An Awkward Commission

by David Donachie

  ‘That tricolour must have fooled them, sir.’

  ‘Yes. Let’s get it down and show them who we are, then close with Captain Gould, while I go below to write my despatch. And keep me informed of the progress of that ship making sail.’

  There was no cabin to enter, for everything had been taken down when they cleared for action. The bulkheads that had formed the walls were now either hinged up and fastened to the deckbeams or down below, as was the cabin furniture off which they had eaten their dinner. A chair had been left for his wife to sit on, as he apprehended no immediate danger, and a small desktop escritoire on which he could pen his despatch, though he had to kneel on the deck planking to do so. His letter was addressed to the man he had last seen in Lisbon harbour, Vice-Admiral Sir William Hotham.

  HMS Brilliant; at sea, off Toulon, July 28th 1793

  Sir,

  In pursuance of the orders given to me aboard your flagship, I have the honour to furnish you with the following information about the state of the enemy fleet.

  He went on to list what had been observed in terms of tonnage, guns and a guess at preparedness before concluding:

  I felt it my duty to send off Captain Gould as soon practicable so that you will have information on which you can base a sound judgement. I acknowledge that it is incomplete, but I will endeavour in the following days to secure a more accurate picture of the state of affairs in the port, and a clear idea of the exact state of readiness of the enemy’s ability to mount operations prior to the rendezvous I anticipate you will make, here, off Toulon, in the coming weeks.

  I am, sir, you most humble servant.

  Sanded and sealed, he put the despatch in an oilskin pouch, then turned to Emily, who had sat silently while he wrote. ‘Now, my dear, you can quit you chair and come on deck, for I believe we will soon have something to show you.’

  ‘A frigate, sir, a twenty-eight, just clearing the outer anchorage.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Glaister.’

  Farmiloe positively screamed from the masthead. ‘Deck there, sail bearing due east.’

  ‘Of what nature?’ called Glaister, as both he and his captain grabbed a telescope and trained them over the rail.

  Ralph Barclay positively spat at his First Lieutenant, angry at himself for not anticipating what should have been obvious, but quite prepared, in the time-honoured fashion he had observed from his first days at sea, to pass on his ire.

  ‘Are you a fool, sir? It will be a warship, Mr Glaister, the fastest the French have, set to trap us!’

  Glaister took the rebuke with equanimity, too well versed in the ways of the Navy to protest, indeed composing his face into an attitude of open respect. ‘You did wonder at it, sir, which is close to anticipation.’

  ‘I did, Mr Glaister, you are right.’ Mollified by the Highlander’s tone, Ralph Barclay spoke in a more friendly way. ‘Though I think, like me, you will observe he may have come too precipitately upon his task. He should have waited until we engaged or sought to play catch me with that fellow coming out.’

  ‘They have the wind, sir.’

  ‘So do we if we run, Mr Glaister.’

  The emotion, in the look that crossed his premier’s face, was replicated in the bodily attitude of every officer and midshipman on deck; they saw only the chance of a fight, with the possibility of glory. That it could be madness made no odds, for glory brought with it rewards that could not be gained in any other fashion. It also brought with it the possibility, or in this case the near-certainty, of death and destruction, but that was as nothing compared to promotion, public gratitude and wealth. Ralph Barclay, who scoffed at the kind of captains who indulged in quarterdeck explanations, was obliged to address the matter, though he took care to look at Emily as he did so, for though he cared not one jot that his inferiors might consider him shy, he cared a great deal that she did not.

  ‘I am as minded to engage the enemy as the next man, but at odds of two to one in vessels, and I am sure, more in weight of shot, I would not take it at the best of times. This is not such an occasion. We have a duty to the fleet and Admiral Hotham to stay in one piece and to continue to be observant.’

  He turned away from his wife then to give his orders.

  ‘Mr Glaister, bring us about, and order Captain Gould to close so that he can take on board my despatch. Mr Collins, I want everything aloft that she will bear. Let’s show these French dogs what a British ship can do, well handled, one that will be back off their anchorage a week hence, to assess their progress. And rest assured, gentlemen, if we catch one of the enemy alone, we will show him what the Royal Navy can do in a fight.’

