A Flag of Truce (23 page)

The ship was drifting so slowly that, when she ran aground, it was hard to spot – a slight sway forward of the upper foremast, a dip of the smashed stump of the bowsprit – but softly aground she was, with room for Pearce and his men to row through, into the billowing pall of smoke that was being driven inland on the breeze.

‘Steer us to the seaward side, Martin. Those cannon could be trained on us if we stray down the other.’

‘Aye, aye, sir.’

‘So you do know your manners,’ gasped Costello, pulling on his oar.

Pearce glanced over his shoulder, to see that the sloop in pursuit had stopped working the sweeps and had let fly the falls on the sail it had raised. Men were jumping off the deck into a cutter, which properly manned would have little trouble in overhauling them, so they were not out of danger yet. They were in a cloud of acrid smoke, every man jack aboard coughing, which also cut off from view the tower of St Nicolas right above them and the boat in their wake. Pearce knew he was very close
to the stone jetty on which he had first landed, so close that it would be possible for someone on it to attempt to bar their progress. But would they risk it? His heart was in his mouth until the smoke cleared and he could finally see where he was heading, down the flank of
Apollon
, safe for the moment from the guns of the sea wall.

‘Once we see
Faron
, Martin, steer straight for her. We will have to take a chance on those cannon, for there’s no way of getting out of range.’

Peering out to sea, it was only a minute more before he saw his own ship, and it was clear that she was sailing away with as much speed as she could make.

‘A corvette, Mr Neame,’ said Digby as he came back on deck, ‘sixteen cannon on her maindeck, bow and stern chasers, and she’s clearing for action.’

‘How does she sail, sir?’ Neame asked.

‘With the wind on her beam she looks as good a sailer as any ship would, and I observed no change in her sail plan, so how she will handle in a fight I do not know.’

‘Have you observed the cloud formation, Captain?’

‘Your opinion would be valuable.’

That was a neat way of Digby telling Neame he was uncertain, but that was also the reason a king’s
ship had a sailing master, more steeped in knowledge of the sea, the weather and its vagaries than a commissioned officer, whose job it was to fight. Neame explained his thinking, downplaying the notion they might have the best part of a day to get enough of a southing to get well clear of the Ile d’Oléron. If they had more time than he thought, good, but it was not something to base sound judgement on.

As they discussed the meaning of that problem, there came the other of getting the cutter hooked on and Harbin and his men aboard, there being no way to do that without backing the sails and virtually bringing HMS
Faron
to a dead stop. The cry from the masthead, as the cutter clattered clumsily into the side, that it looked as if Mr Pearce was in a deep-laden fishing boat and had cleared both the harbour and the burning
Apollon
, was just another thing to worry about.

‘Your opinion, Mr Neame?’

‘If his boat is deep in the water, it argues he has the Frenchmen with him.’

Digby nodded at that, and called to his
freckle-faced
midshipman as he clambered aboard. ‘Mr Harbin, get the animals into the cutter and have it towed astern, then report to me. I want your impressions of that ship we face.’

‘I have no notion of any plan you might be thinkin’ of, your honour.’

Digby’s laugh was an interruption. ‘I am short of a plan, Mr Neame.’

‘Well, sir, that Frenchman outguns us, not by much I will say, but he has more weight of shot nevertheless.’

‘But how does he handle them?’

‘That’s as unknown as how he sails, but I would say that standing off to fight him with cannon is not an option, quite apart from the fact we have the means to give him a shock if we range up close.’

‘Mr Pearce’s love of a carronade may pay a dividend.’

‘But to truly beat the fellow, if he’s any good, we may need to board, and that requires numbers.’

Digby nodded slowly, then said in a dispassionate tone that must be at odds with his feelings, ‘Bring us about, Mr Neame, let us close with Pearce’s boat and get our men aboard.’

‘And the changing weather, sir?’

‘One risk at a time, Mr Neame.’

Pearce had been watching HMS
Faron
with a sinking feeling that got worse the greater the gap between them. They were out past the three anchored seventy-fours now, and he had Rafin on his knees, the motion of the boat on the swell too pronounced to remain standing. Behind him the cutter from the privateer rowed steadily along, keeping a distance but with the means to close at
any time, armed men aboard ready to fight them if the occasion arose. Could he trade Rafin for safety? Or would such a policy result in certain capture, for he could see no way how any arrangement he could make, some kind of parole, could be trusted to hold with such a murderous radical. Rafin could say he would exchange his freedom for theirs, but renege as soon as he had the advantage.

‘Only way tae do it, your honour,’ said Dysart, when he opened up the problem to them all, ‘is to take half their sticks off them as well. Then they’ll no’ be able to keep up with us.’

