An Awkward Commission Page 3

  This was carried out with the connivance of the purser, who stood to gain more than the captain by a little judicious accounting, for it would transpire that the late Ben Walker had bought quite a quantity of tobacco in the last two weeks, the cost of which, since it was the Purser’s private venture, would go straight into his account. Provided their ledgers agreed, no one would spot a discrepancy, nor would an eyebrow be raised to the notion of a man lost at sea, given it was commonplace. For every man that the Navy lost in battle, they lost ten to shipwreck, accident and disease.

  ‘Is not Mr Farmiloe’s news of some importance, Captain Barclay?’

  Ralph Barclay looked up and smiled, struck, not for the first time, by the picture of sheer loveliness Emily presented – one of perfect harmony with the life she lived. All awkwardness was now gone; the months at sea had inured her to whatever the elements or shipboard life could bring her way, and he was even pleased at what he called her fripperies – those bits of decoration she seemed determined to create in order to make more domestic their living quarters. Gone was the gauche and embarrassed seventeen-year-old girl who had come aboard at Sheerness, who in her ignorance had embarrassed both his purse and his authority: here was that creature grown to womanhood complete, though she had only added one year to her actual age. In short, she had become the perfect wife to a serving sea captain, and the twenty year gap between them – once a concern – seemed now to be irrelevant.

  ‘It is vital, my dear, and I would have been most put out had it not come, but it does not do to show too much zeal in these things, as I have told you before.’

  Emily Barclay, even seated, managed an ironic bob. ‘The captain’s majesty?’

  ‘Precisely. I am no enemy to enthusiasm, in its place, but...’

  Ralph Barclay followed that pause with a smile, for that was one of the things that Emily Barclay had not understood in the early days, the way a captain must be seen in the eyes of those under him; stern but fair, remote yet approachable, a balancing act between tolerance and punishment that was difficult to achieve and hard to maintain. He felt he had managed it, despite some initial hiccups, and he had been helped by some good fortune in the article of prizes which meant the crew could expect an addition to their pay, which always aided contentment. It was not pleasant to recall the way that his wife had challenged him over that fellow Pearce, who he had been forced to punish, and then been obliged to get rid of. She would not do that now, she would know better; that justice must sometimes gave way to authority.

  ‘Would you care to join me on deck, my dear?’

  ‘Is there anything to see, husband?’

  ‘I doubt it. Land will have been spotted from the masthead, and even in an hour, given the heat of the day, it will be no more than a smudge on the horizon.’

  ‘Then if you do not mind, husband, I will visit the men who suffered injury in yesterday’s storm.’

  ‘Of course,’ he replied, before calling to his steward. ‘Shenton, my hat.’

  As he closed the muster book, Ralph Barclay promised himself that, at the first opportunity, he would employ a clerk to do the work that he had just completed. It would have to be someone who understood the meaning of discretion, as well as the need for certain reservations with the absolute facts; no captain could afford to tell the Admiralty and Navy Board everything, and a certain security lay in the fact that, though they claimed to be zealous, those clerks were, in fact, only too human. He had had to decline his wife’s offer to undertake the work, for he knew she, of all people, being so delightfully ingenuous, would not comprehend that particular requirement.

  His officers removed their hats as he stepped onto the quarterdeck, each acknowledged by no more than a nod. First he looked at the slate, and the course that had been chalked on, knowing that the ship’s master, Mr Collins, a man of an extremely insecure temperament, would be made nervous by his action. His frigate, HMS Brilliant, with the sloop HMS Firefly in her wake, was making some four knots on a steady south-west breeze that was coming in nicely over her larboard quarter. He cast his glance upwards, to where, amongst the taut sails, the topmen were working, splicing ropes that had parted in the squall and re-roving blocks that had come apart from the falls. Forward, over the waist, the sailmaker and his assistants were sitting in a line repairing a damaged topsail, their long needles flying through the thick canvas, the whole of the work on deck and aloft overseen by Mr Sykes, the bosun. Here was another cause for satisfaction, a crew that, due to his constant training and stern attitude, had become efficient at their work, and warrant officers like Sykes, who had seemed uncertain at first, now relaxed and competent. They were not at the peak of perfection – that took years at sea to achieve – but they were nothing like the rabble with which he had put to sea.

