A Flag of Truce E-Book

David Donachie

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Serie: John Pearce
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Seitenzahl: 498

Beschreibung

Revolution. Bloodshed. Glory. 1793. Returning triumphant from Corsica, Lieutenant John Pearce receives a mixed welcome. But with the siege of Toulon escalating in violence and the French Revolutionary Army preparing to attack, all thoughts of revenge must be put on hold as Pearce is entrusted with a dangerous mission. When their assignment goes awry, it is up to Pearce and his comrades to prevent the inevitable bloodshed, but challenging the Revolutionaries as well as their navy could be a fatal mistake - Set against the backdrop of the bloody French Revolution, A Flag of Truce brilliantly combines a gripping adventure with intricate historical detail, to explosive effect.

Leseprobe

A Flag of Truce

DAVID DONACHIE

To Jack & Beryl Denny

Such staunch friends – one an oasis of calm; the other, active, erudite, kindness itself, with a gift for creating well-intentioned mayhem.

Contents

Title Page

Epigraph

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Author’s Note

Also by David Donachie

About the Author

By David Donachie

Copyright

Chapter One

John Pearce, standing on the quarterdeck of HMS Weazel, could see the faint outline of Mont Faron, rising over two thousand feet behind the port of Toulon, but it was, despite the best efforts of Neame, the ship’s master, coming no closer. A tramontane, howling down from the Alps into the Gulf of Lions, meant it was impossible to make any headway going north-north-east, and that was before it had acted upon the sea to turn this part of the Mediterranean into a maelstrom of wind-whipped water. The oilskins he was wearing were supposed to keep him dry, but every time a wave broke over the bows, sending back a cascade of furious white spume, it seemed at least a gallon found its way into those gaps between skin and garment, so that his clothes beneath were as wet as if he had been clad in them alone, and some of the salt had soaked the bandage on his arm, where a musket ball had grazed it, making the wound sting like the devil.

His presence on the deck was purely for show; John Pearce might be a lieutenant in King George’s Navy, and in temporary command of the ship, but he knew he was not fit to be in charge of a vessel in this kind of weather. He lacked the necessary experience, having come by his rank through a royal command rather than the years of experience normally required to pass for his position. But given such a hearty blow, and the fact that there was some slight risk to the ship, he felt it necessary to adopt the position a proper captain would occupy; on deck, getting soaked, looking keenly ahead through salt-encrusted eyes, giving an impression of magisterial calm and an utter confidence that was totally at odds with his true feelings.

Occasionally, as also befitted his station, he would glance over to see how his consort, under the command of the young midshipman, Mr Harbin, was faring. The Mariette, captured after a hot action in a Corsican bay, was ploughing into the seas with as little effect as his own vessel, and the sight of her rearing and bucking, the tip of her bowsprit hitting wave after wave, the surge of the water from each coursing along her decks, was a mirror image of what was happening beneath his own widely spread feet. From her side a steady jet of water was blown asunder as the men below worked the pumps to discharge that which no amount of tarpaulins stretched tight across hatches could keep out. Likewise, the close-reefed topsails mirrored that above his head, with just a scrap of sail showing on both main and jib to allow the ship to hold itself into the gale.

‘It be a bugger this wind,’ yelled Neame, his mouth pressed close to the gap between the foul weather hat and John Pearce’s ear. ‘Can last for days, can a tramontane, and at its worst many a ship has foundered.’

The temptation to respond with an ironic, ‘Thank you for that,’ died on Pearce’s lips. Neame he had to trust, he being the best man aboard to keep him and his crew from perdition, the man who could get them safely to the snug anchorage below that ring of mountains he saw ahead, one that Neame had informed him was impervious to the wind they were facing, and only at risk from a really heavy levanter.

Levanter, Mistral, Sirocco, Tramontane. These had, only months before, been words of mystery to John Pearce, north, south, east and west winds that – and he struggled from time to time to remember which was which – had come to dominate his thinking, when he was not concerned with the possibility of taking the vessel, a command he had inherited along with their recent capture, into battle. Above his head there was a man lashed to the mainmast cap, swaying through an arc of some thirty feet, eyes peeled on the disturbed horizon for any sign of an enemy vessel.

Safety lay ahead with the British fleet laying in the roadstead off Toulon. Lord Hood, the C-in-C, had taken over the town and harbour, as well as the French fleet, with the active connivance of the majority of the citizenry and leading elements of the French Navy – but that did not mean here, in the offing, some unknown enemy might not lurk, a frigate perhaps keeping watch, for there were known to be several enemy warships that had been at sea when Toulon surrendered. Seeing two vessels of a much lighter draught, one of them with the British ensign flying above a tricolour, evidence of a taken prize, they could perhaps risk an opportunity to make an easy capture.

‘All hands to wear ship,’ shouted Neame, his trumpet aimed at the sodden companionway that led below. It was an unenthusiastic crew that tumbled up onto the deck, but they went to their stations without orders, as Neame yelled once more in his commanding officer’s ear. ‘I feel an easing, sir.’

Pearce was startled and surprised, but he nodded in what he considered the required fashion; if Neame had detected something he had signally failed to interpret, he was not about to argue with him. Yet was he right, was the screaming note, as the wind whistled through the rigging, just a little less oppressive? His mind had wandered, his concentration slipped, and Pearce silently cursed himself for it; he had been thinking of what lay ahead – of the revenge he would take on Ralph Barclay, a man he considered a bitter enemy – rather than what was happening here and now. A lack of concentration was something which no end of people had told him could be fatal, the sea being an unforgiving element for a mind not focused.

‘Lord Hood wishes HMS Brilliant to be kept in the inner harbour, Captain Barclay, that is all I can tell you.’

Vice Admiral Sir William Hotham helped himself to a slice of melon from the plate before him, a handkerchief at the ready to catch the juice which escaped from the corner of his mouth, the whole act of eating such a ripe piece of fruit made more risky by the way HMS Britannia, despite her twin anchors and the protection of the mountains which cut off the worst of the wind, was pitching and rolling on a heavy sea. Ralph Barclay, in hearing what had just been said, was incensed but it would never do to show any dissent to a man on whom he depended for so much.