  Closing with HMS Firefly so that his despatch could be transferred, and the subsequent shortening of sail to effect it, slowed down that flight, but Ralph Barclay was not bothered by that. The fact that the French ships were closing brought them into view, hull up, through a long glass. But before he could do that he must give his junior his instructions.

  ‘Mr Gould, we shall run due west until nightfall, when I want you to set your course for Gibraltar. You are to proceed with all haste, sparing neither wood nor canvas, and keep a look out for the fact that Admiral Hotham may have already cleared the Straits. What you carry is vital to the future success of our nation’s arms.’

  Having delivered what he thought a rousing little homily, he took up a telescope and began to study his putative enemies. Carefully he noted the distinguishing nature of each vessel, sail plan, figureheads, how she lay on the wind, as well as the manner in which they were handled and which was the swiftest, making many a mental note that would come into play should he meet any of them again. Finally, aware that the whole of his crew were merely waiting for the order, he gave the command to set all sail.

  That occasioned another shaft of pleasure, for his men were now fully worked up, so that the task of setting the sails, once a noisy mayhem, was now smooth and carried out in relative quiet, with only spoken commands and the Bosun’s various pipes being required to complete the whole in very short order, as they headed towards the setting sun, sitting in the diminishing wake of HMS Firefly.

  CHAPTER THREE

  If John Pearce’s interview with Admiral Graves had gone badly, that was as nothing to the one he sought to have with Lord Howe. Having, at a rate of eight pence a mile, taken a post-chaise all the way to Bath, he found that the old admiral had surrounded himself, in the form of clerks and aides, with a carapace of protection that would have done justice to an Eastern potentate. Only official despatches from the Admiralty or those from his inferior admirals in Portsmouth were allowed to disturb his days of eating, drinking, taking the restorative waters in the old Roman baths and playing cards in the Pump Room. A plea that the liberty of the King’s subjects was at stake got Pearce precisely nowhere; a demand that a promise made required fulfilment also fell on deaf ears, with the addition of a stinging rebuke for presumption thrown in from a member of his protective screen.

  ‘When will the Admiral go back to Portsmouth?’

  ‘When the French make it necessary he should do so. Now be gone.’

  There were two other possibilities, people who might intercede on behalf of his Pelicans; the Admiralty itself and William Pitt, the King’s First Minister, who had offered his help in the matter of a place should he need it, though he had no certainty what it would be worth as a promise, any more than that of Howe. He was even more doubtful about it being extended to an entirely different matter, such as the fate of illegally pressed seamen. Even with time being of the essence, that required a careful assessment of his funds – money ‘borrowed’ from his wealthy paramour – for he could not afford another post-chaise all the way to London. A compromise was called for: speed to Marlborough, then a slower mode of transport – a stage coach – from there to Charing Cross, this by a man who was cursing himself for not buying a horse.

  Both in post-chaise and stage coach he was mostly uncommunicative with his fellow passengers, alone with his own thought
s, none of which were pleasant, declining to even discuss the latest news from Paris, which was that the firebrand revolutionary Marat had been murdered in his bath. As he listened to this being discussed, he did feel the temptation to intervene when opinions composed of arrant nonsense were being advanced, for he knew the man through his father. The dwarfish Marat had been one of the people who had originally welcomed Adam Pearce to Paris, lauding him as a true son of the Revolution who had fallen foul of his own government merely for his expressed and printed opinions. That welcome had not lasted; the leaders of the Revolution had no more time for an honest radical speaker than King George and his ministers. Marat was a prime example of the breed; the scrofulous troublemaker could not bear the notion of being behind the mob. Like so many of the Paris enragés, he wanted to be ahead of them, leading them on to further excess and murder. To John Pearce’s mind he deserved to die in such an ignominious way, given that he had demanded, through the pages of his journal, L’Ami du Peuple, death of so many others.

