‘Sir,’ said Taberly, lifting his hat.
The visitor did likewise, aiming it at the unseen quarterdeck of the ship and the flag on the mizzen. ‘Captain Barclay.’
‘Welcome aboard, sir. The captain has been informed of your visit, and I am sure would be happy to receive you in his cabin.’
That was a lie; Barclay would be received, but with reluctance.
‘My compliments to the captain, but would you please explain to him I am here on a particular task, on the instructions of Admiral Hotham. He has requested that I fetch some men out of your ship, so that he can have them interviewed. I must return to the flagship with all despatch.’
‘Of course, sir. Their names.’
That got Taberly a small piece of paper, and when he saw the four names he was far from pleased. ‘I have to inform you, sir, three of these men are due a flogging, two dozen at the grating for insubordinate behaviour.’
‘It will have to wait, Mr Taberly, for Admiral Hotham will not. Please be so good as to fetch them to me.’
There was no option but to comply, and one of the mids was sent off on the duty, leaving Taberly and Barclay together. ‘It seems you have found them troublesome?’
‘It does not do to be so on this ship,’ Taberly barked, then realising he was talking to a superior officer he softened his tone. ‘The fellow Gherson is a very useful man, sir, and no trouble at all. I would say he would rise to a better rating if he applied himself and given that he can read and write with a clear and elegant hand, and has too a head for figures, it would be no surprise to see him as an assistant to a purser one day.’
‘Indeed.’ Barclay, reminding himself of Gherson’s aversion to Pearce, took Taberly’s arm and led him far enough away from the rest of the welcoming party to avoid his low question being overheard. ‘Would you say he was reliable?’
Cornelius Gherson had done Taberly many favours, and by identifying O’Hagan as a pugilist of great ability, just after they had weighed from Spithead, he had helped enliven what was slated to be a dull voyage, as well as filling the Taberly purse. Being the only one aware of the Irishman’s prowess, he had cleaned out his fellow officers when they had arranged a bout with another known champion. Gherson collected a fair amount in winnings too, to add to the guineas which a grateful Taberly had paid to him. Such detail, of necessity, being illegal under the Articles of War, must remain secret, but the lieutenant knew nevertheless how to answer Barclay’s question.
‘He is, sir, a man who knows where his duty lies in regard to discipline.’
Deciphering that was no trouble at all; it was authority-speak for a man who would not take the part of his shipmates against those set over him.
The four men, three rubbing red-raw wrists, sore from wearing irons, emerged from below, and it was clear from the distance the trio of defaulters kept from the blond-haired fourth, that they were not friendly. Ralph Barclay examined them with some interest, although he had seen them all before. The curly-haired, square-faced Irishman, O’Hagan, was too big, too much a creature of muscle, to require real scrutiny. Which was Taverner and which Dommet he could not tell, one fair of hair, with a tricorn tipped back on his head in an insolent fashion, which went with his truculent expression, and the other a pallid-faced youngster of slim build and a passive eye. What they all had in common was the shock on their faces as they recognised their old captain.
‘Aboard my barge,’ he ordered, noticing the slight hesitation, which had him looking hard at O’Hagan, who would doubtless be the leader of those in trouble. ‘I believe you are due two dozen. If you don’t want that doubled, you will move instantly.’
Michael O’Hagan recognised the expression on Ralph Barclay’s face, a scowl that made real his threat. The crew of Brilliant had said he was a hard-horse captain, a bit free with the cat, though they had known worse. To Michael O’Hagan he was a downright bastard. The four men lowered themselves into the barge and crowded into the bow, and, after another exchange of compliments, Barclay joined them, sitting in the thwarts and glaring forward. Soon his main attention shifted to Gherson, who had an absurdly handsome face, almost girlish given his petulant expression. A man who would inform on his shipmates, who could read and write in a clear hand, and knew his numbers, might be useful.
