By the Mast Divided (8 page)

Indeed each naval wife had felt it her bounden duty to forego their tea to ensure that Emily, whom they knew to be a novice in such matters, was aware of all the things absolutely necessary to a naval officer going on active service. Quill and paper was produced for the compilation of a list and the air was full of advice to ensure that food was plentiful, wine less so for men were weak creatures in the article of consumption. One lady was loud in praise of lemons, another insisting that tubs of purified goose fat be acquired for her husband’s chest so that good Captain Barclay could ward off the chill without smelling like a common seaman, with the added advice that a bit of flannel next to the skin was efficacious in all weathers. There was tincture of this and extract of that – cheeses were compared for the taste and longevity, butter excoriated in favour of lard because it would go rancid – and all the while the list grew longer.

‘I do so hope that you are pleased, husband,’ Emily concluded, a wish that died as soon as he lifted his head from the handful of bills and she saw the look in his eyes, sad rather than angry, reeking of disappointment.

That was the only emotion he could muster, though inside he wanted to scream blue murder. Of all the people in the world, even furious, Ralph Barclay found it impossible to chastise his young wife in the manner he would another. In a world he saw as having been less than kind to him, a rough twenty years at sea climbing the slippery ladder of promotion, she was the one bright spot of good fortune. All the assaults he had received as a midshipman, all the tirades he had endured from idiotic captains as a lieutenant, and the desire he had to get vengeance on them and all those who had slighted him, faded within the orbit of Emily. He could still not believe that she had consented to marry him, a man seventeen years her senior, her second cousin, who had at the time, with no ship and no expectation of one, severely limited prospects. There was, of course, a family inheritance to protect, but Emily had never even alluded to that nor shown him anything other than happy acquiescence in the match.

‘I fear you have been taken advantage of, my dear.’

‘How so?’ Emily replied, the pout returning to her face in response to the grave tone of his voice.

‘These are the stores an admiral might take to sea, not a mere frigate captain.’

That was not strictly true – a frigate captain, if he had the means to buy on credit, might well include in his personal stores pipes of fine wine, quality hams both cured and dried, tubs of cheese that would mature
and taste better the longer they were left, food salted as well as fresh and enough live animals, pigs, sheep and chickens to ensure good dinners for several months to come.

‘I was led to believe,’ she said, eyes now fixed on the floor, ‘that you would wish to entertain both the officers on your ship, as well as those from other vessels, and that your standing amongst them would demand that you kept a good table.’

‘I do think, Mrs Barclay, that when it comes to entertaining my fellow officers, I have the right to be consulted.’

‘Of course.’

‘And I do also advance the opinion,’ he continued in a stern tone, ‘that it is likely to make me uncomfortable to return to the station after an absence of only one day, only to be told by a fellow Post Captain that Gould, regardless of the rank by which he is termed, an officer with whom we are bound to have a high degree of contact in the coming weeks, was assiduous in his attentions towards you at an Assembly Room dance, an affair I doubt we would have even attended if I had been in Sheerness.’

That was wounding. Who was this other captain and what had he said to her husband? Whatever it was, it was not true. While Gould’s attention had been persistent, it had not been excessive – he had not monopolised her attention and she had entered many other names on her dance card, not to still wagging tongues, but merely because she enjoyed dancing, something of which husband Ralph disapproved. The fact that he had gone to London had allowed her the chance to indulge herself in what might be her last dance for months.

‘If I have embarrassed you in any way, I am most humbly sorry.’

‘Please pack my sea chest, Mrs Barclay, and your own. I must hasten aboard and see how we stand in the matter of weighing anchor.’

His visit to the ship’s chandler, which time certainly did not permit, in an effort to get him to take back the goods for which Emily had engaged, proved fruitless. She had, of course, been persuaded to buy from the most expensive and rapacious source in the port. He left the warehouse with the stinging rebuke in his ear, one that he had endured in the past and was only too pertinent now, to ‘mind his credit, if he did not want to be had up for debt’.

