The Flag of Freedom

by Seth Hunter

  How much more sensible to be a swallow. To know where one was going and why. And to go there – to go straight there – with no diversions in pursuit of fame, or wealth, or women. Or in the service of one’s country.

  At times he was angry. He had done what was required of him, at great risk to life and limb, and they had rewarded him by charging him with treason and locking him up in a prison cell on a rock.

  His anger was fairly wide-ranging but there were some individuals for whom he felt a particular resentment. One was Admiral Jervis, or St Vincent, as he now was, who had ordered his arrest, when a severe dressing-down would have been more in order. Then there was Earl Spencer, the First Lord of the Admiralty, who must have launched the enquiry against him – and the Commissioner, Scrope, who had been sent to execute it. But he could not help but think that there were others, in the shadows, who had their own sinister agenda – such as Sir Gilbert Elliot, the former Viceroy of Corsica and a member of the Privy Council. Even William Pitt, the King’s chief minister.

  It was impossible to believe they could think him a traitor. For what? For reporting what he had heard of French plans to invade Egypt?

  Even if the rumour was untrue – even if it had been fed to him deliberately – it did not amount to treason. Rumour was the stuff of intelligence. There must be hundreds of rumours passed on to the British government, from hundreds of informants. It was the job of government to sift through them, to decide which were true and which were false, and to act upon them accordingly. Not to punish the messenger.

  Not that this stopped them, of course.

  But he could not believe this was why he was in prison.

  There had to be something else. Something to do with his mother, perhaps, and her dissident friends in London.

  Nathan had always tended to be dismissive of Lady Catherine’s cherished role as unofficial leader of His Majesty’s Disloyal Opposition. But what if he was wrong? What if she was regarded as a serious problem for the government, and in their vindictiveness, in their resolve to shut her up, they had turned on her son?

  It was something to consider. Particularly as she seemed to have used the money he had made in the King’s service to fund the most outspoken of the government’s critics. If that was known to Billy Pitt and his friends in the Admiralty, they might have every reason to vent their displeasure upon Nathan.

  The government had always been wary of moving against his mother personally. This was probably less because she was a woman than because she was an American. Pitt was known to foster a rapprochement with the United States, if only to increase the prospects of British trade with the new nation and to bring it into the coalition against Revolutionary France. He was doubtless wary of bringing a charge of sedition against a woman who was known to be a close friend of the American Minister to the Court of St James, and whose family were personal friends of President Adams.

  But her son was a different matter, particularly as he was a serving officer in His Majesty’s Navy.

  And there was something else. Pitt’s government had brought in the most draconian measures against civil liberties: freedom of speech, freedom of the press, freedom of association. They had suspended habeas corpus and locked up many of their opponents. They had even hanged a few. All on the grounds that the nation was in mortal peril – faced with the threat of imminent invasion by Revolutionary France. Pitt was hardly likely to welcome a report that the threat did not exist, and that the French were planning an assault upon Egypt – a country over 2,000 miles away. Especially when that report came from the son of a woman who had devoted a great deal of her time and money to denouncing him as a tyrant.

  But it was one thing to decide what had brought him here; quite another to decide what to do about it.

  He had written to his father begging him to use what influence he had with the Admiralty and Parliament, but he did not know if the letter had been sent, much less delivered. There had, of course, been no reply. He supposed that the Governor, for all his kindness, was under orders to prevent him from engaging in corre spondence.

  He felt forgotten. As the New Year began its weary plod through January, with only his artificial cosmos for company, he began to sink into despair. The real sun brought neither comfort nor heat, and as he huddled in his Spanish greatcoat, nursing the aching wound in his hip and the greater wound in his heart, he felt his own inner light grow dim.

  Then one day the swallows came.

