Burns got himself behind the mainmast double-quick, so that when John Pearce looked up all he saw was the flash of a disappearing blue coat and white ducks. Given permission to walk the forecastle, he made his way along the gangway that ran alongside the Spar Deck, to where he could contemplate in peace what had happened in the admiral’s cabin, not least the suspicion that despite the plain fact that he had established the illegality of Barclay’s actions, and the men he wanted released were part of the fleet, Hood had seemed disinclined to do anything about it. Above his head, Toby Burns slipped back to the front of the mainmast, well hidden by the thick oak, desperately trying to think what to do.
It was not just his status as a hero that was at risk; the way he had left Pearce and his friends had been seen by them as a stroke of downright duplicity, even if he was obeying his captain’s precise orders at the time. Pearce had made it plain that he would exact revenge for that, and in the imagination of Toby Burns that took many forms, none of them pleasant. Suddenly that sun was not so warm and the boy shivered with fear. Seeing where his nemesis had gone, he made his way back to the deck by the shrouds, to use a backstay might attract attention, his mind concentrating on where he could hide. HMS Victory was a large and crowded vessel, yet he knew, long before he got back to it, that the safest place for him was in that part of the ship he liked least, the midshipmen’s berth.
‘Farmiloe!’ he whispered urgently, for they were not alone. ‘You’ll never guess who I have just seen.’
The other mid, stripped to the waist, did not look up as he ham-fistedly tried to repair a hole in the near-threadbare shirt he had exchanged prior to the admiral’s dinner. ‘Pearce.’
‘The very fellow. What the devil is he doing aboard?’
‘More to the point, what is he doing outranking us, Burns?’
The other midshipman, having pricked a finger for the third time, threw the shirt to one side and finally looked into the anxious face of Burns, wondering if any more spots had erupted since he had last seen him a couple of hours before. They had never really got on, although the acquaintance had not been of a long duration, weeks rather than months, for Burns had seemed a bit of a milksop aboard Brilliant, always moaning, dodging his duties and rather unfitted for a life at sea, slow to learn anything and even slower to apply what he had garnered. There was a certain amount of envy too; the fact that Captain Barclay, whose wife was the milksop’s aunt, had sent him away with a prize and a positive despatch that would do his future career no harm. This had not endeared Burns to any of the other mids or master’s mates aboard the frigate, in what was seen as a clear case of nepotism.
‘I fear he has come to see your uncle put in irons,’ Farmiloe added.
‘My uncle?’
‘Captain Barclay.’
Toby Burns was well aware of how his departure had been seen by his contemporaries, for he had been the youngest mid aboard; they had seen as corrupt what he had reckoned to be a reward for nearly losing his life, and if not that, at least a release from the misery of service. Going back to serve on HMS Brilliant was not something to which he was looking forward – service life was not as he had imagined it to be before enlisting – and he had tried to wriggle out of doing so with various claims of illness while at home. But the reasons that had seen him leaving home the first time, when he still harboured romantic notions of a naval career, still applied. His parents, having seen to his elder brothers, did not have the means to underwrite a career that went with their station in life. The Navy took aboard and educated its future officers for free, therefore Toby, the youngest in the family, must make his way in that profession.
‘He is not really a proper uncle, Farmiloe, I have told you that a dozen times.’
‘I fail to see how he is not, when he is wedded to your Aunt Emily, who is cousin to your father, though only the Good Lord knows how such a match came about.’
Toby Burns knew why; his grandparent’s substantial house was entailed to the distant Barclay relatives through a previous connection. Emily marrying the captain had secured tenure for the whole family, not least his own mother and father, who, by living with those relatives, could keep up the appearance of some social standing with little or no income.
‘What do you mean, putting Captain Barclay in irons?’
Farmiloe told him what had happened in Hood’s cabin, but he did not open up, did not trust Burns enough to say that he had known very well that what they were about was illegal, and that had nothing to do with things called Liberties. The laws on impressment were strict, only men bred to the sea were to be taken up. It made no odds that the law was observed more in the breech, breaking it and being had up was serious, and he feared that he might be caught in the backwash of Barclay’s actions.
‘Anyway, Burns, you were with him when you went ashore, so you must have a better idea than I of how he got his rank.’
‘I didn’t go ashore with him or the others. They were pressed in soundings.’ Farmiloe looked at him then with marked curiosity, as Burns went a deep red, which made the numerous spots on his face flare. ‘I had orders from Captain Barclay that if such a thing were to occur, I was not to interfere.’
‘Pearce was pressed again?’
‘Have I not just said so?’
‘Then his being a lieutenant is doubly mysterious.’
‘I must stay out of his way, Farmiloe. I fear he will not remember me kindly.’
There was a terrible temptation for Farmiloe to say something like, ‘no one ever will, mate,’ but he bit his tongue. ‘Don’t look to me for aid, Burns. I don’t think he has any regard for me either. You seem to forget I was there the first time he was pressed.’
