As the sailors who had dealt with her walls cleared away the furniture, Cornelius Gherson appeared with a look on his face that, in the way it changed in a blink, defied analysis. Standing still while a mass of activity took place around him he started by licking his lips and examining her as if she were a fine meal, though Emily thought she recognised his look as filled with lust.
The change in those corn-blue orbs as he spoke, which surfaced only to disappear, was more telling, given it indicated deep loathing. ‘You are to go to the cable tier.’
‘From what I can see this is no exercise.’ That got a shrug. ‘If it is not, then my place is on the orlop deck with the surgeon.’
‘I am happy to take you to the cable tier.’ The lips were wetted again. ‘And perhaps I might stay there with you.’
‘Get back to your grubbing, Gherson, it is all you are fit for.’
‘What a pleasure it would be to teach you a lesson and grant you pleasure at the same time.’
‘You teach me something every time I clap eyes on you and it troubles my Christian beliefs. I learn that there are indeed people in the world with no redeeming features at all.’
The single four-letter expletive summed up where his interest lay. If he had hoped to shock her he failed: Emily had spent too much time on ships of war and overheard too much to be in ignorance of filthy blasphemy.
‘Take this woman to the cable tier,’ he shouted.
If the men close by stopped, it was telling he was not obeyed and indeed one responded, ‘Who are you ordering about, quill scratcher?’
‘Do as you’re told.’
‘Bugger off, savin’ your presence, lady.’
Gherson’s features now showed a degree of petulance, mirrored in the hurt look and the screech that followed. ‘It is a direct order from the captain and you ignore it at your peril. Take hold of her and drag her to the cable tier if need be.’
‘And I am the captain’s wife,’ Emily spat as the hands reluctantly moved to obey. The words stopped them dead for there had been much speculation on her status since the supposed press gang outing and Barclay returned with only her. ‘Lay a hand on me and I think you know what my husband can be trusted to do.’
More likely to flog me than you, she thought, but they hesitated and that allowed her enough time to continue. ‘I intend to go to the aid of the surgeon and it is my fond hope that I do not see you in that place.’
The imperious way she moved kept them still, and despite the yelping of Gherson, they let her pass. They had duties to perform and the clerk was left standing in frustrated impotence as Emily disappeared down the companionway, still unsure of what the ship faced.
That did not apply on the deck of a 74-gun third rate now cleared for action. Semele was reduced to topsails, main and forecourse raised and the netting rigged to catch falling debris: Ralph Barclay could very easily see what the enemy was about, though he had little choice but to let them do as they pleased if he declined to reverse his course and enforce a chase.
He had been tacking and wearing into the breeze all morning but that had to be abandoned in favour of a fixed course. Short of hands, he would require everyone on the guns and that left too few men to work the sails in a way that would permit manoeuvre, difficult in any case with a contrary wind.
‘Ensure that this is entered in the log, Mr Palmer. That our commander has left us short of the men needed to both sail and fight the ship.’
The premier looked set to speak, the head movement noticed by Barclay out of the corner of his eye. But the man decided to remain silent. What he might wish to say was no mystery, for the very fact alluded to seriously affected HMS Semele. Did he wish to advise caution, perhaps even flight?
‘Gunnery will decide this, Mr Palmer, and there we ever have the advantage.’
That was not true and Barclay knew it as well as every officer aboard. If the enemy manoeuvred with skill, Semele would have to fight both sides simultaneously and that brought risks that some cannon would not be as well employed as they should be, for’tween decks in a battle was no place for a choreographed switch from one weapon to another.
There would be confusion and gun crews long accustomed to working with each other would become mixed. Again, being short of twenty per cent of their complement mattered. Over a hundred men down on the needs of the ship, they could not man all the cannon in the way proper tactics demanded.
As they had closed on the enemy frigates, two had been definitely identified, for like all warships they had features as familiar to anyone who had seen them as those on the face of a friend; individual figureheads, the lines of their design and how they were decorated with carvings in certain places. Alceste 32 was the smallest and a surprise, for she had been given to the Sardinians by Lord Hood after the fall of Toulon. Clearly she had been retaken, which given the efficiency of the Sardinian Navy was not too much of a shock.
The outlines of the 30-gun Vestale were well known, she having been sunk by the Royal Navy during the American War only to be refloated and sold back to them with the peace, but not before being drawn in many a pamphlet. It was the third and largest frigate that caused the most curiosity and speculation, though few could doubt her name for she had been on the stocks in Toulon when Lord Hood had agreed to the takeover of the French naval base on behalf of the legitimate monarchy.
‘Has to be Minerve,’ Ralph Barclay opined, for he had been there as a prisoner before and had seen her being built, carving and painting included. ‘Forty guns and she will be stiff.’
‘Alceste has altered course to leeward, sir.’
The information, from the man in charge of the forecastle division, had Ralph Barclay shift the midshipman’s shoulder on which he was resting his telescope. It counted that the information was true; it mattered just as much that two other frigates were staying to windward. Whoever had command was offering the middling fighting ship as a tempting target and inviting him to a slight alteration of course to engage her.
‘Clever, my friend, but I decline to bite. Hold her steady, Quartermaster.’