Back in the pinnace, being rowed out to his ship, which was surrounded by hoys loading stores, Ralph Barclay calculated what he owned and what he owed, and came to a conclusion that was reflected
in the face that came through the gangway, his mood not mollified by the line of waiting officers and midshipmen, the stamp of marine boots or the fluting of Bosun’s pipes. He looked along the deck, glaring at the sight of his men toiling to get all they were due aboard, a task which should by now have been completed. Not one returned that look, or dared to observe their captains disposition too closely, reckoning that if by mischance they caught their commander’s eye, given the mood he was plainly in, it would likely be seen as a challenge and bring down upon them a subsequent chastisement.

His crew respected him, and not just because he had the reputation as a man willing to employ the cat. More than half were long-in-the-tooth, deep-water sailors, and had served with hard-horse captains before; they had learnt either through their own experience or the misfortune of others what was punishable and what was not. And even if they had not shared a hull with him before they knew of Ralph Barclay’s character – that he saw a direct stare as insolence, an untidily rolled hammock, a misplaced bucket or swab, even a rope not coiled neat as intolerable. He liked his deck planking snow white, his guns and the balls that lay behind them an even, rust-free black, and he had an eagle eye for anything that transgressed those high standards. And he had made it plain in his standing orders that, when it came to sailing, he wanted
Brilliant
to be a crack frigate, one that any Admiral would pick out by habit to perform the tasks that brought a naval officer wealth and glory.

Not that he had been gifted with subordinates who would make that easy. In the article of officers, who now stood in a line before him, HMS
Brilliant
was not a happy ship. Though careful to observe the proper forms, he disliked the First Lieutenant Hood had foisted on him, and had little regard for his second and third for the same reason. It was not vanity that made him want his own appointees around him. It was an axiom of the service that lieutenants should have a loyalty to their captain that transcended mere proximity of rank – indeed they should depend on him and be willing to sacrifice their own interests to his so that, in turn, he could repay such fidelity by making heartfelt recommendations for their advancement.

That was how he had stood in regard to his patron Admiral Rodney – the death of that man had put an obvious check on Ralph Barclay’s career. There was nothing worse than being the client of a deceased flag officer. Years of allegiance that should have paid off with consideration went into the death casket with the cadaver. Had Rodney still been alive he would have had an active command, and being gifted that from the Admiralty
would have presented them with a list of captains he wanted in his fleet – Ralph Barclay flattered himself that he would have been one of those. In turn he would have got a better ship, a bigger frigate or even a ship-
of-the
-line, with the ability to pick his own inferior officers, some of them lieutenants who had been with him as captains servants or midshipmen since before they were breeched. Like he had looked to Rodney, they had looked to him to get them a place, and Ralph Barclay had endured more than one painful interview in which, thanks to the intransigence of Sam Hood, he had been obliged to disappoint his followers.

The lesser officers he could do nothing about. No naval captain chose his Purser, Boatswain, Carpenter or Cook – they served on board a ship to which they were permanently attached by warrant. His crew he would come to know in time, and he expected they would fear to displease him, because he had and was proud of his reputation as a strict disciplinarian, something that would be known by any old Navy men. The rest, landsmen pressed or volunteers, would learn soon enough the boundaries of naval discipline as applied by their captain.

‘Mr Roscoe.’

‘Sir,’ replied the First Lieutenant, stepping forward. Roscoe had a lopsided countenance, one half seeming, with a lazy eye and collapsed cheek, to have no muscles, and that affected his speaking voice. He also had a drooping lip, which often made a very ordinary look seem amused. Yet a person had only to glance at the sound half of his face to see that there was a man to whom humour appeared alien.

‘I require an explanation as to why we have yet to complete our stores?’

‘I plead the shortage of hands, sir, and the boats, barring one, were with you.’

‘It did not occur to you to request hands and boats from another ship, a guard ship perhaps or one that has the luxury of time?’

