An Awkward Commission

by David Donachie

‘If your water runs low, you will have to replenish that again from the shore, and for food, you can live off the fishermen, who I am sure will be happy to sell you the contents of their cooking tubs. Take a copy of the signals for compass headings as well and keep a sharp lookout, for once we have discerned the course of the enemy, I will try to close with you and give you what I know of their intentions.’

  He did not add that he would be back on this same station and facing censure if he lost them.

  Below he was brusque, quite sharp in the way he told his wife that there would be no more formal dinners for a day or two, and that they would be obliged to live on the same food as the rest of the crew.

  ‘Likewise I intend that the main cabin bulkhead is to be hinged up, and the pantry done away with, though our sleeping quarters will remain. You may wish to sort out some clothing for a few days, which should be practical. Everything that can be done without will go into the hold.’

  Emily just nodded, and went into their sleeping cabin to comply.

  ‘Shenton,’ Barclay shouted, ‘I want a couple of fresh shirts and a pair of clean breeches, then strike my chest below. Once that is done prepare the lady hole. Give it a good clean with fresh vinegar, and make it comfortable for my wife.’

  HMS Brilliant was round and on her new course, and above his head Barclay could hear the running feet of the men manning the falls as Collins sent aloft sail after sail, just as he could feel the increase in the heel of the ship as that extra canvas worked on her trim. The pinnace, towed astern to keep her seams tight, for the weather was hot and dry, was being hauled in, this while Farmiloe picked his men, four at most, in case they needed to row, and took aboard biscuit and some grog, for men deprived of their daily beer would be crabbed without it, as well as some funds borrowed from the purser to purchase fish. He was back on deck again as the midshipman prepared to go over the side, into a boat that now had a mast and a furled gaff sail, with a block at the masthead to run it up and down as required.

  ‘You have a timepiece, Mr Farmiloe?’

  ‘I do, sir,’ the boy replied, tapping his waistcoat pocket.

  ‘Then use it, as well as the sun, to aid you in fixing your position and nurturing your stores. Always make sure you have the shore in sight at first light, but if you have not, at that time of day any drifting that has taken you off is easily corrected. Put one man to lookout to the east, for sight of the fleet, and another looking west for me. And Mr Farmiloe, keep moving. Do not be tempted to just drift, for that will do nothing to keep either you or your men sharp.’

  Farmiloe wanted to ask what to do if no one came, fleet or messenger, but he reckoned that would not elicit an answer that included any instructions. Subject to the vivid imagination that went with his age he had a vision of drifting around in these waters forever, broiled by the sun, if he was not capsized by a sudden squall or taken by an enemy cruiser. Instead, he lifted his hat, tried to pretend that he was pleased by the responsibility being entrusted in him and prepared to go over the side. The voice that came then, did something to lift his mood.

  ‘Mr Farmiloe,’ called Emily Barclay, who had followed her husband on deck. ‘May I wish you safety, and say that we all hope to see aboard again soon. Until then, if you have no objections, I will include you in my prayers.’

  That made Farmiloe smile, puff up slightly, and produce a brave statement. ‘Then I feel sure that no danger will threaten me, Mrs Barclay.’

  ‘On your way, boy,’ growled Ralph Barclay, ‘and pay attention to your orders.’

  ‘Aye, aye sir.’

  The boat, on the lee side of the frigate, was bucking along lashed to the ship, so that he had to jump aboard, only saved from the indignity of ending up in the thwarts by the strong arms of Dysart, who did not wait for the nominal officer to issue orders to cast off. By the time Farmiloe had taken station on the tiller, turning it sharply to starboard, the sail was run up and the cutter was sailing away.

  ‘Mr Glaister, when all else is completed fetch out the boarding nets and lay them along the bulwarks. I want them shipped as night falls and lookouts with muskets set at ten foot intervals on both sides of the ship. I have no notion to be taken by an enemy boarding party during the hours of darkness.’

