Touch and Go (8 page)

Delancey rambled on intentionally, remembering as he did so that other scene, years ago, where he had been the prisoner and a Spanish colonel had played with him the game of cat and mouse. He might not himself be the world's best interrogator but he had at least been taught by a master. One began gently, mildly, applying the pressure later on. In this instance the pressure would be applied by Teesdale. It was, in fact, already being applied. A smell of roast mutton and chicken was in the air and the prisoner had begun to react. He might be bogus, he might be a liar—and Delancey thought that he probably was—but his being famished was a fact.

“If such a young officer were to tell a story that he knew to be false, he would suffer for it. I don't pretend to know—I should prefer not to know—what the Maltese would do to him. But what if he changed his mind and told the truth? He might, in the first instance, be asked to supper. Oh, it could be nothing elaborate, of course, just a matter of pot luck: a little soup, a fowl perhaps, a glass of wine. . . .” The words reinforced the smell and the young man almost whimpered.

“Now, about this squadron under orders to sail from—Toulon, shall I say? (the prisoner nodded)—it might sail at the end of January or perhaps, again, at the beginning of February . . . early February? (the prisoner nodded) . . . just so. I seem, however, to have forgotten the name of the commander. Perhaps you could prompt my memory?”

There was at this moment a knock on the cabin door and Teesdale, told to enter, came in with a tray of covered dishes. The young man started to his feet despite himself but Delancey waved him back to his chair. The tray was left on the table and the steward withdrew.

“Wait, my friend. The food will keep hot. I may even have to send it away. . . . Now, where was I? Ah, I remember now. We were discussing, were we not, the name of the officer who has been chosen to relieve the fortress of Valletta. It would be a Rear-Admiral, we agreed . . . called . . .
called?”

“Perrée.” The young man spat the name out with a grimace.

“But of course! Stupid of me to have forgotten. A very able officer and a very good choice. He was captured by us and since exchanged. Now, I can't imagine that the Contre-Amiral will simply sail for Valletta. The plan needs to be more subtle than that, as I'm sure you will agree. So the relieving force will sail in two divisions, or even perhaps in three?”

“No, just the one.”

“With troops as well as supplies?”

“There are troops, yes.”

“And what is the plan?”

“I know nothing more.”

“Not even the name of the ships?”

“It was not yet decided.”

“So that is all you know?”

“All—I swear it.”

Pozzo had revealed something, whether true or false, and had earned his reward.

“Thank you, Citizen, for reminding me of a few facts which had escaped my memory. I think you need a change of clothes and then some supper. Steward!” Teesdale appeared in an instant. “Supply this young officer with something to wear from the slop chest. Put his uniform somewhere to dry. Then bring him back here as soon as possible.”

Nothing more was learnt from Pozzo that night and the
Merlin
was under sail at daybreak, presently joining the Commodore off Grand Harbour. After an exchange of signals the
Merlin
's longboat pulled over to the
Culloden
with Delancey in the sternsheets and Pozzo beside him. The squadron was in precise formation under a leaden sky with the wind rising and the spray flying over the boat. Pozzo had a brief interview with Sir Thomas and was then taken away by a French-speaking lieutenant called Revell. Delancey found himself with the Commodore, the
Culloden's
captain and members of the Commodore's staff.

“Now tell me again,” said Sir Thomas in his usual gruff tone, “how exactly did this man fall into our hands?”

Delancey explained, realising as he did so that Pozzo's story was not very credible. The Commodore exposed its weakness in an instant.

“This boat of his, sunk alongside, must have been quite small?”

“A sort of skiff, sir.”

“Could he have rowed in it from Valletta?”

“No, sir. Perhaps from the nearest port of Malta, and that only on a still night.”

“But he claims to have come from Valletta?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So we know that Pozzo is a liar?”

“Undoubtedly, Sir Thomas.”

“But you still think the intelligence he brings us may be important?”

“Even liars sometimes tell the truth.'

“As, for example, about the French plans?”

“His story about the expected relief is at least plausible.”