‘I am obliged to ask, sir, what purpose can a frigate serve in such a situation?’

‘We cannot…’ Hotham paused and wiped his lips. ‘We cannot get one of our own capital ships into the inner harbour, it would smack to our recently acquired allies of distrust.’

‘Well-placed distrust, sir, if I may say.’

Hotham nodded and forked another piece of melon, which he held away from him as he answered. ‘I agree. The French are our allies only in so long as it suits their purpose. A swing in the wind of their damned revolution and we will be fighting them again.’

‘It would have been best, sir, to have seized every one of their ships, never mind that they raised the royal standard.’

It had been a shrewd ploy by Baron d’Imbert, the most active senior officer of the French fleet, once negotiations to take over the port had been concluded, to raise the royal standard, the Bourbon fleur de lys, thus claiming to be fighting the Revolution, supporting the true, if displaced, government of France.

Hotham frowned and waved his fruit on the end of his fork. ‘I fear Lord Hood’s promise to hold them in trust for a Bourbon Restoration places us in restraint. We cannot seize vessels that we acknowledge are the property of others.’

‘Perhaps,’ Ralph Barclay essayed, in a voice lacking certainty, ‘Lord Hood allowed sentiment to cloud his judgement.’

Ralph Barclay considered the care he was exercising well placed. Hotham and Hood did not get on, in fact they saw eye to eye on practically nothing, but that did not mean that a mere frigate captain could damn one admiral in the presence of another, men of such rank being a fickle and touchy bunch.

Hotham shook his head slowly, in that way which denoted a lack of firm opinion. ‘It can only be that, for it is certainly not in the interests of the Navy or our country. Yet it may be that he has seen his error, not admitted it you understand, but seen it, and he had decided to take some necessary precautions.’ The melon disappeared, which necessitated a pause while it was consumed. ‘We have, in HMS Brilliant, the only armed vessel in a position to dominate the Ministry of Marine, the French Arsenal, and the better sections of the town. The wealthy citizens of the Quartier St Roch will not wish to see their properties demolished by cannon fire, which may do more to cement their loyalties to us than the armies besieging the port. Likewise, any sign of plotting in the French naval headquarters and we can reduce it to rubble.’

Ralph Barclay paid great attention to what had just been said, dissecting it for any sign of censure; his frigate was in that inner harbour because it had been captured prior to arrival of the main fleet, though Hotham had defended him stoutly for that in the face of a senior officer who felt that the captain of HMS Brilliant had acted in a rash manner. Then of course there was the other matter.

‘Does this have anything to do, sir, with those base allegations made against me by that upstart Pearce?’

Another piece of melon made it to Hotham’s mouth, and it was with a rather moist tone that Hotham replied. ‘I see you do not grace him with his rank.’

‘Given that both he and his rank are an abomination, I cannot bring myself to do so, even if it was awarded at the King’s pleasure. And the fact Lord Hood saw fit to trust him with an important mission when it came to taking over the port beggars belief.’

The wipe with the handkerchief that followed was swift and irate; Hotham had somehow been reminded of his own position as second-in-command to a man who made it plain he had scant regards for his abilities, who had not bothered to keep him fully informed of his negotiations with the French Navy and the citizenry of Toulon, or that he had sent a French speaking emissary ashore. Indeed, at the height of those talks, a lowly creature like John Pearce, Hood’s representative, had been more au fait with things than he had himself.

‘Lord Hood may have other reasons for the orders I have just relayed regarding your ship, but as you know, Captain Barclay, he does not always grace me with the inner workings of his mind.’

‘I am forced to enquire, sir, has he pronounced on this ridiculous notion of my facing a court martial?’

The silence that followed played hard on Ralph Barclay’s nerves. Could Hotham be toying with him; the man was famous for taking his time in making any statement, even slower in decision, which made risible his nickname of ‘Hotspur’. Also, there was the worry about the balance of their relationship. Hotham had been in receipt of certain favours from the man before him, and, in return, had given an assurance – though nothing was ever openly stated – that in future he would see Captain Ralph Barclay, given his previous patron was dead, as a supporter of his flag and position.

Such a thing was very necessary to both men; no admiral could count himself a success without a number of officers committed to his flag. In turn, the admiral would see to it that those men were rewarded with opportunities or commands. As a C-in-C, that was relatively easy, as a subordinate admiral it was much harder. Lord Hood held all the cards in this command when it came to advancement; officers like Elphinstone, Nelson and Linzee, clients of Hood, had already been favoured. Hotham would get enough scraps to hand to his client officers to keep him from open complaint, but nothing substantial would come his way as long as Hood held the whip hand.

‘My enquiry on that score, at our last meeting, was tentative, Barclay, but I fear that Hood is inclined to accede to Pearce’s demand.’

The lie that followed, and the calm way in which it was expressed, took some effort, but it came out well enough. ‘Then I shall just have to face it, sir, with a clear conscience. What can I possibly have to be concerned about? But I fear the strain on poor Mrs Barclay…’

Hotham spoke quickly for once, interrupting. ‘Damn me, Barclay, I did not ask after your wife. Remiss of me. How is the good lady?’

‘Toiling away at the hospital, sir, saint that she is.’

‘Saint indeed,’ replied Hotham, though the wistful look in his eye had nothing to do with sainthood. Emily Barclay was a beauty twenty years her husband’s junior; there was not an officer in the fleet, of any rank or age, who did not harbour thoughts regarding her, not that anyone would do or say anything that could be construed as dalliance. Codes of behaviour were strict in that regard.

‘Do pass on my compliments,’ said Hotham, ‘and assure her that I will speak again with Lord Hood on the matter.’

Neame was right, the wind had eased although it was still dead foul in its reduced state, but at least both sloops could tack and wear, making slow but discernable progress towards the southern coast of France. A couple of miles offshore there came, carried on that wind, the first dull thuds of gunfire, land-based cannon fire echoing off the hills, which denoted an artillery duel going on inland.

