An Awkward Commission (20 page)

‘How long is it, Parker, since an admiral could flog a lieutenant in our Navy?’

Parker smiled, as he replied, looking even more
self-satisfied
in the process. ‘It must be over a hundred years, sir.’

‘Then we need to see it revived,’ Hood growled, before, in addressing d’Imbert, his voice changed completely. ‘My apologies, I have been quite rightly corrected, even if the manner of it as well as the source, is inappropriate. You must be sharp set after your journey. Can I offer you some food?’

‘A glass of wine, perhaps, sir,’ d’Imbert replied. ‘I doubt my stomach would accept food.’

‘Mine would,’ said Pearce, only to be told quite brusquely that his could wait.

He then listened to the preliminaries, as d’Imbert sought
to imply that his mission was exploratory only, and to allude rather than underline that there were competing factions in Toulon, Jacobins versus Girondists, and even those who sought a restoration of royal power, this while Hood played with various notions of what could, and could not be done, none of which came close to answering what was needed. Such play-acting might have gone on forever if d’Imbert had not noticed Pearce take out and make a great show of looking at his watch.

‘Admiral Hood, you will forgive me if I am a touch abrupt. Lieutenant Pearce has just reminded me that time is too short for us to engage in diplomatic niceties. Admiral de Trogoff will need to know what you can do immediately, what is possible in the future, and when that may come to fruition. You will know without my telling you that Toulon cannot indefinitely hold off a siege, which must surely come at some time, without soldiers to man the defences. Are such soldiers available, and if they are, when can they be brought here?’

‘There is much to consider, Captain d’Imbert.’

‘And no time to do it,’ interjected Pearce, though he added, ‘If you will forgive me.’ The Frenchman looked pained, so Pearce added, ‘Captain d’Imbert will not say so, because he feels it demeaning to admit such a thing, but his life will be endangered if he does not return before daylight. If that is not possible, it alters everything. Indeed it might mean the Captain would be better abandoning his duties and staying aboard
Victory
.’

‘Lieutenant,’ protested d’Imbert, holding up his hand, for what he evidently thought of as a heavy-handed ploy. ‘This is not the way such matters are decided.’

‘I do think,’ Pearce insisted, ‘that the time we have precludes sticking to the normal rules. The captain will also not say that his commanding admiral is inclined to
prevaricate, is an indecisive commander by his very nature and will only act on certainty, not chance. He has mentioned that Admiral St Julien holds different opinions, but not that he is viscerally opposed to anything that smacks of surrender and will do all in his power to prevent it, even, if he thinks he can get away with it, to the point of arresting Admiral de Trogoff for treason. I believe the only thing that stops him from doing so immediately, is that he is not sure that he can carry the crews of the ships.’

‘Have you quite finished, Lieutenant?’ asked Hood.

‘I speak only out of concern, sir, that you do not understand the currents with which you deal, and I would say, that with my experience, I know more about the forces that shape revolutionary politics than anyone in this cabin. Those who must risk their lives by declaring for the cause of freedom must know they are going to be supported, otherwise they will do nothing.’

‘I think you have said your piece, Lieutenant Pearce, now if you will let me, I will answer Captain d’Imbert’s concerns.’ With that he looked at the Frenchman, ‘and of course those of Admiral de Trogoff. Would you like those in writing?’

‘Yes.’

The under-secretary who had been forced to lend his coat to Pearce was fetched, dressed in his shirt sleeves and breeches, his attention at first on the state of his only covering garment. A bark from Hood had him seated, quill poised, as the admiral spoke.

‘You will not know, since the news only came to me before I retired for the night, that Marseilles has been invaded by the army of a General Carteaux, this after he defeated those marching on Lyon, an action I must tell you I strongly advised against.’

‘Then it cannot be held,’ said d’Imbert, this while Pearce was thinking what a sly old fox Hood was, keeping that
information to himself until it could be used with some impact.

Hood nodded his head in agreement. ‘It cannot. I fear for the people who live there, for I cannot imagine that there will be much in the way of forgiveness.’