  Likewise, in his First Lieutenant, he had an officer who understood what was required of him; that the deck be spotless, the cannonballs in the rope garlands black and chipped free of rust, the cannon tight to the ship’s side, idle ropes perfectly coiled and the crew quiet and industrious, yet ready at a moment’s notice to go from peaceful sailing to fighting readiness. That had not been so when he had set off from Sheerness, but good fortune had attended the cruise of HMS Brilliant in that respect too, ridding him of subordinates inclined to be contentious, and replacing them with men who understood the need to obey.

  ‘Mr Glaister?’

  The lanky Scotsman, with his thin, near skeletal face and startlingly blue eyes, replied to the implied question in a lilting, Highland tone. ‘Masthead reports that our landfall is mountainous, sir, which leads me to suspect that if we are not dead set for the Roads of Toulon, then we are not a hair’s-breadth off it.’

  ‘Then, Mr Collins, you need to be congratulated.’

  The master took the compliment, even though he knew how much of a hand his captain had had in the plotting of the course. So did every officer aboard, but praise from Ralph Barclay was rare enough to be prized, even when it was not truly warranted.

  ‘Mr Glaister, I take it the work of repair will be completed before we can see the shore from the deck.’

  ‘I will make sure of it, sir.’

  Ralph Barclay picked up a telescope and trained it on the distant shore, though it hardly made it any more clear. ‘Good, for if it is Toulon they will have lookouts on the mountain, and communications with the port, and some expectation of the imminent arrival of a reconnaissance vessel.’

  ‘You mean they might wish to chase us off, sir?’

  ‘It is what I would do, Mr Glaister, it is what I would do.’

  Replacing the telescope in the rack, Ralph Barclay walked to the weather rail and began to pace up and down that space between the poop and the waist which all vacated, it being the preserve of the captain when he was on deck. His orders obliged him to reconnoitre the main enemy naval base and report back to Admiral Hotham and the fleet the state of readiness of the French capital ships in the port. If the commanding enemy admiral had any sense he would have frigates at sea to intercept such a mission. That they had raised the land without such a sighting implied that he had not. What did it mean? Was the Toulon fleet in the kind of disarray rumoured to have ruined French naval strength, with experienced officers fled from their posts for fear of the guillotine? Or was it a ruse?

  ‘Mr Glaister. Break out a tricolour flag and raise it to the masthead.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘And keep our own pennant ready to replace it in an instant. I would also like to shorten sail so that the repairs will be completed and the men will have had their dinner by the time the shore is hull up.’

  ‘Should we clear for action, sir?’

  ‘After the officer’s dinner, Mr Glaister. As you know, my wife goes to great trouble to help the cook prepare a memorable meal. It would not do to upset her.’

  He looked at them all then, in a sweeping glance that had everyone avoiding his eye. There was not a man jack aboard, before and abaft the mast, who was not as jealous as h
ell of their uxorious captain and his lovely lady. To see her on deck, common enough in benign weather, was to induce feelings best left ashore, some mere nostalgia for hearth and home, others more carnal, that mixed with resentment that Barclay should be so favoured. He was so much his wife’s senior and did not reckon himself handsome or very attractive a person – something with which most of his crew, had he asked them, would have concurred, but he had her companionship in all respects in a way denied to the others aboard, if you discounted the Gunner’s wife, exasperating to men who had not been ashore for months. The satisfaction to be gained from the knowledge of their emotions was one of which he could never get enough, for Ralph Barclay reckoned that he had lived a life that owed him some recompense for miseries suffered, slights endured and ambitions thwarted. Now he was enjoying the feeling of justified redress, as he turned on his heel and left the quarterdeck, his parting words: ‘Mr Glaister, once you are sure all is in hand, please join me in my cabin. I need to hear your opinion on who amongst the ship’s corporals is to replace the Master-at-Arms. Mr Lutyens informs me he will be unable to fulfil his duties for some six weeks.