  They were disguised as aides of the Governor. The first brought gifts: a fish pie with a bottle of Portuguese wine, still chilled from the Governor’s cellar, and a cake freshbaked by his pastry cook. The second brought a change of quarters – from the top of the tower to the bottom. With a log fire and a carpet – and a real bed. The third brought a bath, carried in by two of the Governor’s own servants and filled with hot water, heated in a great vat on the fire. And when Nathan had bathed and wrapped himself in the robe provided, one of them shaved him and cut his hair. He was left to ponder the reasons for all this, but many years in His Majesty’s Service had taught him not to look a gift horse in the mouth. He slept well.

  The following day, the first swallow returned with the full-dress uniform of a Post Captain in His Britannic Majesty’s Navy and an invitation to dine with the Governor. Nathan had lost so much weight that it almost fitted; it was just a little tight under the armpits and across the shoulder. The hat was too big and fell down over his eyes. The servants offered to pad it but Nathan elected to carry it under his arm.

  They walked to the Governor’s House without an escort, the aide making polite conversation about the weather. It was mild, in fact, just the slightest suggestion of a breeze, more refreshing than not. The sky was blue, the sun sliding across the north-west corner of Africa towards the Atlantic. A crescent moon rising in the east. It would be an excellent night, Nathan thought, for stars.

  He asked no pertinent questions regarding his present situation or status. They would have been a waste of time. Even depressed, numbed from the neck up, he had enough sense to appreciate that this was no mere whim on the part of the Governor. It was either a softening up or the prelude to release.

  He was inclined, by nature, to suspect the former.

  But what were they softening him up for? If they wanted him to retract his report about the French intentions towards Egypt, they only had to ask. He was not going to go down with the ship. Not over Egypt. Nor even for India. There were other ways of proving his patriotism. Let them give him another ship.

  He could say he had misheard. It was England Bonaparte planned to invade. Or Ireland. Not Egypt. Angleterre, Irelande, Égypte. It was a mistake anyone could make. Or else Junot had become confused. He had meant to say England, but he had said Egypt. He had always been a scatterbrain and the head wound had not helped.

  Nathan was rehearsing this submission as the aide led him past the sentries outside Governor House and up the broad staircase to the Governor’s private apartments. No dismal cell this time, no haunted guest room. The Governor’s own study, with the candles lit, though it was not yet dusk, and a blazing fire in the hearth. And the Governor himself to greet him.

  He was posed, as Scrope had been, by the fireplace, a glass of wine at his elbow, but as soon as Nathan was announced, he crossed the room towards him with his hand extended. Nathan had to hide his surprise at the enthusiasm of the Governor’s clasp.

  ‘My dear Peake!’ he enthused as he peered intently into Nathan’s face. What he saw there seemed to reassure him a little. ‘You look well. Yes. Remarkably well in the circumstances. Can I offer you a glass of wine? Or would you prefer something stronger?’

  Charles O’Hara was a bluff, still handsome man in his late fifties. He had been born in Lisbon, the bastard son of an Irish baron and his Portuguese mistress, but had spent his entire life, from the age of twelve, in the British Army. These days, he wore the look of an old campaigner who has found himself an easy berth at last and is determined to make the mos
t of it, before it kills him with drink and soft-living.

  O’Hara had been commissioned as a lieutenant in the Coldstream Guards twelve years before Nathan was born, on the eve of the Seven Years War. Since when he had fought in three wars on three continents and attained the rank of Lieutenant-General – but his great fear, as he had confessed to Nathan when they had last dined together and he had taken rather too much in drink, was that he would be remembered as the officer who had surrendered his sword to General Washington at Yorktown, thereby effectively surrendering America.

  Although it was hardly in the same category, he had also surrendered Toulon, when the British had been briefly in occupation of the port in the first year of the present war. The officer to whom he gave up his sword on that occasion was Napoleon Bonaparte, then a mere Captain of Artillery in the Revolutionary Army.

  ‘A scruffy-looking bugger,’ O’Hara had reported to Nathan, when he recalled the incident. ‘You would not have given him a second glance. Not like Washington. No presence about him – unless I was missing something. And I suppose I was, given what he has achieved since.’

