An Awkward Commission (15 page)

John Pearce had never seen a fleet at sea, and he had to admit that he was mightily impressed by the sight as HMS
Tartar
ran between the two columns. The towering masts and huge dun coloured sails, as well as the strict order in which they held station, actually induced in him the strangest emotion, one he recognised as a swelling of pride. In a more rational moment he would have scoffed at such a feeling, but he was, for all his scepticism, a Briton, and to see these huge leviathans actually at sea, and to have some feeling for the power they projected, was stirring.

‘Lieutenant Pearce,’ called Captain Freemantle, ‘we have been called aboard
Victory
. Please be prepared to accompany me.’

‘Sir.’

‘And I would get one of the wardroom servants to secure your sea chest. You may not be staying with us much longer.’

Orders rang out to get Captain Freemantle’s boat alongside, as his coxswain hurried the oarsmen to their stations. Pearce went below to collect his despatches, and to pack his own chest, taking too long about it so that a mid was sent to tell him, in a voice in which Freemantle’s irony was copied, that, ‘the captain was awaiting his pleasure.’

Freemantle was pacing back and forth before the open gangway, his clerk beside him carrying his muster book and logs in a sack slung over his shoulder, and his greeting was in the same vein, one which had all the other officers on deck, those who had brawled with him in Gibraltar, grinning. It was the same grin that they had displayed when, out at sea, Captain Freemantle had called Pearce to his cabin and quietly
roasted him for getting his officers involved in a brawl.

‘Good of you to join us, Mr Pearce’, as the clerk went over the side. ‘Now please lead the way into the boat.’

That made John Pearce gulp, for he knew he was no master of the art of getting into an open boat in a running sea off a moving vessel, knew that he could very easily make a complete ass of himself. But there was no alternative; he was junior, he must go first. Looking over the side, he saw that the man ropes were well secured by the stanchions fitted to the timbers, that the cutter was bobbing around on what was not even remotely a rough sea, being held steady from the ship’s side by men who stood and swayed easily as the waves ran under the boat.

He called to the coxswain, ‘You there, catch if you please,’ and with that threw his oilskin pouch into the man’s hands, for he had no notion of trying to descend with that to encumber him.

‘Please feel free to take your time, Mr Pearce. Admiral Lord Hood is, as I am sure you know, all patience.’

The laughter was suppressed, but it was there. Captain Freemantle was not a shouter, but his biting sarcasm, his chief weapon of command, was more wounding. Pearce turned to face him and taking hold of the man ropes put a foot out to locate one of the battens that ran down the frigate’s side, his foot waving about uncertainly until it finally made contact. He had seen people do this, men used to the act, who leant back to a point where their bodies appeared near-horizontal, men who did not need to look down every second to see where their next foot was to go. Slowly his head disappeared, but not until he heard Freemantle quip.

‘Damn me, Mr Pearce, I hope you board an enemy quicker than you exit a friend.’

It was not far to the cutter, ten feet when it crested a
wave, fifteen in a trough, though it seemed a mile, and it was made doubly uncertain by the fact that the battens were wet, caked in salt, and slippery. Pearce knew he was too upright, but he lacked the confidence to ease backwards and let his arms hold him, so that it took him an age to actually get aboard. Sat in the thwarts, he saw Thomas Freemantle skip down with ease, till he took his place beside him.

‘I think coxswain, now that our guest is comfortable, we may cast off.’

It was only when he was halfway across the gap between the huge bulk of HMS
Victory
and the insignificant-looking
Tartar
that he finally looked at Captain Freemantle. He saw that his jaw was set tight, and the slightly humorous look he normally wore was absent. He had heard enough in his week on the frigate to know that Lord Hood was a proper tartar himself, indeed he had been obliged to listen to endless puns of the ship’s name and admiral’s reputation. Odd then that he was quite relaxed, while the captain was clearly nervous.

In the great cabin, the same Lord Hood was being subjected to a moan from the only man, it was said, who dared to address him so, the same fellow who had let Farmiloe eat Hotham’s apple.

