An Awkward Commission

by David Donachie

  ‘That describes him. Do you think you know the fellow?’

  The calling of his name killed any reply. He turned to see the admiral’s writing clerk, holding his orders. The pouch containing the despatches from Pitt was still in his pocket.

  ‘The admiral’s instructions. You are to go aboard HMS Tartar which is at present preparing to weigh to join Lord Hood. Since your duty is to carry despatches to him from London, the admiral would be obliged if you would undertake the same duty for him.’

  Agreement was mandatory, but when he and his sea chest arrived aboard HMS Tartar Pearce was given some understanding of the word preparing. Certainly the frigate was about to sail, she was fully loaded with what stores she needed, but there seemed no immediacy to the notion. Indeed the officers who greeted him to the wardroom, barring one on anchor watch, were preparing to go ashore and since the new arrival had no duties, they insisted he accompany them, a night out that introduced John Pearce to the fleshpots of the Rock.

  Everything about the place was designed to cater for the military, and it was hinted to Pearce that should he, later on, have any unusual proclivities, they could be satisfied, that the frigate’s officers knew where to go for shows with naked ladies and bestial displays with animals.

  ‘The Dons might be Papists,’ said one, ‘and cursed to suffer eternal damnation, but by damn, they are more loose than any Anglican I have ever met.’

  He was quick to assert that food and drink were sufficient, and paid no special attention to the young senoritas that came to sing songs in Spanish at their table. Nor did he, at first, pay any attention to a row brewing behind him, that was until he heard the unmistakable, though clearly drunken voice, of Captain McGann. When he turned, it was to see the tubby little man, flushed with drink, dressed in his best finery, a velvet coat and a lace ruff, the whole under a big, feather-edged hat, swaying before an army officer whose face was as red as his coat. There was no sign of any of his crew.

  ‘You fail to understand, sir,’ McGann slurred, ‘that the lady has taken a shine to my person.’

  ‘And you, blackguard, have failed to take account of the fact that the lady you refer to is my wife.’

  ‘A trifling distinction, sir, and no doubt an error the lady regrets.’

  The lady in question was attractive certainly, but no real beauty, although she did have her gown cut low to reveal an ample bosom that was perilously close to McGann’s nose. She looked mortified and was tugging at her husband’s arm to pull him away. Pearce swung round, stood up and closed with the trio, taking McGann’s arm and spinning him round.

  ‘Captain McGann, how pleased I am to see you. Pray come and join us. I am with a party of naval officers.’

  ‘Pearce, just the fellow,’ McGann cried, pulling so hard that both men now faced the beetroot-red army officer. ‘Please explain to this poltroon that he is encroaching upon my preserve. That he best be off and leave me to this lady who, I might add, would, I’m sure, be most happy to have you attend our forthcoming nuptials. She’s a fine-looking filly too, wouldn’t you say.’ A swift elbow in the ribs hurt. ‘Bet you’d like to bed her yourself, you young rogue.’

  ‘Damn…’

  The redcoat got no further, as Pearce spoke in a conciliatory voice. ‘Pray ignore him, sir. You can see he is seriously in drink, and I am told by his crew that this is a state he often gets into, and that he will wake on the morrow full of mortification at his behaviour.’

  That was when the army officer slapped McGann hard, knocking his hat off while shouting, ‘He will not, sir. If I have my way he will wake in the morning to take a lead ball in his brain.’

  Pearce should have continued to play the peacemaker, should have accepted that McGann, in being struck so hard, was only getting his due, for he had been rude to the point of absurdity, and being drunk was hardly enough of an excuse. What prompted him instead to thump the army officer back, and knock him sprawling over a table he was, afterwards, at a loss to explain. Except that in the short voyage he had become close to this older man, who had even gone so far as to play the father with him. It was unfitting that a younger, fitter fellow should strike a person of McGann’s age.

