A Flag of Truce (18 page)

‘Is it not amazing, Nelson,’ said Ralph Barclay, looking right at him for once, ‘the heights to which some people can rise, given they have little in the way of a decent background to recommend them.’

Horatio Nelson completely missed the irony, which was in part aimed at him. ‘Ability, sir. We live in an age where it cannot be gainsaid. Let us not think that blood is the only measure of success in these times. I have nothing but a distant connection to the Orford earldom to qualify me for natural elevation, yet I believe I have a destiny to do great service for England.’

He had to look away then; there was such certainty in those blue eyes. It was hard for Ralph Barclay to deal with someone like Nelson, who left himself so open to ridicule, though there was the advantage that when it was employed, it did seem to go right over his head. Conversation was again killed by gunfire, and this time some of the earthwork thrown up by the French was displaced, and in such a way that there must have been losses.

‘I will take your word for it regarding Hamilton’s wife, sir, not having met the lady. But she is, by reputation, very different.’

‘I fear reputation is a poor way to judge a person, Captain. It is often the malice of the less able that forms it.’ Sensitive always to a potential affront, that remark got Nelson a sharp look, and that was not aided when he said, ‘I believe you are to be congratulated on the result of your court. I am sorry I missed it.’

The words ‘I’m not,’ were formed, but like so much that had gone before, left unsaid. He had a horrible vision of Nelson sitting as Court President, and it was enough to make Ralph Barclay shudder. His next words he issued with gusto, well aware of their pomposity.

‘We arrived at the truth, sir, and that is all that a man can ask.’

‘Well said, Captain Barclay, well said.’

Thank God our guns are more accurate than his perception, Ralph Barclay thought, or England would be in dire straits.

Emily Barclay was, that afternoon, no happier to find herself next to Nelson than Ralph Barclay had been by his company earlier. In the nature of things she was not seated next to her spouse; he had been placed within easy conversational distance of Rear Admiral Gardiner, Hood’s third in line of command, which presented to Ralph Barclay a chance to make himself known to another senior officer who might have some input into his future prospects. To Emily, this Nelson was a sneak, who had told her husband how much she had enjoyed the Assembly Room dance in Sheerness, the very night the men from
Brilliant
had been out pressing seamen. And his voice was not one to endear, especially when he had taken several glasses of wine, which seemed to affect him greatly.

‘I cannot tell you, Mrs Barclay, how the Court of Naples glitters. Sir William…’ Seeing her confusion he added, ‘Hamilton, our plenipotentiary there, he and his wife took me out to view the royal palace at Caserta, which has to be a wonder of the world, bigger than Versailles, which he has also seen.’

Emily was only half listening as Nelson told her of hundreds of rooms, of painted walls and ceilings with a sort of descriptive ineptitude that rendered
them dull, of statuary and furniture in such abundance that she wondered if there was room for humans. Politeness forced her to respond, but it did not mean that she had to concur with his enthusiasm.

‘I must say, Captain Nelson, it does all sound a trifle excessive.’

‘Mrs Barclay, I confess to a love of that.’

‘While I, sir, am proud to claim an admiration for the plain.’

‘Then might I suggest that you avoid a looking glass.’ As an attempt at flattery, or perhaps even dalliance, it was seriously inept, especially from a married man, and Nelson seemed to realise very quickly he had pushed the bounds of good taste, for he added quickly, ‘You must be very pleased at the outcome of your husband’s court.’

As soon as he said that, Emily engaged her neighbour to the right in earnest conversation.

‘Gould, I have no idea what I said to so upset her, but I can tell you Mrs Barclay hardly exchanged another word with me.’

They were walking on the quarterdeck of
Britannia
, taking some air while the other guests smoked their pipes and downed their port. Davidge Gould, who knew Nelson of old, and also knew of his clumsiness with members of the opposite sex, gave the only reply he could.

‘I’m sure, sir, you are mistaken. I know the lady to be kindness herself and a joy in company.’

‘You devil,’ Nelson replied, with a twinkle in his eye. ‘Do not think I cannot recall how you danced with her in Sheerness. I was not the only one to mark the enjoyment you took in each other’s company.’

‘It was, sir,’ Gould protested, ‘entirely innocent of any other interpretation but amusement.’

‘You sailed with Barclay, did you not, Gould? How did you find him?’

‘Irascible, sir, to begin with, and he did stretch his orders somewhat to take a prize.’

Nelson smiled. ‘Can a man go to excess to gain a prize?’

‘Convoy orders leave little room for interpretation, sir. Captain Barclay was out of sight of his charges, though I have to confess that I allowed myself to be persuaded he had not done so and wrote up my logs accordingly.’

