‘There you are, St Julien,’ de Trogoff said. ‘All that hot air to no purpose. The question is, what are we to do now, and most importantly what are we to do with you?’
‘I would suggest a secure confinement, sir,’ insisted d’Imbert. ‘We cannot let the mob have their way.’
‘How noble, d’Imbert,’ St Julien sneered. ‘I hope you have enough men to get me to a place of safety.’
It was the captain’s turn to be sharp, and there was no petulance in his reply. ‘I am extending to you, Admiral, a courtesy I doubt you would extend to me, but then I was brought up to believe that no man should be killed for his beliefs.’
‘You should be prepared to die for your honour, and one day you shall, but it will be for your perfidy.’
Pearce finally spoke up. ‘Admiral Hood should be told what is happening.’
That made de Trogoff shift uncomfortably in his chair. ‘Are we absolutely sure what is happening? I am not certain you understand the currents of politics in the part of the world, Lieutenant.’
‘I understand them very well.’ Pearce insisted. ‘They differ little from those of Paris in that he who acts boldly usually carries the day, and there is support for you if you do so. That shouting outside the window is not in my imagination. The town has made its voice and its aspirations known.’
‘There are a dozen different opinions out there.’
‘All anti-Jacobin, Admiral. The only question left is for you to make known where you stand.’
If he had hoped for a response Pearce was disappointed. De Trogoff just sat in his chair, half slumped, clearly overloaded with his responsibilities, while outside and in the harbour thousands of people waited for a decision which only he could make. It was a full minute before he spoke.
‘Five thousand in the Place d’Armes, you say, d’Imbert?’ The nod had the admiral’s chin on his chest. ‘We cannot imprison that number, nor can we have them free to do what they will.’
‘Then, sir,’ d’Imbert replied, ‘we must send them away from here. Get them out of Toulon.’
The response was not a question. ‘Send them away. Yes.’ Then de Trogoff looked up, a gleam in his eye. ‘But will they go?’ No one had the answer, but de Trogoff did. ‘They will go if you, St Julien, will lead them.’
‘Sir,’ d’Imbert protested, only to be silenced by a hand, as de Trogoff addressed his second-in-command.
‘I have no mind to lock up an admiral of the French Navy, it is not fitting, nor am I prepared to hand you over to another authority and risk seeing you strung up like a common criminal.’
‘I suggest it might set a precedent?’
The threat was obvious; hang me and one day the same could happen to you. That the threat struck home was obvious, and Trogoff blanched at the thought of swinging himself. If he had doubted his course of action before, that evaporated, and his manner seemed more positive.
‘Admiral St Julien, if you give me your parole that you will lead these malcontents away from Toulon, and keep them from any wrongdoing on the way, I will accept your word and let you go.’
As if on cue, the noise outside rose, and the threats to hang the Jacobin were the loudest. Even under his darker skin, and for all his bravado, it was clear that the junior admiral was fearful. His eyes were drawn to the window as he spoke. ‘I accept.’
‘You must depart at once and leave your servants behind. I will send them on to you with all your possessions.’ Then de Trogoff, knowing the man’s proclivities well, added, ‘And of course anyone you wish to keep under your protection.’
St Julien grabbed a quill and a piece of paper off the desk and scribbled down a couple of names, which he handed to de Trogoff, who said, ‘I hope, Admiral, that we meet again, in happier times. The rear of these headquarters are guarded by marines, and clear of those clamouring for your head.’
It was obvious that they had not originally been put there for his benefit, so St Julien just snorted, and without another word left the room, leaving the man who had troubled to ensure a route for his own escape, to crow. ‘A neat solution, don’t you think, gentlemen.’
It was d’Imbert who replied. ‘A solution, sir. Only time will attest to how neat it is. Now, when will you go to meet Lord Hood.’
‘I will not meet Lord Hood, d’Imbert.’
‘You must, sir!’
