An Awkward Commission

by David Donachie

  ‘Who told you this, Mr Lutyens?’

  They were walking through the naval hospital, past open windows which let in much air and sunlight, something Brilliant’s surgeon had insisted upon for his own patients, much to the bemusement of his French counterparts, who agreed, only on condition that they were closed before dusk to keep out insects who would be attracted by the lanterns. Lutyens, who had first examined and pronounced himself satisfied with the state of Barclay’s wound, had waited until Emily stopped to speak to the young topman, Martin Dent, before quietly imparting this information to her husband, out of her earshot.

  ‘The men who run this infirmary, Captain Barclay, two naval surgeons of long standing, and gentlemen with strong opinions.’

  ‘And you believe them?’

  The surprise was every evident on Lutyens’ face, one that appeared fish-like when his eyes were wide and his sharp nose raised in enquiry. ‘Why should I not?’

  ‘I fear exaggeration, sir. If this sentiment to free themselves from the Parisian yoke is so strong, why have they not acted?’

  Lutyens waved his hand though an open window at the crowded anchorage. ‘I think the presence of several thousand sailors might have some bearing on the subject, though I am told that even there opinion is divided.’

  ‘It only has merit if such a thing is prevalent amongst the officers, Mr Lutyens. Even in a revolutionary navy, officers command the ships.’

  ‘If, as you say, sir, you are dining with Admiral de Trogoff tonight, it might be an avenue of conversation worth pursuing. I, am sure like you, have no notion to remain a prisoner of the French, which we would not be if Toulon declares its detachment.’

  That made Ralph Barclay stop in his tracks, for he had not followed through to the natural conclusion of what Lutyens had been saying. If the locals did cast off the revolutionary shackles, they would cease to be the enemy. They might give him back his ship, repaired, and what remained of his crew, a prospect so enticing he could hardly bring himself to believe it possible, or speak of it. An immediate problem presented itself; recalling the preening fellow who had come aboard Brilliant he had the sure knowledge that Admiral de Trogoff did not speak a word of English, and a conversation about what was being mooted was hardly one he could have through a third party. But Emily would be with him; would she agree to be his interrogator? The trouble was that his wife had a very proper notion of what constituted good manners, something of which she had reminded him of on more than one previous occasion. This might well fall outside that.

  ‘I think, perhaps Mr Lutyens, it might be worthwhile if you put the same proposition to my wife, who after all speaks the language, while I continue my tour.’

  ‘I hardly feel it is my place…’

  Barclay interrupted him. ‘Mr Lutyens, I doubt you have any more desire to remain in captivity than I? All I am asking you to do is touch on a subject that would be a delicate one for me to advance.’

  Barclay strode off to the next cot, while Lutyens moved back to where Emily was still talking with Dent, who had said something to make her laugh, which was engaging. For a moment he held back, watching her standing in a shaft of strong light, head slightly back, the bonnet she had put on to avoid the sun tilted back to reveal a happy face, and it occurred to him that he had rarely seen her so amused in the months they had been at sea, just as it pleased him to see it now. She really was a charming creature, so charming that in another place and in other circumstances... That was a train of thought better left.

  ‘I see Martin had been jesting with you, Mrs Barclay.’

  ‘He has indeed, Mr Lutyens, for he has been telling me how he intends to escape disguised as a girl, and the image of that tickles me somewhat.’

  ‘He can try when he mends, I doubt a lass with her arm in a sling, and a spotty face, would pass muster.’

  ‘Muster, Mr Lutyens,’ crowed Martin with a wide grin. ‘Is you getting all nautical on us?’

  ‘Over-exposure, disrespectful pup, to the likes of you. Now, if I may borrow Mrs Barclay, I have something to ask her.’

  ‘Thank you for visitin’ Mam. It’s kindly.’

  ‘I shall visit again Martin, and we can discuss dresses and the art of applying powder and rouge.’

  ‘Might we walk in the gardens for a moment, Mrs Barclay?’

  ‘The rest of your patients...?’

  ‘Will wait a few moments, I’m sure.’