‘Gould,’ Nelson laughed, slapping him on the back. ‘I hope then one day you sail with me.’

‘I am given to understand you are off on another cruise, sir?’

‘I am, with Linzee. We are to look into Algiers and have words with the Dey about supplies and not interfering with our trade.’

‘An impossible task.’

‘Rumour has it there is a French warship there,
Gould, so there is a chance we will see some action.’

Ralph Barclay had left the dinner to relieve himself at the heads, Hotham being no lover of the obvious chamber pot, and in returning he could hardly avoid the two promenading officers.

‘Barclay,’ called Nelson. ‘I was just telling Gould here I am off to Tangier under Commodore Linzee.’

‘What!’

Gould was looking at Barclay, Nelson was not, and as the smaller man enthused regarding the possibilities of his cruise and a fight with a Frenchman, it was very obvious that, if he upset Emily Barclay at dinner, he had just done the same thing to her husband, who growled his response, which was only correct in word not tone, then stomped off.

‘I think I must get to know Barclay better, Mr Gould. After all, he appears a fellow who will seek action, even if his orders constrain him, in short my kind of officer.’

How much has he had to drink, Gould wondered?

The captain of HMS
Faron
was quite emphatic, which was important, given he was not speaking in French and he wanted to convey that he was serious. ‘Captain Moreau, I have my orders and I will obey them.’ He then turned to Pearce and requested that he translate.

What followed was, to Henry Digby, incomprehensible, but there was no question it was protest, and not just from Moreau. Jacquelin in particular was incensed, but then he was the more zealous when it came to the Revolution. Digby was forced to continue over the babble.

‘Please also be so good as to tell our friends that I have the means to enforce those orders and I will employ them.’

Pearce was not enjoying this; he could see the need, in fact he shared with his captain the notion that it was a first-rate idea, but while Digby was
issuing the unpleasant news, he, being the one understood, was taking the entire backwash. Moreau was glaring at him as if he had betrayed a friendship, while Garnier had a hangdog, sad expression that was just as wounding. The other two he cared little for, either their person or their opinion, but to fall in the estimation of the two aforementioned distressed him. Time spent in their company at Gibraltar had deepened their acquaintance.

‘We will weather the Ile d’Oléron and out of close sight of any lookouts,’ Digby went on. ‘I will take station on your lee, and I will run out my guns. Any attempt by your vessels to bear up for the Charente Estuary will be met by force. Now, be so good as to return to your ships and hold your course for La Rochelle. Mr Pearce, in French if you please.’

That set off another bout of complaint, and Pearce got seriously annoyed with Digby, who could sit there with an air of complacent indifference while he had to listen to a litany of reasons why that port was unsuitable for anything other than a decent frigate. All the reasons they had discussed were aired by the French, yet they must have realised it was to no avail; disobey and they would have
Faron
on their quarter, ready once more to pour shot into their undefended stern, an act, which if sustained, would bring about serious casualties.

‘You may also say, Mr Pearce, that now we have
cleared Gibraltar, I see no reason for the continued flying of their royal ensign. You may give them permission from me to re-hoist their tricolour pennants.’

A small measure to mollify them, it barely succeeded, only the stupid Forcet appearing to be openly pleased. Moreau saw it for what it was, a sop to his dented pride, but the Frenchman kept his most wounding remarks for his exit through the gangway, turning to Pearce, no engaging smile now, but a furrowed and angry brow.

‘I know what you are seeking to achieve and it is dishonourable. If I had a single cannon, monsieur, I would decline to accept this demand and fight you.’

It was hyperbole, both men knew it, yet it was telling.

‘What did he say, Mr Pearce?’ asked Digby.

Pearce let his own frustration spill over then; after all his captain would be unaware of the exaggeration. ‘I’m afraid, sir, he likened us to the more solid contents of a chamber pot.’

‘Damned cheek.’

Sailing north past Corunna and Cape Ortega, the weather turned exceptionally mild, with two days of sunshine and soft westerly breezes that wafted the ships along at a steady pace, devoid of haste on a sea of long, slow, rolling waves. The early parts of the evening were warm too, and under a series of
glorious sunsets, which turned into the canopy of the Milky Way as night fell, and before the clear sky sucked out all the heat of the day, the crew would gather after their duties were complete, to entertain themselves with songs, ditties and music from makeshift instruments; the carpenter was a dab hand on his saw; Sykes had fashioned a penny whistle and Digby had gifted another fellow a pair of spoons with which to beat out a rhythm.