The little rotund admiral was all unction as he replied. ‘There is no must about it, d’Imbert. I am resigning my command as of this moment. I will not have those Jacobin swine in Paris say I am a traitor. Besides it is up to the town delegates to do what is necessary. Let them be sullied by that.’
‘And our ships?
‘If you wish to surrender a fleet of France to an Englishman, then you do it.’
‘You will receive Lord Hood if he comes ashore, will you not?’
‘I have had my servants packing all morning, Captain. If the townspeople invite the English to come ashore and protect them from the forces of the Revolution, I will be in my carriage on my way to Italy. Once there, I will decide if it is wise to carry on to the Rhine, to the encampment of the Comte d’Artois.’
‘And if we succeed in detaching Provence? The loss of Marseilles might not be permanent.’
‘Succeed in detaching France, d’Imbert. Nothing less will do!’
Looking out from his tower, still fuming at his treatment by Pearce, Ralph Barclay, bandage removed to show an ugly scab, was watching things unfold with increasing confusion. He had observed numerous crowds of jeering sailors making their way into the town, to be greeted by gestures from the inhabitants that were far from friendly. If there had been mayhem before, it was clearly getting worse. Was what he and d’Imbert talked about actually coming to pass? He could also see the back of the mob outside de Trogoff headquarters, but he could not make out what it was they were baying for – perhaps the admiral’s head. He knew from his own experience that such gatherings were fickle. No lover of the mob, he was far from convinced that what was afoot boded well, and so he had ordered a boat to take him over to the infirmary, which had the virtue of being further away from whatever trouble was brewing. If things turned out well, such a move would cause no harm; if it was threatening, then, as he explained to his wife, the infirmary, furthest from the centre of things, was the best place to be.
‘Should we not then inform those in the guardroom?’ asked Emily, talking to his back as she donned a cloak to keep off the sea spray.
‘Glaister?’ he asked.
‘Who else?’
‘Will the guards let them come with us, my dear.’ That was when Barclay turned and saw the look on her face, and as quick as a flash, for it was not a pleasant one, he said, ‘They will be obliged to stay, and I have had the thought that so must I. It would never do to desert my officers.’
‘And me?’
‘My dear, it was your safety that first raised my concern, and I have to admit, though you will find this hard to credit, that in thinking of you, I had momentarily forgotten about those in the guardroom, which is something of which I am now ashamed. You must take the boat, alert Mr Lutyens that something is afoot, and tell him to take what precautions he can in case it turns threatening.’
‘I would rather stay with you.’
‘Madame,’ Ralph Barclay said, in a kindly tone. ‘That is an order, and as my wife I expect you to obey it.’ With that he stepped forward and kissed her on the forehead. ‘Now put on your bonnet, and go.’
Back on the rampart, having seen Emily’s boat pull clear, once more watching the mayhem across the Petite Rade, the knock made him stiffen, but the door opened to reveal Glaister and Bourne, looking perplexed.
‘Our guards, sir. They unlocked the door to our room and then left their posts. What should we do?’
Ralph Barclay went out to the gateway, looked along the neck of land that ran towards Toulon, and saw that his crew were no longer working, but sitting idly, with no sign of anyone driving them to do otherwise. That added to
his confusion, but on one thing he was determined. Whatever was taking place, it was no job of his to get involved, and since they were in no danger, it would be best to let them stay where they were, as any movement of such a body of men back to the tower might alert forces with which he would rather not have to deal.
‘We stay put, gentlemen, but you may fetch your fellow prisoners up to these ramparts, so they can at least see what is happening.’
A request to Lord Hood had been drafted, the leaders of the town, like Mancini, ensuring it came from the delegates of the local convention, not the Navy. Pearce went out with them, to stand at the back and watch the formalities take place, a formal request for protection. Then Hood presented his terms; that a British governor would need to take charge of all civil affairs, and that official must have all the powers he would need under martial law, though he would operate through local functionaries in any decrees he implemented. That all French ships in the harbour must immediately strike their flags and be for use by the British Navy as they saw fit, an instruction Pearce was ordered to take back to Captain d’Imbert, now the senior French officer in the port.
