A Divided Command (5 page)

The most imposing was a fellow in a full-bottomed wig that dated him from a distant past, the previous century, in fact. Perhaps this was the Bentinck who had come from Holland with William of Orange and set the family on its upward path. In the features, most notably the long and sharp nose, there was something of a resemblance to the man waiting to greet him.

Not that the welcome was in any way warm: Portland, sat in a high-backed armchair, was a cold fish who rarely made any attempt to temper his air of innate superiority, a haughtiness he eschewed for very few people, and certainly not for this particular visitor. Pale of skin, with dull eyes under greying hair, he looked like a man who saw daylight as inimical to good health, which had Ralph Barclay thinking that to such an aristocrat, his ruddy complexion, his features weathered by a life spent at sea, must appear coarse indeed.

‘Leave us.’

This dismissal was aimed at the fellow clutching in his hands a sheaf of papers – there were more on the table before him – which he began to add to those he already carried. Such a sight made Barclay seethe even more; he had spent over an hour waiting so that Portland could see to his business affairs, which surely could have been put to one side. It was a repeat of the disdain with which the Duke had received him the first time they met and it did nothing to stifle the feelings of exasperation.

‘You will wish me to leave this letter, Your Grace?’ asked the factotum, producing the article. ‘It is the one from Captain Barclay.’

The reply was a languid nod, before Portland took the missive and, using a lorgnette, looked over it, this while his man disappeared; his visitor was left to stand in silence for a good minute.

‘What you say in part of this letter, Barclay, is of some interest to me.’

‘I had hoped it might be, Your Grace.’

‘Not very flattering about Admiral Lord Howe, though, wouldn’t ye say?’

‘I have reported what I observed—’

The interruption was sharp. ‘And have written to me, since you do not feel that the gentleman in question has given you the credit which you are sure you are due?’

‘In that I am not alone, Your Grace. As I have detailed in my letter, I am not the only captain who fought on the First of June to feel his honour and abilities impugned, a matter I raised with Sir Phillip Stephens at the Admiralty.’

‘And how did the secretary respond?’

‘With the kind of reserve that one would expect from such a functionary. He seems far more interested in the King’s joy at the victory than any investigations of impropriety that might temper that. I am assuming you have read Lord Howe’s despatch?’

‘Dreary stuff to a landsman, Barclay, but yes, I have read it.’

Ralph Barclay waited for a ducal opinion; he waited in vain, which forced him to speak again. ‘While the conduct of the battle raises certain questions, Your Grace, you will
see, as I have detailed, that there is some doubt as to whether it should have been fought at all. If I may refer to recent events in France, can we see a connection between the fall of the tyrant Robespierre and the lack of bread to feed the denizens who elevated him?’

Portland put the back of a hand to his mouth, as if stifling a yawn. ‘I think not, Barclay. More likely those who guillotined him did so to avoid suffering a similar fate themselves. Have we not seen this damned revolution eat its own already? I doubt the mass of “citizens” had much say in the matter, with bellies full or empty.’

‘And yet we have no sign from Paris of any moves to make peace, which I humbly suggest would not be the case if the country was starving.’

His letter was waved again. ‘I read your opinion on that.’

Barclay was seeking some indication of his host’s attitude, but with his indolent delivery it was impossible to form a view. Was what Portland had read useful to him or not, for whatever arrangements had been made with Pitt, the Whigs were ever keen to curtail the powers of the monarchy and even more so to force an election which would propel them to untrammelled power.

‘Do I need to remind Your Grace that Lord Howe got his command through the direct intervention of His Majesty King George.’

‘No, Barclay, you do not!’

That reply was sharp, it being a fact well known, added to the unproven one of why that particular admiral was so favoured. Many believed, on what was flimsy evidence, that Howe was a blood relative of King George, albeit born on the wrong side of the blanket to the mistress of the previous
monarch. To a Whig politician, schooled in the tenets of the Glorious Revolution of 1688 and a Bentinck to boot, the exercise of such royal interference in government or the affairs of the military was anathema.

The pause that followed was one Barclay felt once more he could not break. Howe had given unstinting praise to many of the men who had officered his fleet, but not to Ralph Barclay, indeed he had questioned his actions in the battle, naming them as tardy. Yet he had suffered least in that regard: several of his fellow officers had been castigated in writing to the point where it sounded like an accusation of cowardice.

