chief mourner and if she could not manage the full widow’s weeds she had found enough black cloth of a porous nature to fashion a cowl that hid her features. Every eye was on her for a second as the chaplain completed his obsequies and pronounced the final words.
‘And now, with God’s grace for his salvation, we commit the body of Captain Ralph Barclay to the deep.’
The board was raised at the rear and as the canvas slipped off to land in the sea with an audible splash, every man aboard bar the bosun, who was of the Methodist persuasion, Frenchmen included, crossed themselves. LeJollie, hat in hand, approached Emily to offer his condolences, his handsome face lighting up in a rather inappropriate way when she replied to him in his own language.
Palmer was next, followed by the men who had acted as pall-bearers, each looking keenly at a veil that completely hid her face. If they had expected sobs there were none, but that was seen not as disrespect to the dead but a quality of steadfastness that made them proud. Then she addressed LeJollie in French to say that she had laid out in the cabin a small repast with wine and it would please her if he and his officers would join her late husband’s men.
In truth, everything she had, wine included, was no longer her property to dispense: it belonged to France, or at least the men who had just won their victory. But in LeJollie she was dealing with a man who would never consider telling her so and he acceded with good grace.
It was not an occasion of long duration; the French were anxious to get back to their vessels in what was a war zone, while Palmer and his subordinates had an English habit of discomfort in such a setting. By the time the bell tolled for the start of the morning watch Emily was alone once more but the squadron of frigates was not.
HMS Semele had been on course for Corsica and so, it turned out, was the French Fleet, which appeared on the horizon on what must have been a previously arranged rendezvous. The tow was passed from Minerve to another, smaller frigate, as were the crew of Semele, and soon they parted company with the enemy fleet bearing away to the north-east while the towed 74 held to a more northerly course.
It came as something of a surprise to find the fleet still anchored off Leghorn. Pearce had suspected he would only touch there to find out the course Hotham had taken to intercept the French, top up his water and biscuit then head off in search. The sight of their pinnace approaching had men lining the deck of Britannia, and by the time Pearce had got aboard and made his way aft to the admiral’s quarters the whole ship, thanks to Tucker and his mates, was abuzz with the news of the loss of HMS Semele.
In the end, John Pearce’s report was made to Admiral Sir Hyde Parker, he having come back to the Med with six more sail of the line including HMS Victory, Hotham declining to meet with him and deputing the man now his second in command to hear the bad news. Parker was a big man, with a bit of a belly on him, full cheeks and a prominent nose. Like most naval officers his face showed the ravages of wind and weather, made more obvious by the snow-white of his wig.
He and Pearce had crossed swords before. He had been Captain of the Fleet under Hood, in effect the executive officer to Lord Hood’s C-in-C. Parker saw this lieutenant as entirely unsuited to the service of which he was a part merely for the way he had acquired his rank. Pearce had compounded that in the past by his refusal to abide by the convention that lieutenants were expected to cringe in the company of an admiral and grovel when faced with a fleet commander.
‘You will oblige me by stating the fact without embellishment.’
The tone of superiority grated, but Pearce let it pass. There was no cause to prick this man’s pride so he related what he had seen, which in truth was not much.
‘Well,’ Parker growled, obviously less than satisfied. ‘Would you say that Captain Barclay fought his ship well?’
The standard reply would have been to praise the man and imply he had done everything in his power to avoid defeat. The thought of flattering Barclay was anathema but it was not that which made him avoid that which was expected of him, just a desire not to embellish the paucity of what he knew.
‘I was in a pinnace, sir, which you will know is very close to the level of the sea. I saw that HMS Semele fought for a long time, over two hours by my watch, but as to how well she was handled I am in ignorance.’
‘Where is she now?’
‘How would I know, sir? I set my course for Leghorn as soon as she struck her colours.’
‘You would not have considered it your duty to see where she was taken?’
The reply had a note of irascibility. ‘There is only one place they can take her and that is Toulon.’
‘Towed or under her own canvas? It makes a difference, and is something an officer could be expected to know.’
‘Well I do not, and I have no intention of making up facts of which I have no knowledge.’
‘On another subject, I am told you have contrived to sell a pair of French merchantmen and their cargoes without going through the Prize Court.’
‘It was the right thing to do under the circumstances.’
‘It was very much not the case, and I must tell you that should it prove true, both yourself and Lieutenant Digby will be brought before a court to account for your disreputable actions.’
‘No doubt,’ Pearce snapped, ‘one set up by Admiral Hotham and staffed with officers of his own choosing.’
‘Who else would do it?’ Parker asked, too surprised by either the tone or the vehemence of the response to remind him of his place or his manners.
‘Anyone would do, if we are to have justice. You may tell Hotham that I welcome a court martial and so will Henry Digby, for there we will air certain facts and have entered in the record matters that I doubt the admiral would wish to see the light of day, given they border on criminality.’
‘You’re mad,’ Parker responded, very much taken aback.
‘Then ask him, sir, about what orders were issued for HMS Flirt to proceed to the Gulf of Ambracia, there to confront a villain called Mehmet Pasha. I state that he hoped that one or both of us would not survive but we did and we took two valuable prizes. And when you relate to him what I have just said please tell him, too, that he will get his eighth as I promised. Neither Digby nor I would stoop to the notion of failing to satisfy his greed.’