This he did, expecting the man to object, but d’Imbert did nothing of the kind. He merely invited Pearce to step outside where he led him to the flagstaff that had served to relay orders to the fleet. There he hauled down the tricolour flag of the Revolution, and fastened on the Fleur de Lys of the royal house of France. As he raised it, a signal gun fired from just along the quay, and on every ship in the harbour the tricolour was struck, and the same flag flew to the masthead.
‘You see, Lieutenant Pearce, we have declared for the King. We are now part of the coalition against the madmen of Paris. Lord Hood must now treat us as allies. Far better that, than surrender.’
‘Well Mr Sykes, I find you at rest, I see.’
Sykes, sitting on a bollard, looked up at Pearce, and examining his face, saw the swellings where St Julien had hit him.
‘You been in the wars?’
Pearce nodded, but made no mention of his arm, which was hurting like the devil.
‘I still don’t know what to call you?’
‘For the moment John Pearce will do.’
‘So what’s happening, John Pearce?’
‘If you would care to come with me, I would like to take you aboard a ship.’
‘Which ship?’ Sykes asked, with the suspicious look of someone being told something too good to be true.
‘Brilliant.’
‘The Frogs have surrendered?’
‘No. It seems they have decided to join us. It’s not the same.’
Looking towards the Tour de Mitre he saw Barclay hurrying towards them, a knot of other men, including two officers, behind him, though he was unaware that it was once more a sight of his coat that had made the man depart his refuge.
‘Brilliant will be ours again, and I would like you aboard before the captain.’
Sykes followed his gaze and shook his head. ‘Sorry, Pearce, but I reckon from now on you don’t have to live with the bastard. We do.’
‘As you wish.’
‘One thing,’ Sykes said, as he stood up. ‘We’ve got a few in the infirmary, which is on the other side of the bay. It would be kind of you to let them know what has happened.’
‘I will do that happily.’
‘You best move, afore you has to carry out what you said, and kill Barclay. Might be a trifle hard, with him surrounded by his officers.’
‘Barclay can wait, Mr Sykes. Not for long, but he can wait.’
CHAPTER TWENTY
‘Hello Martin.’ Young Dent swung round so quickly he was wincing from the pain in his back by the time he faced John Pearce. ‘I am looking for Mr Lutyens, can you tell me where I can find him?’
Martin eased his bandaged shoulder then indicated the open french windows. ‘He’s out on the terrace. But what is you doin’ got up in that garb? Never mind that, what in Christ’s name are you doin’ here?’
The throbbing pain in Pearce’s arm had grown worse, and much as he knew he would have to explain himself, that was more pressing. Half turning he showed the singed hole where St Julien had stabbed him with the nail ‘Later. I need the surgeon to look at my arm.’
Martin grinned and tapped his cheek. ‘You been fightin’?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Don’t know why,’ Martin said, grinning as he tweaked the nose that Pearce had broken. ‘You’se a right bugger for a scrap, I seem to recall.’ Pearce smiled, nodded and went out to the terrace, with Martin shouting after him. ‘I’m happy to see you, matey, never mind how you got here.’
The shout caused the two people sitting on the rough bench to react. Lutyens, who was facing his way, twisted enough to catch sight of him. Emily Barclay, had to spin round completely, which had him removing his hat and bowing in a gesture of habitual politeness. The surgeon looked confused, the same as all the others he had met in Toulon, except on his singular countenance the effect was more marked. Emily Barclay reacted with shock, which was still on her face when he had completed his bow, and she stared at him in silence, her eyes ranging over his face; the even features, the direct, faintly amused and daring look remembered from the first time she had clapped eyes on him, which his bruised swellings did nothing to alter. When he spoke, even his voice was familiar.
‘Mrs Barclay, my compliments. Mr Lutyens, I am happy to see you again.’
She blushed, the reddening of her cheeks adding to her attractiveness. It was the surgeon who spoke, pale blue eyes like saucers, his wispy near-ginger hair lifted by the breeze to stand up from his head. ‘Pearce?’
