The Perils of Command Page 3

  Finally, there was that peril itself and the search for glory within its remit. The deck of a warship in a fight was as lethal a place as even Lucifer could dream of, with barely aimed round shot blasting around you which, if it did not cut a man in half, could smash through several feet of timber to send deadly splinters flying. These competed with musket fire from the enemy tops or slashing and crushing weapons from an adversary determined to board.

  It had to be accepted, too, that a simple error of judgement or a misreading of an enemy’s intentions could destroy the most illustrious career. Decisions had to be made well away from those who would approve or disapprove of the choice taken. Then there was politics, which could act to snuff out a promising career while the man suffering would be left with no idea why.

  Pearce had to force himself to put such forbidding thoughts aside and return to the main business. ‘Our fellow countrymen, traders all, have undertaken to see to the sale of our captures, but no agreement will be concluded of which you do not approve.’

  ‘I would not wish it to be my sole decision, John.’

  ‘Which will not, I am told, be immediate in any case. The doctors reckon you need several weeks to fully recover, perhaps a month, so I request your permission to absent myself. Mr Grey and Dorling are well able to care for matters without my needing to be present.’

  ‘I have no need to ask where it is you intend to go.’

  ‘I am hardly unaware that you disapprove, Henry.’

  ‘Just as I am aware that if I sought to forbid it you would defy me.’

  ‘It would pain me to do so.’

  Digby closed his eyes, Pearce hoped to mask his desire to issue such an order. That John Pearce should be in a relationship with the wife of another man was bad enough to his pious mind. But in addition to that she was the wife of Ralph Barclay, a naval officer and a full post-captain and such a fact made matters ten times worse, given there could be consequences by mere association. Pearce had defied him before and his comment that he would do so again hinted that a relationship once fraught but then repaired might revert to tension once more.

  ‘I think,’ Digby finally said, his voice a near whisper, ‘that I must let our Maker care for your soul, John, since you would not accept any such aid from me.’

  ‘Then since I have bespoken a coach for the journey, I will depart on the morrow.’

  ‘Money?’

  ‘Our good friends here have advanced me a sum against the sale of our captures.’

  That caused Digby to purse his lips; if his feelings were unspoken they were nevertheless far from a secret. It was as if he was wondering why John Pearce had bothered to ask his permission, since he plainly cared naught for the answer.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ‘Mr Burns, it seems to me that you are in want of confidence when it comes to dealing with the men of your division.’

  There was not much Toby Burns could say to his captain in the face of such a palpable truth. It would do him no good to plead that many of the men he was in direct command of knew him of old, he having previously served as a midshipman aboard HMS Brilliant. It had been his first voyage as a young naval gentleman and had turned out to be a far from happy experience.

  ‘And I am bound to add,’ said Richard Taberly, ‘that you seem shy of seeking chastisement when they show you disrespect.’

  The sound of running feet were not allowed to distract from what was a wigging, nor were the commands that brought the ship round on another heading. The frigate was patrolling off Toulon, the task to keep an eye on the French fleet and to warn Admiral Sir William Hotham if they showed signs of wishing to come out. Alerted, he could sail his capital ships to bring about his heart’s desire, one he shared with every other man in the fleet; a battle in which they were sure they would be victorious.

  The disrespect Taberly was alluding to did not encompass half of what his acting lieutenant suffered. The whole crew identified him as a coward and a fabricator, either because they had been aboard when he took the credit for bravery and insight due to another or had heard the tale from those who were. It mattered not; all knew how to goad him without being too overt.

  How many times did he hear the word Brittany in a sentence, or variations on the name of John Pearce, the man whose glory he had stolen? Near to drowning came up often, as well as allusions to what was possible on a dark and moonless night. In his heart he was sure there were men prepared to throw him overboard and the thought was a constant terror.