The Baron dropped his head, and it was obvious he was silently praying, which Hood respected by holding his tongue until the man was finished. ‘But our concern is Toulon. I will undertake, on a request for support, to immediately land the marines, to the number of fifteen hundred, to secure the heights of Mont Faron and the approaches through Ollioules to the west and I am sure Admiral Langara will do likewise. I will also land sailors to shift what guns you have in the Arsenal, and set them to building the redoubts and gun emplacements necessary to hold off a besieging force well away from the town walls.’

‘That will not suffice, sir.’

‘I am aware of that, Captain, and because of that knowledge I will send for troops. First from Spain, though you must understand that I have to speak with Admiral Langara as soon as I can get him aboard. Then there is Naples. I will despatch a senior officer to request from the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies help to defend Toulon. I expect such a request to be met with a positive, given that they will be helping to secure the future of their own territories, albeit at some length from their borders, but also because, as you know, Queen Carolina is Austrian and a sister to Queen Marie Antoinette.’

The quill scraped behind, while d’Imbert sat rock still, leaving everyone else to wonder what he was thinking. Hood, it seemed, was the only one who knew. ‘I see that you reckon that insufficient, too.’

‘Even in numbers, Admiral, I have little faith that Spaniards and Neapolitans can hold any perimeter we decide
upon. Spain is no longer the military power it was even fifty years ago, and as for Naples…’

He gave an elegant, and eloquent shrug, to say they would be near useless.

‘I agree, which is why, before you leave, you will be given sight of a letter I intend sending by my fastest frigate to London, asking that troops be sent with all despatch to help us maintain not just Toulon, but to open a campaign to secure the whole of southern France.’

‘Does England have such troops?’

‘Britain,’ replied Hood, with a half smile at Pearce, like most Scots inclined to bridle when the combined nation was not properly named. ‘Our country has them available now. They are designed for service elsewhere, though you will understand discretion debars me for saying where. But I doubt they have sailed yet, and will not do so for at least a month. I am going to suggest to the government, of which I am, as the senior Sea Lord, a member, that they would be better employed on the coast of Provence.’

‘Numbers.’

‘Enough to hold off and destroy by attrition an army besieging Toulon, and once that army is forced to raise the siege, enough to pursue them and detach the rest of southern France from the Revolution. All we have to do, acting as allies, is to maintain the place until they arrive.’

John Pearce was impressed, thinking how different Hood was from de Trogoff; decisive, a man who could think through a problem and not only see but expound solutions, in short, a fighter and a leader who did not need to hold a conference to act.

‘I would be happy to take these terms back to Admiral le Comte de Trogoff. I cannot guarantee he will find them sufficient.’

‘And I cannot see what more I can offer. I would also
add that General Carteaux’s army, once it has finished in Marseilles, will march on to Toulon regardless of what action you take, and as of this moment you have nothing with which to halt it.’

‘I know that, Milord.’

‘And you Captain, what is your opinion?’

Hesitating for half a second, d’Imbert was quite emphatic when he spoke. ‘I will recommend that he accept your terms and act upon them, sir.’

‘And the town?’

‘Once they hear that Marseilles has been invaded, they will have no choice but to accept. There will, as you say, be retribution for what is perceived, let alone for what has been done.’

‘Good. Lieutenant Pearce, be so good as to return his coat to my under-secretary, and your hat I will see gets back to its owner.’

‘Sir.’

‘Then get yourself into uniform. You will accompany Captain d’Imbert back to Toulon.’

‘Why?’

Hood’s eyes flashed. ‘First, because I say so, and second because the terms of surrender I have outlined have to be presented to Admiral de Trogoff by a British officer, or at least someone dressed as one, and you are the person I have chosen for the task.’

‘Sir, I have not slept for two nights.’

‘You will have time to sleep, Lieutenant, when there is nothing to do. Now you will do as you are ordered.’