Those Howe praised, many of them long-time client officers, were to be the recipients of specially struck medals celebrating the Glorious First; Ralph Barclay had been one of those omitted from the list of those to be so favoured, which was not a slight he was prepared to let pass.

‘I seem to recall that you received a wound in the action?’

The question, as well as the manner in which it was conveyed, made Barclay wonder if Portland had even noticed he was a one-armed captain, having suffered a left-arm amputation after taking a bullet at Toulon, one which shattered his elbow. Tempted to refer to that, he saw sense in sticking to the subject under discussion.

‘To the thigh, Your Grace, and I lost so much blood I passed out. But this was at a time when
HMS Semele
was fully engaged with the
Vengeur du Peuple
, which as you no doubt are aware, we damaged so severely she sank.’

‘Yes,’ Portland actually yawned this time, as if such a thing as a vessel going down with in excess of six hundred men was
trivial. ‘If you would be more comfortable seated, Captain, please feel free to do so.’

With a contrariness compounded by stupidity, even though his thigh was paining him, Barclay’s reply was firm. ‘I am happy to stand, Your Grace!’

‘So be it. Now, about this damned grain convoy?’

‘I fear I need to provide a full explanation, Your Grace, so perhaps with your permission I will sit down.’

That got a wave of the lorgnette and once seated Barclay launched into his case, which was, quite simply, that Lord Howe, well aware, as was his government, of impending famine in France – the harvest had failed for the second year running – should have sought out and destroyed the American convoy bringing relief in the form of hundreds of vessels full of grain, rather than fought an action with the French battle fleet. Even if he was privately glad Howe had not done so, it provided a lever by which he and those like him could seek redress.

‘You maintain, in this letter of yours, that he was deliberately drawn away from the grain convoy and the fact was, if not obvious, then plain enough to warrant consideration?’

‘I recorded that very opinion in my own log at the time, which now resides within the vaults of the Admiralty.’

It could not be said that Portland sat up when Ralph Barclay said that, but there was a definite movement, a physical reaction, followed by a slightly querulous complaint as the letter was waved once more.

‘You did not say so in this.’

‘I did not want to commit that to writing, Your Grace, without having spoken to you first. If such information is to
be of any use, then it is best that it not be disseminated too freely.’

That mollified the man, as it was intended to do, even if it implied his correspondence was not secure, which allowed Barclay to detail what he had seen and how it had been played out.

‘Are such logs not first examined by the flag officer?’

Given a chance of a bit of his own condescension, Ralph Barclay could not resist the temptation to employ it; his tone was positively fatherly. ‘Not personally, Your Grace, they go to his clerks and their examination is cursory, more concerned with beef and pork in the barrel than battle tactics.’

There was no doubting Portland’s tone when he replied; it was positively incensed that he should be so addressed. ‘So your observations were missed.’

Barclay took refuge in being matter of fact. ‘Our outer screen spotted the topsails of a lone frigate on the horizon, which immediately put up its helm and fled westward. Lord Howe, informed of this, ordered a general chase in pursuit, which I found to be a questionable course of action. Not that I had anyway to communicate that to the flagship and affect the admiral’s thinking.’

‘You infer by that a ploy to draw the fleet away from the convoy?’

‘That is how I saw it at the time and how I recorded it, as I say, in my log. Whatever success we enjoyed it is without doubt true that the real purpose of putting the Channel Fleet to sea was to interdict that convoy and to ensure the grain did not reach France. If that is so, then for all the praise being heaped on Lord Howe, not least from the King himself, it is possible to question if he acted properly, given we are still at
war with the Revolution and the populace of France has the food to keep going.’

‘And now that you have passed this information on to me, what is it you hope to gain?’

‘Redress, equity, perhaps to let it be known that Lord Howe is something less, an idol with feet of clay rather than the flawless hero that is being claimed. If that can be used to political advantage, there is only the question of how that is to be achieved, and for that I seek your advice. Is it something that should be handled with discretion …’

‘Or?’

‘Do we who feel slighted, especially Captains Bertie and Taylor, along with myself, demand a court martial to establish the truth and clear our names and our reputations?’