  But at least Bonaparte had treated him as a fellow officer. The Revolutionists in Paris had a different view. It was a time when the whole of Europe was against them, and the Committee of Public Safety under Robespierre had resorted to wholesale repression to save the Revolution – or at least, his own narrow view of it. Toulon had sided with the enemy, had given up the French Mediterranean fleet to Britain. In their fury, they turned on O’Hara. A British officer or not, he had supported the rebels – and he must suffer the fate of rebels. So they called him an ‘insurrectionist’ and locked him up in the Luxembourg, where he was in serious danger of being executed at the guillotine. He and Nathan had met several times there, though O’Hara had been under the impression that Nathan was an American called Turner, and it must have taken considerable restraint on his part not to question Nathan about this whilst he had him in his charge. But in those days, there had been many in Paris who were pretending to be people they were not.

  That shared experience under the shadow of the guillotine was a powerful bond, however, and O’Hara appeared genuinely upset that he had been obliged to confine Nathan to his quarters for the best part of three months.

  ‘I hope you understand that it was not of my own choosing,’ he assured him now. ‘I have written numerous letters on your behalf to Admiral St Vincent, Earl Spencer and others in positions of authority, up to Mr Pitt himself, requesting that you either be charged with an offence or released.’

  ‘So what is it to be?’ enquired Nathan with a smile, as if it were of no particular consequence. He was having difficulty in coming to terms with his sudden change of circumstance, and had expectations of having it snatched from him at any moment, like a child with a new toy.

  ‘Why, you are to be released, of course,’ the Governor assured him, as if in surprise that the question should arise. ‘Admiral St Vincent has written to withdraw the charge of insubordination. I am told that when Nelson heard of your confinement, he wrote immediately to the Admiral extolling your conduct at Cadiz and stressing that if it were not for you, he would be either dead or a prisoner of the Spaniard.’

  ‘That was very good of him,’ Nathan acknowledged, genuinely moved. ‘And how is Admiral Nelson? I had heard he was seriously wounded at Tenerife.’

  ‘I am afraid he suffered the loss of his right arm,’ the Governor confirmed, ‘and given that he had previously lost an eye, I fear he may no longer be suited to active service.’

  They relapsed into silence, staring into the fire and sipping their wine.

  ‘There was talk of another charge,’ said Nathan after a moment.

  The Governor looked at him, his expression troubled.

  ‘A charge of treason, I believe,’ Nathan prompted him.

  O’Hara shook his head, but it was more in anguish than denial. ‘It was never … I do not believe such a charge was ever made. Not – formally. It was more, I believe, in the nature of a vague – and entirely unmerited, of course – accusation.’

  ‘And yet I would not like it to go unanswered.’

  ‘Of course not. Of course not.’ O’Hara frowned, his jowls wobbling like a jelly. ‘If such a charge had been made against myself, even in the heat of the moment, I would feel exactly as you do. And yet, I do not believe there were any witnesses to the incident.’

  ‘On the contrary. One of your aides was present – and two Marine sentries.’

  ‘I see. Yes. Well, all I can say, sir, is that if you wish to take the matter up with the … the person involved, I am sure no one would blame you. Though my private view, sir, is that he won’t stand up to the mark. However,’ he wiped a fierce hand across his nose as if he wished to eradicate a bad smell, ‘from my own point of view, I was instructed to hold you in close confinement pending certain investigations into your conduct in the Adriatic. Again, we have to thank Admiral Nelson for coming to our assistance.’

  He stood up and crossed to his desk, returning with a sheet of paper which he handed to Nathan.

  ‘I understand that your written orders were lost with the Unicorn. Fortunately, Admiral Nelson had a copy made which the Admiralty has seen fit to forward to me. Would you be good enough to tell me if they are as you remember them?’