John Pearce came to HMS Britannia unaware of why he had been summoned, and going below to tell Hotham’s secretary that he was on board, he ran straight into Henry Digby. It was amusing to see, in a place of little natural light, his old divisional officer did not react until he spoke.
‘Lieutenant Digby, I am pleased to see you.’
Digby leant forward. ‘Do I know you, sir?’
‘You do indeed,’ said Pearce, lifting his hat. ‘Have we not served together?’
Digby lifted his hat too, but his eyebrows seemed to go higher. ‘It cannot be you, Pearce?’
‘It is.’ Digby’s eyes took in his coat, his breeches, even his shoes, the whole so plainly the garb of a fellow lieutenant. ‘I feel it would be in order to explain.’
‘Move your arse, lads. Admiral’s got a quill scratcher waiting.’
The loud voice made Pearce glance round, and Digby looked over his shoulder for the same reason, to see their old shipmates, three Pelicans and that swine Gherson, being shepherded to another part of the admiral’s quarters.
‘Michael,’ Pearce shouted.
The Irishman turned, grinned, and shrugged his shoulders. Rufus waved, Charlie Taverner gave him a queer look, and Gherson glowered as they were ushered through a small, glass-paned door. The rasping voice made them attend to the other man approaching; Digby tipped his hat, Pearce fingered his sword.
‘Mr Digby,’ said Ralph Barclay.
‘Sir,’ Digby replied, ‘it seems I am to be subject to no end of surprises today.’
‘I will not address the person you are with.’
‘You will address me one day, Barclay, over any weapon you choose.’
Digby was shocked at the way Pearce addressed their one-time captain, still confused that someone he had last seen as a common seaman was now of the same rank as he, as well as wondering what it all portended, but at that moment he was called into the Admiral’s day cabin. Barclay followed, leaving Pearce standing alone, unable to decide whether he was happy or fuming.
He went to the door through which the four seamen had been ushered, and looked into the small glass panes to see Hotham’s under-secretary with quill, and a candle to light his papers, taking notes on the other side. Impulse made him open the door, which earned him a furious look from the scribe.
‘Do you mind, sir. I am taking depositions from these men pending the forthcoming court martial of Captain Barclay.’
‘Sorry,’ Pearce replied, immediately shutting the door.
So he was going to get Barclay in the dock! That thought pleased him mightily, and, much as he wanted to put a sword or a ball though him, John Pearce decided that the ruin of him must come first. Only when he had been shredded of his naval dignity would he challenge Barclay to the duel in which he would pay for the insults he had heaped on him.
‘Mr Digby, you are to take command of the vessel captured by HMS Weazel, now renamed HMS Faron, your duty to escort four French seventy-fours, and some five thousand seamen, to the Atlantic ports from whence they came. They are a bunch of revolutionary vermin, who will not accept orders from their commander. You are to have no consort with them or their officers, your duty is merely to see them into their home ports and return here with all despatch. You will be seconded by Lieutenant Pearce and your crew will be made up with drafts from HMS Brilliant and HMS Leander. You will, of necessity, be short-handed, given that we need here every man who can be spared, but since I anticipate no action that will not be a burden. In fact, it may make sure you are not tempted to go prize-hunting.’
Digby had seen a great deal of Hotham; he had for a short time, before being shifted to serve under the now dead Benton, been one of the eight lieutenants o
n this very ship, though given the superior attitude of his fellow officers, not least the Premier, it had been a far from happy experience.
‘I must point out, Mr Digby, that this is a temporary appointment. You will know from your own date of commission that you lack the seniority for such a position, yet Captain Barclay here has told me you are a competent officer.’
Digby had to nod his thanks to Ralph Barclay, but he wondered at the words. He had the impression that he was not much liked by the captain of HMS Brilliant, as well as the knowledge that the feeling was mutual, something he had been obliged to disguise on seeing him again.
‘It will, of course,’ Barclay said smoothly, ‘enhance your record. After all, having through circumstance served as my Premier, such a commission as this can do you no harm.’
