An Awkward Commission (22 page)

‘You must depart at once and leave your servants behind. I will send them on to you with all your possessions.’ Then de Trogoff, knowing the man’s proclivities well, added, ‘And of course anyone you wish to keep under your protection.’

St Julien grabbed a quill and a piece of paper off the desk and scribbled down a couple of names, which he handed to de Trogoff, who said, ‘I hope, Admiral, that we meet again, in happier times. The rear of these headquarters are guarded by marines, and clear of those clamouring for your head.’

It was obvious that they had not originally been put there for his benefit, so St Julien just snorted, and without another word left the room, leaving the man who had troubled to ensure a route for his own escape, to crow. ‘A neat solution, don’t you think, gentlemen.’

It was d’Imbert who replied. ‘A solution, sir. Only time will attest to how neat it is. Now, when will you go to meet Lord Hood.’

‘I will not meet Lord Hood, d’Imbert.’

‘You must, sir!’

The little rotund admiral was all unction as he replied. ‘There is no must about it, d’Imbert. I am resigning my
command as of this moment. I will not have those Jacobin swine in Paris say I am a traitor. Besides it is up to the town delegates to do what is necessary. Let them be sullied by that.’

‘And our ships?

‘If you wish to surrender a fleet of France to an Englishman, then you do it.’

‘You will receive Lord Hood if he comes ashore, will you not?’

‘I have had my servants packing all morning, Captain. If the townspeople invite the English to come ashore and protect them from the forces of the Revolution, I will be in my carriage on my way to Italy. Once there, I will decide if it is wise to carry on to the Rhine, to the encampment of the Comte d’Artois.’

‘And if we succeed in detaching Provence? The loss of Marseilles might not be permanent.’

‘Succeed in detaching France, d’Imbert. Nothing less will do!’

Looking out from his tower, still fuming at his treatment by Pearce, Ralph Barclay, bandage removed to show an ugly scab, was watching things unfold with increasing confusion. He had observed numerous crowds of jeering sailors making their way into the town, to be greeted by gestures from the inhabitants that were far from friendly. If there had been mayhem before, it was clearly getting worse. Was what he and d’Imbert talked about actually coming to pass? He could also see the back of the mob outside de Trogoff headquarters, but he could not make out what it was they were baying for – perhaps the admiral’s head. He knew from his own experience that such gatherings were fickle. No lover of the mob, he was far from convinced that what was afoot boded well, and so he had ordered a boat to
take him over to the infirmary, which had the virtue of being further away from whatever trouble was brewing. If things turned out well, such a move would cause no harm; if it was threatening, then, as he explained to his wife, the infirmary, furthest from the centre of things, was the best place to be.

‘Should we not then inform those in the guardroom?’ asked Emily, talking to his back as she donned a cloak to keep off the sea spray.

‘Glaister?’ he asked.

‘Who else?’

‘Will the guards let them come with us, my dear.’ That was when Barclay turned and saw the look on her face, and as quick as a flash, for it was not a pleasant one, he said, ‘They will be obliged to stay, and I have had the thought that so must I. It would never do to desert my officers.’

‘And me?’

‘My dear, it was your safety that first raised my concern, and I have to admit, though you will find this hard to credit, that in thinking of you, I had momentarily forgotten about those in the guardroom, which is something of which I am now ashamed. You must take the boat, alert Mr Lutyens that something is afoot, and tell him to take what precautions he can in case it turns threatening.’

‘I would rather stay with you.’

‘Madame,’ Ralph Barclay said, in a kindly tone. ‘That is an order, and as my wife I expect you to obey it.’ With that he stepped forward and kissed her on the forehead. ‘Now put on your bonnet, and go.’

Back on the rampart, having seen Emily’s boat pull clear, once more watching the mayhem across the Petite Rade, the knock made him stiffen, but the door opened to reveal Glaister and Bourne, looking perplexed.