  There was a bench made of logs on a sort of terrace, under a large elm tree, where recovering invalids could take the air, and it was a curious Emily Barclay who allowed herself to be directed to it and invited to sit. The heat of the sun would have been oppressive anywhere else, but there was a gentle breeze coming in off the azure Mediterranean that made the situation pleasant, which Lutyens alluded to. Seated himself, and having made that observation, he seemed content to gaze out to sea, staying silent.

  ‘Do you regret taking this commission, Mr Lutyens?’ Emily asked, removing her bonnet.

  ‘A strange question, is it not?’

  ‘Hardly, sir. Are we not captives of out nation’s enemies?’

  Lutyens smiled. ‘I had no notion of being a prisoner, Mrs Barclay.’

  ‘I think we knew each other well enough now to be on Christian name terms.’ A furrow on that beautiful brow followed, as she added a telling point. ‘At least when my husband is not present. He is, as you know, a man who holds to certain standards.’

  ‘I am honoured that you think so Emily. I think you know my given name is Heinrich.’

  ‘Just as I know that your father is the Pastor of the Lutheran Church in London, a place of worship frequented by the Royal Family.’

  ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘Lisbon was a place of much gossip, Heinrich.’

  ‘His church is hardly frequented by royals,’ Lutyens replied, with a defensive air. ‘The Queen attends occasionally, the King rarely, and their children only when commanded to do so.’

  ‘You have no idea how your presence aboard has excited speculation since your parentage became known.’ He had a very good idea, but declined to say so. ‘That someone so well-connected should serve at sea at all, never mind in such a lowly vessel as a frigate. I was wondering, now that we are where we are, with no ship, you might tell me why?’

  Lutyens had no intention of telling her, even if she was the one person aboard he would have opened up to, if that was part of his purpose. But what he was about he was determined to keep to himself. He had deliberately sought out a ship like HMS Brilliant for its size, as being a location where the crew was of a number that he could get to know and examine, not their physical beings but the nature of their minds and the processes of their thoughts, something that would have been impossible on a fully manned ship-of-the-line. He still had his notebooks and the journal into which he had transcribed his conclusions, and how could he tell her or anyone that being taken by the French, being able to observe the effects of captivity, added more meat to his aim, to write a treatise on the life and minds of sailors, both officers and men: how they put up with a life commonly known to be harsh; what made them so eager to fight; did their nature differ at sea and on land.

  The frigate had turned out to be even more than he had hoped, with pressed men aboard who had insisted they were taken up illegally, volunteers who cared little for which ship they served on and others, the late Hale and the still alive Devenow, for instance, who seemed strangely attached to Ralph Barclay, strange because he was not to the surgeon’s mind a man who inspired affection. Emily Barclay had been an added bonus, as he watched a meek and uncertain young girl, well bred with a natural kindness, find her feet in a relationship with a man twice her age in a milieu so different from that to which she was accustomed. And that had made doubly interesting observation of that singular creature, a naval captain, who had the power of life and death over his crew. Close observation had shown him currents of thought and action that began to make sense of that strange breed, the men of t
he sea, which he would write up as a paper, one he knew, presented in the right quarters, would elevate him above the status of mere surgeon.

  ‘Is it not common, Emily, for men to crave adventure?’

  ‘Would it offend you if I said that I do not see you in that light?’

  ‘I would say, my dear lady, that you would struggle to offend me, and since I have patients to see to, and your husband to satisfy as to their care, I must ask you the question that is the reason I brought you out here to this charming prospect.’

  His explanation was simple and honest, which had Emily furrowing her brow again. ‘I cannot see that I would have the right to withhold consent, Heinrich, for would I not be acting on behalf of every man who served under my husband, as well as he?’