‘The rabble has obviously arrived, sir,’ called Neame, oilskin hat now off, showing soaking wet grey hair above a ruddy, weather-beaten but healthy complexion.

Pearce had likewise removed his hat, and opened the top of his coat to remove his dripping comforter. ‘Don’t underestimate that rabble, Mr Neame. At Jemmapes and Valmy the same sort or revolutionary mass sent packing the cream of Europe’s armies.’

Hard to recall how he had been in Paris when he heard news of those two famous victories for the citizen armies of France, and he could not now remember if he had been pleased or upset, still a partisan of the French Revolution, or already, like his father, prey to doubts. What he did recollect was the way the failing spirit of the Revolution had been lifted by the news, giving the people of France a feeling that they were on a worthy crusade to free the continent from tyranny, and vaguely he felt certain he had shared in that. Euphoria had not lasted; the September Massacres and the beheading of King Louis had soured any feelings of support. Now, following on from the manner of his father’s death, he saw the Revolution as a deadly disease that must be contained and eventually defeated, though not with a restoration of monarchy.

‘Beats me how they did it, sir,’ Neame said, bringing him sharply back to the present. ‘Happen they’d had a stiffening of good old British redcoats; it would have been John Crapaud on the run, not the Duke of Brunswick.’

‘The world turned upside down, Mr Neame.’

The older man looked less than pleased at that remark, which was a reminder of the tune played by those British redcoats who had surrendered to the Americans at Yorktown. But Pearce had not meant it that way; for him, these last four years since the Revolution of ’89 had been a world turned upside down, so much overturned and turned again and again that he was here on this deck in the middle of the Mediterranean, pretending to be a naval officer.

‘I think I shall take the con, Mr Neame.’

The doubt was fleeting, as the master responded, and he had a good look at the diminishing sea state before he did so. ‘As you wish, sir.’

The speaking trumpet was handed over, and he yelled though it, ‘All hands on deck.’ Pearce was pleased with the speed his voice engendered. Once more the crew came tumbling up from below and ran to their stations, as Pearce, knowing that Neame was watching him like a hawk, picked his moment, when HMS Weazel began to sink into a trough, easing the pressure of the wind on the hull and upperworks.

‘Let fly the sheets.’ The men on the falls, who had taken the strain, began to ease those as the marlin spikes were pulled from their holes. On the larboard side the other party of seamen were hauling hard on a yard that was under pressure from the wind, but haul they did, until the leading edge to starboard passed the eye. So had the bows and, as the ship rose on the swell, the wind hitting them aided the movement, the appropriate command was issued.

‘Quartermaster, bring us round on to the larboard tack.’

Beside him the wheel was swung, not without effort, the rudder biting into the sea and, now aided by the still potent tramontane, completing the travel of the bowsprit from well left of Mont Faron, across the head of the Grand Rade of Toulon, until it was shaping for the eastern limit of the mountains that backed the port.

‘Sheet home,’ came the command, and the falls of both sides were lashed off with the yards braced right round, holding in place the sails that would inch the ship forward.

‘Neatly done, sir,’ said Neame.

Looking over he saw that Midshipman Harbin had performed the same manoeuvre and was still on a parallel course. The youngster would be watching his consort’s deck with a keen eye; whatever Weazel did, he would do likewise, until ordered otherwise.

‘I think it has eased enough for the cook to get his coppers lit, Mr Neame.’

‘It has, sir.’

‘Do we need to signal Mr Harbin?’

‘He will issue like orders as soon as he sees the smoke from our galley chimney.’

‘I don’t know about you, Mr Neame, but I would much appreciate some warm food and dry clothing and since we are near to port we might indulge ourselves, if you and our purser will join me for dinner, by finishing off the last of that Hermitage I fetched aboard. A pity such a heavy sea does not permit us to ask Mr Harbin yonder to join us.’

‘Poor lad,’ said Neame, without conviction.

‘HMS Weazel has made her number, sir,’ said the midshipman sent from the quarterdeck of HMS Victory with the message, ‘and she has in her possession a prize.’

‘Has she, by God!’ exclaimed Admiral Lord Hood, his heavy grey eyebrows shooting up and his prominent nose following. ‘If he has, then I think that Captain Benton has disobeyed his quite specific orders.’

‘That is the other thing, sir. The Officer of the Watch made it my duty to tell you that her own ensign is upside down.’

‘Benton dead, then?’

‘He fears so, sir, though he had no knowledge of who is in command.’

‘Signal to HMS Weazel. Captain to repair aboard immediately.’

‘Sir.’

The lookout on HMS Victory was not the only one to see that prize, and the sight of their own navy’s flag flying above that of the enemy, and a signal that a Master and Commander was dead, probably killed in action, set any number of hearts racing. It had every lieutenant in the fleet who was not ashore and unaware looking to their seniority and their relationship to Lord Hood. There was nothing callous about this; it was the way of things. War brought death as well as the chance of glory, and advancement in King George’s Navy, unless an officer had impeccable connections, generally came through one or the other. Of course they would mourn for a dead comrade, that was only fitting, but his demise meant promotion for someone to fill his place, and that would ripple down through the fleet, affecting dozens of officers who would move up a place.

It caused as much excitement below decks on the seventy-four gun warship, HMS Leander, as the news filtered down, yet there was anxiety too. The fact that the captain was dead did not mean that others had been spared the same fate. Common seamen went on deck as little as possible, especially in a strong clothes-tugging wind that chilled even on a September day, so it was rare to see such figures as Michael O’Hagan, Charlie Taverner, Rufus Dommet and old leathery-faced Latimer leaning over the rail peering at the incoming vessels. If John Pearce had known his friends were so arrayed he would have abandoned his dinner, as well as his Hermitage wine, and gone on deck to wave, but he did not do so until the message came that the ‘flag’ had made his number and he was summoned aboard.

‘A bad idea, sir,’ said an even ruddier-faced Neame, ‘to appear before Lord Hood with too much drink in your belly.’