  ‘Mr Lutyens.’

  Lutyens looked up from the large journal in which he was writing. Habit made him half-close it so that what was written could not be seen, silly really, for of all the people aboard this young lady would be the last person to pry; she was too well-mannered.

  ‘I came to see if our injured are comfortable.’

  ‘They will certainly be made more so by your presence, Madame. I fear they see in me a rough and indifferent mendicant.’

  Emily waved away such a suggestion, in truth to cover a degree of embarrassment, for gossip from her husband’s officers, as well as the odd overheard remark from the men, had it that Lutyens was a touch insensitive in the article of pain, much given to applying herbal treatments which he supposed to be relieving, but failed to dull as much as the method which sailors knew and trusted, rum or laudanum. And she was slightly put out by the way he had so immediately shut his journal, as though whatever secrets he had could possibly interest her. For once, she decided to let him know her feelings, though she made a great effort to sound good-humoured.

  ‘I should sand your latest scribblings, sir, for if your finger slips from holding open the page they will be rendered unreadable.’

  The feathery eyebrows on his rather fish-like face were raised at what was, regardless of the delivery, nothing short of a direct admonishment, something new from the Captain’s wife. That would be an interesting observation to add to what he had been writing, which was in the nature of the changes in the crew since the ship first weighed. The journal contained everything he had learnt since coming aboard, part of his study into the workings of a ship and the people who sailed it. Above his head, in a secure locker, were the notebooks which he had filled on a daily basis before transcribing his interpretations into this journal, which would, one day, be the basis of a treatise which would make his name in the circle of savants to which he aspired.

  In future, those wishing to understand the strange nature of shipboard life and the people who lived it would read Heinrich Lutyens on the subject, and be informed on such diverse matters as reactions to impressment, arbitrary and accepted punishment, the relations between a certain type of officer and the men they led, the tensions that existed in the wardroom, where he ate daily, as well as in the living and sleeping quarters of the crew. Perhaps more interesting was the nature of warship captaincy, with the additional bonus that with his wife aboard, Captain Barclay had added the study of the conjugal relationship between people of very different backgrounds, ages and perceptions of the world in what was, to say the least, a peculiar setting.

  ‘Mr Coyle, who has the compounded leg fracture, is beyond that screen. I am sure he will welcome a visit.’

  ‘Is he in pain?’

  ‘Of course, and that will be increased if he moves in any way. The other fellow, with the broken arm, I sent to help the cook as even one arm is enough to throw wood into an oven. As you know, the Captain does not like men to be idle.’

  It was indeed a strange world to a landsman, and despite his office Lutyens considered himself to be that, not least in the variety of souls that were contained within the confines of these wooden walls. Every vice was present, and each person was an individual to be studied for their tics and emotions, but more importantly for the subtle changes that emerged as the time spent in the confines of the ship grew. As Emily Barclay went through the screen, he did as she had suggested, opened his journal and sanded the half-dry ink. Then, reflecting on the changes in her, he went back over the observations he had made from the very first time they had met.

  Such words as ‘shy’, and ‘tense’ leapt out at him, and he knew that at the time of writing they had been accurate. Then had come the day when she had stood up to her husband over what she saw as chastisement of an innocent man. From that day on, his observations had told of a changed woman.

  ‘Mam,’ said Coyle, seeking to ease himself up from the cot on which he lay, that made more awkward by an attempt to touch his forelock. He was a stocky fellow, with enough scars on his face to hint at a life of hardship.

