Enemies at Every Turn

by David Donachie

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  It was not necessary for Cornelius Gherson to do anything to wear down the nerves of Charlie Taverner and Rufus Dommet; he just had to appear at odd times on or below decks, stare at them, then disappear, which they put down to devilish malice, unaware that their man was pondering how to make use of them, not being one to waste what he saw as a very good opportunity, or that they barely registered to him as any kind of pest.

  The person he most wanted to be shot of was Devenow, a nuisance he saw as inimical to his relationship with Ralph Barclay. His captain having rated the bully as a servant, Devenow was a constant if useless presence in the area of the ship they both occupied, hard by Barclay’s own cabin, where he saw it as a duty to make sure his man was safe, regardless of the marine sentry.

  If Barclay found Devenow’s presence a trial – except on deck where he was on hand to prevent a fall – and Gherson suspected he did, the others who had been employed by the captain as servants were in no doubt. They saw him as an interfering menace, useless in the pantry but forever looking over the shoulder of those who were competent at serving dinner or preparing light late-evening meals, as though they were trying to poison the captain.

  When it came to cleaning the place Devenow was as likely to drop anything his master had paid highly for as keep it safe, and when he was not doing that his sprinkling of vinegar was carried out with abandon and took no cognisance of what it might land on to mark the French polish on a table, the gleaming wine cooler, an inlaid chest, or stain the very valuable Persian carpet that was laid to soften the sound of feet on planking.

  The first time he had served at table during a formal dinner for the ship’s officers brought those who knew the duty to the blush, and that included the men drafted in from the wardroom, though it was to be lauded that the captain had quietly called him aside and insisted he find other more suitable work to occupy him.

  Worst of all, he was dead against the little privileges being exercised that cabin servants usually enjoyed: good food, for it was a custom to have the cook prepare more than was necessary, while to be seen to take a sip of wine before it was served to ensure the quality was a duty Devenow forbade, just as he would not allow for any unfinished bottle to be consumed when the meal was over. When it came to what a sharp-eyed man could whip away half full, these he confiscated for his own consumption.

  So dark murmurings were to be overheard about the need to see Devenow’s back; let him pull on a rope to haul on an oar, for that he was suited to, but God forbid he should enter the great cabin when Ralph Barclay entertained, as he must at some time do, the flag officers and his fellow captains of the Channel Fleet.

  Finding the fleet at sea was not expected to be easy and Barclay relied on running across a string of Howe’s frigates and sloops – the first he encountered had told him that the Channel Fleet was no longer in the Bay of Biscay looking for a grain convoy, but had headed out into the Atlantic in pursuit of the French main fleet, now at sea.

  Such news lifted the spirits of everyone aboard who knew what it portended, and eventually of those who were in ignorance when they were told. If Semele could join in time they might be part of a fleet action, which if it brought high risk of death or a wound also presented the prospect of a great victory and prize money.

  From then on it was a case of following the smoke on the horizon, the truth emerging when they encountered another friendly frigate: that what they were seeing – usually something which had sunk by the time they closed – were Dutch merchant vessels from a convoy that had been taken by the French fleet.

  Retaken, they were burnt; Howe was short-handed – there were no men spare for crews to man ships that, being neutrals, would have to be handed back to their owners without profit.

  When they finally did join, HMS Semele, as the newest addition to the fleet, was ordered to take station astern of Lord Howe’s flagship, HMS Queen Charlotte, and not long after Ralph Barclay found himself hanging on with his one good hand to the mizzenmast shrouds as he sought to hear what was being shouted to him, through a speaking trumpet, from the frigate which had come alongside in a sea that was running high as the result of a spent storm to the west.

  He was, it seemed, required to read and absorb the orders about how the admiral wanted to fight a battle, should they be able to make contact with the enemy – instructions every other captain had been exposed to as they lay at anchor off Spithead, apparently too complicated to be conveyed to him by signal flags, while the flag captain was averse to launching a boat in mid-Atlantic or allowing a somewhat lubberly ship of the line close enough to his taffrail for a shouted exchange.

