An Awkward Commission (21 page)

That made some of the crew laugh, a sound which had an effect on Ralph Barclay, always sensitive to the possibility of ridicule. His mouth closed and his jaw clenched, the prelude to a burst of angry condemnation.

‘How dare you, swine, wear that coat. I will not ask how you got here, but I suspect treachery has something to do with it. Explain yourself!’

‘I am sorry, sir, I have no inclination to do that.’

‘I am ordering you to explain yourself.’

‘He’s for it now,’ Kemp said, an opinion that, judging by the murmuring, was shared by quite a few of his shipmates, some of whom must have wondered at the way Pearce was smiling.

‘What a conundrum, Captain Barclay. You decline to see me in the rank I legitimately hold, which if I accept your premise makes me a civilian. As the former I have good reasons to decline the order, as the latter I can tell you to go sling your hook. Which is it to be?’

‘I’ll have you flogged for this.’

‘Will you? I had it in the cabin of HMS
Victory
just last night that it is over a long time since lieutenants could be flogged by captains.’

‘
Victory
!’

‘Yes, I think I upset Lord Hood, but then I seem prone to that when faced with senior officers.’

‘Hood is here?’

‘Not precisely, but he is out at sea.’

‘Why would Lord Hood have anything to do with the likes of you?’

‘Now that is a question, in these last two days, I have asked myself more than once.’

Barclay’s frustration boiled over, and he turned to the marine sergeant, watching the whole exchange with mystified curiosity. ‘Arrest this man, he is an impostor.’

Seeing the confusion on the Frenchman’s face, Pearce said, ‘What a pity you don’t speak French, captain. Not that I think he would obey you even if you could.’

Barclay looked around, as though salvation could be found from a dilemma that had no obvious solution. Finally he stared hard at what he clearly considered to be a walking insult. ‘If I had a weapon Pearce, I would strike you down.’

‘You remember my name,’ Pearce replied, still in a sarcastic tone. ‘That is something.’ Then both his voice and his look hardened. ‘As for having a weapon, I wish you had, for it would give me the opportunity to kill you.’

Barclay screamed. ‘Explain what you are doing here!’

‘Sorry, sir. I am under the personal command of Lord Hood, carrying out a mission for him which I am not at liberty to discuss. And even if I were not, I would decline to discuss it with you. Please be informed Captain Barclay, that as soon as the opportunity presents itself I intend to challenge you to a duel, and since I have some confidence in my ability with any weapon you care to choose, I can happily anticipate that the encounter will result in your demise.’

He then turned his back on Barclay, and indicated to Sykes to come close. The words he whispered had to be brief, but Sykes was quick to understand. Then Pearce turned to thank the French sergeant, who accepted a coin for his trouble, smiling, and totally unaware that the man giving
it to him had just told the burly bosun that if a shot was fired anywhere in the harbour or the anchorage, he should immediately attack and kill his guards.

When he turned again it was to see Barclay’s back as he strode back towards his prison, at a pace so furious that his escorts found it hard to keep up.

Ralph Barclay was still boiling with anger, his limbs shaking with that emotion, as he mounted the stone stairs that led to the top of the Tour de Mitre, and the questioning look that he received from his wife did nothing to mollify that. His hat was thrown at a chair and he was just about to open his mouth and tell her how much he had been traduced and by whom, when he realised that to be forthright was to open himself to a number of questions that he would not like to have to answer. Pearce had been the cause of trouble between him and his wife – indeed there lay the source of their first real quarrel – and he was not sure that she would, as she should, take his side. So it was with an almost Herculean effort that he steadied himself and answered the question that had yet to be asked.

‘An impostor, my dear, and do you know those damned Frenchmen would do nothing about it. I shall complain to Captain d’Imbert.’

For once Emily did not chastise him for his language, too curious. ‘An impostor? So he was not a British officer?’

‘He was dressed as one, but no.’

‘A Frenchman then?

‘Not that. I am afraid he was exceedingly rude to me, and I had to threaten him with chastisement. I am happy to say that I put the blackguard in his place.’

‘If he is not a Frenchman, who then is he?’