The Portland chin rested on the aristocratic chest as the peer digested that remark and considered its consequences, none of which were a mystery to his visitor. Would such a course serve the interests of the Whigs or should he put what would be an embarrassment to the government of which he was a member before party advantage? Ralph Barclay did not care which course would be adopted, only that something should be done; he deserved praise not censure and he most certainly wanted that medal.

‘Leave this with me for consideration, Captain Barclay.’

‘Am I allowed to say to you, Your Grace, that there is a matter of time to be considered?’

Portland knew he was being warned not to just sit on what he had heard and, powerful enough to rarely be threatened, he reacted with palpable irritation, his voice now a hiss.

‘Be so good as to ask my man of business to return on your way out.’

John Pearce was re-examining his logs prior to their transfer to the flagship, not least those covering his detour to Leghorn, to make sure that they met the requirements of the service. The worry that they would not was a bane that plagued every captain of a King’s ship in the navy, for these ledgers were not just a record of his course, speed and location, with details of sails set as well as the prevailing wind, tide and sea states: other books listed everything that had been used since he had sent the previous set in from Buckler’s Hard to the commanding admiral at Portsmouth.

The powers that ruled placed little faith in the honesty of their officers, which was just as well given the lengths many went to in an attempt to circumvent the restrictions placed on them for private gain. The master and commander of
HMS Larcher
was well aware of his lack of the kind of nautical knowledge acquired from serving for years at sea; he was even more acutely conscious of his ignorance when it came to the art of capperbar: the ability to compose logs in a way that hid from the admiralty
clerks – they being the final examiners – things that could be justifiably lost in the maze of figures.

It was bad enough just having to account for what had been properly consumed: beef, pork and peas in the barrel, small beer and rum, as well as the wear on sails, cables and rope. God help you if you lost an anchor and it was reckoned as carelessness! Even if you had engaged in a successful action, as he had off the coast of Portugal, the amount of powder and shot he had expended, accounted for to him by the gunner, as well as the timber, canvas and cordage needed to repair any damage, would be pored over to ensure he was not gilding it and selling that dishonestly claimed on to the first merchant captain he encountered.

The banging of the distant gun that penetrated into his tiny cabin was only remarkable when it was repeated, that deep boom bringing home to him that it was not a recognition signal being fired – too common to be remarked upon – but a main armament weapon. Standing up he stopped short of hitting his crown on the low deck beams above, this based on much previous experience of the sharp pains induced by too much haste, just as Michael O’Hagan knocked and entered, his smile broad and his green eyes alight.

‘There’s a frigate – that captured Frenchie
Lutine
I am told – coming up hell for leather, John-boy, and firing away like it were a royal birthday.’

Still crouching, for the doorway was even lower than the cabin roof, Pearce followed O’Hagan out on to the deck, to find the side lined with most of the crew, all gazing to the north and the headland that formed the western arm of San Fiorenzo Bay. For a moment he considered ordering them back to whatever duties they had left uncompleted but to do
so, when they were at anchor and nothing could be said to be pressing, would be churlish.

‘The flags
HMS Lutine
has aloft, Mr Dorling?’

‘Enemy has struck her colours, Capt’n, which I take leave to mean that Calvi has fallen, her being part of Captain Nelson’s squadron. Wouldn’t make no sense otherwise.’

Overheard by those closest, which on such a vessel meant a goodly number of the crew, the beginnings of a hurrah began to sound out, which Pearce killed off with a sharp command to belay.

‘It wouldn’t do to tempt providence, lads, best wait till you are sure of the good news before we start cheering.’

‘Permission to send a boat alongside, sir, and gather that in?’

‘Granted,’ Pearce replied, again on the grounds it could do no harm, ‘though I must go back to my damned logs.’

Which he did while the boat was launched and it was not alone; nearly every captain in the fleet was agog to hear the news and too impatient to wait for it to be disseminated from
HMS Victory
. John Pearce heard the noise, as the boat was hauled alongside and manned, somewhat jealous of the freedom enjoyed by those who served, as he had once done, before the mast. They obeyed orders instead of issuing them and had no need to record their every action as well as every drop used of cleansing vinegar with quill and ink.