John Pearce smiled as he rose to gather his despatches and put on his best, and dry, uniform coat. ‘I take that as a hint, Mr Neame, that you and Mr Ottershaw should finish that bottle, around which neck you have your horny sailor’s hand.’

The purser, Ottershaw, slurred slightly in response. ‘Would not want it to go to waste, your honour, it being such a pretty drop, not the least troubled, it seems to me, by being shaken all about afore the cork was drawn.’

‘You do not think to keep a drop for young Harbin?’

‘It might not hold its true flavour,’ Neame insisted.

‘Be my guest, both of you. I shall treat Harbin to a capital dinner, if a besieged Toulon will run to such a thing.’

‘Rufus,’ said Michael O’Hagan, ‘clamber up them there shrouds and see what’s what.’

‘Why me?’ demanded Rufus.

‘Sure, did I not say please, boyo, what with you being the lightest and most nimble?’

The words might be polite, even close to jocular, but the tone was less so, and Rufus Dommet, faced with the muscular bulk of his Irish messmate, was quick to move. With HMS Victory laying inshore of the anchored 74, they saw John Pearce come on deck, hat in hand, as both of the smaller warships sailed slowly by. The cheer that greeted him was spontaneous, and not to be outdone, all the ships within the roadstead took it up. Pearce looked over to the rail of HMS Leander and, sighting the agitated figures, waved to his companions. The world turned upside down, right enough, he thought. Three of those on that deck were the men with whom he had been pressed into the Navy, the men he had sworn to get free.

‘Belay that damned noise.’

‘Get down, Rufus, quick,’ hissed Charlie Taverner, himself letting go of the hammock nettings and dropping back onto the deck. Michael O’Hagan did likewise, while Latimer, much older, his lined face a mask of worry, had to ease himself down.

‘What in the name of the Lord Almighty do you think you are about?’

‘We’s cheering in the taking of a prize, sir,’ said Rufus, too innocent to know that saying nothing was best when dealing with Lieutenant Taberly.

‘Silence, damn you,’ Taberly yelled, before turning round and shouting at a midshipman who had been part of the watch. ‘You, sir, how can you stand to witness such behaviour?’

He eased himself up onto the hammock nettings and looked out to see John Pearce in plain view, and it took only seconds for Taberly to realise that the swine was actually in command of both vessels, the despatch case in his hand finishing off the image. On the other ships they were still cheering, which made his blood boil; that a charlatan like Pearce, with whom he had exchanged words already, should receive such accolades was intolerable. Very well, those aboard this ship he had dared to name as his friends would pay.

‘You, sir,’ he yelled at the midshipman again, ‘are a disgrace to your coat. You cannot control the men.’

‘With respect, sir, they are not on watch.’

‘Not on watch, sir? They are not fit to be on watch, just as they are not trusted to be sent ashore without they would run, but they are fit to be punished, sir. Take their names and let us see them at defaulters tomorrow, then, with luck, they will taste at the grating. Let us see, sir, how keen they are to cheer then.’

John Pearce was still looking at the side of the ship, wondering why his companions in misfortune had disappeared so quickly, but that thought had to be put aside as Neame, slightly drunk but still competent, let fly the sheets, and rudder hard down, brought the ship in a wide sweep, to rest under the bulk of HMS Victory. He then ordered the boat lowered that would take his acting captain aboard the flagship.

Chapter Two

Standing on the quarterdeck of HMS Victory, waiting to be summoned below, Pearce looked inland to the shore and beyond, the sound of continuous cannon fire louder now. There was fighting going on around Ollioules, at the head of a valley which provided the western gateway by which the port and town could be invested. There was another to the east, narrower and more difficult but it was Mont Faron and its companion hills, studded with forts, now being reinforced by hastily built redoubts, which provided the main defence to landward. Below the ring of hills lay the town, an old and jumbled mass of narrow alleys around the outer harbour, more up to date past the Vauban-designed fortifications, a star-shaped, moated bastion. Beyond that lay the newest buildings, which had housed the hub of a formidable part of what had been the Marine Royal, the Arsenal and the Fleet Commander’s headquarters.

Toulon had fallen, first to revolutionary fervour, and secondly, to fear. Again his mind went back to Paris, to the certainty of that place two years before, after the Battle of Valmy, the centre and driving force of all that had happened in France. No doubt existed in most Gallic minds regarding the rightness of the ’89 Revolution; the destruction of the Bastille had been an event waiting to happen in a bankrupt nation stuck in an outmoded monarchical system that saw the rich prosper while the poor starved. That it had been humbled was now seen as inevitable, though Pearce suspected few were so certain of the outcome at the time. What had happened since created enclaves like Toulon, where the citizens saw the strictures and actions of radical Parisian-based politicians in a less acquiescent way.

In the capital, factions fought for control, and sought to outdo each other in the purity of their revolutionary ideals, using the mob to ratchet up the tone of revolution. Yet even at the epicentre many a mind was sceptical of the direction in which events were moving. Worse, it had become impossible to object; to do so risked at best incarceration – the fate of his own father, who had spoken out against excess – at worst the guillotine, the ultimate fate from which his son had been unable to rescue him. In the countryside the actions of politicians constantly driven on by the excessive demands of a Paris mob were viewed with alarm; worse still, the penalties deemed necessary to keep the Revolution alive. Having got rid of a monarchical tyranny, the majority of Frenchmen, especially those of some education or property, were not keen to see the power of the Paris radicals extended to replace it.

Lyon, the second city of France, was in full-scale revolt and there were rumours of a priest-led war going on in the Vendée. Marseilles too had risen, and had tried to act in concert with Toulon; they had even invited Lord Hood and his fleet to take over the protection of the city, but he had deemed it indefensible. The great port had fallen only weeks before, and the exactions of revolutionary revenge had begun as soon as it was captured: rape; murder, both judicial and spontaneous; robbery and arson; all the trials that since time immemorial had been the fate of a city under sack. Toulon, fearing a similar fate, had asked for protection and Hood, because of its topography easier to defend, had obliged and the task now was to hold the place. Pearce, before he left on his cruise, had heard both opinions advanced: that Toulon was impregnable, as well as the opposite; it could not be held without an army the defenders did not have. He had no idea who was right and who was wrong, lacking, as he did, the knowledge to make a judgement.