‘For how long?’ Costello responded. ‘The oars will float, they will get them back on board, and with
Faron
sailing away they will have all the time in the world to close with us.’

Dysart reluctantly acknowledged the truth of that, and a deep gloom descended over men who had no doubt what they faced if taken. It was Farmiloe, who had never taken his eyes of their ship, who cried out that she was coming about, and looking forward they could all see that she was halfway round, presenting her side instead of her stern. The cheer was not just from English throats; most of the French sailors cheered too, and Moreau had that grin on his face again, which cheered Pearce up immensely.

‘Perhaps now, Dysart, your notion has merit.’

Pearce, slowing, called out to the pursuit,
offering the exchange if they ditched four of their eight oars, which led to a long discussion, which could only have come about because their mother ship was a privateer and thus a decision had to be collective. All the time Pearce was glancing over his shoulder, to see HMS
Faron
coming on hand over fist, trying, and he thought failing, to work out the time needed for them to be close enough to threaten that cutter and the contentious souls manning her. Eventually the exchange was agreed, and half the oars were slipped out of their rowlocks to float inshore on the still rising tide. They would have to come about to retrieve them and that would take time, but there was one other way to slow them down.

‘Monsieur, stand up and let your rescuers see you. Costello, throw off those fenders.’

Having listened to the exchange, Rafin knew what was about to happen, and he looked to the men rowing the boat he was in to raise their oars. He waited in vain.

‘Can you swim?’ As Rafin shook his head, Pearce said
je suis désolé
, and, taking him by the collar and tail of his black coat, he threw him into the water, as close to those fenders as he could.

‘The only thing that floated at first was his hat, though the sod did come up for air twice before they got to him, and he had all the appearance of a drowned rat as they hauled him in.’

Digby was only half listening to Pearce; they had come about again and were once more closing with the enemy, now hull up, identified by the Frenchman, Forcet, as
Pandarus
, who, with the weather gage, had gone down to topsails very quickly, a luxury denied to his opponent, still forced to beat up into the wind in order to gain the kind of sea room both captains would see as necessary for the forthcoming fight. The route north-west was closed to them by the Ile de Ré, to head due south was to take them closer to the anchorage of the Aix Roads, not a pleasant prospect, which would make even harder the task of weathering the Ile d’Oléron.

‘I think, Mr Pearce, had you known we faced an
enemy at sea, you might have rather seen the fellow drown.’

Pearce could not believe that Digby had any anticipation of being beaten – it went against the grain of the man and the service of which he was part – yet it was obvious from his tone that he had calculated the prospect of such an outcome and the obvious corollary of what might follow should they be taken into La Rochelle anchorage as a captured enemy vessel. For Moreau et al it would be the guillotine for certain and he, following on from the treatment he had meted out to Rafin, could not feel safe from a similar fate.

‘As it is, I look to you to ensure that our French friends understand that they too must be prepared to fight.’

‘I would say they are too aware of the alternative not to.’

‘I would be obliged if you would confirm it.’

The French officers were gathered in a knot in the fo’c’s’le, watching the approach of what should have been a friend. Pearce had the distinct impression the subject he was about to broach had already been discussed, but it was on quite another matter that Moreau engaged him; the approaching change in the weather, plus the fact that being from the Breton port of Concarneau he knew only too well what those elongated cloud formations portended.

‘The captain is aware of that, but you will see our way is barred.’

‘Might I suggest that he attempts to get to windward of
Pandarus
and then tries to outrun her.’

Without a fight in which you might be compromised, Pearce thought, but he said: ‘I will pass on your comments, but you know that is not why I have come to speak with you.’

Moreau nodded. ‘A dilemma, I think.’

‘If you are prepared to fight, Captain Digby is prepared to give you the means. If not, we must find somewhere below to keep you secure.’

‘Our own countrymen, and where will we go even if your captain wins?’

‘We – that corvette and the weather permitting – will make all sail for the Straits of Gibraltar and Toulon.’

‘Do you still have your flag of truce?’ Pearce nodded. ‘Then I would like the use of it, to speak to the captain of
Pandarus
and see if we can find an alternative to a battle in which I must fight men who should be my comrades.’

Digby’s refusal to consider the request was so empathic as to make any discussion pointless, and Pearce, who would have said the same, was treated to a sharp and near-public reminder that his duty lay to the flag at the masthead, not the Frenchmen he had fetched aboard. It was really the first time he
had seen his captain angry, and the words he used, though they contained certain truths, were not easy to swallow without the temptation to deliver an equally sharp response.