  Ralph Barclay went back to his captain’s walk, feeling the warm southerly wind on his face, bracing himself against the heel of the now racing frigate, going over in his mind every scenario he could think of that might bring danger to his command, trying to foresee ways of countering them. That was when the thought came to him, that the French would not have seen the fishing boat and might not know that their state of readiness had been compromised. In his mind he formulated a plan to discomfort them; to either keep them in place or hurry them to sea before they were fully ready.

  ‘Mr Collins, a change of course. Take us in closer to Toulon. Mr Glaister, prepare the signal flags for the message, “Enemy in sight”, that followed by a Blue Peter to denote they are preparing to weigh, then repeated, and get some powder charges up to the signal gun, which we will be firing at regular intervals.’

  The desire to seek an explanation was plain on the Premier’s face, but he had the good sense not to ask for one, or to question whether the proposed signal would be understood. The order went out to trim the yards as the rudder brought Brilliant round on a more northerly course, which took her off her very best point of sailing and cut her speed.

  ‘We just raised the tip of Mont Faron, your honour.’

  The lookouts up there would have him soon, and there was no way to bluff, given that every feature of the frigate would be known to them. He anticipated that those enemy frigates would intercept again, seeking to drive him off, indeed he was somewhat surprised that they had not been set further out to sea for the purpose. Speculation about that produced several possibilities; over-confidence that they had driven him off station, or what he hoped was the cause, that they were too fearful of being caught in a single ship action by a well worked-up British opponent to close with him unless they could guarantee each other support.

  ‘Dinner for the men as normal, Mr Glaister, the officer to take theirs at the same time. Once that is over we may fully clear for action.’

  Below, Shenton was standing beside the cook, much to the man’s annoyance, as he tagged the pieces of salted pork he was taking from a barrel, each required to have the messnumbered metal tag attached. None could be given out until the captain’s steward had examined it, his aim to find the leanest piece for the main cabin. If he was going to be forced to eat seamen’s food, then he wanted the cut with the least gristle.

  ‘That one,’ he cried, as a slightly over-sized portion of leg came out, adding with a leer. ‘And we’ll want some scouse, Cookie. Can’t wait to see Mrs Barclay’s face when she has to pop that and a biscuit full of weevils into her ever-so delicate mouth.’

  His last task was to pass over a bag filled with a mixture of suet and raisins, which would be boiled to provide a pudding. ‘Don’t go putting it too close to the burning wood, Cookie, it has a fair bit o’ brandy mixed in.’

  ‘And no doubt you’ll be havin’ more’n your share o’ that, Shenton,’ moaned Devenow, a burly brute of a fellow, waiter for the day to his mess, one of the sailors forced to linger for his portion.

  Shenton blew a soft raspberry. He was not cautious with Devenow, unlike most of the crew, his station as the captain’s steward protection enough. The man was a bully who used his size and if necessary his fists to get what he wanted, usually a share of someone’s grog ration, husbanding that to be consumed in a binge. This had seen him at the grating three times already this commission, for he was not a quiet drunk. Not that Devenow complained; he took his dozen without a murmur, and was never absent from duty for more than a couple of hours after that. He was, in many ways, one of the banes of Ralph Barclay’s life, for he deeply admired his captain – in fact he had come aboard as a volunteer as soon as he heard of the commission – a feeling not reciprocated in
the slightest measure.

  ‘Goes wi’ the station,’ Shenton added, ‘Has to be some perks to make up for being on the rough end of Barclay’s tongue, day in, day out.’

  ‘Like we ain’t, brother,’ growled Martin Dent, a spotty youth with a badly set broken nose, not long moved from being a marine drummer – really a ship’s boy – to being a topman, one of the ship’s elite. He could speak up because at his age all he would ever get from Devenow was a slap, and being a cheeky bugger he had had a rate of those in his few years, none of which had stilled his tongue. The sentiment was taken up by the rest of the people waiting with their mess kits, which manifested itself as an angry ripple of discontent.

  ‘Belay that,’ Devenow shouted, before glaring at Martin, who dared to glare back. ‘I won’t hear a word agin the captain. The man might be hard, but he be fair.’