  ‘You would, of course, for if what is being talked about comes to pass they could all be free.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  HMS Leander had joined the fleet by the time Midshipman Farmiloe came aboard the flagship, his news occasioning an immediate conference of the senior officers, both Spanish and British, with the youngster, invited to stay for questioning, surprised at the sheer quantity of admirals. Hood’s first captain, in essence the executive officer of the fleet, was Rear Admiral Sir Hyde Parker. Vice Admiral Hotham had in the same capacity another Rear Admiral of the Blue Squadron called Cosby, with the actual Rear Admiral of the Fleet, Samuel Cranston Goodall, accommodating on his ship Rear Admiral Gell, and that was without the Spaniards who, in terms of flag officers, out-numbered their allies two to one. To Farmiloe’s unformed mind, as he listened to the introductions, it all seemed a tad unwieldy. There was a civilian taking notes, but it was a telling indication of where he stood in the hierarchy that the actual captain of HMS Victory was not invited to attend; his job was to sail the ship.

  ‘So gentlemen, according to Captain Gould’s despatch our enemy has immediately available to him some seventeen ships- of-the-line, with some thirteen in various states of refitting or repair.’ Samuel Hood waited until that was translated for his Spanish counterparts, his heavy eyebrows lowered over a nose that dominated his ruddy, cratered complexion. ‘Thus it seems obvious that delay is not in our interest. The French fleet will only grow stronger. My view is that we should let them sail in order that we take on and destroy them.’

  Admiral Hotham spoke then, toying with an apple in his hand. ‘I do not think we should be precipitate. It would not do to charge on with such flimsy evidence.’

  Hood’s eyebrows closed even more, and a crooked finger summoned Farmiloe forward. ‘You made several casts across the bay, boy, is that correct, and reported accurately to Captain Gould, so this list of ships is comprehensive.’

  Farmiloe replied more like a croaking frog than a human being, so nervous was he, with Hood admonishing him to, ‘Take your time, young feller.’ He acknowledged what he and Glaister had done, sailing close in a fishing boat which had seemed risky at the time, but now, related to these elevated personages, seemed tame. He added the names of ships they had been able to make out, but faltered when asked by the Spanish translator how they looked.

  It was Hyde Parker, a substantial, rosy-cheeked man who looked very comfortable in his slightly corpulent state, who clarified matters. ‘I think our friend is asking if they looked capable of giving battle.’

  ‘That I could not give you an opinion on that, sir. I lack the experience.’

  ‘Properly said, lad,’ Hood interjected, his look aimed at his second-in-command. ‘Properly said. We would not want anyone giving views which were based on faulty assumptions.’

  A little blood suffused Hotham’s cheeks, and he put the apple to his mouth to cover for what had clearly been a rebuke, but he declined to take a bite, putting it, untouched, back on the table. As he did so another civilian entered, a black-coated fellow with hands deeply stained with ink. He went to Hood and spoke quietly, words that Hood repeated to the room.

  ‘We have just had a signal from one of our frigates, to say that a Poleacre is approaching under full sail from the north. The message is unclear, but it seems to be flying a flag of truce.’ That set off a buzz of conversation in two languages, with Farmiloe wondering, and fearing, that it might mean peace. If it did there was little future for him in the Navy; advancement only came with war. ‘I suggest gentlemen, that we go on deck and see what we can make of this fellow.’

  One by one they trooped out, taking their hats from one of Hood’s servants, until the admiral’s day cabin was empty, except for Midshipman Farmiloe, agog, as he had been on entering, at the space a flag officer was allowed on a ship, even one the size of Victory. A day cabin, a dining room, sleeping quarters, his own privy, it was luxury indeed to a boy accustomed to crowded mids’ quarters. Slowly he approached and ran his fingers over the highly polished oak of the round, paper-strewn table. Then he moved to stand behind the point from which Hood had presided over the meeting. There was devilment in his next act, to sit in the C-in-C’s chair, and to see that within arm’s reach, Hotham’s apple was still on the table. Like most midshipmen, always hungry, the temptation was too much and he grabbed it, taking a bite out that filled his mouth with fruit and had juice running down his chin.

  He then felt a shock go through his body when the voice said. ‘If’n I were one of them there admirals, you would be on your way to the masthead by now.’ Jumping up, Hood’s chair went over, as Farmiloe exchanged looks with a check-shirted servant of an uncertain age, who was at least grinning. ‘Best get on deck lad, though I’d get shot of that there apple before Hotspur Hotham sees you. He is partial to his grub, that one, more partial than he is to activity. Mind it will do more good in your gut than his.’

