‘Mrs Carruthers,’ he said, his voice a touch hoarse, ‘if you require someone to converse with, someone to share your burdens, a friend, then I would be only too happy to be that person.’
Blind and partially deaf, she could not have failed to pick up his meaning and Catherine Carruthers was neither. Isaac Lavery saw innocence, albeit corrupted; what he did not see, for she was not looking at him, was the expression of anger on her face, for if Catherine Carruthers had failed to understand the perils of marrying a much older man, and had found the conjugal part of her duties both painful and unpleasant, she had learnt some valuable lessons.
She wanted to spit in this old goat’s eye, but that would not get her to where she wanted to be, so it was with both a simpering look and a crack in her voice that she responded.
‘Mr Lavery, you have no notion of how such words comfort me.’
‘I want for nothing more than to do so.’
‘But,’ she said, her voice firming, which stopped him coming closer. ‘I cannot sit by and watch my husband cruelly take revenge on poor Cornelius for things that are part of his wild imaginings. Somehow, I must find him and warn him.’
There was a hint of an objection in Lavery’s old face, until she added, ‘So that he can get far away from such jeopardy, far away from this house and the unhappiness with which it is filled. For that, I require the aid of a dear friend.’
It was a long walk from Holborn to Nerot’s Hotel, which lay in King Street, St James’s, one in which the thoughts harboured by Emily Barclay were much troubled, for having left the house of Mrs Fletcher so suddenly she had not brought with her the means to pay for a hack. Several times, as she stopped at the roadside prior to crossing, so that a sweeper could remove the piles of horse dung and human muck, she considered turning back, but that atrophied on the thought of what she might be going back to.
Bodies perhaps, those of John Pearce and Michael O’Hagan lying on the cobbles, for she had seen the swords being drawn, had heard that scrape as they left their scabbards, knew the men they contested with to be more numerous, which made her feel like a coward for not stopping, even if she knew in her heart her presence would have hindered those seeking to save her rather than aiding them.
The other deliberations were just as confused: what had brought this on, who were those people from whom she had been required to flee, and what were John and Michael trying to save her from? Would she have been safer staying in her rooms? None of which had a conclusion, and on top of that it had begun to rain, so she was obliged to pull her shawl over her bonnet even if it did little to keep out the wet, as well as ignore the filthy sludge that stained her hem.
This meant when she finally arrived at Nerot’s Hotel, the man on the door was halfway to refusing her entry, such was her state. John Pearce was pacing the lobby, frantic with concern as she was reluctantly allowed into the warm and dry interior. As soon as he spotted Emily shaking her soaking shawl he began to rush towards her, only to be stopped by the look of alarm in her eyes and a hand held out in protest; this was a public place and she was a married woman. That slowed his final approach and meant the words he used where uttered in a low voice.
‘I wondered what had become of you?’
‘And I wondered at the need to flee,’ she snapped, made angry not by the thought alone, but by the fact that her state of distress had made her an object of curiosity to all the people in the lobby, staff and guests. ‘And do not come too close.’
‘Damn me, Emily,’ he hissed, annoyed at her tone, ‘Michael and I just saved your life.’
‘A life, sir, I had no notion of needing to be saved.’
‘Emily, we cannot talk here.’
‘Will you address me as Mrs Barclay in public!’
‘Your surname is not one that sits happily on my tongue.’
Her eyes were blazingly furious and she made to turn. ‘I shall go back to Mrs Fletcher’s this instant.’
He had to grab her arm regardless of what impression it created in those looking their way and trying not to be seen to do so. ‘No. Take a room here.’
‘Quite apart from the fact it would compromise me, I do not have the means to pay.’
‘I do.’
‘And how will that look?’
‘It is not something that troubles me. Stay there.’
Pearce strode over to the desk, sorely tempted to slap the man who stood behind it, so supercilious was his raised eyebrow as he approached, as if to say ‘Who is that foul creature with whom you have been conversing?’