There had been few chances for the Pelicans to foregather, though it was no secret aboard that John Pearce had a connection to Michael, Rufus and Charlie that transcended the bounds of his rank, as well as a soft spot for Latimer and Blubber Booth, and looking from the quarterdeck to the bows, he itched to join them in their revels, a fact which he thought he kept hidden, but was clear to anyone who cared to look.

‘I think the men should be encouraged, don’t you?’ asked Digby, his perception once more acute. ‘Perhaps if you were to ask them if they would like lanterns, Mr Pearce, so that they may see better when the sun finally goes.’

That he did, and the men were grateful enough to invite the officers to join with them. Digby felt that his own dignity permitted him to witness but not to participate, and had a chair fetched for the purpose, but he saw it as his duty to insist that his midshipmen should learn the art of singing a song
in public and be taught the steps of the hornpipe.

‘Then perhaps ashore, my lads, you may behave with a little more decorum, instead of forever trying to stab the locals.’

Both looked abashed at mention of their bout at Toulon, the scar of which, though fading, Harbin still bore. Lutyens brought out another chair, and one of his little notebooks, occasionally scribbling something while the activities went on.

‘What is he about with that there pencil?’ whispered Harbin. ‘He’s ever at it, I’ve seen him more’n once.’

‘Nothing, Dick,’ Farmiloe replied, in a similar low tone, ‘he was the same aboard
Brilliant
. We all got used to it and now pay it no heed.’

‘And Mr Pearce,’ Digby called to his second, who was already amongst the crew, ‘if you feel your nautical education would benefit from the experience I would say you too should participate in a hornpipe.’

If it had been anyone else, Pearce would have suspected an attempt to diminish him, but not Digby. ‘I fear, sir, that the kind of dancing I learnt in the ballroom would scarcely answer on a ship’s deck, and I doubt there is one aboard as fleet of foot as a lady to accompany me.’

‘I’ll be your partner, John-boy,’ O’Hagan joked in his ear. ‘And I show you a reel that will spin your toes.’

Pearce burst out laughing. ‘What a pair we would make, Michael.’

Blubber Booth was on his feet, and as the bent saw sang, the whistle piped and the spoons paced a soft rattle, he began to dance, arms folded across his chest, showing a surprising lightness of feet for a man of his size. Latimer then sang a fisherman’s song, in a voice that had more gravel than musicality, that followed by Dysart reciting a warlike Scottish poem by the Lord of Stair, which he had learnt off by heart. That it damned every Englishman born or yet to be conceived was taken in good part by the rest. Harbin hornpiped with little grace but Farmiloe, a taller, more elegant creature, took his instruction well, as Pearce said to the Pelicans, who were all sitting close to him now.

‘There are times, friends, when this we have been forced into has its moments of true pleasure.’

This is how it seemed to Pearce now; a calm sea with an air of camaraderie and no feeling of hierarchy, which brought back a fond recollection of the time he had occupied the captain’s cabin of HMS
Weazel
.

‘We have had few, Pearce,’ said Charlie Taverner, though in a rare show of graciousness he added, ‘though I will not dispute with you that this is pleasant.’

‘Do you still hanker for the Liberties, Charlie?’

That made Charlie pensive; his life in those
crowded Thameside streets had not been pleasant; a cramped space in which to sleep, shared with three others, work some days, but few, and always for an employer who would dispute the due wage. For food, it was often a scavenge rather than a buy, evenings spent in taverns like the Pelican, usually without the means to purchase a wet, and certainly never the coin to tease a wench, or just sitting watching the filth of the River Thames float by for want of the means to do anything different. The night they had met, Charlie had dunned John Pearce out of the means to buy drinks with an ease that was habitual, but he could not go a few streets to the hunting grounds where, before he was forced to hide from the law, he had made his way. The Strand and the narrow streets and open market of Covent Garden were barred to him by the existence of a warrant for his arrest.

‘I hanker for the right to go where I please, John.’

‘I don’t recall you had that, Charlie,’ said Michael.

‘For sure, you had better, for you had that. Come and go as you please it was, for you. Why you ever came to our part of the world, when you could have gone anywhere for your amusement, I’ll never know.’

Michael gave Charlie a gentle poke in the chest. ‘There was a certain apple-cheeked wench called Rosie you might recall.’

‘I recall you buffed more’n her cheeks,’ Charlie replied, with some asperity, for plump Rosie had been a bone of contention between them – Michael could afford to treat her with his daily earnings, Charlie, far better off in the article of looks and wit, could not – and that jealousy had been slow to fade, if indeed it ever had.