The news had obviously come from Marseilles about what was happening there, and if half the shouted stories were true, the army of the Revolution was already in the city and spilling blood in quantity. Those on the Toulon quayside not arguing politics and speculating were going about their affairs with worried expressions, for the Revolution would not spare anyone thought of as traitorous, nor any person that a neighbour or rival chose to denounce. Pearce had seen it before, in Paris and the towns that led to Calais, that haunted look of being under threat from sources unknown.

In the early morning light, the old saw, ‘sticking out like a sore thumb’, was much in his mind as, one hand clutching his dress sword, he made his way along the quay. The white facings on his dark blue uniform coat, the brass buttons polished to gleaming perfection by a wardroom servant, were too obvious to be missed, especially set against the pale blue of d’Imbert’s French uniform. Hardly anyone they passed failed to notice, which led to an extra examination and excited conjecture that obviously related to his presence ashore. He had no doubt that the news that a British naval officer was visiting Admiral de Trogoff’s headquarters would spread around the town like a brush fire, adding to an already febrile and potentially perilous atmosphere.

Passing the same footman who had shown him to d’Imbert’s rooms the previous day, he guessed that Admiral
St Julien would quickly be made aware of his presence, and it was clear from the lift of the eyebrows that the fellow recognised him, which killed off any notion that it was not part of some conspiracy. The grip on that sword tightened, and he made a point of asking his companion, once they were secure in his offices, if he still had those pistols.

‘Nothing will happen to you here, Lieutenant, I assure you, for I can say you have come to us under a flag of truce.’

The Frenchman rang a bell, ordered that coffee and fresh rolls be fetched and that the Commanding Officer should be told that a plenipotentiary had come from Admiral Lord Hood with a letter addressed personally to him. Then he asked an equally important question.

‘Admiral St Julien?’

‘Is not at present in the building.’

‘Good,’ d’Imbert replied. ‘Please let me know as soon as he arrives.’ To Pearce’s questioning look, he added, ‘St Julien has several ladies by whom he is entertained. I suspect he is with one of them now, and since there is no alarm and every officer in the fleet knows what to do if there is, he will not rush to return to his duties.’

‘Shameful,’ said Pearce, unbuckling his sword and stretching out on a chaise, ‘does he not know there’s a war on?’

Under strain as he was, d’Imbert nevertheless managed a smile. ‘I suspect, Lieutenant, that both you and I would both rather be engaged in what he is about, than what we are doing at the moment.’

‘Right now, Captain, I think I would turn down even that in favour of sleep.’

With that Pearce closed his eyes, and fell into an immediate slumber, one that was not affected by the smell of coffee, freshly baked bread, the clinking of d’Imbert’s crockery, the shouted exchanges and screams of encouragement and fear from the quay below his windows, or the endless stream of
clerks bringing in the muster books, stores manifests and logs of the ships in the harbour, all of which they had checked, but which had to be passed and signed off as accurate by a senior officer.

D’Imbert woke him after an hour of truly deep and reviving sleep, which, once his eyes had cleared, revealed a worried-looking Frenchman holding a sheaf of reports in his hand, which he shuffled through as he spoke. ‘Marseilles has definitely fallen and the guillotine is already at work. Rebequi, the fellow who led the delegation who came to see Lord Hood, has apparently thrown himself into the harbour rather than face such a death. The soldiers are raping, killing and stealing at will. Anyone prominent is being hauled to the scaffold for immediate execution.’

‘Admiral de Trogoff knows this?’

The question was so obvious it did not have to be stated. Why had he not seen de Trogoff? It was a weary d’Imbert who told him. ‘The admiral first sent to say he was at his toilette, which you will guess is not of short duration, but after an hour passed I enquired again. Now he has sent a second message to say he is indisposed, and would like to read Lord Hood’s letter rather than meet you.’

‘In short, I might ask him to respond to it?’

‘I fear that is true. While you were asleep I sent a trusted man to inform Mancini and his friends of what Lord Hood proposes. I have added my own view that those in the town prepared to act must be ready to do so at a moment’s notice, certainly before the day is out.’

Pearce had grabbed one of the rolls, and was chewing at it as he spoke. ‘You do not see that as too hasty?’