‘How dare you, sir.’
‘I do dare and I challenge Admiral Hotham to bring on his court, where he might find that matters historical come back to haunt him too. And if he demurs, mention the name of Ralph Barclay who, even if he is a prisoner, has the power to cause trouble. Now, sir, I have made my report and unless you wish to detain me for the remarks I have just made I would be obliged to be dismissed.’
‘You’ll be dismissed from the service if I have my way, Pearce.’
‘So be it, for my redress lies in the Inns of Court in London, not here in the Mediterranean.’
‘Marines!’ The shout brought two lobsters rushing in. ‘Lock this man up, now.’
The pair made to grab Pearce but he fended them off by quick acquiescence and, small ditty bag in hand, he was escorted across the deck and down below to the barred cell in which those who had committed crimes were held. There was a small barrel provided on which to sit but very little space to move, and as he sat there he wondered if it had been wise to state so obviously his intention to make Hotham pay for his misdeeds. It never did to forewarn an enemy.
He was vaguely aware of the activity above his head; even bare feet make a sound if there are enough of them. He was wondering what it portended when the master at arms, who had locked the door behind him, appeared jangling his ring of keys. Selecting one he unlocked the door and stood aside.
‘You’re free to go.’
‘On whose orders?’
‘What odds does that make, sir?’
‘It matters to me.’
‘Mine came from the premier, who desires that you vacate the ship as we are in the process of weighing.’
Had the order come from a higher authority? It was good to speculate but there was no point in asking the ship’s gaoler, he would not know. Picking up the ditty bag, which had very little of his actual possessions, just enough for the duty he had been engaged, he walked free and made for the entry port to seek a boat.
Normally he would have been required to plead but on this occasion one was provided with alacrity. He walked down the gangway to find the pinnace still in the water but with different men on board and no longer under sail. Looking around the anchorage he saw the whole fleet was preparing to depart and above his head HMS Britannia’s signal gun banged out. When he was far enough off he saw flags flying up and down with ships’ numbers displayed and messages telling them to get a move on.
‘Orders were to put you ashore, Your Honour,’ replied the leading hand.
‘Which you can do once I have my dunnage, which is aboard Captain Nelson’s ship. I can scarce do without it, can I?’
The man did not reply but he did murmur words to his fellow oarsmen as the pinnace changed direction to make for the side of Agamemnon. The gangway was gone and the entry port closed so Pearce was obliged to use the man ropes and clamber up the battens that lined the side. He was greeted by Dick Farmiloe wondering what he was about, as well as a deck full of men working to get the ship to sea.
‘I need to get to the wardroom and get my things.’
‘Then you best shift for we are about to pluck our anchor.’
Pearce dashed down the companionway two at a time, which meant men coming up had to shift to avoid him. He was calling to the wardroom stewards to lend a hand long before he got to the door. A surly bunch by nature, it required hassle to get help, he on one rope handle and one of the stewards on the other. By the time they came on deck Nelson had taken up his place on the quarterdeck.
A wave got a raised hat – clearly the captain had been told what was happening. Now he needed hands to loop his chest onto a line that could be dropped down to the pinnace. That provided he looked over the side to guide it down, only to see there was no boat waiting to receive it; the men from Britannia were gone and in an anchorage full of boats he was unsure which one was his. Added to which he wondered, even if he could identify it, whether a shout would have any effect.
Although far from being the complete naval officer, Pearce knew that this was not the moment to ask Nelson for a replacement. The yards were full of topmen loosing canvas, while from down below he could hear the stamp and go of the men on the capstan, as well as more faintly the cries as the soaking cable was hauled in to be looped round the bitts. She was being hauled over her anchor and the men ready to secure it were waiting.
The best he could do was stay out of everyone’s way and wait till Agamemnon was under sail. It would be a big favour to ask that a boat take him back to Leghorn, and it would mean a hell of a haul for whoever undertook it to catch up with their ship out at sea, but ask he must.
‘Mr Pearce, I am deeply reluctant to oblige you.’
Nelson troubled, with his height and build, looked more like a concerned schoolboy than a post-captain with decades of seniority, and the man to whom he was reacting could understand why. So, judging by the looks Pearce was getting, could Nelson’s officers.
‘I must wait in Leghorn for HMS Flirt, sir, in the hope that she will call in there.’
The conversation had to be abated; HMS Agamemnon was required to manoeuvre to take her place in the van squadron to the rear of HMS Royal Sovereign, commanded by Rear Admiral Samuel Goodall. He was on the poop of his first rate to see the act properly executed and by the time that was completed Nelson’s attitude had changed.
‘I have the solution, Mr Pearce. Flirt will surely first make for San Fiorenzo Bay, since it was from there you sailed. Even if she does touch at Leghorn her clear duty is to rejoin the fleet wherever we are, so I suggest that you would be best staying with us.’
‘Sir, I am far from sure.’
‘Mr Pearce, we are, it is to be hoped, sailing to fight the French, fleet against fleet. How can you even suggest a course of action that would cause you to miss such an event? No, you must stay aboard with us and come the contest we will find for you a role in which you can share in our glory.’
Even if Pearce had wanted to dispute that, there was little point. Leghorn was fast receding over Agamemnon’s stern.