‘Lieutenant Pearce.’

He turned round to face Capitaine de Vaiseau, le baron d’Imbert, an English-speaking French officer he had come to know well in the period leading up to the British take-over. Pearce had been Hood’s emissary in the delicate negotiations, a reluctant one certainly, but left little choice, being in need of the admiral’s support in his dispute with Ralph Barclay. The French captain had been instrumental in bringing about the surrender of town, forts and fleet. No man could claim more than he, given that his superior, Rear Admiral Trogoff, had vacillated mightily, avoiding decisions with a cunning that, had it been applied at sea and in battle, would have been hailed as genius.

‘I hear I am to congratulate you,’ said d’Imbert, his weary eyes sad, hardly surprising; he was a French officer and HMS Weazel had taken a French ship.

‘Good fortune, sir, rather than competence, and not without loss.’

‘Ah yes. Your captain…’

Pearce did not want to talk about Benton, the man he had been obliged to replace, who had died right in front of him. He might have been a drunk for most of the voyage, and damned rude with it, but he had shown real pluck in the decision to disobey his orders, which were to merely reconnoitre the Corsican anchorages and stay away from trouble. Had he lived he would have come aboard instead of John Pearce, no doubt in anticipation of a fitting reward for his bravery and application. As it was Benton was in a canvas sack at the bottom of the Mediterranean, with a cannonball at his feet, food, eventually, for the crabs.

‘How are relations with Admiral Hood, sir?’

D’Imbert produced a wan smile. ‘They are those of a junior officer, Lieutenant.’ Seeing that Pearce did not comprehend, he added, ‘Rear Admiral Trogoff has seen it as his duty to take the task of dealing with your admiral upon himself.’

There was a terrible temptation to say, ‘He has a damned cheek.’ Trogoff had done everything he could to avoid making a decision regarding the state of matters in the town, had failed utterly to control his junior admiral, a dyed-in-the-wool revolutionary called St Julien, and managed to absent himself when finally it came time to act. Indeed he had even stated his intention to escape via Italy with a view to joining the royal émigrés and the anti-French coalition armies under the late King Louis’ brother, le comte d’Artois, at Coblenz, only failing to do so because there was a rag-tag French army on the Italian border blocking his way.

‘Naturally,’ d’Imbert added, ‘when he needs my advice and my ability to translate, as he does on a day like today, I am summoned.’

‘So I surmise today we have a difficulty?’

‘You will recall our problem with the sailors who supported St Julien.’

‘I suspect from your tone they are still a problem.’

‘They are. Most of them were recruited from the Atlantic ports, so they were never truly content to be in the Mediterranean, far from home, long before the matters came to a head here. Now our admirals are trying to decide what to do with them. We cannot just kick them out. Five thousand strong they would only swell the ranks of the besieging force, nor can we keep them here, either locked up or on parole, since they would then present an internal danger.’

‘The people of Toulon?’

The French captain shook his head. ‘Not every Toulonnais citizen is in agreement with our rapprochement with you. Combine them with those sailors and they represent too much of a threat in a place so feverish with rumour and dissent.’

‘I seem to recall there were officers too.’

‘I think, Pearce,’ d’Imbert said, smiling properly for the first time, ‘what you actually recall is my saying to Lord Hood there were none, that the men were leaderless.’

‘You no doubt saw that as a necessary deceit.’

‘You are more understanding than your admiral, who mentions my dissimulation frequently, and never without a black look to accompany his strictures.’ From below came the sound of stamping marine boots, and d’Imbert began to move. ‘I must hurry, or my admiral will depart without me, so far have I fallen from grace.’

‘Then I suspect, sir,’ said Pearce, with real feeling, ‘that the sight of you reminds him of his own failures of duty.’

‘Lieutenant Pearce, Lieutenant Pearce.’

The blue-coated youngster, a mere child in clothing too big for his slight frame, crying out his name, emerged from a companionway looking worried. The expression deepened considerably when the object of his search identified himself.

‘Sir, you were supposed to wait outside the admiral’s quarters on the maindeck.’

HMS Victory was a ship at anchor, wallowing in some of its own filth, and with some seven hundred men aboard her crammed into her lower decks, it was not pleasant in terms of odours, even on the maindeck. But that was not the reason he was standing on the quarterdeck: Pearce would not say that the courtesy normally extended to a visiting officer aboard a flagship, that of the use of the wardroom and perhaps a glass of some refreshment, had not been offered, as it had when he had come aboard before. He was slightly upset that it should be so, but in no position to do anything about it, and damned sure he was not about to beg.

‘I like fresh air.’

‘The admiral secretary is in a rare passion.’

‘Well,’ snapped Pearce, who had crossed swords with the supercilious sod before. ‘A bit of passion might do him good. It might warm his blood enough to ensure he is still living.’

‘You must hurry, sir,’ moaned the midshipman, ‘for my sake, if not your own.’

Much as he would have liked to dawdle, if for no other reason than to annoy, he had no choice but to follow at the boy’s brisk pace. The crabbed look on the face of Hood’s secretary was compensation. Normally a languid and superior sort, he looked quite put out as he followed Pearce into the great cabin, where sat Hood and the slightly more corpulent figure of Rear Admiral Hyde Parker, who held the position of Captain of the Fleet.

‘Pass your despatches and logs to my secretary, Mr Pearce,’ said Hood. This he did, and the secretary departed with them as the admiral added, ‘I will have a verbal report on what was plainly a piece of downright and calculated insubordination.’

Pearce explained about the situation of the Mariette, and the apparently defenceless position in which they had found her. ‘Captain Benton saw it as too good an opportunity to pass up, sir.’