  The trouble was, that in thinking about Marat, he could not avoid ruminating on other things. Though he knew it to be pointless he could not help but go over what had happened in Paris, gnawing at the notion that by some act unspecified he could have changed the outcome and saved his father’s life. To force himself away from those thoughts only brought Pearce back to why he was in this damned conveyance in the first place; his own utter unreliability, and that led in turn to gloomy reflections on his future prospects, which were not dazzling, given that his upbringing, while making him an independent soul, had ill-prepared him for anything like a career.

  The one occupation that was definitely out of the question was that he should follow in his father’s footsteps and become a radical speaker and pamphleteer, a scourge of the powerful and titled. What had been much sought after in the year ’89, after the Fall of the Bastille, was not welcome now. After four years the mood of the nation was almost wholly set against change, having seen from across the Channel what happens when the props which a polity needed to exist were removed. Worse than that, he had no other real skill that he could think of to turn to; an ability to ride, to fence, a superficial knowledge of the Classics and fluent French, plus reasonably polished manners seemed to be either in abundant supply or not at present required outside the possibility of becoming a schoolmaster. That was an idea he abhorred, just like the army, which anyway he could not afford; a commission cost too much. None of it mattered anyway, not until he fulfilled the purpose of the journey he was now on.

  Arrival in London, and the prospect of a warm and affectionate welcome, provided another disappointment, as a rather arch footman at the Fitzherbert London townhouse informed him that her Ladyship had left for the country, having sent the few possessions he owned to be stored at Nerot’s Hotel in King Street to await his return. A letter that had arrived had been forwarded there as well, for which he owed the household payment of sixpence, since it had come express. Standing on the stoop, for he was not allowed into the house, Pearce was aware that the footman, obsequious a matter of days ago – though markedly less so now – could be lying. Annabel might well be at home or at least in London, but he was also acutely aware of the fact that he could do nothing about it. Had he been but a dalliance for a rich and titled lady who had taken a fancy to a young, handsome, and heroic sailor?

  Directions supplied, it was a slow walk through the streets again, once more contemplating failure, ignoring hucksters, lottery ticket vendors and entertainers, plus the dozens of beggars, some children, many limbless, that either accosted or called to him for succour, this while the sedan chairs of those who were wealthy enough to pay jogged by at speed, weaving through the tradesmen’s carts and the coaches of the truly wealthy, which set up a cacophony of noise, as iron-rimmed wheels rattled over the uneven cobblestones. Recalling Peg Bamber’s words about London being ‘a hateful place’, at this moment he had an inclination to agree.

  Chokingly full of smoke in winter, when some of these beggars would freeze to death, it could be like a cauldron in summer, when the smell of rotting rubbish, human waste and decomposing flesh, both human and animal, attacked the senses. But all cities were the same; if anything, Paris was worse, with a nosegay an obligatory object when the temperature rose, even indoors. That peripatetic life, when growing up, had given Pearce a love of fresh air and open spaces, even of clean sea-breezes. Indeed, there had been moments aboard ship, when the weather was clement and the work satisfying, that he had enjoyed the experience, moments when he could forget how it was he had got there.

  To enter ‘ice’s hotel was to put that behind him. Double doors snuffed out the noise, while the smell of scented candles and the beeswax polish of floor and furniture took away the exterior stench. There were well-upholstered settles in the lobby, and deep armchairs, even a fire in the grate for those who had no notion that that it was a warm day outside. It was not all pleasant, the hotel clerk who received guests was even more condescending than the footman who had opened the door to him at Lady Annabel’s. He wrinkled his nose and pointedly cast an eye at Pearce’s boots, which had upon them the filth, in the form of mud, manure and the odd bit of straw, that came from walking through the streets of the capital. Name given, a letter was produced, which had on it the easily recognised seal of the Admiralty.

  ‘Will “sir” be requiring a room?’