Why did he not believe him? And how the hell could John Pearce, who from the earlier showing was a mortal enemy of this man, be an officer fit to serve under him. It did not smell good and the temptation to exercise his right to decline the commission was strong; he felt he was being set up for a fall. Yet if he did decline, he would look in vain for advancement elsewhere. The word would spread, and being as lowly as he was in rank, he could think of no gloss he could put on such a rebuff to Hotham that would make it sound like a correct response.
‘Please proceed aboard the prize, Mr Digby. My secretary has your commission on his desk, as well as your orders. Check your water and wood, and indent the Toulon Arsenal for stores, powder and shot and any cordage and canvas you require. Captain Barclay will send over your crew at once. I want you prepared to weigh within twenty-four hours.’
‘Sir.’
‘And Mr Digby, on your way out, please ask Lieutenant Pearce to come in.’
Chapter Seven
‘You must understand, Pearce, that if I am going to sanction a court martial on an officer of the standing of Captain Barclay it has to be properly prepared and that will take time.’
Pearce, sitting opposite Hotham, was wondering where the man in question had gone. Barclay had entered the cabin with Digby, but he had not exited and there was no sign of him being present now, but then there was more than one door to the spacious area occupied by an admiral. He had come in with Hotham’s secretary on his heels, and that fellow was now taking notes.
‘Are you attending to what I am saying, sir,’ Hotham barked. Pearce said sorry before he felt it to be feeble; apologising to anyone who claimed authority always made him feel that way. ‘Good. As I was saying, Captain Barclay is an officer who is highly regarded in many quarters, and that of which you are accusing him could put a serious blight on his career. I cannot see busy officers of the required rank rushing to sit in judgement on him, and I do not look forward to putting pressure on them to attend.’
‘I was rather hoping, sir, that since pressing men who are not seamen is illegal under the law of the land, it might lead to a criminal prosecution in front of a judge of the King’s Bench.’
‘You are showing an unbecoming degree of bile, sir.’
That made John Pearce sit forward and raise his voice. ‘I was, sir, taken by force from a location that made his actions doubly illegal, in short, the Liberties of the Savoy.’
Hotham’s face took on a look of pure distaste. ‘I will not ask what you were doing in such a disreputable place, Mr Pearce.’
‘Which only confirms to me, sir, that you know of it, know that no bailiff is allowed within its boundaries, and certainly no naval officer intent on seeking men. The whole area is protected by ancient statute. Might I add that not only were myself and more than a dozen others taken from there, but we were then subject to a treatment that could only be called, at the very least, common assault.’
‘I must say,’ the secretary cut in, having seen Hotham close to an explosion, ‘you seem very knowledgeable on the law.’
‘Having been hounded by the so-called law for a fair degree of my life, sir, that is essential. If I may continue…’
Hotham slammed his hand on the table. ‘Enough. My secretary will take your deposition in writing, the same as is being done to those you claim are your companions, but we are not here for that, we are here to discuss your next commission.’
‘Whatever it is, I will probably decline it.’
‘Then, sir, I must tell you that your companions in your claimed misfortune will be returned to HMS Leander, forthwith, where, I am informed, they are due to face punishment.’
‘What kind of punishment?’
Hotham looked at Pearce as if he was a fool, and in truth it was a dammed silly remark. There were options on punishment, but the way the admiral had said it, it could only be a flogging. He suppressed the temptation to enquire the nature of the offence; it made little difference to those who would suffer.
‘However, should you accept to serve under Lieutenant Digby aboard the prize taken by HMS Weazel, now HMS Faron, I will release them into your charge to serve aboard that vessel for the duration of the commission.’
The wording of that was interesting; Hotham could not bring himself to say, as he no doubt would to any other officer, that Pearce, as the officer in command, had taken the prize. Yet it was the truth; he had only been part of it, knowledge of which lessened what was no doubt intended as a slight. As to the options he had, they were zero; he could not abandon his friends to an unknown number of strokes from the cat or deny them the chance to get away from the harsh regime they were presently under.