‘Just because you have no care for your own commission, Mr Pearce, does not mean that you can play ducks and drakes with the prospects of others. I have set my course for a life in His Majesty’s service, and I have spent eight years working to get to my present rank. I do not believe for a moment, as matters presently stand, I shall survive as a Master and Commander on my return to Toulon, so I will revert to being just another lieutenant on a very crowded list. And it may have escaped your attention, but it has not mine, that we have abandoned three capital ships I would hazard are, at this very moment, being re-manned to sail them away from a lee shore on which they must face certain destruction, something unlikely to raise my profile with Lord Hood or the Admiralty.’

‘Yet if you best that corvette…?’ There was no need either to finish the sentence or for Digby to answer; if he won a single-ship action against what was a superior force, he would be made. It might not gain him post rank and a rated ship, but no admiral would shift him from his present situation with such a victory under his belt. Pearce, stung by Digby’s rebuke, added: ‘I daresay you are comfortable risking the lives of everyone aboard to
enhance your own prospects of advancement.’

Digby flushed angrily, and, in truth, Pearce regretted the words as soon as he spoke them, for had he not just risked a half-dozen lives to rescue Moreau and his associates? It was that old devil in him; he would not be talked down to by anyone, even a man he quite admired.

‘Mr Pearce…’

A second interruption was very necessary, to stop Digby before he made this spat so serious that neither would be able to step back. ‘Forgive me, sir. What I just said was unwarranted and I would like to withdraw the insinuation.’

‘Sir,’ said Neame, ‘if I could draw your attention to the enemy. The point is coming where you need to tell us what we are to do.’

The old man’s intervention was, in terms of discipline, worse than the words Pearce had used, and in reality, given the rates of sailing, and the fact that his opponent was drawing him out into deeper water, action could not be joined before the glass had run through at least twice. An argument between commissioned officers was one thing; a barbed comment from a warranted ship’s master, however old and able, was enough to cause real friction. Yet Digby did nothing for a moment, possibly seeing it for what it was, a way to stop his superiors continuing the argument.

‘I thank you for reminding me, Mr Neame. Mr
Pearce, you will oblige me by asking Captain Moreau what he intends. If he will not fight he and his men must be confined; there is no alternative. Mr Neame, your opinion on what our opponent will do.’

Pearce only realised halfway to the fo’c’s’le that he had been the subject of a snub; Digby should have asked him first and he had not. Yet he could not continue to be angry with a man who had shown him much kindness, had never once publicly alluded to his lack of knowledge, who had indeed gone out of his way to help him absorb the duties which went with his rank both on deck and over books in his cabin. So he would attend his guns and fight as best he could, because the responsibility of success or failure did not lie with him, and it was, no doubt, a burden felt keenly by the man who had it.

Moreau made it a matter of individual conscience, so that half the French officers went below to be confined, while the other half, with the captain of
Apollon
at the head, were issued with cutlasses. Looking back along the deck as he made his way to his station he was impressed by the calm demeanour of the gunners, the midshipmen and the two men in close discussion on the quarterdeck. Was it Neame who hinted that Digby had gone too far, or was it the captain himself? Whatever, he was summoned for an opinion, and with the yards
braced right round, the sight from the wheel – a clear view of the enemy – was not encouraging.

‘I doubt I can add much.’

‘Nonsense, Mr Pearce, you have seen action, I have not.’

‘Does not our friend yonder have all the choices?’

‘Not all. He has the advantage, certainly, but how will he use it?’

‘He should try to keep the wind,’ said Pearce, ‘even I know that, so I suspect he will seek to cross our bow and rake us when we are struggling to reply in the hope of hitting something vital.’

‘Then?’

‘If he fails in that he should put up his helm and invite us to attack.’

‘At which point,’ Digby continued, ‘he will let fly his sheets, come about and fetch us another broadside, with enough time and way on his ship to resume his course and stay clear until he had wounded us enough to surrender the weather gage and seek to get across our stern. It is Mr Neame’s opinion that
Pandarus
will be a ship set to guard the Rochefort approaches, and therefore near continuously at sea, so the crew will be efficient on the sails, yet possibly less so on their armaments.’

‘At this stage, sir,’ Neame added, ‘a guess more than an opinion, and I would point out once more that neither we nor the enemy commander have much time for anything with the promise of a
south-westerly gale in the offing. These waters are his and he must know what that cloud formation means. So for him too, if the business is to be done, it must be done with alacrity.’

‘We must get close, sir.’

Digby’s smile was grim. ‘I fear he will not let us, Mr Pearce.’

‘Can we not fool him?’