In the face of a sceptical superior, Pearce went on to describe the action, praising, as he had in his despatch, the actions of the crew of HMS Weazel, and in particular the bravery of young Midshipman Harbin, as well as the tactical appreciation of the master, Mr Neame. He made no mention of his own wound; by now he was hardly conscious of it himself, and it was gratifying to observe, as he spoke, the look of outright hostility fade in Hood’s craggy countenance, to the point where he looked quite satisfied.

‘And, sir, might I point out that before deciding to act, Captain Benton asked me what he thought you, faced with a similar problem, would have done.’

‘And what did you tell him, Pearce?’ demanded Hyde Parker.

‘If I may say, sir, that I have never been comfortable with flattery, I feel I will have provided an answer.’

‘Well,’ said a clearly mollified Hood, ‘what is done is done, and I am told she is a fine vessel.’

‘She is totally deficient in powder and shot, sir.’

Hood laughed, the first time Pearce had seen him do so with anything approaching real heartiness. ‘Then we will fill her up from the Toulon Arsenal, Pearce, but not until my own master has had a look over her to assess her value.’

‘The crew will be anxious to know if you will buy her in, sir.’

The humour evaporated as quickly as it had surfaced. ‘I daresay, Pearce, just as I daresay that in their addled brains they have already spent the money she will fetch. But I must tread with care. I cannot say anything until Admiral Trogoff agrees that she is a prize, and not part of the Fleet which he commands.’

‘On the other matter, the one we discussed when I first came aboard.’

‘Remind me,’ Hood replied, but he had a look that told Pearce he knew very well the subject mentioned.

‘Captain Barclay’s illegal impressments in London, sir. I was a victim and so were several men now serving, against their will, aboard HMS Leander. Barclay has broken every rule in creation and I demand that he faces punishment for it.’

Hood’s face was suddenly suffused with angry blood. ‘Demand, sir! You will not demand in my cabin.’

Hyde Parker interjected, speaking in a more measured tone. ‘What Lord Hood is saying, Lieutenant Pearce, is that the matter is under consideration…’

‘Which it was before I went aboard HMS Weazel two weeks past.’

Hood barked again. ‘Damn you, sir, do not interrupt your superior.’

‘If I feel the laws of England are being ignored then I have a duty to…’

Hood’s voice this time, as he cut across that of John Pearce, was loud enough to be heard through three feet of planking. ‘Don’t you dare prate on to me about the laws of England, sir, not with your parentage. I was a member of the government that proscribed your father for his blatant sedition. Do not forget that he, and no doubt you, had so little regard for the laws of England that you were obliged to flee to France to avoid them.’

Said like that, there was not much Pearce could put forward in defence. His father, after the fall of the Bastille, had gone from being a peripatetic radical speaker who could be safely ignored to a much sought-after orator and pamphleteer in a country where many a subject of King George saw the events across the Channel as a bright new dawn. Known as the Edinburgh Ranter, Adam Pearce was perceived as a man of much sense and wisdom by those people who sought some of the same change in Britain. His attacks on the monarchy and the ministers who served the king had relied on logic and irony to show the absurdity of both, his message one that sought universal suffrage for both sexes, an end to the great landed fortunes, a fairer distribution of the wealth of the nation and the termination of royal dominion. He was not alone in this; there were others preaching the same message, one which alarmed those in power.

Excess in France, or the constant application of it, had moved opinion away from support for the revolutionaries. Edmund Burke had fulminated in speech and print against the mayhem and disorder of Paris and every event seemed to make nervous a population that saw Britannia as a more stable country than France. When opinion had shifted enough, the government decided it could move against the likes of Adam Pearce, one of his more fulminating pamphlets providing the excuse to imprison both him and his son. On release, made through the intercession of like-minded but respected members of various Corresponding Societies, old Adam had not diluted his message; he had, in a written pamphlet, demanded the removal of King George and his heirs. Those were the words that forced him to flee to Paris, to be originally hailed as a friend. That had not been sustained; people in power in Paris had no more time for a man who questioned their right to rule than Hanoverian Kings.

Refusing to be browbeaten, Pearce replied, ‘I think, sir, if you examine the laws of England you will find that it was you and your colleagues who ignored them, not I, or my father.’

‘Parker,’ Hood spat, ‘am I to be obliged to dispute in my own cabin with a mere lieutenant?’

‘I agree, sir, it is hardly fitting.’

‘My case,’ Pearce demanded.

‘Will be dealt with, sir. Now please oblige us and leave.’

‘Am I to go back to my ship?’

‘Damn you, sir, she is not your ship. Shift your dunnage out of HMS Weazel this instant, so that I can find someone fit to command her.’

‘Report ashore to Captain Elphinstone,’ said Parker, ‘who is overseeing the defence of the port. I am sure he can find a use for you.’

‘Is there anything I can tell the crew of HMS Weazel?’

‘No, Lieutenant Pearce, there is not.’

The temptation to stay and continue the dispute was strong, but Pearce knew if he did so he would not aid his own argument, just as he knew that in baiting Hood about legality he had not done his case any favours. Outside he walked towards the entry port, cursing himself, only to be intercepted by the flagship’s premier, Mr Ingolby.

‘Lieutenant Pearce, I have come to apologise to you.’

‘Sir?’

‘I was ashore, as was every other lieutenant, on an inspection of the French capital ships. That the Officer of the Watch, nor the master or the surgeon for that matter, failed to offer you the use of the wardroom is a disgrace, and you with a fine capture under your belt. I ask that you join me now.’

Still angry with himself, and not wishing to have to recount the recent action in the taking of the Mariette, which he would surely be obliged to do, Pearce declined. ‘I have much to see to, Mr Ingolby, and I am ordered ashore, in any case, so I must shift my possessions. But should my duty permit, I would happily accept an invitation for some future date.’

‘The wardroom of Victory will have you as guest to dinner, sir, you have my word on it. There is nothing like a table and a circulating decanter to add spice to the story of an action.’

‘That young firebrand,’ said Lord Hood, in a tone of regret rather than continued anger, ‘will get himself shot on the quarterdeck one day.’