  This left Ralph Barclay wondering at the necessity; the Admiralty Fighting Instructions were quite clear and everyone knew what was required of them in a fleet action, so what was Black Dick Howe on about? He was about to find out; with no more than twenty feet between ships the throw was easily accomplished, the bag and papers, weighted with lead and with a safety rope attached in case of failure, landing on the higher quarterdeck with a thud to be picked up by one of the midshipmen.

  Taken to his cabin and opened for him by Gherson – Barclay could not manage the clasp or ties – he was left wondering, as he read, if the old admiral had lost his wits; Howe was proposing a very strange set of manoeuvres indeed, nothing less than the complete opposite of the regulations which had, for decades, ruled the conduct of warfare for British sea officers.

  Being an island and without a standing army, it was axiomatic that Britannia required the protection of her wooden walls to be secure. The Lords Commissioners were as keen on naval victories as the rest of the nation, less so on the possibility of some flag officer whom they could not directly control losing a fleet through imprudence or some mad impulse, which could leave the country exposed to invasion.

  Hence the promulgation of the Fighting Instructions, which enjoined admirals to assiduously seek out and do battle with the nation’s enemies, but at the same time to avoid any exploit which would risk a serious loss of ships. Possession of the area of battle was to be considered a victory; as long as the enemy retired and the Royal Navy did not, that was a win.

  ‘They seem to be of some interest, sir,’ Gherson said, having stood silently, to his mind, for too long, yet aware that to seek to sit without permission was forbidden.

  ‘They are very much that,’ Barclay replied, not happy to have his thoughts disturbed.

  ‘Might I ask, sir, what the orders contain?’

  The reply was utterly lacking in grace. ‘To what point, Gherson? You would struggle to understand them, for they are concerned with fighting at sea, a subject you know nothing about.’

  It had been like that almost since the moment they had left Brown’s Hotel, another shift in the terms of their relationship, indeed a reversal; gone was the man so recently dependent upon his particular knowledge and contacts, back was the irascible Ralph Barclay he had previously served.

  ‘I am sure you have other duties to attend to,’ Barclay added, once more looking at Howe’s written orders, which included a reminder that they would be operating under a set of signal flags designed specifically by him to cope with the way they were to be executed, these included in the supplement to the signal book. That was handed over. ‘You may take these to the wardroom, Gherson, for the signal lieutenant.’

  Dismissed like some low skivvy, Gherson thought bitterly as he exited the day cabin, passing the pantry on the way to his own hutch opposite that of the master, running straight into Devenow, as usual hulking around uselessly. The supplement was immediately thrust out.

  ‘Captain wants these delivered to the wardroom.’

  ‘I ain’t your post boy,’ Devenow growled. ‘Do your own runnin’ about.’

  Needled, partly with the captain, more with this lout, Gherson reacted, unusually for him, without giving his words much thought; it was enough to put this bully boy down.

  ‘It’s a good job I do some running about, Deve
now, unlike you, and because of that I see threats to the captain that you do not, for all your damned attention to his well-being.’

  ‘What you on about?’

  ‘You don’t know, do you?’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘Who is aboard the ship?’

  The look of confusion on Devenow’s face only confirmed to Gherson how dense the man was, a level of stupidity so irritating he could not help but continue.

  ‘A pair of Pearce’s men, that’s who.’ Still that did not produce an enlightened response. ‘You do remember who John Pearce is, don’t you?’

  ‘Course I bloody does!’

  ‘Then ask yourself what would a couple of his Pelican friends be doing aboard, and volunteers at that?’ God it was hard; if Devenow had a process of thinking there was scant evidence of it. ‘If there’s one person John Pearce hates it is Captain Barclay, a man he would dearly like to ruin. What better way to do that than to put a couple of moles aboard his ship.’