  Not that his fears were confined to possible drowning; that merely stood in a long list of what Toby Burns was scared of, all the way up to and including the thought of being involved in a fleet action, or any combat for that matter, never mind the rewards that came with it. He was sure he was benighted by the malice of his superiors from the frigate’s premier, a sandy-haired Scot called Glaister, through Captain Taberly to the very top and Admiral Sir William Hotham himself.

  ‘Please take this as a warning, Mr Burns, that I will be watching you and marking your behaviour. I require to see improvement and, I might add, I would not wish to have to relate to our commanding officer that the faith he has so far placed in you was mistaken.’

  The ‘Aye aye, sir,’ came out as a croak.

  ‘Dismissed.’

  With Burns gone Taberly sat in contemplation, for if the youngster was troubled he was not without his own concerns. Recently promoted to post rank, although yet to be confirmed by the Admiralty, he found his young acting-lieutenant to be a problem he was unsure how to handle.

  Taberly was also wondering if it had been wise of Admiral Hotham to push the lad through the lieutenant’s examination for he was clearly not fit for the rank. That too would need to be confirmed by London, his true station of this moment being that of a passed midshipman.

  Hotham had hinted to Taberly that a touch of harsh treatment would not go amiss, yet in conversation with others the newly appointed captain had heard how cossetted the lad had been when he served aboard the flagship and the jealousies such favouritism had caused. Then there was his reputation as an acknowledged hero after some escapade in Brittany, which flew in the face of what appeared in the flesh.

  Burns was not strong, he was weak; not brave, but shy; surely Hotham could discern that as easily as he? Yet he had been favoured with no end of opportunities to distinguish himself and had even survived a bout as a prisoner of the French just prior to his examination.

  Hotham had mentioned Burns being engaged in questionable correspondence – what did that mean? Taberly was not a trusting sort of person with anyone and he naturally observed his superior officers through a jaundiced eye. Gnaw as he did on the words Admiral Hotham had employed, he could not be sure whether within them was set a snare into which he could himself stumble. He had a natural requirement to be careful of his commanding admiral. Did he also need to be cautious of how he treated Burns?

  ‘Enter.’

  The midshipman who obeyed was so small and seemingly childlike it was possible to wonder if he had been breached? Yet freckle-faced and full of wide-eyed innocence William Palliser was the very opposite of Burns. The grandson of a full admiral he was feisty, cheeky and adventurous, forever skylarking in the rigging despite strict orders to desist. Taberly had been obliged to have him kiss the gunner’s daughter twice already and he had only been aboard Brilliant for a matter of weeks.

  ‘Mr Glaister’s compliments, sir, and the French are rigging their yards again.’

  The temptation to yawn had to be fought; Taberly had no idea if the activity within the roadstead of Toulon presaged an attempt to get to sea, mere exercising of crews to work them up to a state of efficiency or a deliberate attempt to tease him and the other vessels of the inshore squadron.

  The French had frigates at sea: that was known for they could come and go from Toulon in a manner denied to larger vessels. The line of battle ships were what mattered; they had been on bare poles for most of his time off the port and could not put to se
a until they were properly rigged with yards and canvas. Ploughing to and fro, in sight of the enemy – and this they knew for they could see HMS Brilliant and her consorts as easily as he could espy them – he had observed them go about this farrago too many times to feel even a hint of excitement.

  ‘We can do no more, Mr Palliser, than have our lookouts keep an eye on them. No doubt we will awake on the morrow to see bare poles again.’

  ‘Mr Glaister required that I say the wind is in the north-west.’

  That brought a frown to the face of a captain cursed by a temper. Glaister had been aboard the frigate for two years now and premier to two other captains. He felt and made little attempt to disguise that, in the appointment of his new superior, he had been passed over, the typical reaction of a fellow with no interest in the right places.

  That thought was an unwelcome one; Taberly was not so well blessed with powerful patrons himself. Indeed, his elevation had come as a surprise given he had never before met Sir William Hotham. He had to assume it had come about through a shortage of officers within the Mediterranean Fleet and that was a tricky basis for confidence.

