Read Online A Shot Rolling Ship by David Donachie - Free Book Online
Authors: David Donachie
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Ralph
Barclay, for he had been meditating on how such losses could affect his career, not on the actual people who had suffered injury and death.
Emily Barclay immediately stepped in to change the subject. ‘Captain Gould, you are I believe from Wiltshire.’
Discussions of family, localities and the foibles of locals kept the conversation flowing through the courses that followed, which were of a consistently high standard; a fricassee of sweetbreads followed by a leg of mutton with currant jelly, onion sauce, salad and potatoes. Likewise the wines were splendid, a fine white burgundy from that bucket of cold seawater to go with the fish course and a very decent claret with the meat and cheese, that followed by a Château Y’Quem to accompany the sweet plum pudding which Emily Barclay was keen to inform their guest was entirely the idea and creation of the ship’s cook. It was a meal fit for an admiral.
The cloth was drawn, and Emily, who knew her place, rose from the table to leave the men to their affairs.
‘That was a damn fine dinner, Mrs Barclay,’ said Gould, half out of his chair. ‘Had I known you were such a dab hand at provender I would have engaged you to provide my own stores.’
‘Have a care of your purse, Captain Gould, for my wife is a dab hand at disbursement too.’
‘I thank you for the compliment, Captain Gould,’ said Emily, her face set. ‘I have to admit to a certain amount of nerves, this being the first occasion on which Captain Barclay and I have entertained. Such a pity that I did not get to know so many of the ship’s officers before we lost them.’
‘Then I am flattered,’ Gould replied, aware that there had been a rebuke to her husband in her words.
‘If you will permit, husband, I think I will go and sit with Mr Roscoe.’
‘My dear.’ Both men half stood as she left, Barclay saying as the door shut, ‘She reads to him out loud, but I doubt the poor fellow can hear.’
‘If anyone can stir some life in his breast, sir, I am sure it is Mrs Barclay.’
‘That’s an odd notion, Gould. Personally, I put more faith in the surgeon, though he is such an odd fellow I would be forced to qualify any confidence. Now, let me oblige you with a more fulsome account of the action.’
Which Ralph Barclay did: but it was not the truth, it was a version highly edited to flatter him and his actions, while at the same time diminishing the activities of anyone else, especially a pressed seaman called John Pearce and the useless midshipman, his wife’s nephew, Toby Burns, an account he could never have delivered with Emily present.
The maindeck fell silent as she emerged, book in one hand, nosegay in the other, each sailor stiffening in whatever pose he held, except those immediately encountered, who all touched a forelock as she passed. Emily had, she knew, to move slowly, so that word of her presence could spread ahead to the areas of the ship that were very much the preserve of the crew, this to avoid embarrassment to men who might well be partly or wholly undressed, or indulging in some activity they would not want her to see. It had been explained to her by other naval wives who had sailed with their husbands as the blind eye, a quite conscious attempt to avoid embarrassment, not confined to women but used by officers to avoid inflicting an endlessstream of punishments for minor infractions of the far too comprehensive regulations which governed life aboard ship.
Sailors diced and played cards, both forbidden; sometimes they fought, well out of sight of anyone in authority, or got together in combinations to discuss grievances, and that left out women smuggled aboard and practices never mentioned in polite conversation. Petty officers who lived in close proximity to their fellow crewmen had authority over them, but had to show sense in how it was applied, for it would never do to be over-zealous when a body thrown overboard at night would be lost forever. Strictly
Barclay, for he had been meditating on how such losses could affect his career, not on the actual people who had suffered injury and death.
Emily Barclay immediately stepped in to change the subject. ‘Captain Gould, you are I believe from Wiltshire.’
Discussions of family, localities and the foibles of locals kept the conversation flowing through the courses that followed, which were of a consistently high standard; a fricassee of sweetbreads followed by a leg of mutton with currant jelly, onion sauce, salad and potatoes. Likewise the wines were splendid, a fine white burgundy from that bucket of cold seawater to go with the fish course and a very decent claret with the meat and cheese, that followed by a Château Y’Quem to accompany the sweet plum pudding which Emily Barclay was keen to inform their guest was entirely the idea and creation of the ship’s cook. It was a meal fit for an admiral.
The cloth was drawn, and Emily, who knew her place, rose from the table to leave the men to their affairs.
‘That was a damn fine dinner, Mrs Barclay,’ said Gould, half out of his chair. ‘Had I known you were such a dab hand at provender I would have engaged you to provide my own stores.’
‘Have a care of your purse, Captain Gould, for my wife is a dab hand at disbursement too.’
‘I thank you for the compliment, Captain Gould,’ said Emily, her face set. ‘I have to admit to a certain amount of nerves, this being the first occasion on which Captain Barclay and I have entertained. Such a pity that I did not get to know so many of the ship’s officers before we lost them.’
‘Then I am flattered,’ Gould replied, aware that there had been a rebuke to her husband in her words.
‘If you will permit, husband, I think I will go and sit with Mr Roscoe.’
‘My dear.’ Both men half stood as she left, Barclay saying as the door shut, ‘She reads to him out loud, but I doubt the poor fellow can hear.’
‘If anyone can stir some life in his breast, sir, I am sure it is Mrs Barclay.’
‘That’s an odd notion, Gould. Personally, I put more faith in the surgeon, though he is such an odd fellow I would be forced to qualify any confidence. Now, let me oblige you with a more fulsome account of the action.’
Which Ralph Barclay did: but it was not the truth, it was a version highly edited to flatter him and his actions, while at the same time diminishing the activities of anyone else, especially a pressed seaman called John Pearce and the useless midshipman, his wife’s nephew, Toby Burns, an account he could never have delivered with Emily present.
The maindeck fell silent as she emerged, book in one hand, nosegay in the other, each sailor stiffening in whatever pose he held, except those immediately encountered, who all touched a forelock as she passed. Emily had, she knew, to move slowly, so that word of her presence could spread ahead to the areas of the ship that were very much the preserve of the crew, this to avoid embarrassment to men who might well be partly or wholly undressed, or indulging in some activity they would not want her to see. It had been explained to her by other naval wives who had sailed with their husbands as the blind eye, a quite conscious attempt to avoid embarrassment, not confined to women but used by officers to avoid inflicting an endlessstream of punishments for minor infractions of the far too comprehensive regulations which governed life aboard ship.
Sailors diced and played cards, both forbidden; sometimes they fought, well out of sight of anyone in authority, or got together in combinations to discuss grievances, and that left out women smuggled aboard and practices never mentioned in polite conversation. Petty officers who lived in close proximity to their fellow crewmen had authority over them, but had to show sense in how it was applied, for it would never do to be over-zealous when a body thrown overboard at night would be lost forever. Strictly
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