‘Our guards, sir. They unlocked the door to our room and then left their posts. What should we do?’

Ralph Barclay went out to the gateway, looked along the neck of land that ran towards Toulon, and saw that his crew were no longer working, but sitting idly, with no sign of anyone driving them to do otherwise. That added to his confusion, but on one thing he was determined. Whatever was taking place, it was no job of his to get involved, and since they were in no danger, it would be best to let them stay where they were, as any movement of such a body of men back to the tower might alert forces with which he would rather not have to deal.

‘We stay put, gentlemen, but you may fetch your fellow prisoners up to these ramparts, so they can at least see what is happening.’

A request to Lord Hood had been drafted, the leaders of the town, like Mancini, ensuring it came from the delegates of the local convention, not the Navy. Pearce went out with them, to stand at the back and watch the formalities take place, a formal request for protection. Then Hood presented his terms; that a British governor would need to take charge of all civil affairs, and that official must have all the powers he would need under martial law, though he would operate through local functionaries in any decrees he implemented. That all French ships in the harbour must immediately strike their flags and be for use by the British Navy as they saw fit, an instruction Pearce was ordered to take back to Captain d’Imbert, now the senior French officer in the port.

This he did, expecting the man to object, but d’Imbert did nothing of the kind. He merely invited Pearce to step outside where he led him to the flagstaff that had served to relay orders to the fleet. There he hauled down the tricolour flag of the Revolution, and fastened on the Fleur de Lys of the royal house of France. As he raised it, a signal gun fired from just along the quay, and on every ship in the harbour
the tricolour was struck, and the same flag flew to the masthead.

‘You see, Lieutenant Pearce, we have declared for the King. We are now part of the coalition against the madmen of Paris. Lord Hood must now treat us as allies. Far better that, than surrender.’

‘Well Mr Sykes, I find you at rest, I see.’

Sykes, sitting on a bollard, looked up at Pearce, and examining his face, saw the swellings where St Julien had hit him.

‘You been in the wars?’

Pearce nodded, but made no mention of his arm, which was hurting like the devil.

‘I still don’t know what to call you?’

‘For the moment John Pearce will do.’

‘So what’s happening, John Pearce?’

‘If you would care to come with me, I would like to take you aboard a ship.’

‘Which ship?’ Sykes asked, with the suspicious look of someone being told something too good to be true.

‘
Brilliant
.’

‘The Frogs have surrendered?’

‘No. It seems they have decided to join us. It’s not the same.’

Looking towards the Tour de Mitre he saw Barclay hurrying towards them, a knot of other men, including two officers, behind him, though he was unaware that it was once more a sight of his coat that had made the man depart his refuge.

‘
Brilliant
will be ours again, and I would like you aboard before the captain.’

Sykes followed his gaze and shook his head. ‘Sorry, Pearce, but I reckon from now on you don’t have to live with the bastard. We do.’

‘As you wish.’

‘One thing,’ Sykes said, as he stood up. ‘We’ve got a few in the infirmary, which is on the other side of the bay. It would be kind of you to let them know what has happened.’

‘I will do that happily.’

‘You best move, afore you has to carry out what you said, and kill Barclay. Might be a trifle hard, with him surrounded by his officers.’

‘Barclay can wait, Mr Sykes. Not for long, but he can wait.’

‘Hello Martin.’ Young Dent swung round so quickly he was wincing from the pain in his back by the time he faced John Pearce. ‘I am looking for Mr Lutyens, can you tell me where I can find him?’

Martin eased his bandaged shoulder then indicated the open french windows. ‘He’s out on the terrace. But what is you doin’ got up in that garb? Never mind that, what in Christ’s name are you doin’ here?’

The throbbing pain in Pearce’s arm had grown worse, and much as he knew he would have to explain himself, that was more pressing. Half turning he showed the singed hole where St Julien had stabbed him with the nail ‘Later. I need the surgeon to look at my arm.’