  ‘For the love of Christ, to what end?’

  It was only then that Gherson realised he had gone too far, had been more forthcoming than intended, which required him to come up quickly with something this oaf would easily comprehend, words he later considered to be quite inspired.

  ‘What would happen if they were to cause a mutiny?’ The lips moved to silently repeat the word, like a child. ‘Taverner and Dommet are aboard and right now they are at their mess on the gun deck, no doubt planning an uprising.’

  ‘You know that fer certain?’

  ‘Of course not; they are not foolish enough to let their intentions be known.’

  Gherson pushed past the bigger man and went on his way, leaving Devenow standing still, trying to make sense of what had been imparted.

  In the cabin behind them, Ralph Barclay was feeling lonely, for what he had just read from the admiral was a document it would have been prudent to discuss with another, which was not an option open to him as the kind of captain he was. Really there was only Jackson, but the impulse of confiding his reservations about Howe’s orders to his premier went right against the grain.

  Yet what the doddery old sod was asking him to do carried with it great risk. It is my intention to seek out the enemy and bring them to battle, he read for the tenth time. In order to inflict as much damage as possible, it will be necessary to close with them and engage …

  There was much about getting the weather gage, which was standard, and forming a line to comply with that of the enemy, but that was the point – and it worried Ralph Barclay – where the earl deviated from the compulsory course of action.

  Once achieved, it will then be the responsibility of each captain, responding to my signals as listed in the supplement, to close with the nearest ENEMY SHIP … The capitals were revealing; there was to be no dithering about looking for a target … and seek to either capture, destroy or sink that ship by an exchange of close-quarter gunnery.

  ‘With no indication of what happens if it all goes wrong?’

  Barclay dropped the instructions on his table and posed the question to the deck beams above his head, for the history of the service was rife with examples of junior captains taking the blame for a superior’s folly. He had only participated in one fleet action, the Battle of the Saintes off Guadeloupe, and that had been on the fringes as a signal-repeating frigate. Yet he knew well that even an astounding victory, which it had been, was not free of dispute in hindsight.

  Hailed as a great success for his patron Lord Rodney and, it had to be admitted, for Sam Hood as his second in command, it had become the subject of heated debate and much controversy, because Rodney had not abided by the Fighting Instructions. He had used a sudden change in the wind to do what Howe was proposing and closed with the fleet of the Comte de Grasse, humbugging the Frenchman completely, taking a number of ships as prizes.

  Had he not succeeded in doing that, George Rodney could have found himself in the same steep tub as had faced Admiral Byng, shot by firing squad for his perceived failure to bring the enemy to battle off Minorca. Yet there was no mention of flukes of wind in Howe’s instructions; these were to be employed regardless of conditions.

  Ralph Barclay thought – and he was sure he was not alone in this opinion – that if it did not succeed, the repercussions might swallow more than the reputation of the man who issued them. Not that he would openly air his doubts, even if the opportunity for a personal meeting presented itself, unlikely in mid-Atlantic and an enemy somewhere about.

  But he resolved then and there to be exceedingly careful about implementation should the aforementioned signals be displayed. Richard Howe was already famous for the relief of Gibraltar and an inconclusive battle at Cape Spartel, said to be much cosseted by King George.

  Yet even that association would not save him from disgrace if he lost his fleet or rendered it incapable of defending the home shore. Ralph Barclay was damned if he was going to allow himself and his career to be put at risk for a man near retirement and already wealthy and titled; he had his own future to consider.

  The sharp rap on the door broke the train of thought, that followed by a head popping round his door. ‘Signal from a sloop to windward, sir, enemy in sight.’

  The enemy in question proved to be a French frigate, which immediately sought safety in flight, its British counterparts in pursuit, signalling to the lumbering line-of-battle ships following in their wake. Whoever the Frenchman was, he seemed to be no genius; instead of leading Howe away from his main body, he led the Channel Fleet straight to them.