‘I must say he has a genius for trouble,’ Parker replied. ‘Yet we must admit he also has a claim.’

‘I can send him home, can I not?’

‘You can send him to India if you so desire, but I have a feeling that will not rid you of him. He has a family history of tenacity. We must hope Captain Elphinstone will keep him occupied.’

‘Maybe one of Carteaux’s cannon balls will take off his crown.’ Hood shook his own head. ‘I don’t mean that, Parker, you know I don’t. If anything, apart from his damned attitude, I quite admire the fellow.’ The old admiral’s voice became somewhat wistful. ‘And do you know he has seen nothing but action since he was received aboard Brilliant. I know of officers in this very fleet who have served for decades and not so much as seen a shot fired in anger, yet that young pest, wherever he goes, seems to get into a fight.’

‘Captain Barclay?’ asked Parker.

Hood drummed his fingers on the highly polished table he used as a desk. Only he was privy to all the facts that laid constraints upon that which he could do. Pearce had brought from England a personal letter from the First Lord of the Treasury and the King’s First Minister, William Pitt, which laid upon Hood certain limitations. He had no time for William Hotham as a second-in-command or as a person, and they were on either side of the political divide at home, but with a war to fight, Pitt was looking for allies in some of his erstwhile political opponents. Hotham was close to the Duke of Portland, who might lead a breakaway Whig faction and give valuable support to the government. He had had from Pitt strict instructions not to upset the sod, which would have mattered little in this particular case if Hotham had not taken it upon himself to become Barclay’s sponsor. Give Pearce his court martial for Barclay’s illegal impressments – and he did not doubt the man had a case to answer – and that would alienate Hotham.

‘We allowed Hotspur to send Pearce away on his cruise, did we not, Parker?’

A stickler for the correct form of words, Parker replied. ‘We allowed him to despatch Benton, who was his protégé, on what was seen as an essential mission. It was he who sent Pearce along as his Premier, an elevation that makes no sense unless you count the notion that Hotham is determined to protect Barclay.’

‘Can you see the way my mind is working, Parker?’

That was part of Parker’s job, as Captain of the Fleet, to be an experienced and trusted sounding board for his commanding admiral. The other part was to oversee the fleet at sea, to keep the vessels on station and to receive and act upon the daily reports sent in by each ship’s captain regarding the state of their ships and stores. Known as a man of sound and patient judgement he was not fool enough to reply. He had a shrewd idea what Hood was about to propose and he wanted no part of the responsibility for an act which might well rebound badly and harm his own career. It was all right for Hood; at seventy years of age, after a lifetime of service as well as participation in several successful battles during the American Revolutionary War, he was reasonably impervious to censure and this was probably his swan-song command. Parker had prospects ahead of him, of command to come and perhaps battles and glory to win and he was not about to jeopardise them.

‘You don’t reply,’ said Hood, seeking to hide his amusement; he knew very well what Parker was about. ‘You do not see that the problem really resides with my second-in-command. Barclay is attached to his flag, not mine, and I would not have the swine if he applied, so let Hotham deal with it. If he saves Barclay’s hide, then he can preen himself, if he does not, then I cannot be blamed. Damn me, Parker, I’m beginning to wonder if I spent too much of my recent time in the company of politicians.’

‘I think, sir,’ Parker replied smoothly, and well aware that in the area of politics Hood was capable of looking after himself, ‘in regard to Admiral Hotham, that is a proposition which could only come from you.’

Chapter Three

Being rowed ashore, Pearce could still feel the lump in his throat, a sensation which had come with the farewells attendant on leaving HMS Weazel. Mr Neame and Ottershaw had been loud in their regrets that he was departing, but that might be because the quality of the wine would diminish; the crew muted through either indifference or the notion that to show any sort of feeling would cause embarrassment. He left the likes of the gunner without regret; he was a man who saw his cannon as pets rather than instruments of war, and hated to see them, or his precious store of powder, in use. Freckle-faced Harbin had proved the hardest when it came to a parting; a youth with an abundance of enthusiasm and courage, he was also prey to a like amount of sentiment, and his tears at the news had nearly done for Pearce. But in reality, what saddened him most was the loss of independence. It might have come about by accident but he had been in command of a ship for several days, and he had thoroughly enjoyed the experience, even, in recollection, the storm through which they had sailed. How different was the King’s Navy when you had freedom from oversight and the privacy of a captain’s cabin!

He would have liked to go aboard HMS Leander and seek out his friends, to assure them that he was still hot on the task of getting them freed, but that bastard Taberly had made it plain he would bar him from setting foot on his deck, so he decided instead to visit the hospital on the St Mandrier peninsula, where he had no doubt HMS Brilliant’s surgeon, Heinrich Lutyens, would still be plying his trade; Captain Elphinstone, whoever he was, could wait awhile. He was thinking on that when he heard the coxswain order the oarsmen to ship their sticks, and looking for the reason he saw a senior officer’s barge racing across the bow, with the stoic and rigid figure of Admiral Hood in the thwarts.

William Hotham did not enjoy many conferences with his commanding officer, and certainly Hood had never visited him aboard HMS Britannia. He was, on the rare occasions he was consulted, more likely to be summoned, so when he was informed of the approach of Hood’s barge all his hackles rose in suspicion, a feeling not diminished by the greeting the older man gave him as, in his best bib and tucker, with much piping and a solid stamp from the few marines left on the ship, he welcomed his superior aboard at the entry port.

‘By damn, sir, you have a fine-looking vessel here, always liked her trim. Not been aboard her since I was Commissioner at Portsmouth. Rodney had his flag in her then, of course.’

‘Quite,’ Hotham replied, wondering at the mention of that admiral. It was no secret that Hood and the late Admiral Sir George Brydges Rodney had disliked each other intensely, and disputed the proper way of thinking and fighting so furiously that it was not a name to bring forth in his presence.

‘Thought it about time I paid you a visit, sir. Can’t have you forever getting yourself soaked to come aboard Victory. Too much of that and you’ll be as much of a martyr to the ague as I.’

