That did give Emily cause to wonder and reflect, for she had been raised in very much the same kind of society, albeit few of her parents’ acquaintances were affluent enough not to fear and guard against a drop into poverty. When she observed Miss Eugenia Wynne all a’flutter, she could recall that she had once behaved in a like fashion, reacting to anything untoward or strange with excessive emotion. The sister, Elizabeth, who answered to the diminutive Betsey, might be physically very like Eugenia, but there was a glint in her eye that her sibling lacked, one that marked her out as a steadier creature.
Letitia Teale was not far behind the Udenys, hurrying to the pensione to establish her superior position and to immediately cow the girls and Mr Wynne, if not his wife. She too spotted money; of course, her husband would be saying special prayers for their safety and they must attend on Sunday, which with some sophistry managed to get round to the need for repairs to a building barely fit to serve as an Anglican church. When the Pollards arrived and all were crowded into Emily’s parlour, the men were required to remain standing for want of chairs, this as the family told their sorry tale.
Why was she less sympathetic than the others, always assuming they were sincere? Here was a family with the means to go where they wished, a situation that had existed before the Revolution had sundered the peace of Europe. Though the word ‘ravished’ was never used, Eugenia seemed to think the entire series of events rippling out from Paris had been staged to bring down on her and her sister such a fate.
Emily had left that life behind. She was no longer the provincial ingénue but a widow with a lover. She had spent time aboard a ship of war and seen much that had dented the delicacy of her upbringing. In addition, she had thrown herself into nursing men wounded in battle and had seen men die, while the Wynnes had had nothing more to worry about than their trivial concerns. No wonder she lacked empathy.
The banging of cannon did not unduly disturb the gathering, it being too common in Leghorn harbour, until Letitia Teale, ever alert to social opportunity, pointed out the number of firings, which indicated the arrival of an admiral and it could only be Sir John Jervis in HMS Victory. This was confirmed by crowding at the window – indeed, he was leading in half his fleet. The Wynnes seemed miffed that such an event overrode their tale-telling, even more so when Mrs Teale left in a hurry, in order, as she said, ‘to properly arrange things.’
‘What things?’ was the weak question from Mr Wynne.
‘Why, there’s sure to be a ball for the admiral,’ Mrs Pollard replied. ‘Especially since it is his first visit to Livorno since taking over the command.’
This got a squeal of delight from the Wynne girls, who were now grouped with Caroline Pollard and, in their enthusiasm, making that shy creature seem even more withdrawn than usual. All talk of flight was abandoned in favour of trying to recall which trunk held the ballgowns, followed by enquiries as to the possibility of a local seamstress being engaged to make alterations.
‘We simply must be seen in the latest fashion,’ Eugenia trilled. ‘It would be too, too dreadful if our garments were dated.’
‘Will we be introduced to the admiral?’ Betsey asked, with a more calculating approach.
‘Most assuredly,’ was the response of Mr Pollard, the glint in his eye hinting that he would be being most attentive to their wishes. ‘As an important supplier to the service, he will make acquaintance with me and I shall ensure you, young ladies, will not be ignored.’
‘Mrs Barclay, will you attend?’
‘I think my condition precludes it, does it not?’
Pollard was quick to pronounce on that too. ‘Nonsense. Why, the bloom it gives you will light up the assembly.’
There was clearly too much enthusiasm in the praise, judging by the look he got from his wife, already sparked by his playfulness with the Wynne girls, which he did not miss and had him hastily add, ‘Clearly, I would not suggest you indulge in too much dancing.’
‘I meant my bereavement, Mr Pollard. Is it seemly?’
‘Forgive my overlooking it, Mrs Barclay. I find it hard in face of your kind and cheerful nature to put the two in the same thought.’
That got Pollard a full wifely glare, quickly switched to a full and insincere smile, as the spouse turned upon their hostess. ‘Surely no one will object, for it would be a curmudgeon indeed that would see you sitting all alone while the entire English community took its pleasure.’
This gave Mrs Udeny, with Letitia Teale gone, a chance to act the doyenne. ‘I think I am entrusted to speak for society hereabouts, Mrs Barclay, when I say your presence, or should I say lack of it, would be sorely missed.’
‘I wonder, Mrs Barclay,’ asked Mrs Pollard, ‘if you would stay close to Caroline? She is too shy to be left to tend to her own dance card and a woman of experience, which I am sure you are, can mark it for her so she is not embarrassed by the attentions of the Italians.’
The girl was embarrassed now, head low and looking into her lap, while Emily was thinking that to go to a ball would be a pleasant thing, for she had spent too much time in these rooms of late. When it came to chaperoning, there was little choice but to accede. That said, she did discern a reason why the request had been made and it had nothing to do with overzealous Latins. With Caroline in constant attendance, Mr Pollard would be obliged to contain his fancies.
But first a seamstress, because if anyone was going to need her gown altered, it was Emily Barclay.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
There was some pleasure to be had sailing in company with the squadron, given the power of decision lay in the hands of the commodore, though where they were headed and to what purpose was a mystery. Digby had again declined to share with Pearce the details of what was clearly an operation of some kind. Having been aboard HMS Agamemnon for a lengthy briefing, he had, as usual, made straight for his cabin on his return, the order to weigh on the commodore’s order passed to his premier by a third party.
