An Awkward Commission (18 page)

The prospect of beaching brought his mind sharply back to the present and the knowledge that landing in the right place, the eastern arm of the Grand Rade, would be achieved more by chance than sure knowledge, given that Trevivian had used as guides what sightings he could get of the north star and the twinkling but distant lights from various points around the arms of the bay. Another break in the cloud showed that such methods had sufficed, as the cutter grounded on soft sand. They waited in silence for a full minute, to ensure that there were no foot patrols to worry about, before Pearce was carried ashore for, as Trevivian insisted, ‘It would not do, sir, to be seen ploughing along pretending to be a local with squelching boots.’

His passenger gave him one more go at the password, took the lantern he would need to help them locate him, then set off up the beach, sniffing the night air, catching on it a whiff of pines, thinking that here he was again, an alien ashore in France for the fourth time since the start of the year. Those pines lay a short way inland, thin trees set well apart at ground level but with enough of a canopy above to blot out any light from stars of the moon. To keep going was to stumble and almost certainly trip and fall, so Pearce
sat down, dirk by his side, pulled his cloak around him, and, using the tricorn as a pillow, fell asleep with his back to a tree. Those same trees blotted out the rising sun, so it was well up before he fully awoke from what had been fitful slumber, his first thought that he had not fetched with him anything to drink, and that as a consequence he had a raging thirst.

Pine needles over sandy soil would provide no relief, so Pearce began to walk towards what he could see of the sun as it filtered through the canopy. Rising ground directed him to the left and after some ten minutes of walking he emerged into open country, cultivated fields, with the town of Toulon rising into the foothills of Mont Faron visible to the north. Looking to the south he saw smoke rising from a hill, which he suspected was the redoubt on the Pointe de Brun. A dusty, rutted track ran from there, parallel to the woods, so, cloak off and rolled under his arm, with the dirk inside and readily available, he strode out and away from what danger that represented.

Hot in his ill-fitting coat, the discomfort of thirst increased, so Pearce was glad to spy a small village at the base of another hill. There were a few houses only, one of which had a table outside under an awning of reeds, and an owner who was obviously an ex-sailor, for even with only one leg he had the rolling gait and the dress to confirm it. Rough wine was not the thing to quench a thirst, that came from a bunch of juicy grapes, which accompanied his bread and cheese. That the silver he paid with was not French brought forth no comment from the lame proprietor, though the look spoke of curiosity. But nothing was said; Pearce surmised that the fellow, like so many of his countrymen, was grateful to be paid in coin of any kind rather than
assignats
, the increasingly worthless paper currency of the Revolution.

Carrying a second bunch of grapes, eating them slowly, Pearce made his way towards the walls of the city, stone ramparts buttressed by an earthen
fosse
to absorb cannon shot. This presented a problem, the gate being guarded by armed National Guardsmen, who, with the
Rosbifs
ships newly come, would probably be in a high state of alert. Watching from the shade of a nearby stable, he saw several people, civilians and soldiers, present papers, passes that let them through. Those that did not, the costermongers and farmers carrying produce into the town to be sold at the market, were obviously well known and greeted as such.

Must he rob someone for their pass? Could he get through that gate without one? Still popping grapes, Pearce pondered that as he watched, thinking that confusion might work just as well. It seemed an age before an opportunity presented itself, as two carts, one entering one exiting through the narrow opening, became entangled, leading to a loud dispute between the drivers. At the same time a group of besmocked children appeared on the road, being shepherded along by nuns, the whole party obviously heading for the gate. It was a risk, but it was one he had to take, for nothing could be achieved lest he was on the inside of the fortifications, so, placing a hand inside the wrapped cloak to take hold of the dirk, he walked out as the last of the children passed him and, as they approached the gate began to shoo them along.

Preoccupied with trying to untangle the carts, the sentries gave him a level of attention which was compromised not just by that, but by their need to raise their hats to the nuns, an act which actually surprised Pearce, given that such obeisance to religion would have seen them slung into prison in Revolutionary Paris. Still shooing the children, calling out at them to, ‘Allez, allez, mes enfants’, Pearce looked right at one of the sentries, and shrugged, mouthing, ‘Les
jeunes,’ with a weary expression. He carried straight on, any curiosity deflected by the deepening argument behind him, as the two carters’ exchange erupted in a crescendo of mutual recrimination. By the time the sentry turned back to look, Pearce was nowhere to be seen.

