If she was got ashore a few months before the birth, to have the child, he could time the announcement so that his fellow officers would reasonably assume him to be the father. But that was months away and much as he would have loved to have chained her up in the cable tier that could not happen either.
In days the whole fleet would know and with her burgeoning figure he might as well run up a signal on the mainmast to say he had been cuckolded and the child was not his own. The best solution might be to send her home, but that too was fraught with problems: if she had run off once then she might do so again, while his career needs precluded that he accompany her.
He could always fain illness, of course, yet was it wise to leave an area of conflict, and one in which he might be allowed to participate in a second fleet action, when it would soon become common knowledge that his wife had produced a child? That would appear soft and not allow him to be seen as he desired, as a hard-driving officer and a competent one.
At the seat of his concerns was the loss of face and the dent to his dignity. He needed to get his wedded wife back to the family home and he could not go with her. There she could go to term, with his friends, neighbours and both families in a joyous state of an impending confinement, blind, he hoped, to the fact that he was not the father and that depended on her acquiescence in the deception. To get that far would require he behave in an exemplary fashion.
What happened subsequently would depend on how she behaved both before the birth and in the future, which presented a whole raft of possible situations but of one fact he was certain: Pearce’s bastard would not enjoy a happy existence regardless of what Emily wanted. He was the man of the house and his rights would be enforced.
He had been sitting, head tilted forward in contemplation, and when he raised his gaze it provided no comfort for there was no one along in whom he could confide. It gave him scant joy to think that even on board he only had one person with whom to discuss the scenarios running through his mind and that was Gherson. The feeling of loneliness was acute, but then he had lived with that ever since he had first commanded a ship of war.
The approach to land had been timed for dusk to avoid the risk of being spotted before they could get close to their destination, where it was assumed all would be abed. Once they had beached and got the cutter out of the water to sit on the sand, Barclay ordered that lanterns be lit by which they could illuminate their way. Two men were left as guards, both with loaded pistols that would act as a signal as well as a deterrent, and with Devenow on his left side, Barclay led his men inland, glad to be out of the boat and his gloomy ruminations. How much better to be active.
On the step outside the Hamilton bathing house Emily Barclay had placed a chair and was, under the stars, deep in contemplations that unknown to her in some way mirrored those of her husband. The servant sent along by Emma Hamilton had fed her and Michael O’Hagan, which, given there was little to do was, for the Irishman, a precursor to sleep.
In her lap lay a book and on the table at her side a candle but attempts to read were constantly interrupted by her thoughts. These centred on a letter she might possibly send to her spouse. Various levels of apology were examined, some too grovelling for her to truly contemplate, yet Emily felt certain that at some time she must make an effort at a reconciliation.
Having never considered herself maternal, the advent of her pregnancy altered everything. She was no stranger to babies: in the company of her mother she had visited the poor when they were sick to offer comfort and had held in her arms many a grubby infant to dose them with the palliatives that had been fetched along. That was the duty of every right-thinking family of the standing of the Raynesfords, to not only give succour but to be seen to do so as an act of Christian charity.
Now her entire concentration was on that which she was carrying in her womb, even if the baby had yet to make itself felt with a first kick. There was terror as well as joyful anticipation; from those same visitations Emily knew childbirth to be fraught with risk but she sought to overcome that by her confidence in her own strength and health. As to survival once born, the good Lord would see to that.
There was a clock in the parlour that struck regularly to note the passage of time, little heeded until it struck ten chimes. Looking at the book told Emily how little she had managed to read and the candle was beginning to gutter from being low as well as from an evening breeze. It was time for her to sleep even if she doubted that would come easily.
As she stood up, her eye was caught by a blink of light from along the strand. It was not a steady one of the kind that could be seen in various dwellings along the shore and something stirred inside her, perhaps the foetus, enough to make her concentrate. What appeared the second time was not one light but several, soon extinguished, and they dipped behind a hill. Blowing out her own candle Emily made her way through the lamplit parlour and up to the first level, to a window facing north-west.
It did not appear immediately but eventually there it was. A string of moving lights that could only be carried lanterns, given the unsteady way they flashed. The words of mistrust Michael O’Hagan had uttered regarding her husband rose to her mind and she dashed into the room he occupied to shake him awake.
As a man who had slept in hedgerows and under bridges in places far from refined he was one to come alert quickly. Following a whispered instruction he trailed Emily to the window to have pointed out to him that which she had observed, much closer now and without doubt heading in their direction.
‘My billy club will see to it,’ the Irishman said making to leave the room.
‘No!’ The firmness of the reply stopped O’Hagan in his tracks and he searched for a clue to embellish it on a face very much in shadow. ‘If that is my husband, then I beg you count the lanterns.’
‘Sure I have taken on numbers before.’
‘I see a dozen, Michael, or near it and if it is who we fear they have come for me, not you.’
‘To do murder, happen.’
‘You, possibly, if you seek to defend me, myself I reckon not.’
‘Holy Mary, that is not a wager I would take.’