‘Is I to fetch another leaf from the hold or what?’

‘Do be silent, Sims,’ growled Hood.

The admiral’s steward ignored that, his voice becoming even more crabbed. ‘I has set the cook a dinner for twelve, and no sooner have I done that then you add another half dozen. Now, not content with landing me with a mid and a captain suddenly come up on the horizon as though they sniffed the grub, I am told there is two officers in the bugger’s boat, not the one. That there table will need resetting for the third time. No, if’n there be anyone else a comin’ let me know, an’ I’ll extend it.’

‘One of these days, Sims, I am going to extend your neck,
which will have the added virtue of stilling your damned tongue.’

The steward exited, tetchy still, his voice fading. ‘Should have stayed ashore, a man your age. Had everything, comfort of your own hearth and high office, an you goin’ an chuck it all up for a cruise.’

Up above his head he could hear his dinner guests moving around, being entertained as they were in Captain Knight’s cabin, sipping their pre-prandial drinks. He should have gone there with them, and left that grouchy bugger Sims to get on with his tasks. Then he smiled; the man had been with him for three decades, they knew each other inside out. Many’s a time his steward had pointed out to him where he was doing wrong, something no one else, certainly not his inferior officers, seemed brave enough to contemplate. Command was a lonely station, for all the privileges. A honest voice was worth a mint, even if it did come from an untutored pest.

Marine boots crashed outside the doorway, and his clerk appeared to announce, ‘Captain Freemantle, sir, and Lieutenant Pearce.’

‘Captain,’ Hood said, peering at Pearce, who was holding his oilskin pouch over his belly.

‘The lieutenant has the despatches from Gibraltar, sir, which he had given your clerk, as well as a set which has come from Downing Street.’

‘Indeed?’

‘To be given in to your hands only, sir,’ Pearce added. ‘Mr Pitt was most insistent.’

‘Then do that thing, Lieutenant,’ Hood replied, as they were passed over. The drum rolled out on the quarterdeck to announce dinner, and those feet above his head began to move. ‘I will read these later. You will, of course, join us for dinner.’

‘Much obliged, sir,’ said Freemantle, with palpable gratitude. Pearce said nothing; he was not so sure, looking at the table and the number of place settings, that an invitation was to be welcomed.

Farmiloe, shaved again, got clean linen only because the dirty shirt he had to swap was so much better than that for which he exchanged it, a well washed and worn affair that had nothing left of cloth under the armpits. The villain who had dunned him, a fellow midshipman of the same size, had at least let him black his shoes, polish his buttons and brush the salt streaks out of his coat. The breeches would just have to do, and anyway they would be under the table. He was surprised to bump into to another mid from
Brilliant
, called Toby Burns, and that was when the drum roll caught him, so he had to run up to the maindeck and the admiral’s cabin. By the time he got there, half the guests were seated, and that got him a dark look from Hood, who indicated that he should take his place at the far end of the table next to the marine captain.

That he did, looking down the snow-white cloth, covered in crystal and silverware, to the other end, where sat the Marseilles civilians, the leader of whom, the fellow called Rebequi, had been given a place of honour just past the admiral’s on the host’s right hand. There was a lieutenant talking to those citizens, obviously put there because he knew the language, and sideways on there was something familiar about his bearing.

But it was not until he looked up the long table and their eyes met that Farmiloe felt real shock. Burns had been enough of a surprise, but now he was seeing, in a lieutenant’s uniform, dining at an admiral’s table, a man who only a few months before he had seen lashed to a grating.