‘It would be instructive to know who has command of the enemy, sir.’
If the question was posed quietly, the answer was loud enough to be overheard by many. Barclay knew that the remark was prompted by a feeling of disquiet; that had to be countered with an expression of confidence.
‘I think not, Mr Palmer. Since the fall of the Bastille they have been a rum bunch I have found, men promoted above their abilities. As to their crewing, they will have had to scrape the barrel for that and with so little time at sea – recall we keep them bottled up most of the time – they cannot be as well worked up as we are.’
The voice rose to an inspiring shout. ‘Work your guns as well as I know you can and we will see one, if not two of these fellows, with our flag above their damned tricolour.’ Ralph Barclay reckoned the response to be feeble and felt he was required to add more. ‘I have lined your purses once and I will do so again.’
Still no more than a ragged cheer followed but he was not concerned by that; his men would fight not for the love of him or their country but for their own lives and the possibility of a monetary reward.
‘Your wife refused your order, sir.’
Barclay spun to hiss at Gherson as everyone else in earshot went rigid, even if they did nothing to avoid eavesdropping. ‘Keep your voice down.’
The reply lacked courtesy as well as discretion: Gherson had been wounded not only by Emily but by the response of the crew, men he rarely addressed and never considered worthy of an opinion. They had treated him as of no account.
‘There would be no point, sir, given she has told the entire lower deck her name and status.’
‘Where is she now?’
‘Gone to the orlop with the pious intent of aiding the surgeon.’
Intended to diminish her, Barclay sought to use it for praise and raised his voice slightly to do so. ‘My wife, indeed, gentlemen. Aiding the surgeon, which shows he
r sterling qualities.’
If Gherson intended to respond, the first boom of a firing cannon stopped him as Alceste was wreathed in smoke. Anyone watching would have seen him visibly shrink, his shoulders hunching into his body. He was a man who suspected every weapon fired by an enemy was aimed personally at him and reacted accordingly.
‘Stay where you are, Gherson, and for the love of Christ stand up straight.’
Barclay said this in a conversational tone and not without a note of humour; he knew his clerk to be a coward and delighted in exposing him to at least the same danger as himself, even if his presence was superfluous. It helped to keep the man in his place. The captain now had Devenow on one shoulder and Gherson on another, the brutish bully indifferent and the clerk resentful enough to wish his employer dead and not peacefully so.
The salvo from Alceste had been a ranging one from her 18-pounders, the balls falling short into the sea, which sent up great plumes visible to the crew of Pearce’s pinnace, which told them they had done no harm. Barclay gave the order to reply from his upper deck 28-pounders which, with the greater range plus elevation peppered the sea around the French frigate.
‘You have marked the time, Mr Palmer?’
‘Aye aye, sir.’
‘There is always a moment of relief, is there not, when the waiting is over and the game is afoot?’ That got another affirmative reply as the quickly reloaded 28-pounders spoke again, at exactly the same time as those from the frigate to larboard. ‘And that tells us our differing rates of fire, does it not. Let us see what the lower deck cannon can do.’
Orders were called down to the lower gun deck and when that broadside was fired it reverberated through the whole ship, shaking timbers and knocking some of the surgeon’s instruments off the one-time door on which he would treat the wounded. Emily picked them up and replaced them, smiling at a fellow clearly nervous of what he was about to face.
It was all very well signing up for naval service, his expression seemed to imply; as he then explained to her, the pay was adequate and drowning apart, the risk small, but he had been in a sea fight before and knew that if blood was spilt it would be very messy.
‘If you think you will find that hard to bear, it might be best to avoid the sight.’
‘Fear not, sir, I too have been in battle before.’
If he was tempted to enquire that was stopped by another broadside.
Ralph Barclay had turned his attention to Minerve and Vestale, noting that the former had shortened sail less than her consort, which would bring her, in time, to lay off the larboard quarter where she would hope that the 74-gunner would be so reduced by her companions as to get across Semele’s stern and seek to deliver a killing blow through the casement deadlights.
Alceste was closing, risking destruction as she fired bar shot at the rigging. That was only alleviated by Barclay needing to shift gun crews from larboard to starboard and engage the other two, who had now opened up at a cable’s length with round shot. Soon all three vessels were shrouded in smoke as the cannon fire steadied to salvo after salvo, the rate from the British vessel faster by far.
If Semele suffered, and she did, the 74, with her superior firepower, was inflicting great damage to the enemy scantlings. In the moments when the smoke cleared enough to give sight to those on board, they could see the shattered woodwork and the rigging hanging loose. Yet that was replicated on Semele. The mainmast was wounded, the stays and shrouds in tatters, while the deck was littered with what had been dislodged from aloft, especially heavy wooden blocks. They had fallen with enough weight and pace to slice through the netting.
All battles resulted in a sense of chaos, but that was the apogee of naval captaincy. Ralph Barclay stood, with his two supporters either side, as if he was on a peaceful heath enjoying the fresh air, issuing orders only when necessary, exuding the required calm. Nothing about his presence hinted at the danger of being on a deck enfiladed by shot from a trio of enemy vessels.
