One of the pair of chronometers on the bulkhead began to chime the hour, the sound of which seemed to affect the admiral and bring him back to the present, for he sat more upright in his chair and, moving close, fixed Toby Burns with a firmer eye. ‘But I did not invite you here to talk about my career, did I?’
Toby’s heart sank once more, the thought that he had avoided telling his own tale evaporating.
‘I must wait to hear about your exploits, Mr Burns, for time presses, so I must return to the main subject, which as we know is of you giving evidence at your uncle’s court martial and how it relates to the truth.’
The clenching feeling in the boy’s stomach was so acute he feared he might void himself in panic, and the same emotion was obviously apparent in his face, for Hotham laid a hand on his knee and gave it a reassuring squeeze.
‘Do not alarm yourself, lad. I suspect your uncle asked for your help, and you willingly gave it.’
‘I…did…sir,’ Toby lied. He had been as afraid of his uncle as he was now. It was that dread which had induced him to agree to tell a pack of lies.
‘But it was not the whole truth, was it?’
None of it was true, not one jot, but he merely shook his head, unwilling to say so out loud.
Hotham took his hand off Toby’s knee and sat back, both hands forming an arch below his lips, with the boy noticing, only from the diminution, the heat that physical contact had engendered. Unbidden, his mind was filled with other thoughts, about the choirmaster at his local church who was much given to fondling, and the stories which circulated regarding one of the masters at the school he had attended. Then there were the sly hints and goosing made by some of the older mids, which he never knew how to take: as ploys to make him worry, or genuine suggestions.
The silence that followed seemed to last for an age, with the older man clearly once more lost in thought. Finally he laid his fingertips on the edge of the table, Toby now taken with the neatness of his fingernails.
‘You have been candid with me, Mr Burns, and I am appreciative of that.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Hotham nodded. ‘Tell me, how are you finding life in the gunroom?’
Even if the change of subject had not caught him off guard, there was only one answer to such a question. ‘Splendid, sir. You are blessed with a fine set of fellows.’
‘A set of rogues more like.’
‘Sir…I…’
‘There’s no need to seek to hide the truth, boy. Did I not say I was a mid once? I know what the life was like and nothing will have changed in the meantime. Now, truthfully, how do you fare there?’
Suddenly Toby Burns’s face collapsed, and he was clearly near to tears. No one had ever asked him of this before with the slightest interest in the reality. Not his mother or father, his aunt or his uncle.
‘It is hard, sir.’
Hotham nodded. ‘I too found it so, for I was a sensitive child, yet I survived as you will. But rest assured, I will make it known that you are under my personal protection, Mr Burns, which I suspect will ease your life considerably.’
The feeling of misery disappeared as quickly as it had formed; that was a message which would see him left in peace, in fact it might be one so powerful as to make him cock of the gunroom walk. No one would dare go near his sea chest!
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘You may return to your duties, Mr Burns,’ Hotham said, looking at his chronometers again. ‘We will return to this subject when I have more time.’
Toby stood to leave and, unsure what to do, he gave a slight bow before turning away. He was at the door when Hotham spoke again, which forced him to face the admiral once more. There was a firmer look to the man’s face now.
‘One thing, Mr Burns, when I ask you to come here again, I would like you to tell me precisely what your uncle induced you to say on his behalf, as well as the facts of the matter. I take it you will be willing to oblige me?’
Toby Burns was not the brightest of boys, never had been, but he was quick enough in regard to his own well-being to see the import of those words; the protection recently offered could just as easily be reversed, and if that happened his life would be a damn sight more miserable than it was now.
‘Yes, sir.’
Ralph Barclay was at a loss to know what to do. His wife had gone, and he suspected the only place she could have fled to was Lutyens’s hospital, but that knowledge did nothing to solve the problem of how to deal with the matter. Should he take a party of seamen over there and fetch her back by force? Should he go alone and seek a private interview in which to explain and seek forgiveness for his behaviour? Should he indeed even think of apologising for taking what was his by right?
He knew in his heart that the same level of drink, which had made him behave as he had, was the reason he had missed her nocturnal flight. He had slept like a log, which had allowed her to vacate the cabin unnoticed, but she must have been seen leaving the ship, and in doing so at such an hour would have set tongues wagging even more. He had to get her back somehow. There was her clothing, most of which was still in her quarter gallery cabin; she must come back for that and when she did…
As the various solutions flitted through his mind he could settle on nothing, and in the end that was what he decided to do. Emily must be given a chance to see sense; she was alone in a foreign port with no means of support other than him, and she could in no way get passage on a ship returning to England without his help. If these facts were clear to him they must become equally clear to her, and once they did she would see the sense in returning to her proper estate.
‘Enter,’ he called, as the soft knock sounded on the door.
Opening it, Lieutenant Glaister raised his hat, which only served to accentuate his skeletal facial features. He was all well-defined bone – cheeks, nose and jaw – with a sizeable thin-lipped mouth and wispy receding fair hair, which gave him a prominent forehead seemingly untroubled by eyebrows. Yet there was curiosity in the startlingly blue eyes, which left Ralph Barclay wondering if such an emotion sprung from the mere calling of this meeting, or had something to do with his marital travails.
‘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 feelin
gs.
‘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.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
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.
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