The buildings inside the wall were widely spaced with little sense of order, laying as they did between what was an outer fortification and the old town defences, the gates of which, unmanned, led to a mass of narrow alleys off a wide quay. This ran around an inner harbour, lined with high warehouses, with bastions at the outer edge on either side of a seagoing entry port, one just big enough, Pearce reckoned, for a major warship to pass through. Since he could see one huge vessel still under construction, surrounded as it was by scaffolds, it had to be.

But that only held his attention for so long. As he walked towards the mid-point of the quay, he saw the stern of another ship, a frigate, crawling with men on both the deck and in the rigging. And there, right in front of his eyes, large in gold lettering, was the name
Brilliant
.

Pearce stopped dead, his mind working furiously to make sense of what he could see, dismissing the thought that the ship could be a French frigate with the same name, since the word brilliant translated as
éclat
. He knew that proper deep sea navy men could look at a ship, even at sea, and tell her name from her lines or her figurehead, just as he knew very well that it was a skill he did not possess. Also, he could see that a lot of the timber work was new, pale against the painted and weathered remainder, which confirmed the thought he found he was strangely reluctant to contemplate; that a ship on which he had served, however reluctantly, had been taken in battle. He might hate Barclay with a passion, but there had been good men on that ship, men who had, in their own way, defied the captain; what had happened to them?

John Pearce had never had an electric shock, all the rage when he had been growing up as the latest thing, a cure for all ills, for there had never been the money for what his father damned as quackery. But on hearing the voice of Robert Sykes, bellowing out an order to someone to ‘Shift his arse’, he reckoned that Dr Graham and his experiments could not have delivered better. He had to stop himself immediately facing towards that voice, in fact he forced himself to turn away and look out over the debris-filled waters of the inner basin, though experiencing partial relief, for Sykes was one
of the ‘good people’ he had just been thinking about.

‘We ain’t aboard ship now, Sykes, so you can go an’ stuff yourself.’

Kemp, thought Pearce, you little rat-faced shit, as Sykes replied. ‘You was a lazy sod aboard ship, Kemp, an’ you ain’t changed.’

‘Why is we toiling so hard anyways?’ Kemp demanded in that well-remembered whine.

‘Cause, idiot, if’n we don’t work, we don’t get fed.’

To walk away was agonising, but essential. If
Brilliant
had been taken, judging by the extent of the repairs having put up a fight, there was nothing he could do about it and that applied to the crew slaving for their captors as much as the ship. What had happened to Barclay, a thought that brought forth a flash of sympathy as he recalled the man’s wife? Closer to him were Martin Dent and the Scotsman Dysart, but most of all was the last of his fellow Pelicans, Ben Walker, the remaining member of that band that had formed on being pressed. Ben had elected to stay aboard rather than join his companions, and go back to a life avoiding arrest for a crime he would never name.

On the open quay it was hard to find a spot from which to observe, certainly one close enough to avoid being seen, so when he did turn to look, well past the prow of the frigate, the faces were indistinct, made more so by the straw hats the men had fashioned to keep the sun off their heads. Height was a clue, for Ben Walker was slight, but he could not make out anyone who looked or moved like him. Imagining a bold rescue, he looked towards the armed guards who were eyeing their prisoners if not exactly guarding them, more content to rest their backsides on bollards and smoke their pipes. That was a thought that had to be killed off; what could he do, one man? Perhaps the mission he was on might provide the answer, perhaps he could attain liberty not just
for Michael, Charlie and Rufus, but for Ben Walker and the crewmen of HMS
Brilliant
as well.

There was more purpose to his stride as he moved on, past endless knots of folk noisily debating politics, with passions clearly running high judging by the flying accusations. He was seeking the first address he had memorised, accosting a number of citizens to ask directions, finally locating it in an alley that backed onto the quay past the naval basin, the loading bay at that side, with name above, firmly closed. Suspicion made him walk past the dark, recessed door of the chandler’s warehouse, in case anyone he had questioned decided to follow him, curious to know why a man clearly not a local was asking, for Toulon was obviously in a highly alarmed state, and likely to see spies everywhere. He waited at the far end of the alley for a whole minute, until he was sure, before making his way back and ducking into the small entrance, setting off a bell as he opened the door. The first thing to hit him in the dimly lit emporium was the smell; the hempen odour of new, coiled rope, a faint whiff of tar and turpentine overlaid with the kind of dusty ambience that spoke of long years of trading.