‘What do you think St Julien will do once he hears that a British Naval officer has arrived here in uniform, this after Marseilles has been taken and put to the sword by Carteaux. The man is far from stupid. He will surmise that portends a
resolution, one that is unlikely to favour him and he will seek to act accordingly, which is what I would do. If he gathers his adherents, organises and arms them, they will form a formidable obstacle, perhaps an insurmountable one.’

‘From where will the arms come?’

‘Not from our warships, I am sure. The captains will prevent that. I have put guards on the Arsenal, but I have no guarantee they will bar a Rear Admiral from entry if he demands access.’

‘Will Mancini act?’

‘I hope so. The delegates to the local assembly are in session now, but no news has come that they are close to a conclusion. My fear is that the Toullonais will wait to see what the fleet does, while the fleet waits to see what action they take.’

‘You must take command of this, Captain, of both townsfolk and the sailors.’

The reply lacked much in the way of conviction. ‘I am obliged to obey the orders of my superior officer, Admiral de Trogoff.’

‘Sophistry,’ Pearce insisted. ‘You are telling me you are prepared to accept the commands of one admiral, while I have no doubt you would readily disobey the commands of another.’

‘Let me go and see de Trogoff. I may be able to get him to act.’

‘And if he does not?’

The Captain turned his back on Pearce then, once more to look out over the Vieux Darse, to the ships being built and repaired, and the long lines of low buildings that made up the greatest dockyard in the Mediterranean, the pride of the French Navy since the days of Henri IV. His voice, when he finally spoke, was full of the despair of a man forced to contemplate going against all the tenets by which he had lived his service life.

‘Then I must do as you say, and I hope that you believe
that my own fate will have nothing to do with whatever actions I encourage.’

‘I know that, Captain,’ Pearce replied, with genuine sincerity.

Pearce was left to his own devices and looking out over that same view that had so troubled d’Imbert, his eyes were once more drawn to the Brilliants, toiling away of the opposite side of the basin. If things were going to come to a head, if there was a possibility of fighting and bloodshed, they, under an armed guard, must be informed, for if they were not they could easily become victims. He was the only one who could warn them. He knew he should tell d’Imbert of his intentions but since he had no idea how to contact him directly, he was obliged to pass on the information to the footman whose loyalty was questionable. That hardly mattered; what could a footman do?

Back out on the quay, hurrying along, he was again the object of much speculation; these were folk who knew the dress of the different navies, and the wheel of rumour was working flat out, promising death from any number of sources. Not all the looks were hostile, most were alarmed or suspicious, but there was the odd fellow who shook his fist, though the hand on the sword deterred them from a more potent reaction. Unbeknown to John Pearce, that was the effect it had on Ralph Barclay, looking out at the morning view from the ramparts of his tower prison.

‘Damn me, a British naval officer,’ he shouted.

‘Captain Barclay!’ exclaimed his wife.

‘My dear,’ her husband replied, for once unabashed, ‘there is nothing on heaven and earth that will condemn me for uttering an oath at the sight below.’

Emily came out into the open air, and followed his pointing finger, her hand up to shade her eyes from the
sun, she fixed her gaze on the figure in the dark blue coat hurrying down the southern edge of the quay. ‘That, my dear, is a British officer.’

‘You are sure, husband?’

‘My dear, allow that I know a lieutenant’s coat when I see one.’

‘I merely question whether he could be from another service.’

‘No, he is one of ours.’ Ralph Barclay insisted, turning to look out over the rest of the harbour, and seeing no change in the disposition of the shipping. ‘The question you should be asking is this, what’s a British naval officer doing parading about, unescorted, in a French naval base?’

‘The simplest solution, husband, would be to ask him.’

‘Which I was just about to suggest,’ he replied. ‘Perhaps you would care to accompany me?’

‘I am not sure, given you have no idea of the nature of his presence, if that would be wise.’

‘That is clever of you, my dear. Though I can see no danger, that does not mean that none exists.’

Ralph Barclay was in his coat and alerting his escorts within a minute, struggling to balance his uniform hat on his still bandaged head, this as his wife watched this unknown officer make a beeline for the crew of her husband’s ship.