“Deception plans are usually at least plausible. Leave friend Pozzo with me and return to your ship. Reconnoitre the entrance to Grand Harbour and then come to dine with me this afternoon. I'll tell you then what we have decided.”

Back on his own quarterdeck, Delancey reflected on the mistake he had made. He had been so eager to learn about the next relief attempt that he had neglected the more immediate question of how Pozzo had reached Gozo. Troubridge, with his greater experience, had fastened at once on the weak part of the story and Delancey could see that he was right. He felt, nevertheless, that some attempt to relieve Valletta would have to be made.

It was for Troubridge to decide whether Pozzo was an actual deserter or a patriot who had volunteered for a dangerous mission. Was his information planted, and if so why? Granted that Pozzo's skiff could not have come far, it followed that he had come from Valletta in a larger boat with the skiff on board. That larger craft might have been a Maltese fishing vessel or could as easily have been the launch from a French man-of-war. Which was it? Not for the first time in his service career, Delancey was glad to think that it was not for him to decide.

An hour later the
Merlin
was close in to the harbour entrance and Delancey was studying Valletta at fairly close range. To starboard, he could see, was Fort St Elmo, the seaward end of the peninsula on which the city was built; a towering fortification under the French flag. To port, as he knew, were the other cities: Kalkara, Cospicua, Senglea, defended by Fort St Angelo. Everywhere the cliffs were crowned by honey-coloured battlements. The harbour was completely landlocked and heavily defended by hundreds of cannon. He had heard that the place was impregnable and he could well believe it. But how could a relief convoy enter the port? There was only the one entrance to Grand Harbour and a British squadron to watch it.

The problem would have been simpler if the French had control of a second port or more of the island. But this was the gauntlet they had to run. Their only chance was to send enough men-of-war to engage Troubridge in battle, followed by merchantmen who could slip into harbour while the battle continued. Or could Decrès make a sortie to cover the convoy's approach? The difficulty about that would be one of timing. Delancey went in as far as he dared, being finally checked by a single shot from Fort St Elmo. It was wide but provided proof that the sloop was within range. Delancey at once gave the order to tack, needing no second hint, and no other shot was fired. The French clearly had no ammunition to waste.

Aboard the
Culloden
again, Delancey was hospitably entertained at the Commodore's table. There was no sign of Pozzo, nor was his name mentioned until after dinner when Sir Thomas took Delancey aside and motioned Lieutenant Revell to join them.

“Tell Captain Delancey what we know now about your prisoner.”

“Well, sir, I told him at first that we should send him back to Valletta. He then tried to kill himself but was prevented. I took this as proof that he is really a deserter. I then established by questioning that his story about his feud with the family of Bonaparte is rubbish. He left Corsica as a young child and knows very little about the island except from hearsay. He was no longer Aide-de-Camp to Admiral Decrès at the time of his desertion. He had been caught drawing rations for a coxswain who had actually died. This led to dismissal from the Admiral's staff and to a month as duty officer in the forward position. He was worried, I think, lest some other indiscretion should come to light, earning him further penalties. So he bribed a fisherman to take him and that skiff (which he stole) to the island of Comino. He was not seriously trying to reach Italy. His intention all along was to give himself up as a prisoner of war. I do not see him as a heroic character.”

“And what about the expected relief attempt?”

“I think that story may be true. It fits in with other intelligence reports.”

Delancey was relieved to hear this, glad to think he had not been entirely wrong and that Pozzo was the deserter he claimed to be. He would, nevertheless, be more cautious another time.

“I should be interested to know,” he said, “why a man who had lied about everything else should tell the truth about the expected relief.”

“Well, sir, it is a matter of opinion. You should know, however, that he now denies the statement he made to you. He says that you starved him into saying something about the French plans. He realised that the interrogation would go on until he provided you with some information. He says now that the information he gave you was false.”

“I think it was true and that he is lying now. He was under pressure, as he says, and those few facts were forced out of him. Yes, I agree with you: his subsequent denial adds weight to the information he gave at first.”