  Suddenly all the Tartar’s officers were at his side, this while every redcoat in the room was reaching for some weapon with which to fight. Bottles began to fly, that followed by fists, and soon the entire tavern was in turmoil, women screaming, those singing senoritas at the highest pitch, as folk with no attachment to either service got involved. Pearce was in the thick of it, throwing punches right and left, painfully fending off a blow aimed with a chair leg, wondering how he had got into this when a hand on his collar dragged him back, ranks closing in front of him. He spun, fist up, to find himself looking at McGann’s crew, two of whom were lifting their captain off the wooden boards.

  ‘We lost him your honour,’ shouted young Harry over the din of the fight. ‘Sneaky bugger that he is.’

  ‘Get him out of here, now,’ Pearce shouted, ‘before he gets himself killed.’

  The Premier of the Tartar had detached himself from the mayhem, and was shouting at him as McGann’s men complied. ‘You get out of here too, Pearce, for if that bullock comes to you’ll be obliged to duel with him in the morning. Get back to the ship and stay there.’

  ‘Run away?’

  ‘Yes, and that Mr Pearce, is an order. Now go.’

  HMS Tartar sailed at dawn the following morning. If Mr Freemantle, the captain, who had come from his cabin to supervise the act, wondered why all of his deck officers were showing facial bruising, and were moving exceedingly stiffly to boot, he did not enquire. He merely gave the orders and they were obeyed. In the wardroom, Lieutenant John Pearce, with nothing to do in the way of duty, was enjoying a leisurely breakfast, listening to the creaking of the timbers as they began to strain against wind and tide, happy, for more than one reason, to be on his way again.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Ralph and Emily Barclay found themselves accommodated in a comfortable three-roomed apartment in the higher reaches of the Grosse Tour de Mitre, a moated, medieval tower overlooking, from the ramparts, the Grande Rade and the inner roadstead called the Petite Rade that made Toulon a perfect naval anchorage. Slightly further off they could observe what the French called the Vieux Darse, the heavily fortified harbour large enough to support an entire fleet, that also housed dry docks, the arsenal and all the buildings from admiral’s quarters to that of the lowly saw pit worker. Servants had been provided, and all their possessions and papers, including Emily’s cushions and unfinished embroidery, had been brought to them and Lutyens had given Emily the means, clean bandages and some evil smelling white spirit of German extraction to keep treating her husband’s now healing head wound.

  His officers, midshipmen, the master and his mates, along with the fat little purser, were in the guardroom, less salubrious quarters on the ground floor, while the crew, at least those not wounded, were in the lower chambers, not dungeons exactly, but what had been storerooms two centuries earlier, when the Tour de Mitre had been of some use as a defensive bastion. They were neither damp nor cold at this time of year, but the chambers were certainly not comfortable, and as an added affliction, were much prone to invasion by vermin. Included in that was Shenton, who had complained bitterly at the denigration, as had Railton, the gunner, though on behalf of his wife, the only other woman on the ship apart from Emily Barclay. At least that had produced a result; Mrs Railton had been moved to help the surgeon. Looking past the ships readying to weigh was the infirmary, where Lutyens, with French help, was trying to nurse back to health those who had not expired in the recent action.

  The bill was heavy, over thirty-five dead already, with those who cared for the survivors shaking their heads over a dozen more, all listed on a sheet of paper laying on the elegant Louis XV table alongside the report Ralph Barclay had written on the action. There were men he knew on that list, as well as names on which he had to stretch his memory to recall
a face; Lemuel Hale, his coxswain, a man who had served with him for many years – even when he had no ship – who had been a reliable informant on the furtive actions of the crew, seemed like a personal loss. Ridley, one of the Bosun’s mates, he could not recall ever having spoken to. The quartermaster and his men on the wheel had expired as a group while he was being attended to below. Had he been on deck, he might have gone with them, which brought, for a brief second, the thought that such a glorious death might be preferable to captivity. A midshipman had perished as well, which would occasion a sad letter to his family. There had been a sprinkling of French coves in the crew, taken from a corsair he had captured, but he had sent them off as part of a prize crew, which was just as well for them, for they would not have been greeted kindly by their fellow-countrymen if captured.