Cornered, Ralph Barclay gave an answer he was sure was true. ‘A traitor, my dear, that is who, one that I hope will hang for his actions.’

Like most seaports the lanes leading off the quay were narrow, high and heavily shaded tunnels that testified to the value of the land that edged the water, down which the wind would whistle at increased strength during any kind of blow. Pearce, striding along, was hardly aware of them or anything else, including the groups engaged in noisy and impromptu political debates. He was still savouring his encounter with Ralph Barclay and thinking of the various ways in which he would kill him, so the two quartets of cudgel bearing ruffians who emerged from the pair of alleyways immediately in front and behind took him completely by surprise. They were upon him so quickly he could only
half-draw
his sword before a blow on the forearm stopped the motion. By that time his arms had been pinioned, he had a knife at his throat, and he was being dragged out of sunlight into the shadows, with a rasping voice in his ear telling him not to try to resist.

If any of the numerous folk on the quayside saw what was happening no shout was forthcoming. Bundled into a dark alley he was pushed along, bouncing painfully off the walls, something to which his captors were indifferent. One had gone ahead and was now stood before a low door that had a step down to a dingy interior, into which he was thrown. He landed on a bare earthen floor, the door slamming shut behind him, followed by a voice from out of the gloom.

‘So you are, as I suspected, a spy.’ The voice was St Julien’s, and with the oil lamps turned up that was confirmed. The admiral was in a plain black coat, looking, with his curled hair, quite the Jacobin.

‘I am a British Naval officer,’ protested Pearce, pulling himself onto his knees, aware that his captors, too, were inside and all around him, dark rough-looking men, but probably sailors. ‘As you can see from my uniform.’

St Julien put a hand on his shoulder to prevent him rising to his feet, leaning over himself, his dark eyes flashing, black hair glistening in the light from the oil lamps, the heat of the now crowded room filling Pearce’s nostrils with a whiff of a strong, rather feminine scent.

‘You were not that yesterday, in d’Imbert’s office. You were a Camargue livestock farmer. How do I know you are what you say you are today?’

‘I am Lieutenant Pearce of His Britannic Majesty’s Navy.’

That expression now sounded as feeble as a schoolboy excuse.

‘Naval officer or farmer, you have come here for what purpose?’

‘You cannot expect me to respond openly to that, monsieur.’

‘Of course I do, though I suspect I know the answer.’

‘Then why ask?’

St Julien hit him then, a swift backhanded blow that sent him onto his back. As he rolled, he landed up against the legs of one of the men who had abducted him, tasting blood in his mouth.

‘Pick him up.’ Two men took his arms and hauled him to his feet and now he and St Julien were face to face. ‘You arrived this morning at the admiral’s residence in the company of d’Imbert, who I suspect is in league with you
in an attempt to persuade Admiral de Trogoff to betray his country. In order to get him to do that certain proposals would have had to be made, perhaps some signals agreed. I want you to tell me what they are, as well as the names of those you have dealt with here in Toulon, be they supporters of the Bourbons, or those traitors who have the nerve to still call themselves Republicans.’

‘No.’

He was hit again, this time on the temple, and being tightly held there was no way to absorb what was a heavy blow. Hurt, Pearce shook his head, which St Julien clearly took as another refusal, providing an excuse to land another punch.

‘I do not have time to toy with you. Right now I have every right-thinking French sailor, the men who believe in true liberty, gathering at the Place d’Armes in their thousands, and once I go to them I will lead them to seize the Arsenal. After that we will take over Toulon and root out the turncoats who intend to betray us to the English, naval and civilian. What is happening in Marseilles will be as nothing to what I will do here.’

‘The answer is the same, Admiral.’

‘I could hand you over to these fellows,’ St Julien said, indicating those that surrounded them, ‘and they would have great sport with you, I am sure. But that would take too long, so I must move quickly to a method I find personally unpleasant, but one that I feel is justified when the fate of my country is at stake. Fetch me a nail, a big one.’

Dimly aware of the movement, Pearce was forced to concentrate on the long sharp nail, at least six inches in length, which was placed in St Julien’s hand, even more when one of the others brought forth an oil lamp, removing the glass sleeve that kept out the draft, to expose the naked flame. A pair of pincers were handed over as well, and St
Julien first placed the head of the nail in the jaw of the pincers, then the point in the now guttering flame.