They were off along the coast again, heading west, passing the same sights as they had observed previously, some of which were now assuming an air of familiarity. The whole was visible because the sun was shining, the sky was clear with the air crisp and refreshing, while on the distant mountain snow sparkled.
As they approached the Albenga headland, that being the fishing village that gave the promontory its name, flags appeared at the masthead of the flagship, an order to two frigates, Inconstant and Brilliant to crack on. This they did, passing Agamemnon to windward, in order to get themselves some sea room. That was followed by a general command to clear for action, which Pearce executed.
The reason became obvious as they opened Alassio Bay. It was crowded with shipping: cargo vessels of various sizes, and as well as a French corvette, two galleys and a small gunboat acting as escorts. Given not all the cargo carriers could get alongside the not very extensive jetty, the bay was full of boats carrying cargo from vessels anchored in the roads, all of it, Pearce assumed, supplies for the Army of Italy. As soon as Nelson’s ships hove into view, they immediately began to make for the nearest part of the shore.
Looking out to sea, Pearce observed the pair of head-reaching frigates swinging inshore to close off escape to the west, while the first discharge of one of Nelson’s lower deck twenty-four-pounders brought Henry Digby onto the deck, to stand for a moment in order to take in the scene, not least the great plumes of water being thrown up by the British cannonball. The shot was designed not to sink or damage anything, but to send a message to say it would be wise to surrender.
It failed in several cases: the corvette immediately cut her cable, seeking to get underway – the purpose to flee not to fight – to try to get clear before her exit was blocked by the frigates, and that showed wisdom. To engage a sixty-four-gun ship-of-the-line would render her matchwood. The galleys had also cut their cables but they moved with more speed; oars in the water took less time than setting sails and they could move rapidly in very short order.
All eyes a
board HMS Flirt were on the flag as the signal broke out, a series of numbers telling some vessels to engage in a general chase to the west, this to capture the galleys, while other frigates were given orders to close – with what? Flag signalling was, even with the most talented signaller, far from comprehensive.
Pearce was confused but if he required enlightenment, there was no way it was going to come from Digby, which left him to assume that prior instructions had been issued as to how to act. He was not alone in his desire to know what was planned: all along the deck men were crouched by their guns, with only the captains on their lanyards able to see anything, and they, despite the strictures against talking, were relaying what was happening to the rest of the squadron.
‘Mr Pearce, we are to close with the cargo vessels and take possession of them one by one. The guns will remain run out but they will be employed only, should it be necessary, to warn the ships’ captains not do anything foolish. Please detail parties of men to take to our boats, sufficient to act as prize crews.’
‘Sir.’
‘You will remain on the quarterdeck, however. Let Mr Conway and Lieutenant Grey enjoy some activity without your interference.’
That being yet another calculated insult, there was temptation to say he could forgo the glory of taking a few cargo vessels given what he had already achieved. Yet Pearce held his tongue; it was too public a place to exchange barbs with Digby, but there was another reason: the midshipman’s chest had positively swelled at the prospect of leading men into action, even if it was a rather soft duty. HMS Flirt was not going to fight anything even remotely equal and probably it was not going to fight at all, but Conway did not care.
The French gunboat was near the shore and closing, those aboard obviously intending to beach their vessel, which meant they could be ignored. Pearce got his parties sorted out as ordered, this while the brig closed with the cargo vessel furthest out in the roads, and he had the boats away, sure there would be no trouble.
A boat appeared from behind the bow, with those aboard rowing furiously to get away, which led to the supposition there might not even be a crew for Conway to capture. Grey was heading for another ship, to which Pearce despatched a ball aimed to wet their deck. There was no need for more: this was not war.
That situation did not apply on HMS Brilliant. As a spectator, Pearce had already observed her begin to close in on the corvette, the enemy yet to get a full set of sails drawing. The two lightly-armed galleys, having been anchored further west, were in the wake of their consort and catching up, as always better equipped for fighting when the wind failed to favour a square-rigger. Their great advantage, especially inshore and in shallow waters, lay in their manoeuvrability. As such, if they would never overwhelm a well-handled frigate, they could do serious damage if not checked.
HMS Inconstant’s commander, being the senior, Thomas Freemantle, took the corvette – there was more honour in such a capture – leaving Brilliant to ensure the galleys could not close to form a combined defence. As Pearce watched his old ship alter course, he could not help but pray for two things, given they were clearly going to fight: that his old shipmates suffered no harm, while two people he had good cause to hate might get their just deserts from French gunfire.
Toby Burns, one such person, observed from the quarterdeck, looked to be praying but he was creating a false impression. In command of a quartet of eighteen-pounders, his gaze was fixed on the nettings above his head, in his mind imagining half the top hamper being shot to pieces and then slicing through the nets to crown his skull.