‘It is I who must calculate and I will not have you killed to protect me when the odds mean it is impossible. If my husband has brought a party to take me up they will not be gentle types.’
‘You know I cannot leave you.’
‘You must. I want you to go to the Chevalier and tell him what has occurred, if indeed it does.’
‘It’s my turn to say no.’
‘Michael, my husband will have you slain without a thought and to no purpose.’
‘I was given a task by a man I hold dear and that I have to fulfil.’
The bobbing lights were very obvious now, so the time in which Michael could get clear was rapidly diminishing, while the glow from one lantern was adding flesh to a companion and two things were clear. The rolling gait by which they moved, which indicated sailors, added to the odd sight of the kind of coloured bandana common to the British tar, made doubt near impossible. Finally, the fact that the man at their head had only one arm engendered an ever more desperate tone to Emily’s pleading.
‘That Hamilton servant needs to up and away too. He is at risk as well, for merely witnessing. See Hamilton and then get to John and tell him that I have been taken. Only he can alter that, and Michael, I think you know I am uncertain if I wish it to be so. But at least he will know what has happened.’
‘You seem sure he will not harm you, which I am not.’
The voice that replied lost all passion or urgency; if anything it was deflated.
‘Allow that I know the man to whom I am married. He will not be tempted to murder for the very simple reason that would deprive him of the chance to humiliate me at his pleasure.’
The sense of determination resurfaced quickly. ‘Now get going, Michael, and if John asks you may tell him that you did so at my express wish and that your departure suits my purpose. I no longer want or need your p
rotection, but do say our child might. He will know the meaning.’
‘I have said before you will break his heart.’
‘That a person can live with, but a broken head can be an ending. I will not have you on my conscience.’
The Hamilton servant was a harder creature to rouse out than Michael O’Hagan, so woozy from sleep that it took an age to get him out of the door and running. A quick glance showed those lanterns so close it was hard to think he himself could do likewise. The Hamilton retainer was a slight fellow, and local he was not; his size alone would alert Barclay to his flight. Perhaps it would end in a chase and one he could not be sure of winning.
In the jumble of thoughts running through the Irishman’s mind, many of them deeply troubling, there was one that was paramount, for even he had come to reason that if he fought such odds he would lose. He had to get to Pearce. Barclay must know he was here and it mattered not as of now how he had found out that his wife was too. They might not kill him but the very best he could hope for was a beating, to then be taken aboard Barclay’s ship and that was a far from comforting thought on its own.
There could be no doubt that what Michael was seeing was like a press gang. It had all the hallmarks to a man who, like many folk who shared his islands, had been raised to see the signs. His last words to Emily were that he intended to hide and he ran for the stairs, taking them three at a time while she walked out through the doorway to confront a body she could now hear talking, more growling really, in that way men do when bent on violence.
Michael O’Hagan was on the roof and able to hear the first words uttered by Ralph Barclay, a shout to halt the progress of his party and a demand that his wife, framed in the doorway by the oil lamps behind her, give herself up. The roof was flat, the only object upon it the rain cistern that the Chevalier used as a douche, which made the next remark by Barclay one to be concerned about.
‘I am told that Pearce’s Irish brute is with you.’
‘Not as we speak.’
‘He would not leave you.’
Emily managed a laugh. ‘Is he not a man, and are the fleshpots of Naples not within walking distance? I sent the servant lent to me by Lady Hamilton off as soon as I saw the lanterns. I am here alone now.’
‘I intend that you should come with me.’
‘How can I refuse such a kind invitation?’
Emily had adopted the wrong tone and she awaited the blast of fury that would follow her temerity; it did not come, instead he spoke softly.
‘I have no wish to harm you.’
‘I had no notion that you would.’ If it was less than the full truth, Emily thought it a better response than her previous one, not humble but not point scoring either. ‘Am I to be allowed to collect my possessions?’
‘Of course, and you will need stout shoes in which to walk.’ As she turned to re-enter the parlour, Barclay added, ‘Devenow, search the place and see if you can find that for which we came.’
Devenow indicated a couple should follow him and he squeezed past his captain’s wife. Barclay hoped for all three of Pearce’s stupidly named Pelicans – they stuck together like glue – which would justify the expedition in the eyes of others. What they would think of taking up a woman who was clearly his wife he declined to consider, for it could not be avoided.
Emily turned to go and pack, only to find her husband hurrying close to whisper, ‘It would pain me if you mention your condition.’
‘Never fear, Husband, if I do not know what you are about I can guess there are things best kept undisclosed.’
That was rewarded with something close to a smile; he had seen it for what it was, a definite olive branch, and he followed that with a slow hand to indicate she should carry on. From inside he heard Devenow crashing about and wondered if he should stop him, only to reckon it made no odds; Hamilton would guess what had occurred and he could go to hell for all Barclay cared.
Up on the roof Michael was in a bind; he too could hear the banging and crashing as furniture was moved and doors to cupboards hauled open at speed, lest lurking behind them lay someone armed and dangerous, and the sounds were getting closer.