Martin grinned and tapped his cheek. ‘You been fightin’?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘Don’t know why,’ Martin said, grinning as he tweaked the nose that Pearce had broken. ‘You’se a right bugger for a scrap, I seem to recall.’ Pearce smiled, nodded and went out to the terrace, with Martin shouting after him. ‘I’m happy to see you, matey, never mind how you got here.’

The shout caused the two people sitting on the rough bench to react. Lutyens, who was facing his way, twisted enough to catch sight of him. Emily Barclay, had to spin round completely, which had him removing his hat and bowing in a gesture of habitual politeness. The surgeon
looked confused, the same as all the others he had met in Toulon, except on his singular countenance the effect was more marked. Emily Barclay reacted with shock, which was still on her face when he had completed his bow, and she stared at him in silence, her eyes ranging over his face; the even features, the direct, faintly amused and daring look remembered from the first time she had clapped eyes on him, which his bruised swellings did nothing to alter. When he spoke, even his voice was familiar.

‘Mrs Barclay, my compliments. Mr Lutyens, I am happy to see you again.’

She blushed, the reddening of her cheeks adding to her attractiveness. It was the surgeon who spoke, pale blue eyes like saucers, his wispy near-ginger hair lifted by the breeze to stand up from his head. ‘Pearce?’

‘The very same, Mr Lutyens. Like the proverbial bad penny.’

‘Your dress?’

Pearce spoke for Emily Barclay, not Lutyens, his voice pitched just the serious side of absurdity. ‘It is entirely genuine, though there are those who question if it is deserved. A most fortuitous set of circumstances have given me a lieutenant’s rank.’

‘I cannot wait to hear you tell your tale.’

‘That must wait, sir, since I require your services to treat a wound.’

Lutyens was off the bench in a flash, coming between him and Emily Barclay. She stood and said, in a slightly flustered voice, grateful for an excuse to get away. ‘I will leave you to your duties, Mr Lutyens, and visit the wounded.’

Lutyens touched the wound, causing pain, which reminded Pearce that he was a cack-hand individual in that respect. Not incompetent, just disinterested in the discomfort of others.

‘A red-hot nail, jammed in. I fear it went quite deep.’ He spoke again before the surgeon could. ‘Don’t ask how.’

‘Take off your coat and let me see.’

That had to be eased off as the pain was now quite acute, and as Lutyens was unable to get a good look, Pearce’s stock and shirt were also removed. Emily Barclay, passing a window, looked in to see the half naked Pearce just before he sat on the bench, so much more like the seaman he had been than the creature in the blue coat. Her mind was racing with the same questions which had bothered everyone else: what was he doing here, ashore in a French port? But there were more: had it something to do with the turmoil from which her husband had insisted she take shelter? Would Lutyens tell Pearce that she had already visited the wounded on arrival, and thus reveal that her departure had been mooted by a lie and embarrassment? Why should she be embarrassed?

While thinking round these notions, her eye drifted to the blue coat, which Lutyens had thrown across the back of the bench, and a train of thought surfaced that she would have preferred to suppress. Emily Barclay recalled the high dudgeon with which her husband had returned to their apartment that morning, as well as the observation that had sent him out in the first place; the long distance sight of a man in the coat of Royal Navy lieutenant. She could recall quite clearly what he had said on his return; that the wearer had turned out to be an impostor, a blackguard and a traitor he had threatened with chastisement. Lutyens was tending to a man dressed in the same garment, but one salient fact, nor the conclusions it engendered, could not be contained. John Pearce might be all those things her husband had said, but he was certainly a man that Ralph Barclay knew well. If it was he, then why had her husband not said so?

‘Devenow.’

‘Mam?’

‘The men who rowed me over here, I think they are taking refreshments in the kitchens. Please be so good as to call them for me, I wish to go back.’

‘The only fear of infection,’ said Lutyens, peering into the angry red hole, and the blistering that the nail had caused, ‘comes from a quantity of your linen being carried into the wound. Was your shirt clean?’