‘I have the wife of a naval officer acquaintance come to me in some distress, as you can no doubt observe. Please be good enough to find her a room and put her accommodation on my account.’
‘Certainly, Lieutenant Pearce.’
The clerk signalled to a hotel servant, a crabbed fellow called Didcot, who was looking at the ceiling, not wishing to catch the eye of either party; he had served the lady when she came to see Pearce only a few weeks before, at a dinner taken by the pair in a private room, and he was thinking she looked a lot better then than she did now, with her bonnet off, soaked clothes and her auburn hair plastered to her head.
He was also speculating, as he responded to that hooked clerical finger, on the relationship, which had not ended that night as he expected, with a bout of rutting on the couch in the private room, a piece of furniture which had seen a great deal of that sort of thing in its time. No, the assignation had been cut short when she left early, clearly in a temper, which, looking at her now, seemed to be still her state.
‘The lady’s name, sir?’ the clerk asked, as Didcot approached.
‘Mrs Barclay.’
‘Didcot,’ he said, reaching for a key, ‘there is a room on your floor not far from that of Lieutenant Pearce. Show the lady up to number 17 and, I hazard, since she has been so buffeted by the elements, and is, as Mr Pearce says, in some distress, a maid should be sent up to see to her clothing and her toilet. Anything else, Lieutenant?’
‘Yes,’ Pearce snapped. ‘Please prepare a room where she and I can take dinner alone.’
‘No luggage, sir?’ asked Didcot cheekily, before he got a look that would have felled an ox, which rendered him suitably obsequious. ‘No, sir, quite, sir.’
Approaching Emily once more, still stood on what seemed to her like public display, he dropped his voice and told her what he had arranged, glancing at the clock.
‘Will an hour be enough?’
‘For what?’
‘For you to get yourself fit to have explained to you why you have just suffered.’
‘Those men, John, where are they now?’
‘Seeking assistance at the nearest hospital, I shouldn’t wonder. You have nothing to fear from them.’
‘And you, do I have anything to fear there?’
‘Only the depth of my affection,’ he whispered. ‘Now go with Didcot to your room, while I go down to where they accommodate the servants of the guests and tell Michael you are safe and well.’
The mention of the Irishman brought back some of her natural spirit; for all she was confused she knew that, had she truly been in danger, his actions had been designed to save her and he had been prepared to make a great sacrifice to achieve it, given the odds as they were before John appeared – she was mortified that she had forgotten all about him.
‘Please thank Michael for me.’
There was a silence then, as Pearce waited to be included; he waited in vain.
‘In an hour, then,’ he said finally.
The food he had arranged was simple, the explanation which went with it much more complex, but at least Emily was restored, her hair dressed, her garments dried, cleaned and pressed, her green eyes steady upon him and looking, as he had observed so many times, stunningly beautiful.
‘I was at a low ebb, I suppose, not having as much money as I expected, my supposed prizes locked in dispute, a case I would struggle to bring and my need to care for you. This fellow I met was
so plausible. The sum I was supposed to gain by helping him was fabulous, enough to—’
‘I know, John, enough for you and I to live as man and wife, you said.’
‘Not a prospect, judging by your expression, that fills you with joy.’ Lacking an answer, he continued his tale. ‘Anyway, the ship and cargo was not his but belonged to another, and those were the folk outside your house. I assume these Tolland people heard about my arraignment and came to Sandwich to try and get it back, for which you cannot blame them, given its value. It was only by luck they missed.’
‘So you were a dupe?’
‘Very much so, led by the nose like the ass I am.’
‘And what am I to do now?’
‘You have a room here.’
‘Everything I possess is at Mrs Fletcher’s house.’
‘That we can send for.’
‘I cannot help but feel that you and I are destined for nothing but unhappiness.’
‘Because of my actions?’
‘Not just that, there are my actions too.’
‘Yours?’
‘There is something I have to tell you, John, and when I do, I would not be surprised if it is you who wants our association to cease.’
‘I would not choose to describe it as an “association”, Emily.’