Since the hour off Marseilles was the same in Toulon, the Barclays found themselves sitting down for dinner at the same time as those aboard HMS
Victory
, one either side of Contre-Admiral le Comte de Trogoff, albeit ashore and in a well appointed dining room at the quayside chateau that he used as his headquarters. The windows were shuttered to keep out the heat of the late afternoon sun but there was still sufficient light to sparkle off the plate and crystal glasses, as well as illuminate the dark portraits of previous incumbents studded around the walls. De Trogoff’s junior admiral, St Julien, was present, as well as numerous captains and marine officers. The difference from the meal happening at sea was the presence of ladies, not least Emily Barclay, dressed in her most becoming jade gown, her auburn hair piled high and held by a matching silk band. In the company of gallant French officers she had attracted a great deal of admiration, in all of which she took pleasure, much to the chagrin of her husband and those naval wives and mistresses who felt neglected. Ralph Barclay was doubly cross that he could see the attentiveness, but could only guess at what was being said in the way of compliments.

Admiral de Trogoff, in his powdered wig and flabby, florid countenance, was too mature and rotund to make for much of a suitor, not that such impediments debarred him from the attempt, for he kissed Emily’s hand with a
lavish, almost slavering courtesy. His second-in-command was a different kettle of fish altogether and Ralph Barclay examined him closely. Rear-Admiral Etienne St Julien was a darkly handsome cove with shiny, carefully curled hair worn in the latest revolutionary fashion, and he was quite unabashed in using his seniority to discourage any other officer who wished to pay court to Emily Barclay in the time before they actually sat down at table, seemingly equally adept at ignoring the furious looks he was getting from the lady who had accompanied him.

Decency and language had obliged the host to place Captain d’Imbert on Ralph Barclay’s left, which was just as well, given that de Trogoff had little inclination to speak with him, more concerned to stop St Julien monopolising Emily to his right. St Julien’s paramour, on the far side of her escort, had no choice but to talk to her other neighbour, since her man was likewise engaged.

‘Your countrymen seem to have a deep interest in the opinions of my wife, monsieur.’ If d’Imbert picked up the pique in Ralph Barclay’s tone he did not respond to it, smiling as though such a thing was natural, which to him of course, was the case; it was French gentleman’s duty to pay court to beauty. ‘I fear an English flag officer would feel an obligation to converse equally with both his guests, rather than just one.’

‘I would take it as a compliment were I in your position, Captain Barclay.’

‘Would you indeed?’

‘It is mere gallantry, and of course rivalry, and I am obliged to add that the subject warrants the attention.’ The smile disappeared from his disease-scarred face. ‘How I wish it was ever the case, but I fear our pair of admirals would compete over a used dog bone.’

Earlier conversations had established that le Baron
d’Imbert was the senior captain in the fleet, a man who would have been an admiral himself by now if the Ministry of Marine in Paris was not overseen by Jacobins. Another officer of the old Marine Royale, he came from that strata of French society which had seen it as
de rigueur
to be competent in English, something he had perfected when serving as a young captain in the American Revolutionary War, so that his voice had in it the twang of the old colonies.

‘They do not see eye to eye?’ Ralph Barclay asked.

D’Imbert smiled. ‘I believe that is what an Englishman would call understatement. I doubt they could agree on the hour if called upon to do so.’

Ralph Barclay had a glass of wine halfway to his mouth, but it stopped there, for this hinted at proof of what Lutyens had said at the infirmary. ‘Would you feel it impertinent of me to enquire as to some of those differences?’

‘Not at all, Captain,’ d’Imbert replied, with a bitter tone. ‘Why be discrete about that which is common gossip in the markets and on the fish quay. Our friend St Julien yonder is a staunch republican, a committed supporter of the Revolution, a Jacobin and a creature of Paris, eager to get the fleet to sea and meet an enemy he suspects is on its way from England. Admiral de Trogoff, on the other hand, sees the fleet as a weapon to be preserved, that to lose it would be a disaster, and in contrast to St Julien, he has a conscience about his oath to his late sovereign as well as a deep distrust of those now running the country.’

‘Is he a royalist, then?’

‘That might be too deep an emotion for a man not given to such definition. Let us just say that he is uncomfortable serving those who presently hold power.’

‘So he does not hanker after a restoration?’