‘Fresh this morning.’

Lutyens shouted. ‘Devenow, fetch the spirits of wine and my medicine case.’ Seeing the arched eyebrows on his patient, at the use of the name, Lutyens added, with a slight cackle. ‘The captain insisted I use him as an assistant, some kind of reward for his services in the battle. If they fail to arrive we can assume he has drunk the spirits at least.’

The bottle was fetched, an amazed look was added, then the bully disappeared, as Lutyens rubbed alcohol over the wound. ‘I’m afraid I can do little for you. The hole is neat, and the burning nail has cauterised the flesh on entry. A little extract of lead will help with the bruising, and the blisters I will treat with my German herbal tonic. Do you recall it, that most efficacious brew called Melisengeist? Then we will just have to apply a bandage and check it daily to see if it shows any sign of suppurating.’

‘No amputation?’

Meant as a joke, it fell flat with Lutyens. ‘I have had enough of those to last a lifetime.’ What followed was a garbled account of what had happened to HMS
Brilliant
, confused because Lutyens was no master of naval terminology or tactics, and also because he had been below in the cockpit throughout. But he did manage to convey how bloody it had been.

‘Death or glory seems to be habitual in the King’s Navy.’

‘Are bad pennies?’

‘Even more so, from what I have observed.’

‘Was the letter I wrote of any use?’

‘Immense,’ Pearce replied, unsure if it was true or false, but the question reminded him of the help the surgeon had offered aboard
Brilliant
, quite unbidden, for which he was grateful. It also brought back the image of Lutyens father in his black coat and priestly collar, an older and more serious physical specimen of the son. ‘Your father could not have been kinder.’

‘What did he say of me?’

His patient winced as Lutyens applied the bandage, seemingly able to jab the wound with every turn. ‘No doubt what he has said to you many times. That you are wasting your talents on your chosen path.’

Pearce had been surprised at what Lutyens had given up to go to sea; not a promising career but an established one as a leading medical practitioner in the capital, who through his connections had a list of patients that would have been the envy of most of his contemporaries, with fees to match. To abandon that for the lowly life of a naval surgeon was bizarre, indeed.

‘He told you of my previous work?’ Pearce nodded, and with a worried look Lutyens asked. ‘I wonder if you would oblige me by keeping that to yourself. You will, won’t you?’

‘I owe you that, and more.’ Seeing Lutyens embarrassed, he changed the subject. ‘I was interested to see the Captain’s wife here, and I must say looking as bonny as ever.’

‘Her husband felt that the town was getting dangerous.’

‘It will be safe now, Mr Luytens. In fact I expect before tomorrow is over that you will find the British fleet anchored just out there in the outer roads, and you may choose to stay here or go back aboard
Brilliant
.’

‘So the men will be freed?’

‘Naturally.’ Pearce replied, wondering why Lutyens looked disappointed.

‘And you?’

‘I have to go aboard another vessel, called HMS
Leander
, to visit some old friends of mine.’

Lutyens tapped the coat, which now lay across the bench. ‘Not till you have told me how this came to pass.’

The arrival of the British fleet occasioned a massive discharge of guns, as every fort and bastion felt it had to salute Hood’s flag, and every ship in the fleet saw the need to reply. Stood on HMS
Victory’s
quarterdeck, surrounded by flag officers, Pearce kept a telescope trained on
Leander
, coasting in under topsails in the middle of Admiral Hotham’s division. Bourbon flag flying, the French had moved from its blocking position across the entrance to the Petite Rade, but either because of caution or good manners Hood made no attempt to enter the inner anchorage, happy to keep his ships in the outer roads. But a stream of boats did make their way to the shore, full of the fleet marines and those who would command them, this while yet more came out from the port, carrying dignitaries and French naval officers, who would conclude the terms of the agreement.