‘The very same, Mr Lutyens. Like the proverbial bad penny.’
‘Your dress?’
Pearce spoke for Emily Barclay, not Lutyens, his voice pitched just the serious side of absurdity. ‘It is entirely genuine, though there are those who question if it is deserved. A most fortuitous set of circumstances have given me a lieutenant’s rank.’
‘I cannot wait to hear you tell your tale.’
‘That must wait, sir, since I require your services to treat a wound.’
Lutyens was off the bench in a flash, coming between him and Emily Barclay. She stood and said, in a slightly flustered voice, grateful for an excuse to get away. ‘I will leave you to your duties, Mr Lutyens, and visit the wounded.’
Lutyens touched the wound, causing pain, which reminded Pearce that he was a cack-hand individual in that respect. Not incompetent, just disinterested in the discomfort of others.
‘A red-hot nail, jammed in. I fear it went quite deep.’ He spoke again before the surgeon could. ‘Don’t ask how.’
‘Take off your coat and let me see.’
That had to be eased off as the pain was now quite acute, and as Lutyens was unable to get a good look, Pearce’s stock and shirt were also removed. Emily Barclay, passing a window, looked in to see the half naked Pearce just before he sat on the bench, so much more like the seaman he had been than the creature in the blue coat. Her mind was racing with the same questions which had bothered everyone else: what was he doing here, ashore in a French port? But there were more: had it something to do with the turmoil from which her husband had insisted she take shelter? Would Lutyens tell Pearce that she had already visited the wounded on arrival, and thus reveal that her departure had been mooted by a lie and embarrassment? Why should she be embarrassed?
While thinking round these notions, her eye drifted to the blue coat, which Lutyens had thrown across the back of the bench, and a train of thought surfaced that she would have preferred to suppress. Emily Barclay recalled the high dudgeon with which her husband had returned to their apartment that morning, as well as the observation that had sent him out in the first place; the long distance sight of a man in the coat of Royal Navy lieutenant. She could recall quite clearly what he had said on his return; that the wearer had turned out to be an impostor, a blackguard and a traitor he had threatened with chastisement. Lutyens
was tending to a man dressed in the same garment, but one salient fact, nor the conclusions it engendered, could not be contained. John Pearce might be all those things her husband had said, but he was certainly a man that Ralph Barclay knew well. If it was he, then why had her husband not said so?
‘Devenow.’
‘Mam?’
‘The men who rowed me over here, I think they are taking refreshments in the kitchens. Please be so good as to call them for me, I wish to go back.’
‘The only fear of infection,’ said Lutyens, peering into the angry red hole, and the blistering that the nail had caused, ‘comes from a quantity of your linen being carried into the wound. Was your shirt clean?’
‘Fresh this morning.’
Lutyens shouted. ‘Devenow, fetch the spirits of wine and my medicine case.’ Seeing the arched eyebrows on his patient, at the use of the name, Lutyens added, with a slight cackle. ‘The captain insisted I use him as an assistant, some kind of reward for his services in the battle. If they fail to arrive we can assume he has drunk the spirits at least.’
The bottle was fetched, an amazed look was added, then the bully disappeared, as Lutyens rubbed alcohol over the wound. ‘I’m afraid I can do little for you. The hole is neat, and the burning nail has cauterised the flesh on entry. A little extract of lead will help with the bruising, and the blisters I will treat with my German herbal tonic. Do you recall it, that most efficacious brew called Melisengeist? Then we will just have to apply a bandage and check it daily to see if it shows any sign of suppurating.’
‘No amputation?’
Meant as a joke, it fell flat with Lutyens. ‘I have had enough of those to last a lifetime.’ What followed was a garbled account of what had happened to HMS Brilliant, confused because Lutyens was no master of naval terminology or tactics, and also because he had been below in the cockpit throughout. But he did manage to convey how bloody it had been.
An Awkward Commission Page 24