  ‘Signal from flag, sir, clear for action.’

  The next two days were frustrating in many more ways than one, HMS Semele being only an observer to what took place, this while she struggled to look anything like the fighting vessel she should be, showing itself most obviously in the rate of sailing she could achieve with a crew not fully worked up and in variable weather conditions and a changeable set of winds.

  This was not aided by a lack of sleep, given that was reduced to catnaps in a chair in a ship in which all his creature comforts, including the bulkheads that provided his cherished privacy, had been struck below.

  Several times signals with Semele’s number had been hoisted aboard Queen Charlotte demanding that she keep proper station, as the flagship cracked on, hoisting everything she could carry aloft to close with the ships doing the fighting, exclusively on the first day of contact the six fastest 74s, the workhorses of the battle fleet, detached by Howe and led by Rear Admiral Pasley.

  Even with two good arms Ralph Barclay would have been obliged to rely on what was reported to him of the distant fighting by a sixth lieutenant sent aloft with a long glass; he had never been one of those agile captains – to his mind nothing but show-away fellows who went aloft as if they were still skylarking midshipmen instead of responsible commanders.

  Added to what could be distantly observed, there were also flags to read, those sent by Howe as well as the replies coming in from the repeating frigates and sloops to windward with news of what was happening. Palsey had caught up and engaged the rearmost French 110-gunner, which in royal times had been the Bretagne – like every vessel in the enemy fleet, having been renamed, she was now the Révolutionnaire.

  The air reverberated with the thud of distant explosions, moving slightly as the repercussions swept across a deck full of its own sound and fury, this of shouted orders, lost tempers and pained shoulders as Barclay sought an extra knot of speed. A great cloud of smoke rose miles away where the fighting was taking place, hiding to the naked eye, even from the very top of the masts, what was actually taking place inside.

  As darkness began to fall the same just-visible cloud was pierced by endless, more obvious flashes of red and orange from which emerged, one by one, the ghostly shapes of various ships of Pasley’s squadron as they disengaged, evidence of damage to rigging and masts reported. Yet not all had broken off battle, someone was still engaged and the booms of cannon fire were still audible,
until eventually, in moonlight, even that fell silent.

  It was dawn, after an uncomfortable night for the whole crew, that brought the news that Révolutionnaire had been forced to strike her colours and surrender, yet it was a measure of the nature of the ignorant majority of Barclay’s landsmen crew that they had to be encouraged to cheer.

  Increasing daylight and a telescope aloft once more produced a less uplifting sight. Révolutionnaire, tricolour re-hoisted on the stump that remained of her mizzen, was limping away to the east with an undamaged 74 in company – not the prize all expected, but a crippled vessel heading for home that it would have been folly to pursue.

  Full dawn also showed the state of the British ships, most notably HMS Audacious, which had suffered equally badly. More worryingly, there was no sight of the main enemy fleet. Thankfully the frigates had kept contact and soon flags were again peppering Queen Charlotte’s masts, the news passed to Barclay by the signal lieutenant.

  ‘The French have set a course due west, sir.’

  ‘West!’

  Barclay responded with such surprise it produced what was, for him, a public and uncharacteristic outburst; he had expected, as had Howe judging by their course, that the enemy would run for Brest and safety. Whatever the reason that had not occurred, there was no time for speculation; the flags were shooting up the flagship halyards to indicate a change of course to pursue.

  Later, after much hullabaloo to get on the new course, Ralph Barclay had time to ponder the tactics of the enemy admiral and the first thing that came to mind was the behaviour of that original frigate which had led them towards the French fleet; had that been, as he had thought, foolish, or was it really calculation? And why retire to the west, a manoeuvre that was unlikely to go undetected, if it was not to draw the opposition either towards or away from something?

  ‘Are we being humbugged?’

  ‘Sir?’ enquired Lieutenant Jackson, on deck when he wanted not to be. In much need of a snatched slumber, he was there because of Barclay.