‘If I understand the word hanker correctly, which I admit I may not, then it describes his attitude very well. It does not,
after all, suggest any sense of real engagement. But in his defence it needs to be pointed out the consequences of open disagreement with Paris would mean a great deal more than merely being superseded. He could lose his head.’

‘I must ask you Captain d’Imbert, what your own feelings are?’

‘Let us say that I, like most of my fellow officers, prefer order to chaos…’

‘Captain Barclay,’ Emily called across de Trogoff, producing an unwelcome distraction to which her husband nevertheless had to respond. ‘Admiral St Julien has invited me to take a carriage ride with him into the hills outside the town. He says there are fields of lavender that stretch for miles, which I may pick to my heart’s content.’

Her husband looked past his wife at the coiffed St Julien, wet-lipped and smiling, his hooded eyes quite unabashed in the way he held the Englishman’s gaze. Ralph Barclay smiled at him, and touched the white bandage on his head before replying, in a gesture designed to ensure this popinjay knew he was a fighter. ‘Tell the Admiral, my dear, that
we
would be delighted.’

The emphasis was enough to make Emily blush slightly, and she sounded hurt. ‘I do hope you did not think I would go with him alone?’

‘Not for a moment, Mrs Barclay, but I suspect that the Admiral would not object if you did.’ Then he turned to d’Imbert and said, not without irritation, ‘Gallantry, you say?’

‘I fear the Revolution has destroyed more than the ancient monarchy of France. Manners have suffered as well.’

Ralph Barclay was not a patient man, never had been, and that knowing look from St Julien made his next question a sharp one. ‘What support does the junior Admiral have?’

Captain d’Imbert hesitated then, for it was obvious that to
reply to such a direct enquiry was to commit an indiscretion much greater than anything he had said hitherto. The truth of that was in the keen look on Ralph Barclay’s face and the Frenchman toyed with his glass of wine while he ruminated on the consequences, with his fellow guest holding his breath for what seemed an age.

‘It would be impossible to be precise. It depends on how many of the sailors would follow their officers.’

‘The officers then, would back Admiral de Trogoff?’

‘Let us just say that their opinions are likely to coincide.’

‘The warrants?’ The look of incomprehension d’Imbert gave him then made him add, ‘The ship’s standing officers. The masters, gunners, bosuns and the like. You know as well as I do that on any warship they are the men, the steady types, that the crew will listen to. If a drastic course of action is proposed you cannot carry the crews without you carry such people.’

‘I would say only this, Captain Barclay. Those who are true seamen, and have served for a time, will not follow St Julien. But you must understand, the fleet has been expanded, and those brought in by the needs of war are not of the same calibre.’

‘Capitaine Barclay,’ said Admiral de Trogoff, ‘
Pardonnez-moi
…’

The beneficiary of what came next had to wait until d’Imbert translated words that were full of apology for ignoring his guest of honour.

John Pearce sat in idle contemplation as Lord Hood read the private despatches, that followed by the letter from Pitt, recalling the look he had exchanged with the young,
fair-haired
midshipman, wondering if he had shown any shock to match that which he had observed. He hoped not, for in
his imagination he had, many times, conjured up a vision of meeting those who would recall him as a pressed landsman. That Farmiloe would do that he did not doubt; the boy had been with Barclay the night he had been forcibly taken up, so his name was imprinted on Pearce’s mind, and it was not one to conjure up kind thoughts.

‘Are you privy to what is in these papers. Lieutenant?’

‘No, sir, except that Mr Pitt told me some of what he intended to write regarding my needs, based upon submissions I made to him.’

‘About your being pressed?’

‘That, and other things.’

‘He makes much of the mode of your elevation to your present rank, and the reason?’

‘If he included that, I was not aware of it.’

‘I would have objected in the strongest terms had I been available to be consulted. The granting of commissions is the prerogative of those who run the Navy.’

‘Mr Pitt seemed anxious not to upset the King.’