  ‘Inform the first lieutenant that I am as aware of the wind as Mr Shakespeare’s Hamlet.’ Palliser’s confusion was obvious; he had no idea what his captain was talking about, which had Taberly bark, ‘Just pass on the message, boy!’

  Thick planking did little to deaden the sound of that shout, nor did the skylight closed against the weather, which had the men working on the poop to blacken the cannon looking at each other. Blubber Booth spat a thumb in the direction of the glass, but not before he had allowed himself a good look round to make sure it was unobserved, an act which brought a smile from Martin Dent.

  By careful movement both had heard what had gone on in the great cabin: like all tars they were adept at eavesdropping, so much so that it was taken as read they could hear a whisper through a wooden bulkhead. Both had witnessed the Burns interview, important given they were in his division. They despised him for the very reasons Taberly had seen fit to raise: he was useless, always uncertain, and if he was terrified of a fight he commanded men equally unhappy to be led by him.

  ‘We did not draw a good straw when we got Taberly,’ whispered Blubber.

  Martin grinned at his well-larded companion – he was much given to such an expression – and gave a soft response. ‘We got a straw out of the manger muck, mate, an’ no error.’

  It was ever thus in the King’s Navy; you could be sailing sweet with a kindly soul one minute and then get a tartar of a captain the next. Taberly’s predecessor had been a halfway house, intemperate one day and seeming kind the next, who had led Glaister, if anyone, a merry dance, but matters had gone downhill since he departed.

  Glaister was known as the Skelton, this due to a face of scarce and pallid skin over prominent bones. The Scotsman they could live with: he was strict but fair and it had been expected one day he would get his step at least into a non-rated ship. The arrival of Taberly, and a right bastard as he had proved from day one, had turned a far from pleased Glaister into an equally harsh officer.

  There had been floggings already, as Taberly set out to impose himself on the men he led, which had been rare under his predecessor. Deserved, no man objected to the punishment; it was only right if a man transgressed he should receive his due. But Taberly was too fond of it, his lashes too many for the offence, so that much blood had been drawn. HMS Brilliant was not a happy ship.

  In San Fiorenzo Bay there was the usual cheer at the arrival of a packet from England. It carried despatches, of course, but also letters and newspapers to a set of men eager for news from home. For Admiral Sir William Hotham KB, the most important missive was confirmation from Earl Spencer, First Lord of the Admiralty, to say that Lord Hood would be relieved and that he was now de facto as well as the titular commander in the Mediterranean.

  ‘Toomey, word to the captains. There will be revels this night.’

  The clerk was unused to his employer being animated; Sir William was rarely given to excitement, indeed Toomey reckoned him too often vacillating, which made it a good job that he had a clever Irishman to counsel him. Now Hotham was calling to his steward to fetch up from his storeroom the finest wines he had in his private stock like a man favoured with a firstborn son.

  ‘I take it, Sir William, you are in receipt of good tidings?’

  That question was posed for form’s sake alone; Toomey could too easily guess at what had engendered such a mood.

  ‘The old devil has got his just deserts.’

  ‘Lord Hood?’

  ‘Who else, man. Thank the Almighty I shall not have to suffer his damned condescension ever again.’

  There was real venom in that response; Hotham and Hood had been chalk and cheese. If outright dislike was tempered by manners it had been thin in both cases, never more so than when Hood sneered at whatever advice his second in command put forward. Now the old man was gone and Hotham could act as he wished.

  ‘All we need now, Toomey, is for the French to oblige us with a contest.’

  ‘May I be allowed to offer you my congratulations, sir?’

  ‘Thank you Toomey, and now you are serving as clerk to a fleet commander you will enjoy a steep raise in your stipend, which I say is thoroughly deserved.’

  ‘A trifle, Sir William, compared to your news.’