Having referred to that illness, Hood strode briskly down the short line of the remaining marines, nodded his approval, offered his greetings to the other ship’s officers, then made his way aft. Hotham was a man known to like his belly, so it was no surprise to find a fine spread of sweetmeats and fruit in his cabin, plus a very passable decanter of claret hastily poured by his steward. Insincere courtesies exchanged, and hunger assuaged, Hood came to the first of his points, the problem of the five thousand French republican sailors and what needed to be done with them.

‘We must get them out of the place, I take it you agree?’ The nod was slow to come, but come it did. ‘I have had words with Trogoff and proposed that we strip out a quartet of sea-worthy seventy-fours, all the cannon barring a couple of eight-pounders for signalling, fill them full of those damned seamen, and get them out of here.’

‘To where?’

‘It will have to be the Atlantic ports. Can’t land them anywhere in the Med or they’ll cease to be sailors and become soldiers. D’Imbert tells me they won’t even think of Genoa, and I doubt the locals there would take kindly to having that number dumped on them. They were conscripted from Lorient, Rochefort and Brest anyway. He also says they were a damned nuisance long before we arrived, much tainted by being over-indulged with the disease of rebellion. There will only be a brace of officers per ship, but they have warrants as well, so sailing them should be simple.’

Hotham fiddled with a walnut and the instrument with which he would crack it. ‘You would be handing the French Navy a set of capital ships. All they have to do is refit them with cannon, powder and shot, and from the Bay of Biscay they can go anywhere, even come back here.’

‘Parker and I have discussed this at length, and it is a dammed nuisance, but I can see no other way. But it must be done with the active participation of each one of the fleet admirals. I need you to agree, and in writing.’

‘You do not see that as interfering with your prerogatives?’

‘I do believe Byng had prerogatives, Admiral, and a lot of good it did him.’

Hotham nodded slowly at the mention of that name. Admiral Byng had been shot on his own quarterdeck for what was seen as a dereliction of his duty in not supporting the besieged British outpost of Fort St Phillip on Minorca against the Spanish in the Seven Years War, the result being the loss of both the fort and the island. Most of his fellow sailors had seen the execution for what it was, a political act by a vengeful government, aided by spiteful inferior officers keen to exculpate themselves from what was seen as a naval disgrace. It had, however, a huge impact; even the sage Voltaire had commented on it from Switzerland, terming it an action pour encourager les autres. He was right; the others were encouraged. Now, no flag officer would lightly take a decision that might threaten the same fate. Hood’s junior admiral never answered any enquiry quickly – he was known for it – and he did not do so now. He messily cracked a walnut and nibbled at a piece of it first, no doubt weighing up the consequences. If he was looking for alternatives, Hood knew there were none; the only other option was to keep them here.

‘I am, of course, at your service.’

‘Obliged, sir. I have one other vexing problem, Hotham, and I need your advice. It is this Barclay business.’ Hotham raised his eyebrows, as though offended, though Hood would have been at a loss to know if it was the subject that alarmed him or the abrupt way it had been introduced. Since he once more failed to respond, Hood continued. ‘That too is a damned nuisance and I am at a loss to know how to handle it.’

‘You are aware, I am sure, that this Pearce fellow has threatened to call Captain Barclay out.’

‘Has he, by damn? He will not call a man out in my command. Has he not been told it is strictly forbidden for naval officers to duel by royal statute?’

Another piece of walnut had to be nibbled before Hotham spoke again. ‘He has, but I fear any strictures of yours might be ignored, sir. He is not much given to obeying orders, even royal ones, hardly surprising given that he is not truly an officer.’

Hood had to bite his tongue then. Benton had been, like Barclay, Hotham’s protégé, and he had failed in the respect of strict obedience to orders. It would have been nice to put Hotham in his place, to force him to defend the late Benton, but that would not serve.

‘I intend to be candid with you, sir.’

The raised eyebrows in Hotham’s smooth and well-fed face looked like disbelief. ‘That is something I can only welcome, milord.’

‘Ralph Barclay is not a man for whom I have much in the way of affection.’

‘While I,’ Hotham replied, with rare force, ‘find him an excellent officer.’

‘Oh, I don’t doubt he is brave and runs a good, tight ship. It is the personal line I speak of. You know I saw him hours before this wretched business is supposed to have taken place.’

‘Indeed I do, sir.’

‘So you know I warned him about taking any actions which would be detrimental to the good of the service. It was a quite specific caution to be careful where he pressed, if he intended to do so.’

‘I seem to recall being present when the matter was first broached in your cabin.’

And I, Hood thought, recall only too well how you stood up for the swine on both the loss of his ship to the enemy, and his impressment of the men Pearce wanted freed, making plain you would go to some lengths to protect him.

‘Captain Barclay was short on his complement, was he not?’ Hotham added.

‘What captain sails to war with a full complement, Hotham, eh? It is the fate of us all.’

‘Can I offer you a walnut, sir?’ said Hotham, proffering the nut bowl.

As Hood declined Hotham was thinking about what had just been said. Barclay had indeed sought men to man his frigate, short-handed to the tune of a quarter of her full crew, and when he had done so it was in the certain knowledge that Hood, at the time the senior sea officer at the Admiralty, had at his disposal several hundred proper sailors lodged at the Tower of London. But the man was angling for the Channel fleet, which would allow him not only to hold that command but to keep his political office at the Admiralty. The king wanted the Channel for his favourite admiral, Black Dick Howe; Hood could have the Mediterranean. Determined not to give in to the monarch without a fight, Hood was damned if he was going to release any drafts of seamen until he knew which fleet he would get. Whichever, no vessel in his command would be short on his complement when they sailed.

‘You know that Pearce wants a court martial,’ said Hood.

‘And do you intend to oblige him?’

‘Admiral Hotham, I cannot see, if he continues to press the matter, how I can refuse.’

Being slow of response did not mean that William Hotham was not a deep thinker; indeed it