Hood nearly snarled his reply to that. ‘It does sovereigns good to sometimes be disappointed.’ There was a moment when he looked as though he was going to quote a few examples, but the annoyance cleared from both his face and his voice. ‘Let us concentrate on the matter of your alleged impressment for now. I would wish to hear what happened, in your own words.’

Rehearsed so many times, they did not sound half as convincing spoken as they had in his head, and he left out the fact that he was running from a King’s Bench Warrant at the time and had only ended up in the Pelican to avoid that pursuit, for mention of his father to a political admiral like Hood would not aid his cause. Instead he emphasised the fact that pressing men for sea service was illegal in the Liberties of the Savoy, in which the Pelican Tavern was located.

‘I will not enquire as to why you were in such a place.’

In saying that, Hood was making it plain what he knew; that the Liberties were a part of London where those in fear of arrest for debt or a minor crime took refuge, a few streets betwixt the River Thames and the Strand, part of the grounds of the old Savoy Palace, from which bailiffs and tipstaffs were banned.

Pearce nodded towards the open letter on his desk. ‘I did not reside there, my presence on that night was pure bad luck. It was the same for one of my friends, but two of them did live there, as well as an old fellow, now dead as a direct consequence of being taken up. Whatever reason they had to be in the Liberties does not detract from the fact that they were illegally pressed.’

‘The truth of that is yet to be decided.’

‘Not in my mind!’

The response was too sharp, too fierce, and that showed in the glowering look with which it was greeted. ‘I think you will find, young man, that speaking to me in that tone will not do anything to aid your submission.’

Pearce made sure of a more emollient pitch, when he replied. ‘Forgive me, sir, but I hope you will appreciate how the event still rankles. And if you wish for the truth of what I say, you have a midshipman aboard, a member of HMS
Brilliant
’s crew, who was there on that very night, and took part in the operation.’

‘Farmiloe?’ Pearce nodded and Hood called out for someone to fetch the youngster, after which he shuffled the letters, then said. ‘While we are waiting, the action with the
Valmy
. I sailed before that happened. Tell me about it.’

Pearce reckoned this to be no time for modesty, but he managed, without sounding vain, to tell of the action, of how he had found himself forced to make decisions, of those he had made and the result. As Hood listened, Pearce had
the impression he was not entirely concentrating on what he was hearing, that he was thinking of other matters, which was unusual in a naval officer hearing a tale of battle.

‘The result you know, sir. I was whisked off to Windsor, the King was excitable, and insisted on my promotion. Lord Chatham objected, his brother did not. I, for one, have no idea if it was deserved, only that it exists.’

‘I saw you in deep conversation with those Frenchmen from Marseilles.’

Slightly thrown by the change of subject, Pearce took a second to respond. ‘They were worried for their lives, sir. Monsieur Rebequi does not enjoy their full confidence, and they are not as one in their views. He, for instance, is a member of the faction called the Gironde…’

‘Please don’t confuse me, Pearce. Girondes, Feuillants, Jacobins. To me these Frenchmen, and their damned factions, are all as one.’

‘Like Whigs and Tories?’

‘Nothing like, as well you know, young man.’

Pearce could not resist baiting him, thinking his fellow-countrymen, this admiral included, pious in their condemnation of the French. ‘It took them some time, I grant you, to get round to beheading a king, but you cannot deny that we in Britain, in chopping the head off the first King Charles, set them a precedent of near a century and a half.’

Hood would not be drawn into a discussion about the judicial murder of monarchs, British Stuarts or French Bourbons. ‘I believe we were talking about your dinner companions?’

‘Most would call themselves Republicans, but with, I think, no great depth of conviction. Some even mentioned a declaration for the brother of the late King Louis as a way to ward off the revenge of Paris. As I say, they are worried.’

That only got a raised eyebrow. ‘They have every right to be, Pearce, and it is of some regret that I can do nothing to aid them. Let us hope the Revolutionary Army is in as much disarray as they claim. You speak good French, obviously.’

‘I lived in Paris for over two years, and my father, naturally, as a Scot, having a warm feeling towards an old ally, made sure I had a grounding in the language before that.’