  Nathan held the document to the light of the nearest candles. He did not recognise the handwriting – it must have been copied out by Nelson’s secretary, John Castang, probably that same sultry evening back in July, aboard the flagship after Nathan’s discussion with Nelson and Sir Gilbert Elliot.

  It was headed To Captain Peake, Unicorn (Most Secret) and the first part did nothing to relieve Nathan’s anxiety.

  Sir,

  You are, in pursuance of instructions from the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty, to proceed with the ships etc under your command to the Adriatic, for the purpose of protecting the vessels engaged in the transfer of troops and supplies to and from the different places where the said troops may be required during the ensuing campaign. Further to which, their lordships having received intelligence of the possession of Ancona by privateers in the French service, you are to cruise for the annoyance of the enemy off the coast of that port or any part of the Adriatic where they may be operating, taking care not to be surprised by a superior force.

  But then it came …

  Further, you are to seek intelligence of the British Consul in Corfu with regard to the condition of the Venetian ships-of-war in that port and any communications he might have received concerning their future deployment. Depending upon the form of that intelligence, you are to proceed to Venice by whatever means are available to you and in whatever guise should prove necessary – and to communicate directly with His Majesty’s Ambassador, Sir Richard Worsley, with a view to taking such action as may seem appropriate to you both in the circumstances.

  Given at San Fiorenzo, April 1796

  Horatio Nelson

  The wording was peculiar, even by Nelson’s erratic standards of communication, and it left a great deal unsaid – but this was understandable. The letter was not in cipher and Nelson would not wish to betray any unnecessary intelligence to the enemy. The truth was that Ambassador Worsley had made a secret agreement with the Venetian Admiral – Dandolo – to hand the entire fleet over to Britain in the event of a French invasion, for the sum of half a million pounds. Nathan’s job was to make sure it was worth it. After seeing a number of the ships at the main Venetian base in Corfu, he had concluded that most of them were barely fit for sea, let alone battle. But in any case, by the time he reached Venice, Dandolo had been murdered. And within a few hours of visiting the English Ambassador, Nathan was in the Doge’s prison awaiting a similar fate.

  But that was by the by. The important thing about Nelson’s letter was that it confirmed the order for Nathan to proceed to Venice by whatever means were available to him and in whatever guise should prove necessary. This put Nathan in the clear so far
as the Unicorn was concerned. He could no longer be charged with desertion.

  There still remained the matter of his report concerning French intentions in the Middle East. But his release from prison and the warmth of the Governor’s reception indicated that there had been a change of opinion on this issue. Even if they still doubted the truth of the report, their lordships must have decided that Nathan had acted in good faith. Or had they?

  Nathan was having difficulty concentrating. His senses were considerably numbed after three months in a prison cell. Indeed, he had been so long without company he was having some difficulty taking in what the Governor was saying to him. He would not have been entirely surprised if it was all suddenly to vanish – the Governor, the crackling log fire, the wine in his glass – and that he would wake up to find himself back in his prison cell, listening for the sound of the swallows.

  ‘So what is to follow?’ he enquired, keeping his voice carefully unconcerned.

  ‘I am required by their lordships to provide a passage for you back to England as soon as it may be convenient and a suitable vessel is available to us. In the meantime, I would be honoured if you would remain with me as my guest at Governor House. Though I would entirely understand if you wish to seek private accommodation.’

  ‘So I am to return to England?’

  This, in itself, was significant. Clearly Admiral St Vincent had no further use for his services.

  ‘If that is your wish.’ There was that in the Governor’s tone and in the look that accompanied it which did a great deal to sharpen Nathan’s blunted sensibilities. Something was afoot – and unless he was very much mistaken, it was about to advance upon him in its usual skulking fashion.

  ‘There is an alternative?’

  The Governor sat down again and leaned forward confident ially. ‘There is a gentleman I would like you to meet. He has a proposal to make. But I am afraid he may not be entirely – agreeable to you.’