  ‘Please do not bestir yourself, Mr Coyle. The surgeon was most adamant on that point. I have only come on behalf of my husband to see how you fare.’

  Coyle kept his face bland then, as still as his bad leg, for the notion that Ralph Barclay cared two hoots for his welfare was sheer bollocks and he feared that might show. That his wife might was possible; he did not know her well enough to say though she appeared a kindly soul, but he knew his captain both by reputation and experience. If he was respected for being a hard horse, he was not loved, and he had shown on this voyage that he would flog any man who crossed him even if the offence fell outside the Articles of War.

  ‘I must confess to knowing very little of you, Mr Coyle, which is shameful given the time we have spent at sea. Now I have a chance to make amends. Would it be too much of a strain for you to tell me something of yourself?’

  Again Coyle had to keep a straight face, for once his leg had been set in splints, and he had rested from a night of deep discomfort, he had suffered a long interrogation by the surgeon; where was he from, did he have any family, what had brought him into the Navy, where did he expect that such service would take him, all jotted down in one of those little notebooks that Lutyens was never without. Suspicious that the surgeon had the means to withhold relief from pain, Coyle had said more than he normally would to anyone. It was not that he was a secretive man, but life had taught him that it was best to keep what was personal to himself.

  ‘Not much to tell, Mam. I was a soldier afore I came to the Navy, which is why I has my rating.’ Seeing the look of curiosity, he added, ‘Master-at-Arms aboard ship is often an office filled by an ex-soldier, seeing as we know about weapons and their use, for there be precious few tars of my acquaintance who know bug— ’owt about them, which can be mortal should we get into a fight. Half of them I teach are more like to shoot their foot off than maim an enemy, and as for wielding a cutlass, why they’re more danger to their own.’

  Emily Barclay had come below to comfort Coyle, to ask if he had any family, would he like her to pen a letter for him, always assuming he lacked the ability to write himself. The idea that came into her head then was sudden and thrilling.

  ‘Would you teach me to shoot, Mr Coyle?’

  He stirred in surprise and pain flashed over his face. ‘You, Mam?’

  ‘Why not? I am told you will be laid up for some time, but you will be capable of some movement.’

  ‘Shooting muskets ain’t for ladies, Mam.’

  ‘Why ever not, Mr Coyle? Am I not aboard a fighting vessel?’

  ‘The very idea. Why, Captain Barclay would have my guts at the suggestion.’

  ‘Mr Coyle,’ Emily replied, with a look on her face that brooked no argument, ‘you must leave the feelings of Captain Barclay to me.’
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  It was late afternoon before HMS Brilliant got close enough to make out the state of the French fleet, and what young Mr Farmiloe, his lookout, saw in the outer roadstead and reported to him, made Ralph Barclay content, for the news was promising. The last thing he wanted was to send back a depressing despatch. Even if he could not be blamed for telling the truth, he knew that the person who delivered bad news in King George’s Navy was sometimes somehow tainted by association. There were two dozen ships of the line, but none with their yards crossed and ready for sea. In the dockyard other line-of-battle ships were being built or repaired, and Farmiloe was sure that another one, the biggest of them all, was floating in the water of the inner harbour and being fitted out. They came about twice to traverse the harbour entrance, well out of the range of any fortress guns, forty-two pounders capable of firing a ball some two miles. That they made no attempt to essay the range made the thought of closer observation tempting, but Ralph Barclay surmised they were keeping their powder dry for that very purpose, in the hope that he would stray into their deadly orbit.

  ‘Vessel making sail in the outer roads, sir.’

  ‘Can you make out what it is, Mr Farmiloe?’

  ‘Frigate, sir, but I can not see the ports to assess the number of guns as they are hidden by the mole.’

  ‘Come to chase us off, sir,’ said Glaister.

  ‘Too late for that, I think, Lieutenant. More likely their admiral has a notion that we will engage and he can take or sink us. That now is the only way to stop us telling the fleet what we have observed.’