Pearce’s other bête noire, Captain Richard Taberly, was cursing quietly on the quarterdeck, seeing the orders he had been given as demeaning. With the firepower he could bring to bear, a galley, by its very nature lightly constructed, was not much of a match. Being two did not do a great deal to alter his feeling of being patronised, given there were brigs in the squadron just as fitted to take on those adversaries.
Given her deeper draught – Alassio Bay was quite shallow – Nelson had stood off to let his smaller ships operate in waters more suited to their depth of hull. Yet there was no doubting the menace or the ability the commodore had to give chase to any vessel that broke out of the screen he had set up. Nor was he willing to leave every cargo vessel to his brigs; Agamemnon’s boats were in the water and racing for the cargo ships, which obliged Digby to become somewhat animated, this at the thought they might beat his crew to the captures.
‘More shots across those bows are required,’ he yelled.
Pearce hid a knowing grin: gunfire would make cautious any boat parties approaching an enemy vessel, Agamemnon’s included. Given it made no real difference who got aboard first, John Pearce took a savage delight in carrying out that order with a degree of sluggishness. Any money from prizes would be shared throughout the squadron, regardless of who did what. Orders obeyed, he went back to watching Brilliant.
Toby Burns would have given his eye teeth to be anywhere other than where he was at this moment. His imagination was far too vivid for his own good and he could see dangers and risks that flew outside the bounds of what was humanly possible. Having complied with the order to lever his guns round and forward did not result in any employment of muscle by him, if you excluded a tongue to pass it on. He went back to his bloody visualisations of his broken self until a new set of instructions were issued.
‘Mr Burns,’ called Glaister, his well-modulated Highland tone of voice carrying clearly, ‘we need to take the lead galley on the prow and halt them choosing when they can close. Fire immediately your cannon bear on the target.’
There were many things in which Toby Burns was deficient; for instance, he had no idea, while he was expected to know without being told, that the ability of a galley to swing on a penny represented their greatest advantage, that being something his superiors intended should be denied to them. Damage to the forward scantlings might be enough to hold them and have those oarsmen see water enter their deck, which would have them thinking that to abandon ship would be better than continuing to row.
He was about to demonstrate another one. The act of firing cannon from a moving vessel, at another warship, was not a problem yardarm to yardarm. Such simplicity did not extend to deflection, aiming off true at a moving target while in motion yourself. This required a certain knowledge of range finding, trigonometry and ballistics. Toby Burns lacked these, yet knew his orders to be explicit. Glaister had told him to fire as soon as he was sure his shot would strike the target and that too he would be required to pass on.
There were guns banging out all around the bay yet, bathed in sunlight, it looked so tranquil, if you ignored the clouds of black discharged powder billowing out from the fighting ships. If it appeared so to him, it was less so to the gun crews he commanded. Their sole vision was through the gap the cannon muzzles left in the ports, so the first sight of the enemy would come with the tip of a bowsprit. That was why when Burns gave the order to fire, not in a shout but with a loud croak, he was startled when one of his gun captains shouted ‘Belay!’
Toby, realising the demand had been obeyed, swung his head to exchange glares with the man who had produced it. Martin Dent was, to his mind, a cheeky sod, a skylarker first encountered as a drummer boy, who had grown into a damned show-off as a nimble topman and that had rankled too. Dent moved through the rigging and yards as though he was a monkey, this while the now acting lieutenant could recall many times when he had struggled to look competent.
Dent, now a gun captain, spoke over his shoulder; he was peering along the muzzle and out through the gun port. ‘You was a mite too early. Give the command now and make it loud enough to be heard by the binnacle.’
Seconds passed before the command was given, evidence of even more confusion in Burns’ mind. He had to leap clear as the recoil brought one of the eighteen-pounders jumping back towards his legs, restrained by its lashings too close for comfort. Behind that came the billowing and acrid black smoke, through which h
e could see the men he commanded swabbing and reloading without reference to his presence.
‘What you aiding him for?’ demanded Blubber Booth, his voice gasping through exertion and carrying too much flesh. He was another hand who knew Burns of old and had no time for the bugger.
‘Don’t want to look shoddy, do we?’ Dent called. ‘If he gets it wrong, it will be we that gets the backwash.’
‘Shoddy, mate. Won’t look none other with that turd givin’ us orders.’
The voice of Glaister came through a speaking trumpet, ordering Burns to fire again, to then give the command to the rest of the larboard cannon to do likewise as soon as they had a target. Toby Burns, once his second salvo was discharged, looked over the hammock nettings, wanting to see the effect. It having struck home, he was quick to take inordinate and undeserved pride in the damage inflicted.
The lead galley’s figurehead had gone, as well as half its larboard bulwarks. An enemy that should have swung to get broadside on was doing the very opposite: she was turning away, this while her consort was using his oars to come up on Brilliant to starboard, which left him confused, until he realised he must cross the deck to the cannon and crews who could engage her.
Taberly had the helm put down to come broadside on to this threat and whoever commanded the galley, knowing what was coming, was disinclined to face it. The tricolour, on its single amidships mast, came fluttering down like a fowl peppered with shot, evidence that the halyard had been hastily cut. That was followed, albeit with more composure, by his damaged companion. Their flag was properly lowered.
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