‘And the duty, sir?’
‘I do not think it is my place to inform you of that. I would not dream of interfering with the prerogatives of a Master and Commander. Ask Mr Digby.’
‘And the date for the court martial?’
‘Yet to be decided, but not before your return, which I anticipate will be not more than one calendar month.’ Pearce looked at the scribbling secretary to ensure he was writing that down, and Hotham added, ‘By that time, matters should have settled here in Toulon and officers can be spared from other duties to see to the matter. Now go with my secretary and make a deposition, which the person who volunteers to defend Captain Barclay can read.’
‘You are Gherson, are you not?’
The man was standing well away from the three others with whom he had been fetched aboard, and he looked, Ralph Barclay thought, angry enough to spit. The reason was simple, though Ralph Barclay had no knowledge of it; he had not been taken out of the Pelican like the others, he had been fetched out of a roaring River Thames, having been chucked off London Bridge by a pair of ruffians hired to pay him back for his sins, both carnal and fiscal. The City Alderman who had engaged those brutes had been his employer; the man’s wife, a much younger creature, often left alone while her husband was out on his pleasures or his duties, had succumbed to the Gherson charm and become his lover. She had also opened her household account to him, and when that was added to the money which he stole in his capacity as the Alderman’s bookkeeper, young Gherson had enjoyed a comfortable existence, dressing well and eating and drinking his fill.
It had ended that night, as, stripped of everything but his shirt, he had hit the freezing water of the Thames, which was like a tidal race as it came through the arches of the bridge, sure he was going to drown. That he had landed right by a naval cutter was pure chance, and with men of strength aboard they had hauled him in and fetched him aboard their frigate. In telling his tale to the clerk the quartet had just left, he had been informed that his case against the man before him was specious; his impressment, as a body saved from certain death by being fished out of the river, was legal.
‘Answer me, fellow.’ The soft voice, so unusual, made Gherson look up at his old captain. There was no affection in the look of either man, but there was curiosity. ‘I spoke with Mr Taberly when I came to fetch you. He tells me you write with a clear hand and you know your numbers.’
‘What if I do?’ Gherson demanded, clearly suspecting a trap.
Ralph Barclay had to hold himself back from cuffing t
he insolent sod; he would not take that kind of tone from any rating. ‘Tell me, Gherson, what is your opinion of John Pearce?’
‘Why do you want to know?’
‘Sir!’
Gherson lost his arrogance and seemed to shrink, touching his forelock with an expression of abject alarm. The man questioning him was an officer with years of experience, so he immediately put him down as a physical coward, which, oddly, acted for, not against him.
‘Pearce thinks he’s God’s gift.’ He indicated the other three men, standing well away and looking at the exchange with deep interest and Gherson’s voice rose so they could hear. ‘Which might work for those fools yonder, but it don’t for me. Pearce is now’t but mutton dressed as lamb, and he was that before he donned that blue coat.’
Ralph Barclay saw the man O’Hagan clench his fists and he knew, if he had not been present Gherson would have paid for that outburst. He kept his voice deliberately low as he responded.
‘Then you are in for a hard time, man. As of today, you will be under his command.’
‘Never! I’ll run rather than suffer that.’
Ralph Barclay laughed. ‘To where. Into the arms of the Revolution perhaps?’
‘Somewhere, anywhere.’
‘I have to say that I feel sorry for you, Gherson, so I am going to make you an offer. I sailed from England without a clerk to keep my papers in order.’ He was not prepared to admit it had been brought on by penury; he put down a relative’s name and pocketed the money a clerk would have been due as a captain’s servant. ‘So I have a position free for a fellow with the right abilities. If you agree, I will have you transferred back to HMS Brilliant, and give you the position I have just mentioned. It will be temporary, but if you apply yourself with diligence, it can be yours permanently. At least you will not have to sail under Pearce.’
A Flag of Truce Page 8