“If we accept that reasoning,” said the Commodore, “we have the point of departure, the commander's name and the approximate date. I don't accept Pozzo's statement that the convoy will sail together. I should assume that the convoy will be in two divisions, possibly in three.”

“Have you decided, Sir Thomas,” asked Delancey, “how to deal with the situation?” He knew as he said it that he had spoken out of turn.

“It is not for me to decide,” replied Troubridge, shortly. “The decision rests with Lord Keith, who is quite as experienced as you or I. You did well, however, to bring us that prisoner and better still to question him before he had recovered from the shock of capture. Back to Gozo now and remain there until your supply ships are ready to sail.”

Once more in his own cabin, with the
Merlin
at her old anchorage, Delancey thought that the new century had so far been kind to him. An action was to be expected and he might play some part in it. He had already perhaps done something to influence the British deployment. As against that, he had made two mistakes, the first in his interrogation of Pozzo, the second in this last conversation with Troubridge. The moment he had asked the question he realised that he should not have done so. Would it count against him? On the whole he thought not. But he must never again speak out of turn. This was something to have learnt.

He opened the general chart of the Mediterranean and plotted the obvious course from Toulon to Malta. Perrée's alternatives were two. He could follow the coast of Italy, pass the Straits of Messina and approach Malta from the north, or else he could go south of Sardinia and through the Sicilian Channel, making his approach from the west. He pondered these alternatives and decided, finally, that the simpler plan was the best. Whatever route Perrée might choose he would finally have to enter Grand Harbour and there, just out of gunshot, Lord Keith would be waiting for him. To waylay the French convoy outside Toulon was a theoretical possibility but there was no time for that. No, the entrance of Grand Harbour, the position where the
Merlin
had drawn the enemy's fire, was a focal point towards which all routes must lead.

In a few days' time the Malta convoy would have sailed. At much the same hour Lord Keith would be approaching from the opposite direction. Lord Nelson might also be on the way and heaven knows what other ships had been ordered to the same rendezvous. For the convoy to reach Valletta, the first necessity had been to keep the plan secret. With secrecy lost, Delancey could not see that the relief attempt could have the slightest chance of success. But the French must have foreseen the dangers. Their plans must surely involve the convergence of several squadrons; one to give battle, one to lead the pursuit away from Malta and a third to make a dash for Grand Harbour.

Some such plan might succeed against an opponent endowed with plenty of enthusiasm. It might just possibly succeed against Lord Nelson. But he was not the Commander-in-Chief. The man to be outwitted was that stolid Scotsman, Lord Keith, whose place—Delancey guessed—would be in the harbour mouth; a position from which he would not be lured by any alarm or excursion. Studying the chart and surveying the battlefield, Delancey came to what he thought might be a valuable conclusion. In warfare, he pondered, one of the worst mistakes is to be too clever. The next few weeks, he guessed, might prove the truth of this.

T
HE ORDERS from the Directory were clear and emphatic. Valletta was to be relieved by a squadron and convoy which would land there three thousand troops with ammunition and supplies to last the garrison for another ninety days. The gallant General Vaubois must not be left to his fate. Something must be done for the honour of France. The naval commander of the escort was not to seek an engagement but the First Consul realised that some sacrifices might have to be made.

The Malta convoy sailed as planned on February 7th, its plans perfectly well known in the streets of Toulon. The vessels were all appallingly overcrowded and the morale of the soldiers was low. They knew that they were being sent to reinforce a garrison already on the point of starvation. Supplies were being shipped at the same time, as they knew, but their own arrival would double the ration strength and shorten the period over which the supplies would last. If the voyage were unduly prolonged, moreover, the greater part of the provisions would be consumed at sea. It was again a question of whether the convoy would reach Malta at all. The likelihood was that Perrée would encounter opposition before he even sighted the island, for the British naval superiority was known to be overwhelming. The Rear-Admiral had good reason to choose the shortest route but was unable, of course, to go any faster than his slowest ship, the heavily laden
Ville-de-Marseilles.