Mancini and his fellow delegates were piped aboard, as was d’Imbert, who threw him a warm look, all there to discuss how Toulon was to avoid the fate of Marseilles. With so many boats employed shipping troops ashore, Pearce had to wait to ask for one to transport him to
Leander
, so he was still aboard when Ralph Barclay arrived to see the admiral. After a glaring exchange, Knight took his fellow captain to his own cabin, later sending for Midshipmen Farmiloe and Burns for what Pearce supposed was probably a happy reunion. Finally, with a meeting in Hood’s great cabin in
full swing, and an injunction preventing any officer not on a particular service to stay out of both town and port, a boat became available, and he was rowed across to the now anchored seventy-four, where he went through the ritual of asking for permission to come aboard, readily granted by a fellow lieutenant called Taberly, the Officer of the Watch.

‘I am seeking some men with whom I served before.’

‘The wardroom is at your disposal, Mr Pearce.’

‘Not officers, seamen. Those who were taken aboard at Spithead from HMS
Centurion
. They were from the armed cutter
Griffin
.’

‘Seamen?’ said Taberly, with an arch look. ‘How singular that you call them friends.’

Pearce was quite cold when he answered. ‘I find that when you face death with people, their rank ceases to have much relevance. If I were to give you their names…’

‘I have my own duties to perform, Mr Pearce. Besides, you will have to seek permission from the Premier, who is at present in his cabin. I presume you can find your way there.’

Pearce decided he did not like Taberly, and it was plain from the look on that fellow’s face that the feeling was mutual. So he nodded and made his way aft, then down to the deck below, but instead of making for the wardroom he just carried on to the lower deck, to the crowded quarters which were home to the crew and the ship’s main armament. The sight of an officer made quite a few men stiffen; the presence of a blue coat in this part of the ship, outside a battle, was to order some unpleasant task carried out, to ensure none of the Articles of War were being breached, or just to nose around looking for something not right, in other words to cause trouble.

Bent over and hat off, for the deck beams were close to his head, Pearce made his way down the central walkway.
The mess tables were down, one between each cannon, with its six-man section taking their ease, happy to be at anchor, with little to do, talking, no doubt speculating on when they would get ashore and what they would find there in the article of women and drink. Some were dicing, but not for any money he would be allowed to see, others carving or mending clothing, the rest just idling, with one or two sleeping, heads on their tables.

It was Charlie Taverner’s hat he saw first, that item of clothing so dear to him, always tipped back to show his fair hair, which he felt marked him as how he wanted to be seen; not a sailor, but a bit of a gent. There was Michael O’Hagan’s back, broad enough to blot out two others in the mess. Fat Blubber, spotting the uniform coat, made sure his mates were aware of the approaching danger, which killed off their conversation and had them all looking at the table top. It took no flash of insight to guess, at that point, this was not a happy ship. The men had been like that aboard
Brilliant
, chary about catching the eye of authority. After the postal packet and his time on HMS
Tartar
with the sarcastic Captain Freemantle, he had seen how a happy ship was run, knew on such a vessel the crew were pleased to smile at an officer and expected the same in return. No eye met his as he stopped by their table. As well as those already identified he recognised old Latimer, Rufus Dommet stuck in the corner and the merchant sailor, Littlejohn, who had been pressed with them into
Griffin
.

Pearce put his hat on the table, and spoke quietly. ‘Well here’s a sorry bunch of tars, I must say, not willing to offer a seat to an old shipmate.’

Rufus Dommet could not keep his head down, he being a person who combined youth and endemic folly, but neither could he speak, his mouth working silently and his finger jabbing towards the visitor.

‘Somebody pinch me,’ said Latimer, the next to look up, his dark weather-beaten face even more wrinkled than usual by disbelief.

‘John-boy.’

Pearce held out his hand, looking into the bright green eyes of O’Hagan, and to the fact that the brows on his square face seemed to be swollen and that he too was bruised. ‘Michael, it is very good to see you. Indeed it is very good to see you all.’