Pearce suddenly remembered, and made mention of the incendiary devices they had made up to burn the French seventy-fours. The appearance of
Pandarus
had made any attempt to use them impossible, but they were still available.

‘Fire is a hazardous thing aboard ship,’ Neame insisted.

‘Yet smoke and seeming panic on our deck may make
Pandarus
act precipitately.’ Seeing the uncertainty, Pearce pressed home his point to Digby. ‘I think we can assume he knows, as we do, that time is pressing. He will want to take us whole as much as you would want to take him as a prize, so let us show him he is in danger of total loss.’

‘You think he will seek to save the ship rather than see it burnt to the waterline?’

‘Flames and smoke could be accompanied by the useless discharge of cannon, as though the powder in the touch-holes has been set alight by a blaze. If he thinks we are on fire, and that we cannot use our guns, he will be bound to range alongside to try and
board, with the aim of putting out the conflagration and taking the ship as a prize. If he comes that close he will be at our mercy, ready to board instead of sitting off with his guns manned.’

‘If it is to be done,’ said Neame, ‘it must be done now, or their lookouts will see everything.’

Digby never got the chance to finish his nod. Pearce called for Harbin and Farmiloe, as well as the men he had led ashore, with instructions to one mid to get all the cook’s coppers and the other to take from him every ounce of slush he had, and damn the fact that he would lose by not being able to sell it. The copper cauldrons were rigged by lines across the fo’c’s’le so they did not touch the deck, a square of canvas laid underneath as a precaution.

‘Dysart, Costello, get the fire engine up here into the bows. I want it played on the base of that canvas, and if it shows any sign of spreading to the timbers, douse the coppers with water.’

He had the Pelicans, Latimer and Blubber fetch up the incendiaries, used turpentine to soak the sacking and tow, to be carried on pieces of damp canvas into the bows so the smoke they created would blow back over the deck.

‘The captain of
Pandarus
will be wondering what we are about, will he not?’ Pearce pointed to Moreau and his fellows, watching what was happening with bemused expression. ‘The captain of
Apollon
is no wiser, I hope.’

Digby was looking back to the near-invisible shore, to the pall of smoke that rose higher and higher in the sky, yet it was clear at the base, broken from the land, so he had to assume the fire had been contained. Right now they would be trying to refloat the ship and tow her clear to free the shipping in the harbour, another reason to avoid being tardy. The tide had not finished rising when she went aground; plug the holes, pump hard and she might lift from the sea bed. A couple of cutters could then tow her far enough off to open the entrance so bigger vessels than a cutter could exit. A couple of well-armed and handled privateers, added to
Pandarus
, and HMS
Faron
would be done for.

‘Mr Neame, I know the masthead is a perilous position in a fight, but I need someone aloft to keep an eye on the prospect of those privateers Mr Pearce mentioned emerging from La Rochelle.’

‘Martin Dent, get aloft. Keep an eye out dead astern for any sign of a sail.’

If the boy knew that it was a point of danger, given the French generally tried to dismast an enemy, it made no difference to him; he went aloft with his usual cat-like speed. Pearce was still working in the bows, rigging a run of canvas to screen the cook’s deep copper pots. He also had a tub of slowmatch fetched forward, his aim to light the incendiary devices as soon as their ship was in
receipt of a broadside. Meanwhile Harbin and Farmiloe were going around the deck with his instructions to the crew to pretend to panic as soon as the smoke became thick enough to make them cough.

Down below, Lutyens, his instruments laid out in readiness, wondered at the amount of running feet he could hear through the planking. An enquiry to a sailor gave him the information that while the enemy was closing, it would be half a glass of sand before they engaged, so he went up to the quarterdeck. Once explained, he gave the opinion that the men on deck should place something damp over their mouths to keep the smoke out, which led to a severe diminution in his stock of bandage. Digby, sensing the time had come, had a tot of rum served to each man, to get some fire in their bellies.

‘Range is closing, sir,’ called Neame. ‘I would say he’ll be putting up his helm in no more’n five minutes.’

A final check was made: the carpenter was ready with well-tarred canvas, plugs and mates to fix any hole in the hull; Sykes had men standing by for a fast repair of any vital rope or sail, and axes to cut away anything that, damaged, might imperil the ship; while the gunner, having filled all the cartridges he had available, and being a religious man of the Methodist persuasion, was praying to Almighty God to be spared. Digby had gone into
his cabin and put in a weighted sack the ship’s books and the list of recognition signals used by British warships to identify each other, and then he came back on deck, to look at the half-dozen gloomy, cutlass-bearing Frenchmen in the waist.