What commands he did give out were shouted, certainly, but the midshipmen he instructed carried them out, even if they had to be in terror of that which was going on around them, and did so with aplomb. The cannon were being well worked, even if some were idle, and the rate of fire from his ship was being maintained.
A salvo of bar shot, fired from Alceste, now within musket range, sliced through the upper rigging and shredded the topsails as well as the falls that held it. Men had to withdraw from the guns to reset it, for should he wish to come about lacking working sails he would struggle to do so. In holding his course he had very nearly got to the position he had long sought and orders went below that saw sweating men haul out of the sail locker a new bit of canvas for his intended manoeuvre.
To bend a new topsail on in the midst of a fight was hard but not impossible, and Barclay knew that Semele would suffer as it was carried it out. But he had passed his enemies by and if he could come about he would have stolen the weather gage, which would allow him to close with any one of the three. Once upon them he could ensure their utter destruction as a fighting entity by concentrating all his fire temporarily on a single foe.
Success might provide the chance to engage another in the same manner, though he suspected the consorts, seeing the loss of one of their number, would break off the action and seek to put blue water between him and themselves. He shouted to Palmer, for the noise made it essential. He had been a coming-and-going presence throughout the battle, as he did what was required to shore up his inferior officers struggling to carry out their duties.
‘We are coming upon the moment of truth, Mr Palmer. In ten minutes from now I want the gun crews sent to other duties. I sense a prize waiting to fall like an overripe plum into our hands.’
Palmer’s face was filthy from the smoke-blown black powder, which made more obvious his smile, for he too knew the value of confidence. That was applied to Barclay as well as Devenow, who was holding his captain’s good arm in one hand and his telescope in the other. Palmer had to bend his head to extend it to Gherson, who was hunched up and sobbing at the mayhem around him.
The bar shot took off Palmer’s hat and he was unsure if he still had the top of his crown. When he raised his eyes with some trepidation he realised his captain did not; Ralph Barclay was no more than a pair of shoulders bereft of a head, a figure that seemed able to remain upright as if nothing had occurred to dent his abilities. That did not last, with Devenow yelling and a blood-soaked Gherson screaming like a terrified girl; the legs folded and the trunk sank to the deck.
‘Get that body below,’ Palmer shouted, as inured naval discipline immediately took over.
It was necessary to slap Devenow’s head to get him to respond and then the premier obviously had a thought that made him hesitate, but only for a second or two.
‘To his cabin, not to the orlop deck. The man’s wife cannot be allowed to see this.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Ralph Barclay had not shared his tactical intentions with Palmer, holding it to himself and that left his first lieutenant, now in command, at a loss as to what to do next. His sole aim thus became survival, a gunnery duel in which he pitched Semele against the trio of French frigates who now seemed collectively intent on disabling the 74. There was little round shot slamming into the hull now: it was chain and bar shot of the kind that had decapitated his captain and it was shredding the rigging.
News of Barclay’s demise spread rapidly even in what was a maelstrom of furious action, and if there had been little love lost between commander and crew his demise dented the morale of those he had led. The captain of a ship of war, any vessel for that matter, carried with him an aura of authority that was hard to quantify; all anyone knew was that it existed and that it counted.
Semele was firing on both sides now with every man, officers included, working as many cannon as possible, especially the 32-pounders that would do the most damage. But it had long ceased to be broadsides: now it was ragged firing at will or as soon as a wea
pon was loaded, and in that method aim came second to discharge. The red-painted decks had plenty of blood shining on the planking, albeit the number of fatalities was small; it took more than a 28-pound cannonball to smash through several feet of stout oak; vulnerability lay at the open gun ports.
The youngest powder monkeys were dashing to each gun team with cartridges, those slightly older fetching balls from the depths of the holds while others wetted the cannon with buckets of seawater to cool what was becoming metal hot enough to burn skin. At a distance it was black smoke shot through with the orange flash of the exploding powder, each salvo cheered by the men in the pinnace, Pearce excluded, till they were hoarse from their shouting.
An occasional increase in the strength of the wind showed the damage done to Semele and Pearce wondered how long it could go on. Every bit of canvas was now in tatters and if he could not see the detail he knew that would apply to the rigging, for it was the French habit to seek to disable an enemy and prevent them from being able to sail clear of the action.
In what had been the great cabin, Devenow was kneeling over the remains of the man he had faithfully served while Gherson, crouching and choking from the smoke, was huddled by a casement trembling like a leaf. Below on the orlop deck the surgeon worked on the wounded with knife, saw, needle and thread, with the three limbs he had been forced to sever at his feet.
Emily, still in ignorance of what had happened on deck, was assisting, bathing and bandaging, on one occasion employing only words of comfort aimed at the terrified eyes of a young topman on the verge of passing away, this while the ship’s chaplain mumbled prayers over those already gone to meet their maker. The loblolly boys and the surgeon’s mates brought in the latest casualties.
If she saw the midshipman with the filthy face arrive and whisper in the surgeon’s ear, or noted the quick alarmed look aimed at her, she gave it no heed for it was brief; the man was too busy amputating a leg.
The Perils of Command Page 22