‘Not yet, but let me speak without interruption and your mind may be set on a different course.’ Which she did, to an amazed John Pearce, who had great trouble, as had Heinrich Lutyens, in matching her actions to the person he thought she was. ‘I knew I was wrong to do what I did and I am sure God will punish me.’
‘If there is a God and he inclined to punish anyone, then he will start with your husband.’
‘Your papers are now lodged with Mr Davidson, to do with what you will and I, well, perhaps I should do as I said earlier and return to Jockey’s Fields to live there like a widow.’
She was looking at the table and her empty plate when he started to laugh, a low chuckle, and that made her look up, her face showing perplexity as his laugh grew louder.
‘My darling Emily, you are everything I thought you to be, wonderful enough to be impulsive, honest enough to admit an error and make amends, and innocent enough to come to entirely the wrong conclusion.’
‘Now you have the means to ruin my husband.’
‘True, but do you not see, you and I also have the means to protect you against his wrath. There are many ways a husband who is cuckolded can take his revenge, a writ for criminal conversation, for instance.’
‘There has been no such thing,’ she protested.
‘Not yet.’ Seeing her shock he stood up and went to her, adding quickly, ‘Should your husband even think of an objection, he has a choice. He can sacrifice his career or acquiesce in you and I being as one.’
‘What about your case?’
‘Damn my case, Emily.’ He crouched down and looked up at her. ‘You are worth so much more.’
Having said that, John Pearce was aware he may yet have damning evidence from the Mediterranean; that too could be used to keep Ralph Barclay at bay. He was also thinking how close her room was to his, but that would not serve; hotels were gossip mills, and besides, he did not want to shock or upset the woman he loved but to introduce her to the joys of having a proper and experienced lover in the right surroundings.
‘You will sleep here tonight and tomorrow we will talk of our future.’
CHAPTER TEN
The first thing Horatio Nelson did, once all was ashore and set before Bastia, was to mount what he called a ‘captain’s piquet’. This he set up at the ancient tower taken on his previous landing, closer to the walls than his batteries, with sentries out front to ensure he was not surprised by a sudden sally by enemy infantry. The tent he put up to keep the Corsican sun off his head was within range of cannon fire from the nearest French bastion, so it was a damned uncomfortable place to be and one each midshipman was invited to partake of.
Toby Burns, when his turn came round, found himself sharing a less than comfortable dinner with the commodore, an hour past the normal naval time of three of the clock. Roasted goat and root vegetables were served to them by Frank Lepée, a man who, prone to grumble anyway, voiced the very thoughts the young man harboured.
‘Madness and showing away,’ he moaned, as he clattered a battered pewter plate in front of his master. ‘Ship in the offing, a cabin sitting empty when we could be aboard and in comfort enjoying our vittles, instead of jumping every two bells to avoid a cannonball.’
‘Do be quiet, Lepée,’ Nelson replied softly, raising his eyes to Toby Burns, as if to say ‘Hark at the fool!’
As yet Toby had not experienced any shot, but he was sure it was coming and the evidence of accuracy was easy to see, not only in the scarred ground but also in the repairs that had been made to Nelson’s tent: square patches of canvas to cover the holes made by enemy fire.
He had been gifted a telescope by Captain Duncan, the artillery expert, and he could thus observe the activity around the closest gun position: stripped-to-the-waist artillerymen readying their weapon, taking their time, no doubt to get the charge right, choosing a ball that, chipped free of rust, would nestle neatly in the barrel.
‘You can set your watch by them,’ Nelson said, taking out a Hunter from his waistcoat and examining it. ‘It’s one salvo per watch. I fear we will have to shift from our chairs in a minute or two and take shelter behind the earthwork.’
The red-coloured mound referred to, behind the tent, did not, in Toby Burns’ reckoning, amount to an earthwork, being so low that it was necessary to crouch behind it on all fours, which was silly given the amount of idle manpower around now that the battery positions were nearly finished. Behind that was where the food had been prepared – if Lepée was a sourpuss he knew how to cook over a charcoal pit, and the smell of the roasting meat had set the boy salivating.