  That was a lie; to the clerk, rising with his employer was as important to him as any other person’s elevation. A man careful with his money – short arms and deep pockets were what others said of him – Toomey saved for a purpose. He aspired to nothing more than to accumulate enough for a life ashore with the means to take his pleasures. A good long spell as clerk to the C-in-C would secure that for him.

  Hotham was taking his hat, preparatory to going on deck, for the fleet would find out his news quick enough. When the captain of HMS Britannia hauled down the white ensign that had indicated Vice Admiral Hood’s command to replace it with the flag of William Hotham, Vice Admiral of the Blue Squadron, all would be revealed. He had not been long on deck when the signal gun boomed out to attract attention.

  Captain Ralph Barclay was in his shirtsleeves, one empty part of the linen pinned up, when the cannon boomed out across the anchorage and he paid it little heed, given he was engaged in reading his own correspondence. A signal gun was a common enough occurrence and if it was not accompanied by the number of HMS Semele it could be ignored.

  Whatever message was raised on Britannia’s halyards would be relayed to him by a messenger sent by the officer of the watch as a matter of course. There was no messenger this time but the lieutenant himself, eager-eyed and excited to say that Lord Hood’s flag had been lowered. Given the arrival of that packet it did not require much thinking to guess what was about to occur.

  ‘All hands, man the yards, and where in the name of Christ is my coat?’

  Barclay was hauling himself out of his chair with his one good hand as beetle-browed Devenow hurried to help him dress. A brute of a man who could scarce cross a room without upsetting something, this was compounded by the fact that he was plainly drunk, a not unusual state in his case.

  ‘Damn you, Devenow, you’ve been at the bottle,’ was Barclay’s response when he was exposed to a blast of foul breath.

  ‘A tipple, Capt’n, no more.’

  ‘Being a servant does not render you immune to the cat!’

  ‘As if that would do any good.’

  This opinion was a whispered one: Cornelius Gherson, Barclay’s clerk and a man at permanent odds with Devenow, was sat in the small cabin that served as his workplace, close enough to overhear every word. His opinion was based on the very obvious fact that the so-called servant had been flogged dozens of times for the offence of drunkenness and it had made no difference at all.

  HMS Semele had come alive. Men were running from all parts of the ship to get aloft to their far-from-familiar stations; it was a rare day, indeed, that any vessel manned the
yards and for some, used to working as waisters, it meant no more than climbing a few feet up the shrouds while the more nimble topmen spread out aloft.

  On deck Barclay surmised that he would have time to wait for the crew to properly assemble; Hotham would not do anything until he was sure he would receive the reception he thought he deserved and he was not the only captain to have reacted. All over the bay the ships had their nimble topmen slithering along the yards on the footropes with an occasional hand detached to ensure they had secure their tarred hats.

  There was silence as William Hotham watched his flag being bent on, the sailors turning to the captain of the ship, John Holloway, to await the command. And wait they did as the admiral savoured his moment. Finally he nodded, Holloway barked and the blue flag shot up the foremast. The joy was to watch all those white flags being struck and every vessel doing likewise.

  There were three Neapolitan ships in the fleet, two 74s and a frigate. They had run up a signal to wish Hotham well, this as the sound broke out across the anchorage as every man in the British Fleet cheered their new commander, soon drowned out as he was afforded his due of a fifteen-gun salute from his own flagship cannon. It would have taken a keen eye to see that there was far from universal joy.

  Sam Hood had been a popular C-in-C, a man who had fought in more than one successful fleet action and, to those he led, a proper sailor. He was the hero of the Battle of the Saintes, the man everyone in the navy reckoned deserved the credit for victory in that action instead of the rapacious sod George Rodney, who had been granted that honour.

  If anyone had told William Hotham he was not loved he would not have cared; he had too much self-regard to be bothered. He could not help but look up at the blue flag, cornered by the ensign of the nation. It was forty-three years since he had first entered as a midshipman and now the dream he had harboured on that day was realised.

  ‘Mr Holloway, we will need to send word to the inshore squadron to change their flags. Let the French see they have a new challenger to deal with.’