‘Distasteful as I say, and I hope you believe me when I say that employing it will cause me much grief.’ Pearce was transfixed with the fine tip turning the flame from gold to blue. ‘When this turns red, my friend, I am going to put it first in one eye and then, if you still refuse to answer my questions, I will heat it again and jam it in the other.’

Pearce was sweating, and it was not just from the heat of the room. Fear was adding to that, for he had no doubt that St Julien was telling the truth, except in one respect. His proposed victim was convinced that he was going to enjoy his torture, the evidence of that was in his silky, almost happy voice.

‘Shall I call you Lieutenant?’ St Julien asked, as the nail tip began to redden. ‘Perhaps since I am about to render you useless, it would be a kindness. So, Lieutenant, before you forfeit one eye, what are the terms by which Admiral de Trogoff will be persuaded to act against his duty? Who are the people in the town who support such a move, and just how much is d’Imbert involved?’

The sweat was running down Pearce’s brow and into his eyes, making him blink. He could feel the shaking in his knees as he anticipated the pain that he would soon experience, and was sure if his captors let him go, he would fall. His resolve was weakening too; was it worth refusing to speak? What was his silence for? The Navy? His Country? Trogoff and d’Imbert? The latter would tell him to give up what he knew; that was a Frenchman who would not see another man suffer to save himself.

The pistol shot, muffled by the thick oak of the door, stopped even that train of thought. It certainly made St Julien jerk his head to the entrance, and in the act of doing so remove the nail from the flame. Pearce observed this
as his knees gave way, for those holding him had let go in alarm, something that increased as the door burst open, and a musket, taking no aim, fired into the group around him, producing a thud and a curse rather than a scream, one that told Pearce one of his captors had been hit. As that musket was withdrawn, two pistols appeared, to be discharged as well into what was now a panicked mass.

Pearce, now back on his knees, grabbed hold of St Julien’s legs and hauled hard, bringing the admiral crashing down and sending the oil lamp flying, vaguely aware of another burst of gunfire and a great deal of yelling and screaming. But he was concentrating on the admiral, still with that heated nail in the pincers in his hand, as that was jabbed towards him.

The smell of singeing material was instant, and so was the searing pain as the nail penetrated the cloth of his coat and entered his upper arm. With his right hand he hit St Julien in a downwards blow that jammed the Frenchman’s head into the ground, then he fell forward and finding the jaw he bit him as hard as he could, an act which had the nail removed. Scrabbling to get some purchase he then tried to knee him in the groin, which was only partially successful, and an attempt to follow it up was thwarted by hands grabbing him and pulling him back.

The despair that flooded through him was relieved when Mancini shouted at him, telling him to stop, telling him that he was free.

His arm aching like the devil, Pearce stood in his shirtsleeves, watching the confrontation between the two admirals. St Julien was defiant, bruised and scarred, not from what his recent captive had done to him, but to the rough handling he had been subjected to on the way to de Trogoff’s headquarters, that added to by the many stones thrown at him by those
who supported Mancini and his friends, which to Pearce’s surprise, now seemed to be most of the inhabitants. Outside and below the open windows a noisy crowd had gathered, and it was obvious from the shouts floating up that they wanted St Julien strung up on the nearest warehouse hoist.

‘You have acted outside your orders, Admiral St Julien,’ said de Trogoff, but without much in the way of anger.

‘I acted out of conviction, monsieur, which is more I think than you had in mind.’

That made de Trogoff slap his desk hard with one hand, but it seemed to stem from petulance rather than fury. ‘You will address me properly, Admiral. I am your superior officer. You presume to issue a declaration accusing me of treachery, a call to support the Revolution as it is interpreted by those who have taken over the government of France, that followed an instruction to sailors of the fleet to stay ashore, leaving their ships when we have an enemy ready to carry out an assault.’

‘Are you not planning treason?’

‘You Admiral St Julien are engaged in it. If you are not, why gather so many sailors into a mob?’

‘There is a need to protect the Revolution.’

‘It is you and your Jacobins who threaten the Revolution!’