The cannon fire did not go unnoticed aboard the flagship, though Hood did not stir from his chair, continuing what he thought of as his conversation with William Hotham: to the recipient it was more like a lecture. In this Hood had first advised him of his intention to take some leave at a date yet to be established, with the insistence that he would be
returning to the Mediterranean and his command in due course, which allowed him, as he took care to point out, to dictate how he wished matters to proceed in his absence.

It had been instructive to see how Hotham reacted, for if he thought himself a master of dissimulation he was far from correct. The truth of that was not in his face, the features of which he managed to control; it was evident in his hands and the fidgeting thereof, no doubt caused by the thoughts of what he would do once Hood had departed, never mind any orders that were issued. That Hotham twitched even more at the sound of gunfire made the pleasure of keeping him seated and still all the greater; not that Lord Hood would have stirred, it being beneath his rank and dignity to display such obvious curiosity.

It had been hard, when giving Hotham instructions, not to hector him, to keep his orders strictly professional, for Hood was not a fool: he suspected they would be disobeyed as soon as his topsails disappeared over the horizon. For that reason he had his clerk present, as well as Admiral Parker, writing a verbatim record of the conversation.

A copy of this, once neatly written up, would be delivered to
HMS Britannia
along with the papers Hood had accumulated during his tenure in command. Hood had struggled to keep out of his voice the disdain he felt for his second in command, for his tactical appreciations as well as his manner of going about his duties, an area in which, to the thinking of Admiral Parker he had signally failed.

‘It would be worthwhile to hold to it, Sir William, that you have the overall command out here, and while you cannot instruct the likes of General Stuart to undertake operations which he declines to support, you have the right to apply
a great deal of pressure, as I have, I think, demonstrated. I have set a policy of taking control of Corsica, on behalf on the indigenes, of course, and I expect that to be followed.’

Ignoring the hands and looking into that smooth face and those, to his mind, shifty brown eyes, Hood wondered if the sod was paying true attention. As it was he himself was distracted by the knock at his door.

‘Enter.’

‘Captain Knight’s compliments, milord, but
HMS Lutine
is approaching under full sail and flying the signal, enemy has struck.’

‘How long before we have their boat alongside?’

‘Half a glass, sir.’

‘Very well, signal the captain to repair aboard and let me know when his barge is in the water.’ Hood began speaking again as soon as the door closed. ‘Now we must discuss the French fleet and what you must do about it.’

‘I find it insulting, milord, that you think I do not know.’

‘As if I give a damn about that,’ Hood snapped. ‘You had a chance to stop them while I was occupied at Bastia and missed it. It would pain me, Sir William, as well as the British people, if that were to happen again.’

Hotham reddened at that reminder and his voice went lower in tone as he defended himself. ‘I took cognisance, milord, of the facts as I saw them, not least the state of our ships.’

‘It has ever been my policy,’ Hood replied, with a weary tone that was all the more insulting for being so, ‘to take more cognisance of the state of the enemy’s ships.’

‘Yet I think you will agree, milord, that we are short of overwhelming strength and our vessels have been at sea for at least a year, some for near eighteen months, with the
concomitant wear that implies. Our allies choose to stay too far off to give us immediate support, while we are ill placed to sustain any losses. It is an undeniable fact that every vessel in the fleet is short on hands.’

‘That is so, and many of our ships may be in need of a dockyard, but the French are not worked up as we are, having barely been at sea. They will not sail their vessels with a proficiency that can match our own, added to which they cannot handle their guns with anything like the skill our fellows can bring to bear. Cease to worry about the state of your timbers, Sir William, or the whereabouts of the Spanish fleet and put yourself and
my
fleet alongside the enemy should the opportunity present itself, and that, sir, can be taken as a direct order.’

Hood looked at his clerk to make sure that was noted, gratified by the nod.

Parker, hitherto silent and not entirely lacking in sympathy for Hotham, spoke up in order to bring an end to what was beginning to sound like a baiting. ‘I think we can assume, milord, that
Lutine
brings us positive news from Calvi.’

‘Very likely, Admiral Parker,’ Hood replied, with a wicked twinkle in his eye, added to which came a twitch of those straggly, prominent eyebrows. ‘Perhaps it calls for a toast to celebrate, one in which Sir William will no doubt join us, given he was so positive in his support for that particular operation.’