What could Roscoe say? That Davidge Gould had got to the guard ships before him, and no commander of a fighting vessel in his right mind – the only option left – would lend men to someone like Ralph Barclay, captaining a ship short on its own complement and with orders to weigh. So he took refuge in saying nothing.

‘Keep an eye out for our boats coming down river with the hands I have recruited.’ Barclay paused, thinking he might actually have to weigh before they got here, then added, ‘Some twenty in number, Mr Roscoe.’

‘Sir.’

‘I am surprised, sir, that you can take such a statement in so calm a
manner,’ He looked to include the second lieutenant, a grey-haired, slow speaking Dorset man called Thrale, with the face of a kindly uncle, a nonentity; a touch deaf, timid and lacking in confidence. He thought of that Admiralty waiting room with the crowd of lieutenants begging for a ship. How had such a man so impressed Sam Hood as to get himself a place on this one? ‘You too Mr Thrale, given your own failures in that department.’

It was these men he had sent ashore, when first commissioned to command this frigate, with his posters and his money, for which he had been forced to pawn his possessions, and the way they had let him down rankled every time he looked at them. Neither Roscoe nor Thrale responded. Nor did Roscoe add the obligatory, ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

Ralph Barclay knew that his Premier had deliberately left out the acknowledgement that was his due, which made him growl as he looked at the mass of stores piled in various places, and the untidy ropes that littered the deck planking. A goat was wandering about as it pleased, and the lowing of the beef cattle in the waist grated as much as the clucking of the hens in the coop behind the wheel. His Standing Orders, detailed instructions for the running of the ship, written so that all his subordinates would have no doubt as to how he wished things done, had been very particular about that – no ship could ever be brought to a high standard of cleanliness if the most visible part of it was untidy.

‘And this deck, Mr Roscoe! No doubt you will tell me it was holystoned this very morning but I cannot say it is evident.’

‘If I may be allowed to go about my duties…’

‘You had better, Mr Roscoe,’ Barclay interrupted, ‘for I shall be back on deck within the hour, and I expect to find it spotless and clear of obstructions. I will also then wish to know that I can, without excuse, weigh anchor according to my instructions.’

He heard Roscoe bark at Thrale as he walked away, the Premier exercising his right to pass abuse down the chain of command. He did not see the malevolent looks aimed at his back, from officers and men alike, who had been toiling like Trojans since before first light, and felt they had the right to see that acknowledged. Not that it would have affected him if he had; ship’s captains required respect, not affection.

After what Ralph Barclay had endured that morning, the relief of making his own cabin was palpable. His steward, Shenton, was there to take his hat, as well as the redeemed silver buckles, which could now go back on his shoes to replace the pinchbeck he had been forced to substitute. His best uniform coat was exchanged for a workaday affair, no longer the deep
blue of a twenty-guinea dress outfit, but faded by sun, wind and weather to a pale imitation of what it had once been; much stitched and with leather patches on the elbows where the material had been worn away. All the officers on deck, who had been obliged to put on their best uniforms for the ceremony of his coming aboard, would be doing likewise, getting back into working clothes to complete the tasks that lay ahead.

The ship’s captain had work of his own – his desk was a mass of papers that could not wait. This was the lot of a commanding officer and it could not be gainsaid nor ignored. He had to write a report on the state of his ship, timbers, hull and masts, and the stores within her, as well as those coming aboard, of the quantity and grade of powder and the amount of shot in the lockers. Water, barrels of salted pork, beef and dried peas, what had been consumed and what was left, as well as the wood he needed to fire the cook’s coppers so that his men could eat. There was rum to account for and the small beer the hands drank in lieu of fresh water. The amount of canvas he had in his sail locker and what gauge it was, as well as what he possessed in the way of spare yards. To this must be appended lists of everything from nails to turpentine, to cables and spare anchors. He also had to include a list of the numbers and ratings of his crew for the purposes of pay, and the whole thing would have to be sent in to the Commodore before the noon gun. His new volunteers would go on that list, rated as landsmen.