  That brought immediate quiet, with no one prepared to challenge a statement they believed to be untrue, for Devenow would mark the speaker, and there would be a price to pay.

  ‘What’s Barclay about, Shenton?’ demanded one of them, to lighten an atmosphere that had suddenly become tense.

  ‘Why ain’t you smoked it, matey,’ hooted the steward. ‘We’s goin’ to sail right into the port and take on the whole French fleet. Death for you, but glory and a Gazette for our beloved captain. Must be off, got to get his pistol primed and ready.’

  ‘D’ye reckon he licks Barclay’s boots?’ asked Martin.

  ‘Kisses his arse, more like, mate,’ said the cook, before raising his heavy meat cleaver, and waving under the bully’s nose, daring Devenow to gainsay him. ‘And he’s too spavined a creature to even consider the arse we all hanker after.’

  Ralph Barclay did not enjoy his dinner; he found seamen’s fare brought back unpleasant memories of a life spent in a midshipman’s berth, that and wardrooms where he and his fellows had lacked the funds necessary for the luxury of private stores. But it had the effect of pleasing him, nonetheless, making him feel that he was at one with the men he commanded, which in turn decided him to do a touch of ‘Harry in the night’, to tour the ship like Shakespeare’s King Henry and impart encouraging words to his crew. He was unaware that the smiles he bestowed on most of those he encountered induced feelings of deep distrust, that was until he came to Devenow.

  ‘Is we goin’ to have a fight, your honour?’

  It seemed a strange question from a man who had more fights than most, usually with people he beat, though there had been one, which Barclay was not supposed to know about, who had bested him.

  ‘Only one we can win, Devenow.’

  ‘I have a fancy to board an enemy, capt’n.’

  ‘Then I hope you get your wish.’

  ‘If we do, your honour, rest easy that I will be at your right arm, an’ God help the sod who tries to harm you.’

  Even in the gloom of the t’ween decks, the lanterns picked up the sincere look in the man’s eyes. Common seamen’s fare did not extend to doing without wine, and Ralph Barclay had allowed himself several glasses more than normal to cover the taste, so that his temper was doubly mellow. Devenow’s words touched him in a way they would not have done had be been strictly sober, indeed he might had told him brusquely to keep to his station, for outside young midshipmen and junior officers he had brought on in the service, he had never had what could be called a personal following, certainly not amongst the lower deck.

  ‘Why I thank you for that, Devenow. And may I say, if you were to moderate your drinking, I daresay you might find that your station aboard ship would improve.’

  ‘God help us,’ said Coyle, the master-at-arms, still on crutches, but over-seeing the sharpening of the cutlasses and tomahawks, and close enough to hear the exchange.

  Kemp, the rat-faced individual who had got himself moved to ship’s corporal, and so was doing the actual grinding, replied. ‘Amen to that.’

  ‘Mr Glaister’s compliments, your honour, came a voice from the gangway. ‘There a sail been spotted due east, and the lookout thinks it is one o’ them French frigates.’

  ‘If it is only one, Devenow, you will get your wish.’

  Back on deck, Ralph Barclay nodded to his wife, who was taking the sun with Surgeon Lutyens on the poop. He then took up a telescope and trained it in the direction indicated. In the heat of the early afternoon there was a haze in the air that made a clear sight of anything from the deck hard, but he held his station for an age until the first faint outline of the enemy vessel, a wisp of topsails and a wind blown tricolour pennant, came into view.

  ‘Lutine.’ He said finally, the bigger of the two he had faced before, which would mean quite a contest. ‘Lookout! Any other ships in the offing?’

  ‘None, sir.’

  ‘Do you think he means to takes us on, sir?’ asked Glaister.

  ‘Possibly.’ For once Ralph Barclay wanted to think aloud, to share his thoughts rather than husband them. He answered his First Lieutenant, but in a voice loud enough to be heard over a decent stretch of the ship. ‘His task has changed, Mr Glaister. He cannot afford the luxury of us getting sight of what is at anchor in the Grande Rade. He must seek to drive us off before we get close enough to see that, unaware as he is, that we already know.’