Sick of traversing the forecastle, tired of gnawing at his problems, he made his way down to the wardroom, entering a place so capacious it made the accommodation of a frigate look like a hutch. With eight lieutenants, the usual number of warrants and three marine officers it needed to be substantial, though it was clearly not roomy enough. The table set across the stern windows was near full, and as he entered, heads turned, and all eyes were upon him in examination, that was until one officer spoke to an open door at the very stern, which brought forth another.
‘Mr Pearce, is it not?’ The nod got the introduction. ‘Ingolby, first of Victory. Allow me to welcome you to our quarters.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You will, of course, realise that we are cramped, so I have had your dunnage sent down to the orlop deck, where there is room in the sick-bay to accommodate you. That is for sleeping only, of course, you are at liberty to use this place as you wish.’
‘That is very kind of you.’
‘Can I offer you some refreshment?’
‘I think Lord Hood has seen to that, Mr Ingolby.’
‘Quite.’ Ingolby paused, looking not embarrassed exactly, but uncomfortable. ‘I fear, sir, that you will be inundated with questions regarding the Valmy, since your reputation precedes you.’
About to ask how, Pearce stopped; even he knew that on a ship it was near-impossible to keep anything secret. He had had the same problem aboard Tartar, the need to recount every detail of the action to satisfy the insatiable curiosity of naval officers who dreamed themselves of such an exploit.
‘I have impressed upon the wardroom not to hound you, for having received a Gazette with the mails, every one is agog for a first-hand view, though it does not exactly chime with what we have heard about you.’
‘Much praise, I suspect, of Captain Marchand?’
‘Why yes.’ Ingolby replied, before smiling, as though he guessed what Pearce was driving at; that the Gazette would have been taken from Marchand’s despatch and he was not a man to be modest or even truthful. ‘I have suggested perhaps that we wait until supper, where I hope you will join us for cheese on toasted biscuit and some wine. Perhaps, until then, a tour of the ship?’
‘Thank you.’
The master allocated him one of his mates, he, in turn, seeking out
the warranted officers, all men of some age and experience, who were only too happy to tell all. Pearce treated them with respect, for to have their posts on this vessel made them very senior people indeed. These were men who had spent a lifetime in the Navy, had worked their way up from one ship to the next, the number of guns rising with each move, their appointments made by the Navy Board, a body with whom they would readily communicate if they felt their pride or their professionalism to be in any way questioned or traduced.
In an hour of walking he learnt that HMS Victory was two hundred and twenty-six feet plus a bit long, figurehead to taffrail, just under fifty-two feet in beam at the widest point, carrying a total of 104 cannon, 44 twelve pounders, 28 twenty-four pounders, and on the lower gun deck 30 massive thirty-two pounders, plus a pair of sixty-eight pounder carronades, know as ‘smashers’ on the forecastle, the whole displacing three thousand five hundred tons and carrying a total complement of 850 souls. Veteran of a couple of battles and the relief of Gibraltar in 1782, she had served as a flagship to several admirals and was held to be one of the finest ships afloat in King George’s Navy. The last Pearce took with a pinch of salt; it was known, even he knew, that a ship’s standing officers never, ever, uttered anything but praise for the vessel on which they served.
He was back on the main deck, having been in the bowels of the ship amongst futtocks and hanging knees, when the party from Marseilles, having concluded their discussions with the admirals, were shown to the entry port, and he was able to bid farewell to men who seemed happier than when they had last talked, buoyed by promises that Pearce suspected were more hopes than realities; that once the French fleet was either taken, destroyed or rendered ineffective, Hood would return to help them fight off the armies of the Jacobins.
While talking, he was being subjected to deep scrutiny by a pair of midshipmen crouched on the steps of a companionway, having raised their heads just enough to see him. But they had to move, as the bosun’s whistle sounded to call all hands on deck. Above their heads the signal was being raised on the mizzen mast, flags that told all ships to wear in succession, that order taking effect with a discharge from the signal gun, their destination Toulon.
‘Lieutenant Pearce,’ said a secretary, ‘Lord Hood has requested that you attend upon him.’
‘Sit down, Lieutenant Pearce.’ As he complied, Pearce was aware that Hood was using his rank, something he had studiously avoided in their earlier interview, and the realisation made him suspicious. ‘As you will observe, my secretary is staying with us to take notes on our conversation and I have asked the Captain of the Fleet, Rear Admiral Parker, to join us. I take it you have no objection?’
‘That would depend, sir, on the nature of our conversation.’
‘I can assure you it is in the nature of being official, Lieutenant.’ Pearce just nodded, besides, there was no alternative. ‘You sat with our recently departed French guests at dinner?’
Parker, sleek and well-fed, entered the cabin, and at a nod from Lord Hood sat at the table, as Pearce answered. ‘Have we not covered that fact, already?’
‘We have, and I daresay over the food and wine they told you as much as they told me in conference.’
‘That,’ Pearce insisted, ‘I would not know, since I was not present at your final conference.’
Glancing in his direction, he saw the look of surprise on Parker’s face – mere lieutenants did not talk back to flag officers in such a way – before Hood addressed his Fleet Captain, though he was still looking at Pearce. ‘You will find, Sir Hyde, that this young man has a unique way of responding to authority. It might be of benefit to us both if I point out to him that he will have no way of persuading me to grant him any favours if he continues in that vein.’