‘Monsieur?’

The voice came from the top of a well-built but worn set of wooden stairs, and behind the man who spoke was an open door to what looked like his
bureau
, the walls being lined with sheaves of tied papers. A lantern set to light the steps showed he had jet-black hair, eyes that looked to be the same, and the kind of shaded chin that denoted a fellow who was obliged to shave more than once in each day.

‘I am seeking the proprietor, Monsieur Mancini.’

‘I am he. Can I be of service to you?’

‘I hope so, monsieur, since you have, I believe, recently returned from Marseilles.’

Mancini, without haste, half turned for a second, but he
was facing John Pearce in another, this time with a pistol in his hand. Slowly, as it was cocked, Pearce removed his own hand from the rolled up cloak, realising that it must have looked as if he was armed likewise. Besides, against a pistol, and given the distance between them, that midshipman’s dirk was of no use to him.

‘That is unnecessary, monsieur.’

‘Is it?’

‘I do not represent authority.’

‘Your speech marks you out as a stranger. I have always made it my business never to trust strangers, especially those who may come from Paris.’

‘I am a stranger, but from further field than any part of France. And I would point out that if I had come here to challenge you, a delegate of the local assembly, about what happened in Marseilles, perhaps to arrest you for it, I would not come alone.’

‘What could I have done that would justify arrest. I am a Ship’s Chandler, monsieur, as the sign outside my door tells you, as well as being a representative of the people. Is it so strange that one trader from a port should go a few leagues along the coast to confer with another.’

‘Only if that place has thrown out the Jacobins, raised the flag of revolt and only if that person made overtures about the same thing being applied to the whole of the coast, including Toulon.’

‘Go on.’

Ever since this mission was first mooted Pearce had been thinking of what to say on meeting someone like this fellow, who was bound to be suspicious, bound to feel endangered by their views and actions in a country where hundreds of people were dying each day for nothing more than the supposed colour of their blood or the depth of their purse. None of the words were of any use now, in a situation where
only the unvarnished truth would do, for he had no doubt that this man would shoot him if, for an instant, he thought him an enemy.

‘You will have seen the British fleet out at sea, monsieur. I come from there. Yesterday I dined on the flagship with the men from Marseilles with whom you went to confer. They came aboard to ask the British admiral to take charge of the port and city. I fear they departed empty-handed.’

The muzzle waved slightly. ‘Name them?’

‘There was a National Deputy called Rebequi, several traders like yourself, Messieurs Moreau and Pascal, plus a lawyer called Monsieur Trallet. I can assure you they were discreet about you. They gave your name, along with that of two others, to Admiral the Lord Hood. He passed it on to me.’

The pistol twitched again. ‘And those names are?’

Pearce shrugged. ‘You will forgive me Monsieur Mancini, if I feel I have said enough. I will not reveal the other names, even to you.’

‘You are?’

He wondered if the reply sounded false; it certainly did to him. ‘Lieutenant John Pearce, of His Britannic Majesty’s Navy.’

‘And what is it you want?’

‘My admiral needs to know the state of sentiment in Toulon, monsieur. He was obliged to decline the appeals of the delegates from Marseilles, but that is something he might not do if he received the same from the citizens of Toulon. I am here to see if such a request is possible.’

Mancini tried not to react to that and failed, his black eyebrows rising and half a smile appearing before being wiped away. Once he had composed himself he came down the stairs slowly.

‘Lieutenant, please be so good as to put aside that bundle
you are carrying so that I can clearly see both your hands?’ Pearce obliged, and stayed rock still as Mancini walked behind him. The doorbell tinkled again as the man looked out, no doubt checking that the alley was clear, a second time when the door was once more closed.

‘I think I must take you, monsieur, to someone who speaks English, someone who can ensure you are who you say.’

‘I am at your service.’

‘We will walk close together, I will have with me this pistol, which be assured I will use if threatened. And if you are who you say, all I will have done is shoot an English spy.’

‘Might I ask where we are going.’

The reply chilled Pearce. ‘Certainly, monsieur. We are going to the Naval Headquarters of Admiral the Count de Trogoff, the commander of the fleet you see anchored in the inner roads.’