  The enemy had endured a heavier cost, perhaps twice as many deceased and, of course, a corresponding number wounded, which was something. The quarterdeck of Poulette had suffered especially, and though not told directly, Ralph Barclay had been in receipt of enough hints to know that there were several officers wives who were now widows, and several children who would grow up without a father.

  ‘Naturally Captain Barclay, we would ask for your parole, but once given I can see no reason why you and your wife cannot come and go as you please during daylight hours, provided you are escorted. I regret, that unless invited out for a specific purpose, you must suffer a curfew that debars you the hours of darkness.’

  The speaker was Capitaine de Vaisseau, le Baron d’Imbert, a long serving and aristocratic officer of the French Navy, an English speaker who exuded both a charm and a courtesy that his British counterpart had thought gone from this country following on from the Revolution. Of medium height with a face marked by smallpox, he was not handsome, but wearing his wig, his braided uniform and his manners he was like a creature from another age. Indeed Ralph Barclay had been amazed to find such people still serving, but it seemed that Toulon, so far from Paris, had yet to be cleansed of royalist officers. The commanding admiral was le Comte de Trogoff de Keressy, and on first meeting him and his officers, all displaying the same qualities as d’Imbert, it had seemed as if the upheavals of 1789 had never happened. While it was a good thing on the whole, it had one downside; a fleet of ships commanded by men of experience, instead of those politically elevated, would be a harder opponent to face.

  ‘You are most kind Captain d’Imbert. I will, of course, need to see to the care of my men.’

  ‘Naturally, monsieur. As is the practice your sailors will be put to some form of labour, and thus justify their being fed. With the wounded, there is a boat available to take you across to the infirmary at any time of your choosing. I am also commanded to ask if you and your wife will consent to join Admiral le Comte de Trogoff for dinner today?’

  ‘Delighted, sir,’ replied Ralph Barclay, with an enthusiasm that was mirrored by a look of doubt on his wife’s face.

  ‘Then I will take my leave,’ said the Baron. ‘A carriage will be sent for you at six this evening. Should you wish for anything, please do not hesitate to ask one of the servants.’

  As d’Imbert exited, Ralph Barclay spoke in a rather sly fashion. ‘And to think, my dear, I was worried we might get our throats cut.’

  Emily’s reply was quite terse. ‘It seems we will be filling our bellies instead, husband.’

  ‘You object?’

  ‘I wonder at the propriety. To break bread with those you have so recently been trying to kill?’

  ‘Let us call it chivalrous, the notion, which I wonder survives, that once a battle is over, we revert from the barbaric to the civilised. Were the positions reversed, I would entertain the French officers, and I suspect, you would be happy to do so as well.’

  ‘Forgive me, husband, I did not understand.’

  ‘No forgiveness is required.’

  ‘We will be visiting the infirmary?’ asked Emily.

  ‘The crew’s quarters first, then the wounded.’

  As Emily went to change into something more fitting, Ralph Barclay went out onto the ramparts, and stood as if he was examining the fleet before him. Really he was ruminating again on his own recent actions, most tellingly that despatch laying on the table and how it would be perceived by higher authority, his mind swaying from a positive outcome to disgrace and back again. Walking to another part he could see HMS Brilliant just inside the Vieux Darse, tied up to a quay by the long buildings that housed the fleet workshops. Already there were shipwrights aboard, working to repair the damage, with a heavily craned flatboat alongside taking out the damaged topmast, prior to seating home a replacement. He knew that very little harm had been done below the waterline, so it would not take these workers long to get her ready for sea. She would be renamed, of course, and he felt his heart miss a beat as he contemplated that; it was not a feeling for the ship, but for himself, for no fellow officer of his could ever see her without recognition, also remembering at the same time the name of the captain who had lost her.

  They called on the officers first; Glaister with his broken arm in a sling, Lieutenant Bourne, the second, who had a bandaged head where a splinter had narrowly missed giving him a mortal wound, the youngsters quiet, having lost any temptation to lark about as they contemplated the fate of being captured seamen of low standing. Compared to the Barclay’s accommodation the guardroom was a dark, cool affair, for being so low there were only barred, narrow embrasures to let in air and light. Likewise, the furnishing was plain, unlike that on the floor he had; a pine table and chairs, with straw-filled mattresses on cots ranged around the walls.