‘I take it,’ asked Pearce, ‘the ladies of Spain saw to your needs on the Rock?’

That had both men grinning and nudging, though Rufus looked embarrassed, and the mention of that set the men closest to singing the song, which was so well known it was taken up by everyone. Rufus piped up as the last verse faded. ‘I never took to the Liberties.’

‘Just as you never took to being bonded,’ Pearce insisted.

‘I wish I had never left home. There was much there to enjoy. I used to like to attend the Goose Fair when I was a lad.’

‘What do you mean when, shaver,’ Charlie scoffed. ‘You still are.’

Rufus would not be put off, going on to describe in enticing detail the stalls, the conjurors, acrobats, dancers and singers of the annual pre-Christmas fair. There was a wistful air to it, for it bespoke of a life that preceded his being a bonded apprentice to a harsh employer in the leather trade. Yet he had the others salivating with him at his talk of hot meat
pies filled with beef or lamb, spit roasting pork, sweetmeats served by comely wenches,
freshbrewed
special ales so strong they had everyone cavorting by darkness.

‘I will go to that one day,’ said Michael, ‘for both the ale and the comely wenches.’

‘Then have a care,’ Rufus replied gravely. ‘The watchmen carry stout clubs and will clout anyone causing trouble.’

‘Me? Cause trouble. Never in life. Sure, I’m as placid in drink as a Wicklow cow.’

That made them laugh, and wondering at the joke it was soon shared, so that insults of a joshing kind were soon flying around the deck. Michael, called upon, did an Irish reel that made up in sheer brio for what it lacked in polish, and Charlie did a few tricks, such as taking a coin from behind another sailor’s ear, having put it in his mouth, a mock argument breaking out when he tried to pocket the object he had been given for the act.

Night fell and the sky became a mass of twinkling stars so closely packed that they seemed like a sheet drawn across the black. From across the water, under the lanterns rigged by the Frenchmen, came the sound of mass singing. Clearly they had no notion to be outdone by their escort, and even although it was that revolutionary anthem
Ca Ira
, it was hard to imagine at this moment that the two nations were at war.

‘Mr Pearce, if you care to join me in my cabin, we may partake of some toasted cheese and a glass of wine.’

What seemed like an innocent invitation, soon turned out to be something else. Pearce knew as they ate and drank that Digby was building himself up to something, and when it came it was as unpleasant an idea as Pearce could imagine.

‘The problem is, we need someone to go ashore with a flag of truce, and tell whoever is in control of La Rochelle of our mission, and get them to accept their sailors.’

‘Do you, sir, know the meaning of the French expression
Déjà vu
?’

‘Of course,’ Digby replied, with just a trace of asperity.

‘Then you will know that I was so charged with the same task by Lord Hood at Toulon.’

‘Were you? I was not aware.’

‘And I would point out that I nearly forfeited my life in trying to comply with his instructions.’

‘You will be under a white flag.’

‘You know, sir, because I have told you, I have some experience of the politics of revolution and I also have some hope that you understand this simple fact. The normal rules of chivalrous exchange do not always apply when dealing with such people. They see themselves as fighting the forces of reaction with a conviction that borders on
the religious and anything that can be done to defeat that force is seen as legitimate.’

‘They might not respect a truce flag!’

Obviously, to Digby, the notion was outrageous. To John Pearce he was again showing that parochial Achilles heel that he had noted before. To someone raised like his captain the idea that anyone would do such a thing was incomprehensible; war had rules and they must be observed. The only problem was, if he was wrong, he would not face the consequences.

‘Is there any other way that we can communicate with them?’

‘If there is, Mr Pearce, I am dammed if I can see it. Even if we had the means to signal such a complicated message they could scarce read it, and I cannot see anyone putting a boat off to bespeak us when we give the appearance of being five fully operational warships.’

‘They might,’ Pearce replied, clutching at the only available straw.

‘We cannot wait for them, for we must employ haste, and that for all the reasons we have already discussed. If we linger, Mr Pearce, and the weather turns, it might be us that is slung on shore and drowned in the process, and that takes no cognisance of us getting into a battle with a superior force.’

‘What if they refuse to accept them, sir?’

‘Then tell them they have the choice of doing so or watching them drown. That will concentrate their thinking.’

Pearce felt the air go out of his lungs at the same time as any resistance he had collapsed. Digby could not comprehend, did not know any more than Pearce, who was in charge in La Rochelle. It was beyond his understanding that the representatives of the people who ran the Revolution, those who had retaken Marseilles and were bent on recapturing Lyons, were perfectly capable of watching five thousand men drown for the sake of their militant purity.