The men guarding the Brilliants were not like the townsfolk, or those sailors that had pointed at him from the decks of the vessels under repair. The man in charge, with the insignia of a sergeant on his cuff, stood up as soon as one of his underlings nudged him, the look of confusion on his face evident even at a hundred paces. The musket came half up and he called to the rest of his party to attend, so that by the time Pearce got close he faced a line of suspicious-looking men with weapons ready to be used.

‘I am here under the parole of Captaine le Baron d’Imbert. I have his permission to talk to the prisoners.’

Said loudly, it had several of those prisoners looking up, but with the sun behind him and his fore and aft hat shading his face, they would struggle to identify him. The French sergeant responded with a deeply sceptical look, which matched his words. ‘The good capitaine was here only yesterday. He brought them wine, food and coin, but he said nothing to me of a second
Rosbif
officer.’

The other
Rosbif
officer had to be Barclay, but that was irrelevant. ‘I think you must ask yourself why I am here without my own guards. If you do not believe what I say you must send to naval headquarters and ask Captaine d’Imbert yourself. I wonder how he will take to you questioning the word of an officer, even a British one?’

Now all the Brilliants were standing, work forgotten, staring at the scene, as the sergeant chewed on his tobacco like a ruminating bovine, wondering what to do. The man before him had walked up unescorted, and behaved with a confidence he would be disinclined to challenge, considering the way he had used d’Imbert’s name.

Seeing his wavering, Pearce added, ‘I only wish to talk with them, in the same manner as their captain.’

‘Then you will not mind, monsieur, that I keep a musket trained on you, one, which I must tell you, is loaded and primed.’

‘Not one bit, but do make sure that your finger does not twitch.’

With that, Pearce turned to face the Brilliants, raising his hat as he did so, and watching the faces as one by one they recognised him. Costello, a dark-skinned bosun’s mate who had been kindly in his own rough manner, cried out first, but it was the open-mouthed bosun he addressed.

‘I bid you good day, Mr Sykes.’

‘Pearce?’ he replied, in deep disbelief, his eyes lowering and lifting from silver shoe buckles to uniform hat.

‘The very same, Mr Sykes.’

‘Christ almighty, Pearce, what are you doing here?’ demanded Costello.

‘And in that uniform?’ wheezed a less than enamoured Kemp.

‘And in that uniform, sir,’ Pearce insisted, for Kemp was one who stirred unpleasant memories, a man to distrust, and one who was too free to use his starter on a man’s naked back. But he was not looking at the rat-faced sod, he was examining all the faces for sight of Ben Walker.

‘Like hell I will. Hell will freeze before I “sir” you, ’cause you ain’t no officer, and that’s no error. Dressed in that garb you’se asking for a flogging round the fleet.’

It was with a certain dread that he asked. ‘Where’s Ben, Mr Sykes?’

The bosun just shook his head in the way that implied that Ben was no longer alive. Pearce jerked his head back towards
Brilliant
. ‘In the battle?’

Sykes shook his head again, about to explain, but in doing that his gaze was directed over the questioner’s shoulder and it stayed there, this while Pearce was looking around for other faces, Martin Dent, Dysart, and Costello’s best friend, Ridley. The shout from behind him took him by surprise, but that was overlaid by an immediate recognition of the voice.

‘Lieutenant!’

Pearce turned to see Barclay, with two armed escorts, striding towards him, steadying a headpiece that refused to stay square on his head. Again the shade from his own hat hid Pearce’s face, and he waited until Barclay was really close before lifting it, saying as he did so, ‘Sir.’

Barclay reacted as if he had been hit by a hammer, stopping dead, his jaw moving but no sound emerging, his
eyes full of the kind of look that Pearce imagined a man would have seeing a ghost. The words he added had a sweet quality, that did nothing to ease Barclay’s confusion.

‘Lieutenant Pearce, at your service, Captain Barclay.’

‘You!’

‘I do believe it is I.’

‘Impossible!’

‘Perhaps, Captain, you would like to pinch yourself to see if you are awake.’