Walking back along the quay, in bright and hot sunlight, the coat John Pearce had borrowed now felt like a sweaty restraint, preventing the kind of free movement that might allow him to act. Not that attacking and overpowering Mancini was an option. Quite apart from that pistol, he was still on the face of it the link to those in Toulon who might ask for British assistance. That is, unless he had gone to Marseilles as a spy. These and other possibilities coursed though his mind on what was a short journey. They passed the sentries posted outside what was a handsome building of a previous age and entered a shaded hallway with a grand double staircase in the middle rising right and left to the upper floors. A liveried footman appeared, and Mancini, without taking his eyes off Pearce, whispered to him, words which sent the man up those stairs with the kind of gait that made no sound.

‘Who are we going to see?’ asked Pearce.

‘I told you, monsieur, someone who can talk to you in your own tongue.’

‘Is that necessary?

‘Very, for if you cannot speak it well enough to satisfy him, your next journey will be to the dungeons.’

The footman came as far as the landing at which the staircase split and nodded, then waited for them to ascend before leading them up and on to a tall, first floor doorway. Mancini was announced, Pearce was not. The man at the large french windows, wearing the pale blue undress uniform coat of the French Navy, turned to face them. Stocky in build, he wore a powdered wig over a square, weathered face, and having looked at Mancini, he turned his brown eyes onto Pearce.

‘This fellow claims to be a messenger from the British admiral. He also claims to have met those in Marseilles with whom I went to treat. He says his name is Lieutenant Pearce.’

‘The name of the admiral is?’ the sailor asked in English.

‘Vice Admiral Lord Hood.’

‘Of which squadron?’

Pearce had to think about that for a split second, but then the colour of the pennant flying on the foremast provided the answer. ‘The red squadron.’

‘Describe him to me.’

‘Taller than you, monsieur, with a florid face, heavy eyebrows and a large nose.’

‘His flagship is?’

‘HMS
Victory
’

‘A fine vessel.’

‘According to those who sail in her, sir, the best ship afloat. Might I ask to whom I am talking?’

‘Capitaine de Vaisseu, le Baron d’Imbert. What you say implies that
Victory
is not your ship?’

‘It is not. I came from England with despatches.’ Reverting to French, Pearce added, ‘The admiral, noting that I spoke French with the delegates from Marseilles…’

D’Imbert threw a glance at Mancini, who nodded.

‘…decided I would be able to carry out this mission without endangering myself.’

Mancini, still locked in eye contact with d’Imbert, told the captain in a rapid fire way, what Pearce had told him, the names of the Marseilles delegates, and how he had come into his emporium.

‘One last question, Lieutenant,’ d’Imbert asked in English. ‘What ships have you served on?’

Pearce looked past him out of the open french window. He could not see the frigate from here, but it gave emphasis to what he said. ‘One of them is being repaired in the basin below your window, Captain, HMS
Brilliant
. If you wish, I am happy to name some of the crew.’

‘The captain?’

‘Ralph Barclay, and when I was aboard he was sailing in the company of his wife.’

D’Imbert smiled suddenly, and said, ‘His very beautiful wife. Please, Lieutenant, sit down, while I call for some refreshments, very necessary on a hot day.’ While pulling on the silk cord to summon a servant he also spoke quietly to Mancini, who departed as the servant entered. Wine ordered, the servant too departed, and d’Imbert sat down opposite Pearce.

‘I have asked the Corsican to go talk to his fellow traders, and arrange a meeting.’ Seeing the look of curiosity on Pearce’s face, he added, ‘We call Mancini that for he is of Corsican descent, as are a number of the citizenry along this part of the coast. It also allows us to talk of him openly without giving away his name.’

‘So you are engaged in a conspiracy?’

‘I would prefer to say we are engaged in a righting of great wrongs, whatever other people may choose to call it.’

‘Admiral Hood is curious to know the balance of forces in Toulon, who is for the Jacobins, and who is against.’

‘I will tell you what I told Captain Barclay.’

‘He survived?’ Pearce asked, as the wine arrived, a cold white from what must be an ice room, judging by the mist that coated the bottle. D’Imbert answered as it was poured, wise enough to do so in French

‘Fortunately, yes, having put up a brave fight.’

Pearce wanted to ask how many lives had been sacrificed in that brave fight, but it would not serve. He was here for a purpose, and to that he must stick, so, once the servant departed, he proposed one of the scenarios that had been discussed aboard
Victory
. ‘Do you require Admiral Lord Hood to land a force of marines?’