The water, when he lowered himself into it, made him gasp, for if it was not cold in these parts neither was it summer. Off came his hat to be placed under his leg so it would not float and he sat with the water up to his neck and his head resting against the rim of the cistern, listening for the sound that might precede discovery; heavy footsteps on the stairs.
They came eventually, which had him take in as much air as his lungs would hold and when he judged them about to exit onto the roof he lowered himself gingerly into the cistern until his head was underwater. Would a diligent body have found him? He did not know for he could neither see nor hear. Eyes closed he sat still, unable to release any air given that would cause a bubble, until he could do so no longer.
Michael came up as slowly as he had submerged, ready to leap out and fight if that was the only recourse. The roof was empty but sense told him to stay put and he sat in the water shivering until he heard the sounds of the party leaving. He had no need to see if Emily was with them after he had searched the now empty house. Barclay had what he had come for.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Heads were close together once more at the ex-smugglers’ mess table and if Cole Peabody was hissing his words low enough not to be heard outside his circle, they were still full of irritation.
‘What narks me is that you don’t think things through.’
‘What’s to think on, Cole? We do as you say and put a knife into Pearce’s ribs. He does what we ask or he dies.’
Cephas Danvers imparted this with conviction, a feeling shared by the other two judging by their vigorous nods, which got a snorted response from Peabody.
‘Simple as kiss my hand, eh?’
‘Can’t see what can go wrong,’ opined Dan Holder.
‘Well, if you don’t reckon that flawed there’s nowt for you but the rope. We is goin’ to get to the entry port with a knife showing, a bluecoat with shit in his smalls and the watch officers is just goin’ to wave us by.’
‘Knife would be hidden,’ Holder protested.
‘So, Pearce says to the watch officer that he’s facing bein’ sliced and what happens then with a set of marines hard by?’ That produced no immediate response so Peabody carried on, his tone now full of ridicule. ‘The swine dies and we swing, is that the plan?’
None would catch his eye now, their heads were down and the eyes were examining the rough wood of their board. Fred Brewer was tracing circles with his forefinger on that surface too, a clear indication that he, like the others, had no alternative to offer.
‘Well, it’s a damn good job there’s one bugger with a sight of things at this table.’ The heads lifted slowly to engage with Peabody’s stare and to wonder at the sly smile on his face. ‘Do you recall what happened when we was bested by Pearce?’
‘Humbugged us good and proper,’ Cephas nodded.
‘But then what did he do?’
‘You know that as well as we, for the love of Christ.’
‘I do, Dan, I do an’ what I want you to think on is this. Given it were t’other way round, what would we have done? Say we’d caught him and his mates as intended.’
‘Cut their throats, that’s what.’
‘Aye. But we ended up where we is now, which tells you that Pearce ain’t got the guts for the cold kill.’
Fred Brewer shook his head. ‘It would be a caution to test out that one.’
Now it was Cole Peabody’s finger on the mess table, the point tapping hard. ‘The man is soft, that’s what I am saying. He should have seen to us all for good, that being the only safe way, but he does not, he chooses a path that gets rid but not forever. So that makes him spineless an’ to me there lies the way to get him to act as we wish.’
Dan Holder was shaking his head, which if it was sizable did not, on the reckoning of his mates, have much with which to fill
it and nor was his normally glaucous expression likely to alter that opinion, his words even less so.
‘I reckon to be well lost on where you is headed.’
‘But say he has a reason to keep his mouth shut an’ do as we bid?’
‘Stop playing us, Cole,’ Cephas Danvers growled, his dark brown eyes flashing. ‘If you has a way then tell us so we can look it over.’
‘He’s soft, right, not a’feart of blood in the right place, happen, but killing casual is not his way. So say we has in our grasp another, whose throat we reckon to cut if he does not get us off the barky. In my reckoning, Pearce is the sort to care for the life of another even if he has no kin cause.’
‘If you are wrong, mate!’
‘I reckon he’ll no more hand us to the rope than see blood spilt so his skin stays whole. Now I sense you don’t see it as I do, so think on that day outside Buckler’s Hard and what has occurred since. I reckon if you do that you will see what I see, an’ that is a man who reckons himself as wily as a fox. He had a chance to finish us an’ he shirked it. What we has to do is put him in the same boat now.’
‘As long as it ain’t this one,’ Fred Brewer sallied, his grin anticipating laughs from his mates; all he got was groans.
‘This be no time for joshing,’ was the heavy hiss from the toothless Peabody.
‘A mid?’ asked Danvers. ‘A young un’ will burden his mind.’
‘Never. Might catch one that’s set to be a hero, seeing they all want to be admirals one day. But the thinkin’ is sound, Cephas, a younker could serve well. I reckon on a nipper might do the trick. There’s one or two forever scampering about and annoying all with their japes. Shouldn’t be too hard to catch hold of one of the nippers and …’
There was no need to say more and Cole Peabody sat upright to make that point. ‘Are we settled on it?’ Two nods and an ‘aye’ settled the matter. ‘Then we best be about our game. We’s set to raise Leghorn this very day.’
The Perils of Command Page 17