  ‘And us, sir?’ the Premier asked, emboldened by this display of openness.

  ‘Why, in order to carry out the plan I have in mind, we must get past him, either by fighting him or, since we have the wind, out-sailing him.’

  ‘If we slip past him, sir, we hand him the wind.’

  ‘That is true, Mr Glaister,’ said Ralph Barclay, dropping his telescope and looking directly at his junior officer. ‘Which is why I expect to fight him at some point. But I will add that I wish that point to be one of my own choosing. Mr Collins, ease the braces a fraction, I want some of the way taken off the ship, but I desire to give our friend yonder the appearance that we are sailing at our best.’

  ‘You mean to try and avoid him, sir?’ asked Collins.

  ‘I mean to get close enough to Toulon, to the Grand Rade, to spot what ships are anchored there. Then I mean to put up our helm and run west with all speed with our signal flags flying. Our friend here, will be in our path, and as Mr Glaister has so properly pointed out he will have the weather gage, but he will struggle to tell anyone our message is a negative. We may manage to avoid him once, yet once he has the wind in his favour, I doubt we will do so twice. The notion is simple. The admiral commanding the Toulon fleet will be given something to think about, like is there a British squadron just over the horizon, enough perhaps to think twice about putting to sea.’

  He did not add that the whole thing hinged on his taking or beating the Lutine, a message for which he could have got a cheer. That was forthcoming anyway, when he announced a tot of rum for every hand.

  Those at quarters on deck were doing what had been ordered, manning the falls and easing them slightly so that the lower parts of the sails were not drawing properly. It was slight, but the increase in the wind playing on Ralph Barclay’s back told him just how much speed they had lost.

  ‘Not too much Mr Collins. Remember he has seen us before on a wind.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Glaister, ‘we should gather the hands, sir, while we still have time, and give a rousing speech.’

  It was at that point that Ralph Barclay regretted his prior openness, realising that by relaxing his habitual silence he had raised the expectation that it would be the norm. It was with something of a tone more familiar to his premier that he snapped.

  ‘What a strange notion, Mr Glaister. The crew will know what to do when the time comes, and if they fail in that they will answer to me. Now, I think we must complete what has gone before. Clear for action.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ‘Topsails, Mr Collins, if you please.’

  The orders were shouted, and the topmen began to clew up the courses out of harm’s way, as well as everything forward bar the fl
ying jib. It was not wise to go into action with all sail set, hanging low, the mainsails were prone to catch fire from either shot, or the flaming wads that were discharged with the ball leaving the enemy cannon. If such a stretch of canvas ignited, bone dry after a week without rain, it could spread to the whole ship, which meant certain destruction. As soon as they were out of harm’s way, the hose from the fire engine was hauled aloft, and the crew on deck pumped hard to wet the topsails and make them less vulnerable to the same danger, though their elevation, high up on the masts, was the main protection. It had the added advantage of sending a message to his opponent, that he was preparing to fight.

  There were some fine calculations for Ralph Barclay to make; he intended to get by this enemy frigate, now hull up, but that would not happen unless he could bluff his opposite number. Positions reversed he would be calculating when to wear on to the same course as Brilliant, so ensuring that the British ship had to fight a running battle, hoping they might decline for fear of too much damage. It would not be cowardice on the Frenchman’s part, he would have done his duty, as well as the task to which he had been assigned and kept secret the state of the Toulon fleet.

  Because of the sea haze, it was impossible, even for the lookout high on the foremast, to yet see into the Grand Rade, and a mere sighting in this case would not do. He needed to convince his enemies that he had learnt their strength from observation; anything else would not affect their preparations or their intention to weigh. With yards braced right round to take the wind, and sailing some twenty points free, the enemy deck was in plain view, and he paid close attention to the position they had taken up.

  ‘I thought, Captain Barclay, that I would take a last breath of air, before going below to aid Mr Lutyens.’

  Ralph Barclay spun round to face his wife, irritated that she had not asked permission to be on what was about to be a fighting platform, but then he softened at the sight of her.