‘I would point out to you, Lord Hood, that all I seek from you is a just resolution to a clear case of law-breaking.’
‘And I would respond by saying that you are not the judge of what, and what is not, illegal.’
The threat, delivered without the admiral raising his voice, was potent nevertheless. Show more respect or you can whistle for any action in the matter of your impressment. The obvious thing to do was to knuckle under, to behave as any officer of his lowly rank would, and practically grovel to even be allowed into the great man’s presence. Was it his bloodline, his Celtic blood or his own contrary nature that meant he could not do it? Yet he knew he had to somehow soften the atmosphere, and the only thing he could think of was a touch of flattery.
‘Lord Hood, I am of the mind that your sense of justice will outweigh whatever you see as impertinence. And I would add that I do not mean to be that, merely to state the obvious. If you wish me to tell you in detail what was discussed I am happy to pass it on.’
‘I doubt there would be much in the way of difference, though I would like to know what they told you about Toulon?’
‘Only that they had received representatives from there, who were keen that the whole of Provence should declare against the Jacobins. They asked for help, but they were told that none could be spared. It was more important to march on Lyon.’
‘Meaning?’
It was not really a question. ‘That they would have to act on their own.’
Hood nodded. ‘Did it not strike you that their information on Toulon was limited?’
‘I was given to understand that they were not entirely convinced by the confidence of the Toulon representatives. Marseilles being a commercial port has no organised body of sailors to question the actions of the town’s leading citizens. Apparently, and as luck would have it, Marseilles got rid of its zealots a year ago when the government cried danger. Five hundred of the more radical citizens went to fight on the Rhine and have not returned, so the internal threat is diminished. They are not sure that was the case in Toulon.’
‘Which leads us to what conclusion?’ asked Parker.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t follow you.’
‘Is it not obvious, Lieutenant Pearce,’ Parker insisted, ‘that we need more information.’
John Pearce was suddenly ahead of them; the allusion to his speaking French as well as he did, even perhaps his reputation, and that was without the fact that given his situation he was an officer they could part with, without loss to the fleet. Parker opened his mouth to speak again, only to be stopped by Hood’s hand.
‘I think, judging by your expression, Lieutenant, that you have a fair notion of what is coming next.’
‘You want someone to go ashore and find out the true state of affairs?’
‘Correct in nearly every respect except one, Lieutenant Pearce. We want you to go ashore and find out if Toulon is as ready to declare against Paris as Marseilles.’
Had Hood deliberately drawn him into impertinence, just so he could openly state that there was a quid pro quo for any action on Michael, Charlie and Rufus, never mind Barclay.
‘Is that going to be an order?’
‘That shows the degree of your ignorance, sir,’ said Parker
‘In what way?’
‘Lord Hood cannot order you to undertake such a duty, any more than I could myself. He may request that you undertake it, but you, as an officer, have the right to decline this commission.’
Pearce smiled, but it was a grim affair. ‘Without a stain on my character?’
‘I would not go that far, Pearce,’ Lord Hood, added. ‘But I could ask any lieutenant on the ship to volunteer for the duty, and they would jump at it, even if their knowledge of French was limited.’
‘They seek to impress you, Lord Hood, I don’t.’
Even as he said it, Pearce knew he was bound to accede. Not to do so would nullify his sole reason for being in the Mediterranean. Refuse and he would likely find himself on a ship bound for home, for Hood would have despatches going back to England, and to refuse was not, either, an option. He would be put aboard whether he liked it or not.
Hood slid a piece of paper across the table. ‘You would have to go in to Toulon by boat,
and take a chance on not being intercepted. Then it would be necessary to find one of these men, at one of these addresses, which you must memorise before you leave.’
‘The men who went to seek help from Marseilles?’
‘Correct. They are delegates to the local assembly. It is to be hoped that they could then put you in touch with a sympathetic naval officer, who would be able to say what is the sentiment of the fleet, its commander, officers and sailors.’
‘When do you expect to raise Toulon?’
Accepting that as tantamount to agreement, Hood replied. ‘At first light we should have made contact with the vessels sent ahead. I would say, if the conditions were right, no moon to speak of and some cloud cover, we could put you ashore tomorrow night.’
‘A pity.’
‘Why?’ demanded Parker.
Pearce just shrugged. It seemed to be tactless to say he was hoping to avoid supper in the wardroom.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The naval uniform had to be discarded and even on a ship with a complement of 850 souls, finding anything approaching a civilian garment that both fitted and designated him as some kind of gentleman, was no easy matter. Appearance was important – he could hardly claim to be Hood’s representative dressed as a common seaman. In the end he had to settle for a black coat belonging to Hood’s second secretary, the fellow with the ink-stained hands, one that was long enough, but too tight on the chest and under the armpits, and since it looked ridiculous with a sword he exchanged that for a shorter weapon, a midshipman’s dirk. The hat was easier, tricorns being plentiful amongst the warrant officers’ shore-going rig. Funds were provided by Hood’s secretary, a decent purse of golden guineas, which apparently came from the secret fund and required no signature to account for their use.
An Awkward Commission Page 18