If Hotham was furious, and to Parker’s mind he had a right to be, he hid it well, the only sign a clenching into fists of those fidgeting hands. It had to be admitted, though, that if he carried questionable ability as a fighting sailor he had never lacked the skills of the natural courtier. He stood and smiled, as if he had not just been reminded of his real position on Calvi, and spoke with an even voice.

‘Settle for my congratulations, milord, if indeed such news is in the offing, but do not let me dampen any high spirits that ensue. Also, before I return to my own ship let me offer you my hope that you have a safe passage home and a good and fruitful period of leave.’

He might as well have said, ‘I hope you damn well drown!’

‘Mr Burns,’ Horatio Nelson cried, his normally high-pitched voice made even more so by his obvious delight, ‘you have no idea how it pleases me to see you alive and well. We were sure you had made the sacrifice.’

Greedily drinking from a butt, Toby Burns had water dripping from his chin as he looked up and responded, his glance automatically taking in the half-closed right eye, still showing signs of bruising. ‘You did not know I was captured, sir?’

‘No we did not, young sir, for our French friends did not see fit to tell of anyone they had taken, although we forbore to pronounce you were definitely dead as we were lacking a corpse. But let us say it was assumed to be true and I was mightily cast down by the fact, blaming myself entirely.’

There was a moment then, a flash of a thought – that, had he known, he could have just disappeared – one that had to quickly be buried regardless of how it momentarily lifted his spirits. That was replaced with one of annoyance; he was indeed being hailed by the very man who had put him at risk of being killed. If Nelson observed the look that crossed Toby’s face it did not register; he had come closer and as he did so his nose twitched, followed by a look he made no attempt to hide, one that took in the state of the midshipman’s clothing.

‘I see that the French adhered to their normal standards
of cleanliness.’ Nelson turned and called to another officer. ‘Lieutenant Farmiloe, be so good as to escort your old friend to a place where he can certainly wash and get his breeches cleaned, and on my purse let us advance him a new shirt.’

‘Lieutenant, Dick?’ Burns asked, as an arm shepherded him in the direction of Farmiloe.

‘Newly minted this very month,’ Nelson responded, his good cheer once more evident, ‘and very deserving of his elevation.’

‘Might I point out, sir,’ Farmiloe said, ‘that Mr Burns missed his examination through his incarceration.’

‘Bless me, I had forgotten that, which makes me doubly sorry for the troubles with which I have assailed you. On my word I will speak with Lord Hood and see if we cannot make amends.’

‘Do not go to any trouble on my behalf, sir.’

‘Mr Burns, once more your reticence does you credit. Now go with Mr Farmiloe, get busy on your return to the human race and do not keep him too long – I need his aid in getting my guns back aboard
Agamemnon
.’

‘If ever there was a duty to avoid, it is that one,’ Dick Farmiloe whispered, as they moved away, past the tars toiling to move cannon that had been in place for a month and had trunnions well sunk into the soil. ‘Do you recall what it was like getting the damn thing up here in the first place?’

‘I do,’ Toby murmured, though he was not really thinking on that. ‘How hard was the examination?’

‘I was sure I had flunked it. If I replied to any of the questions without a stammer I cannot recall it, in truth I would struggle to remember anything that happened clearly, except that my knees were shaking so hard it must have been
visible, even seated with hands seeking to hold them steady.’

‘And yet you managed to study your books, I suppose, during the siege, I mean?’

‘As much as my duties here allowed, Toby, and it is to be thankful that night falls early in these parts, for if it had stayed light as it does at home in summer, we would have been plying those cannon until ten of the clock.’

‘The town is totally destroyed, I saw it as we came out from the citadel.’

Toby was guided into a building that had once been part of a monastery, the interior cool after the heat of the open, to find and pass the servants of the military officers busy breaking down campaign cots and packing the chests that lay beside them with the possessions of their masters, finally stopping next to a series of hammocks slung from the roof beams, with a battered chest below picked out with Dick Farmiloe’s initials.

‘This is my berth, so strip off your things, Toby, and I will see to your breeches.’ The question being implicit in the look he got as he removed his blue coat, Farmiloe added, ‘We have local women who clean them up amazingly well and in this heat they dry in an hour. There is a place to wash in that little room over there, though it’s damn cold, being spring-fed. I will see about some stockings and a shirt, for those you have are beyond saving.’