Now that the food was in front of them, Nelson leant forward to confide in him. ‘I swear Lepée has timed this so we will have to shift. He knows yonder gunners will certainly try to interrupt our dinner if they see us sat before it; they do it for the sport. They are loaded and ready to apply the flint, I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘Would it not be best to take your dinner further back, sir?’
‘What, Mr Burns, and let them think us a’feart?’
‘No, sir, of course not, sir.’
‘Tuck in till we see the smoke. When that billows out we have just enough time to get clear before the ball lands.’
It was odd that Toby wanted to ask Nelson about fear; he hardly knew the commodore and he was sure he did not like him much, he being another one of those fools, and he had met too many, who sought out danger. Yet he had a feeling that if the question was posed he would get an honest answer, not some patriotic gibberish of the kind he had heard too often in the various berths in which he had laid his head.
He was just about to open his mouth, which was full of goat, which if it smelt wonderful on the spit was tough to chew, and ask the question, when the black smoke billowed out from the near white walls. Nelson moved quickly, his plate in his hand, to stand and look out for the approaching lump of black metal.
Toby had abandoned his grub and was scrabbling like an ungainly dog for cover, not caring one jot if he was seen to be shy. He just made it, roughly shoving Lepée further to safety in the process, when the damnable device landed, hitting the rocks to Nelson’s left and sending shards of stone in all directions, up as well as out, before bouncing over the low earthwork to bound on until it came to rest in a bush, which immediately began to smoke from the heat. Slowly Toby rose again, to find the commodore once more sat at the table, carefully picking up and discarding bits of rubble.
‘Stones in the food is bad enough, Mr Burns,’ he said cheerily, ‘but the dust in my small beer is the very devil for a parched throat.’
‘You do not see, sir, that you take too many risks?’
‘Why, Mr Burns, did you not know I h
ave the Almighty to protect me! When I was not much more of an age than you I was vouchsafed a vision that I would one day achieve great things, that I would be the hero of the nation, and since that day has not yet come, I feel at liberty to tempt providence.’
‘Foolishness,’ groused a restored Lepée, hovering a few feet away.
‘Recall the words of Shakespeare,’ Nelson intoned, though to whom, Toby was unsure. ‘Cowards die many times before their deaths, The valiant never taste of death but once.’
‘A vision, sir?’ Toby asked, trying not to sound too astounded, this while he felt tears of self-pity prick his eyes.
‘A golden orb, young sir, which appeared before me when I was ill and abed while crossing the Indian Ocean, that and a voice which told me of my destiny. I will be entombed in Westminster Abbey, Mr Burns, or die in the attempt.’
It required a direct look from the youngster to ensure he was not being played upon, but Nelson’s face was suffused with radiant certainty. This man, Toby thought, should be in Bedlam, not in the navy, and certainly not in command of an independent squadron of fighting ships.
The messenger came before they had chewed and swallowed the last of their goat; Hood’s topsails had been sighted, which led Nelson to confide, rather boastfully, that he was sure the admiral would be pleased with his arrangements. An offer of terms was sent in from the C.-in-C., and that was rejected, so the next morning, as the sun rose, Toby Burns found himself lined up with every midshipman from the whole squadron, by the battery of twenty-four-pounders, waiting for the order to fire to be given, which would be a red signal flag at the main topgallant masthead of HMS Victory.
When it was sighted, fluttering in the breeze, Nelson had hoisted the Union Flag colours of his sovereign, King George, a sight which was met by the hurrahs from twelve hundred throats – the bullocks had been stood to for the occasion – soon to be followed by the boom of the cannon as they sought, by ricochet fire, to dislodge the weapons of their opponents.
With the wind in the north they were enveloped with acrid black smoke, and the odd burning thread of the expended wad might singe a coat or even skin. Each mid took it in turn, under supervision, to aim a cannon and give the order to fire, which was hazardous, given they were subject to the responses of the enemy.
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