‘I refute that.’ St Julien looked around the room, with a sneer. ‘And I ask myself why we are discussing this in the company of such people, and allowing a mob to gather outside, some of whom are openly calling for the return of a King. If I was in command…’

‘Which you are not!’

‘If I was in command, the National Guard would be dispersing them at the point of their bayonets.’

‘Capitane d’Imbert,’ asked de Trogoff. ‘How many sailors have gathered in the Place d’Armes?’

‘I would estimate the number at some five thousand, sir, but there are also a leavening of civilians and National Guardsmen amongst them, not many, but some.’

St Julien cut in. ‘There are honest men in Toulon, then?’

De Trogoff ignored him, and with a worried look asked. ‘Are they a danger?’

‘They are leaderless, sir, and at the moment mainly without weapons. Without Admiral St Julien they have no idea what to do. I am happy to say that no officers obeyed the admiral’s order to abandon their duties and join with the mob.’

‘And the sous-officers?’

‘They, sir, have stayed at their posts aboard ship, and done their best to persuade the crews to stay neutral. Also, I have set some trusted men to man the guns on one of the repairing warships in the inner harbour. Those guns are trained on the entrance to the Arsenal.’

‘There you are, St Julien,’ de Trogoff said. ‘All that hot air to no purpose. The question is, what are we to do now, and most importantly what are we to do with you?’

‘I would suggest a secure confinement, sir,’ insisted d’Imbert. ‘We cannot let the mob have their way.’

‘How noble, d’Imbert,’ St Julien sneered. ‘I hope you have enough men to get me to a place of safety.’

It was the captain’s turn to be sharp, and there was no petulance in his reply. ‘I am extending to you, Admiral, a courtesy I doubt you would extend to me, but then I was brought up to believe that no man should be killed for his beliefs.’

‘You should be prepared to die for your honour, and one day you shall, but it will be for your perfidy.’

Pearce finally spoke up. ‘Admiral Hood should be told what is happening.’

That made de Trogoff shift uncomfortably in his chair.
‘Are we absolutely sure what is happening? I am not certain you understand the currents of politics in the part of the world, Lieutenant.’

‘I understand them very well.’ Pearce insisted. ‘They differ little from those of Paris in that he who acts boldly usually carries the day, and there is support for you if you do so. That shouting outside the window is not in my imagination. The town has made its voice and its aspirations known.’

‘There are a dozen different opinions out there.’

‘All anti-Jacobin, Admiral. The only question left is for you to make known where you stand.’

If he had hoped for a response Pearce was disappointed. De Trogoff just sat in his chair, half slumped, clearly overloaded with his responsibilities, while outside and in the harbour thousands of people waited for a decision which only he could make. It was a full minute before he spoke.

‘Five thousand in the Place d’Armes, you say, d’Imbert?’ The nod had the admiral’s chin on his chest. ‘We cannot imprison that number, nor can we have them free to do what they will.’

‘Then, sir,’ d’Imbert replied, ‘we must send them away from here. Get them out of Toulon.’

The response was not a question. ‘Send them away. Yes.’ Then de Trogoff looked up, a gleam in his eye. ‘But will they go?’ No one had the answer, but de Trogoff did. ‘They will go if you, St Julien, will lead them.’

‘Sir,’ d’Imbert protested, only to be silenced by a hand, as de Trogoff addressed his second-in-command.

‘I have no mind to lock up an admiral of the French Navy, it is not fitting, nor am I prepared to hand you over to another authority and risk seeing you strung up like a common criminal.’

‘I suggest it might set a precedent?’

The threat was obvious; hang me and one day the same
could happen to you. That the threat struck home was obvious, and Trogoff blanched at the thought of swinging himself. If he had doubted his course of action before, that evaporated, and his manner seemed more positive.

‘Admiral St Julien, if you give me your parole that you will lead these malcontents away from Toulon, and keep them from any wrongdoing on the way, I will accept your word and let you go.’

As if on cue, the noise outside rose, and the threats to hang the Jacobin were the loudest. Even under his darker skin, and for all his bravado, it was clear that the junior admiral was fearful. His eyes were drawn to the window as he spoke. ‘I accept.’