Read Online By the Mast Divided by David Donachie - Free Book Online Page B

number. What did that matter, there were never enough men – the peacetime Navy had to expand ten times to accommodate the needs of war; the press-gangs had long since swept the country bare, and Sam Hood was not sitting with an officer he cared to indulge.
    ‘You may leave it on my desk, though I doubt I shall have time to read it,’ Hood had said, going back to his pile of letters, but his parting words had made Ralph Barclay wonder if he was a reader of minds. ‘I daresayyou will man your ship somehow, though I would remind you of the very necessary statutes that exist to ensure that, should you go pressing, you only take up men qualified for service at sea.’
     
    Those very words were rattling round Ralph Barclay’s mind as he came abreast of the Tower of London. He called to Midshipman Farmiloe, to draw his attention to pinpoints of light that dotted the bank and the green behind. ‘See yonder, Farmiloe, those camp fires?’
    ‘Sir.’
    ‘I daresay you have no knowledge of who they warm?’
    ‘None, sir.’
    ‘Sailors, Mr Farmiloe, that’s who. Prime seamen, every one a volunteer, come to the Tower as the place where the Impress Service is taking in recruits for the same Navy in which it is our honour to serve.’
    Richard Farmiloe would have been wary of his captain whatever mood he was in – and that was not always easy to know. But the note of sarcasm in Ralph Barclay’s voice rendered him doubly cautious. The man was capricious, and what seemed like the sharing of a witticism one second, could turn to unbridled wrath the next. So he took refuge in being obtuse.
    ‘Why, that is amazing, sir.’
    ‘It’s a damned disgrace,’ Barclay spat.
    A voice barked in the darkness. ‘Sheer off you fucking swab.’
    ‘Damn you, Hale! Do you want to see us in the river?’ Barclay shouted, at the sound of clashing oars.
    This was aimed at his coxswain, Lemuel Hale, steering his boat. Distracted by the sight of those very same fires he had taken him so close to the wherry of a Thames waterman, leading to that shouted curse. Accustomed to such abuse, Hale merely made sure his eyes did not lock with those of his captain.
    They were well past Tower Green and the sparkling camp-fires before Barclay returned to the subject. ‘They are held there at the express orders of Lord Hood. What do you say to that?’
    ‘Words fail me, sir,’ replied Farmiloe.
    ‘There’s much that fails you, boy,’ Barclay spat, ‘not least that empty head of yours. Does it not occur to you to enquire why?’
    ‘I would not presume, sir.’
    ‘I doubt you know the true meaning of the word presumption.’
    Ralph Barclay finally arrived at the decision that he would be safer at sea than at anchor. None of the men at the Tower would be releaseduntil Hood had resolution of his dilemma. Even when the shackles were undone none of these men might be assigned to a ship bound for Mediterranean service. Even if they were, he did not stand high enough in the man’s estimation to be at the head of the queue.
    ‘I have done my duty, let others worry as to whether they have done theirs.’
    His earlier concerns were not allayed – there would be hell to pay if he was caught with these pressed men, because not one of them was a sailor. Hood’s parting shot was still fresh enough in his mind to induce a chill that had nothing to do with the winter weather. He reassured himself with the thought that the punishment for the offence he had committed that night tended to fade with time. Once he was at sea with that convoy it could be years before he touched the English shore again, years in which the pressed men would be either dead or inured to life at sea. If there was one aboard who could survive and had the wit to bring a complaint against him, he had, in mitigation, that letter he had left with Hood, which stated that Captain Ralph Barclay, in order to properly serve his King and Country, now found himself in a position where desperate measures