  If I do, thought Pearce, aware of how the travel to Bath and back to London had nearly cleaned him out, it will be in a debtor’s prison, but such a depressing thought was quickly followed by the next; that he needed to do something to get help and the only two sources he could think of who could provide that were close by. Letters from Nerot’s would imply a standing he, in truth, did not possess, which could only aid his cause. As for the cost, John Pearce was subject to more than one devil that he had inherited from his father, for Adam Pearce had never let a lack of funds interfere with the need to lay his own head, and that of his son, on a decent pillow, sure that the next day, a good and rousing speech, and the hat passed round, would provide the money to meet the bill.

  ‘I shall.’

  The clerk, with a haughty expression, looked at the small valise with which this ‘guest’ had arrived, and sniffed again, though this time disdainfully, an expression repeated when Pearce informed him that he had some luggage already stored here, for unbeknown to him the clerk recalled the arrival of an extremely old and battered trunk, which the storekeeper had made a point of telling him was almost empty. This was clearly no well-heeled prospect, a point of which Pearce was well aware. Normally modest, he knew he had to say something to avoid being politely shown the door.

  ‘You will have no doubt heard, sir, of the recent taking of the French ship of the line, the Valmy?’

  ‘Who has not, sir, a most inspiring event,’ opined the clerk, with a tone that almost implied his own involvement. ‘The nation has once again shown the glorious abilities of our Wooden Walls.’ Try as he might, having finished speaking, he could not hide a degree of curiosity. ‘And a very valuable prize, I daresay. Am I to understand that you were part of that action, sir?’

  His own chest puffed out, and speaking in a tone he would have despised in another, Pearce replied. ‘Part of it, sir! I can tell you that without me no success would have been possible. Indeed King George himself, when I was called up to attend his levee at Windsor, made that very connection.’

  The words ‘King’ and ‘levee’ were accompanied by a clicking of fingers, as the now-smiling clerk summoned a porter in a striped waistcoat and leather apron. A heavy key was produced and an instruction whispered, whereupon the porter lifted the small valise, with a care that suggested it contained the whole prize fund for the French warship, and headed for the thickly carpeted stairs. The clerk indicated that Pearce should follow, with the words: ‘I hope you enjoy your stay with us, sir. It is most uplifting to have a hero under our rafters, and one who will garner a fine reward for his sterling efforts.’

&
nbsp; Wondering if the word sterling was a pun on money, Pearce made for the staircase. The porter had waited for him, the paucity of the luggage and the notion that he was dealing with a well-heeled champion of the nation’s arms had no doubt inspired his excessive garrulousness; he seemed eager to inform Pearce that the room he had been allotted was one normally reserved for folk of real quality.

  ‘Fit for an admiral, your honour, and why not, if’n it be fit for a duke or an earl. Why, I have had folk in there, sir, who have needed a dozen local beds just for accommodation of their servants.’

  Pearce was shown into a comfortable sitting room with tall windows, armchairs and settles, and a bedroom attached, while the porter made a great play of carefully placing his valise by the washstand, talking all the while in an ingratiating manner. Well versed in the art of extracting a tip from his guests he then stood and waited for this new one to oblige. He was even practiced enough to hold the smile on his face when he felt the paucity of what had been placed in his hand, bowing slightly as he informed John Pearce that he would fetch his luggage from the basement store room, ‘in a trice’.

  ‘I shall be back in a jiff, your honour, and I daresay you would like to remove them boots and have them cleaned, as well as welcome some jugs of piping water fetched for a bath?’

  Grubby from travel, that was a very welcome idea. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘And wine, sir, will you be partaking of some wine? The hotel does a fine ordinary claret, of which I am happy to say we have a good supply. Not that it will be long before that is back on tap, those madmen have taken to murdering each other now, though I will add that you’ll be safer in your bath than that sod Mirat.’

  Too embarrassed to refuse, and too disinterested to correct his mis-naming of Marat, Pearce just nodded. ‘I need writing materials.’

  ‘In the bureau, sir. Paper, quills and a knife to sharpen them, as well as fine sand. I shall fetch a candle, sir, for the wax.’