  ‘We are all anxious to know what will become of us, sir?’ asked Glaister.

  ‘I will try to find out tonight, Mr Glaister. My wife and I are to dine with Admiral de Trogoff.’

  It was a tactless thing to say, evident on the faces of those imprisoned in the room, but Ralph Barclay did not observe it.

  ‘It is an invitation we cannot refuse, Mr Glaister,’ said Emily, who did.

  ‘I have no idea,’ Barclay continued, vaguely aware of a chill in the atmosphere, ‘what the arrangements are for naval prisoners, or should I say officers. Are they the same as in King Louis’ time? Let us hope they are gentlemen, and that some action had occurred in which Britannia has been triumphant, for then we will soon be exchanged.’

  It was nonsense and all present, except the youngsters, should know it. Many a captured officer in previous wars had spent years incarcerated in a dingy fortress far from any coast, forced to eke out an existence without funds, unless someone from home had enough to send them money to buy from their gaolers. Escape was near impossible; how could any prisoner cross a country like France, even when it was a monarchy, with its numerous customs posts, active Gendarmerie and a need for fluent French. Given the nature of the Revolution, and the suspicion it clearly generated, that must now be even more difficult.

  ‘I must go see to the crew,’ he said to his juniors. ‘Believe me, you are better off than they.’

  ‘I have set some of the men to catching the rats that are already in these chambers, and others to block off the points of entry.’ Sykes was walking the Barclays around the basement, triangular storerooms that had once housed powder, grain and water enough to withstand a siege, with the captain and his wife exchanging encouraging words with a crew that sat listlessly round the walls. ‘What we cannot do, Captain, is stop the scorpions, which are bad, seeing as we are sleeping on the ground.’

  The thought of that, of a crawling creature which could invade at night and go where it pleased, even across the face of a sleeping individual, made Emily shudder. She would have had an even more telling reaction if Sykes had gone on to tell of the other vermin they faced; beetles, cockroaches, centipedes and the odd snake.

  ‘Has anyone been stung?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘I will speak to the surgeon about it and our captors. Any man suffering from a sting should be sent to the infirmary righ
t away. I will see if I can get you some timber to knock up cots, and tubs for water to put the legs in. Nothing discourages vermin like water. At least you will be out of here during daylight hours.’

  ‘We are to be put to labour?’

  ‘The French will not feed you otherwise.’

  There were enquiries about the food they had been given till now, which Sykes stated was adequate without being what the men were accustomed to; general health with an admonition to take advantage of the ample anti-scorbutics that were available in this warm climate to ward off any hint of scurvy. Sykes was given some funds, with strict instructions to use them sparingly, money with which to bribe the guards to provide additions to the rations they were receiving, most particularly tobacco which was disappearing at a prodigious rate.

  ‘And set the men to work making traps that can be left to do their work when you are not present.’

  ‘None of the men asked about their future, husband,’ said Emily, when they were in the boat being rowed across the Grand Rade. ‘Is that not odd?’

  ‘You will find, among the common seamen, that they accept their fate, my dear. After all, what have they got ashore that is so much better. Besides, they too have the prospect of an exchange. If Hotham can take a French ship, he will send in a cartel to arrange it, their sailors and officers for ours.’

  ‘And us?’

  ‘It will need an officer of equal or superior rank.’ Ralph Barclay patted his wife’s hand then. ‘But fear not, while we are in their care we will be treated with all courtesy, I am sure.’

  ‘Marseilles has risen, and I am told the sentiments in the town are much the same. If there are radicals here they are not of the Jacobin faction which has taken power in Paris. There are meetings going on nightly, with most of the wealthier citizens of Toulon, and certainly the delegates to the local assembly, insisting that they should join with Marseilles and declare the whole of Provence free.’