  Farmiloe was out of the cabin in a flash, slipping past the marine sentries. He stopped on the companionway to finish the apple, stuffing the core in his pocket. Then he went on deck, to see a raft of admirals, the captain and at least four lieutenants all looking north through extended telescopes.

  ‘Captain Knight,’ said Hood. ‘Ask your lookout to identify that flag at the masthead, would you.’

  The captain of HMS Victory did not shout himself. The order was quietly passed to a lieutenant, and it was he who called aloft. The reply that came back set off another buzz of dual-tongued speculation.

  ‘Looks like a fleur-de-lys, your honour, the old standard of the Marine Royale.’

  Which it proved to be when it came close enough to be seen from the deck, a blue flag dotted with the French royal device in gold, very obvious against the dark red sails of the Poleacre.

  Hood spoke again. ‘Captain Knight, a gun if you please, just in case he has not made out my flag.’

  That flew at the foremast, the pennant of a Vice Admiral of the Red Squadron. The gun had an effect, the French ship altering course slightly to close the flagship, and now, on the after deck, they could see several civilians in tightly buttoned coats, with scarves tied round their heads to keep on their hats.

  ‘Marines and your premier at the entry port, Captain Knight, please.’ Then he laughed, which was a deep rumble. ‘To either give these people a salute or shoot them.’

  Hood led the way back down to his cabin on the maindeck, with one young and nervous midshipman, who followed because he had no idea if they were finished with him, wondering if a certain admiral would miss his apple and demand to know where it had gone. Suddenly that core in his pocket felt visible, and Farmiloe cursed himself for not getting rid of it while he had the chance.

  ‘Marseilles is entirely in our hands, messieurs. The Jacobins have been sent packing, their infernal guillotine has been broken up, and those who support the madness in Paris have left the city on their coat tails.’

  ‘And the reaction, Monsieur Rebequi?’ asked Hood.

  The Frenchman, who claimed to be a deputy to the National Assembly in the Girondist interest, spoke with enthusiastic certainty, his face showing the excitement he obviously felt, this while those who had accompanied him, and spoke no English, look
ed on anxiously – for he had not translated his words for their benefit – and shifted uncomfortably under the keen gaze of this clutch of Spanish and British officers. He had managed to tell the assembly that he personally was uncomfortable under a Bourbon flag – he was a Republican through and through – without in any way saying if he had voted for the death of King Louis.

  ‘So far, Admiral, none, and I do not anticipate that there will be any. The forces the Jacobins can put against us are in disarray, an ill-disciplined rabble. More important, we have had representatives come from Toulon to say that the sentiment there is of the same nature as in Marseilles, though action is harder for there are elements of the fleet who are against revolt. Lyon is in open revolt and the right-minded are stirring in Nimes and Montauban.’

  ‘And what, monsieur, would you have us do?’

  ‘Land men and materiel, Admiral, and take possession of what is the major city in Provence, and is too a substantial port. We have gathered an army of ten thousand men, with the aim of marching to the aid of the Lyonnais, and we will grow stronger on the way. Stiffened with what you could provide…’

  ‘There is nothing between you and them?’ asked Hotham, as Rebequi left the rest of his sentence up in the air.

  ‘A rabble, unfit for combat.’

  ‘I do not have what you seek, monsieur.’ Farmiloe, standing well back against a bulkhead, saw the speaker’s face fall, and that was replicated in the worried looks of his companions, who read his reaction. Rebequi had about him the air of an orator, with drama in his voice and gestures, so it was easy to see the change from enthusiasm to doubt, as Hood continued. ‘I have, at best, if I strip every ship in my fleet, some fifteen hundred marines, and I assume Admiral Langara to have something of the same number.’

  A look at the Spanish translator brought forth a nod. ‘Three thousand men are not enough to hold a city like Marseilles, regardless of how much your enemies are in disorder, and I cannot march them away from their ships and into open country. It is too dangerous.’