A Flag of Truce

by David Donachie

  Night fell and the sky became a mass of twinkling stars so closely packed that they seemed like a sheet drawn across the black. From across the water, under the lanterns rigged by the Frenchmen, came the sound of mass singing. Clearly they had no notion to be outdone by their escort, and even although it was that revolutionary anthem Ca Ira, it was hard to imagine at this moment that the two nations were at war.

  ‘Mr Pearce, if you care to join me in my cabin, we may partake of some toasted cheese and a glass of wine.’

  What seemed like an innocent invitation, soon turned out to be something else. Pearce knew as they ate and drank that Digby was building himself up to something, and when it came it was as unpleasant an idea as Pearce could imagine.

  ‘The problem is, we need someone to go ashore with a flag of truce, and tell whoever is in control of La Rochelle of our mission, and get them to accept their sailors.’

  ‘Do you, sir, know the meaning of the French expression Déjà vu?’

  ‘Of course,’ Digby replied, with just a trace of asperity.

  ‘Then you will know that I was so charged with the same task by Lord Hood at Toulon.’

  ‘Were you? I was not aware.’

  ‘And I would point out that I nearly forfeited my life in trying to comply with his instructions.’

  ‘You will be under a white flag.’

  ‘You know, sir, because I have told you, I have some experience of the politics of revolution and I also have some hope that you understand this simple fact. The normal rules of chivalrous exchange do not always apply when dealing with such people. They see themselves as fighting the forces of reaction with a conviction that borders on the religious and anything that can be done to defeat that force is seen as legitimate.’

  ‘They might not respect a truce flag!’

  Obviously, to Digby, the notion was outrageous. To John Pearce he was again showing that parochial Achilles heel that he had noted before. To someone raised like his captain the idea that anyone would do such a thing was incomprehensible; war had rules and they must be observed. The only problem was, if he was wrong, he would not face the consequences.

  ‘Is there any other way that we can communicate with them?’

  ‘If there is, Mr Pearce, I am dammed if I can see it. Even if we had the means to signal such a complicated message they could scarce read it, and I cannot see anyone putting a boat off to bespeak us when we give the appearance of being five fully operational warships.’

  ‘They might,’ Pearce replied, clutching at the only available straw.

  ‘We cannot wait for them, for we must employ haste, and that for all the reasons we have already discussed. If we linger, Mr Pearce, and the weather turns, it might be us that is slung on shore and drowned in the process, and that takes no cognisance of us getting into a battle with a superior force.’

  ‘What if they refuse to accept them, sir?’

  ‘Then tell them they have the choice of doing so or watching them drown. That will concentrate their thinking.’

  Pearce felt the air go out of his lungs at the same time as any resistance he had collapsed. Digby could not comprehend, did not know any more than Pearce, who was in charge in La Rochelle. It was beyond his understanding that the representatives of the people who ran the Revolution, those who had retaken Marseilles and were bent on recapturing Lyons, were perfectly capable of watching five thousand men drown for the sake of their militant purity.

  ‘Then you’d best get the Yeoman of the Sheets to cut me out a couple of squares of thin bleached canvas.’

  ‘Good man.’

  The approach was not straightforward, given they had to weather the Ile d’Oleron, really a long lowlying island more sandbar than rock, which jutted out into the Bay of Biscay and formed protection for the anchorage termed on the British charts the Aix Roads. As well as that it also protected from the south-west the Charente Estuary and upriver the naval port of Rochefort. There would be lookouts on the westernmost tip of the island to give advance warning to Rochefort of any approaching armada, as well as boats out fishing the offshore waters, which ensured they would be seen. Those with the wit could now see that Digby’s idea to let his charges fly the tricolour at their masthead, made perfect sense; Bourbon ensigns, in this part of France, might set off all sorts of alarms.

  ‘Mr Harbin,’ he had said, as the first sign of land came into view, ‘I believe you will find in Mr Pearce’s quarters the French flag he took from Apollon off Marseilles. Be so good as to fetch it, with his permission of course, and raise it to the masthead.’

  He looked out at his four charges; would they guess his game when he, himself, raised the same flag as they? There had to be warships in Rochefort of a size that he could not face; if they supposed a squadron of their own capital ships were heading north they would not stir. The real worry was the possibility of one or more frigates patrolling well offshore to give added advance warning of any threat. So far nothing had been observed.

  ‘I would have them closer inshore, sir,’ said Neame, when asked. ‘Between Oléron and the Isles of Aix. With all these fishermen out in the deep waters they have plenty of eyes to see approaching trouble.’

  ‘Then let us hope that the outlines of those seventy-fours are not too familiar to your fishermen,’ Digby replied. ‘I would not want them to identify vessels that were despatched to the Mediterranean. A sharp eye on our friends yonder, for if they are going to try to break away, this is the time to do it.’

  Martin Dent was in the tops again with one duty, to observe the French quarterdecks for any sign of excessive activity. Digby had executed a mighty bluff, leaving the captains in no doubt that he would treat them as hostile, and even the ordinary cannon of HMS Faron’s armament, in vessels so crowded, could kill and maim men in their hundreds. There was another lookout on the foremast, with his telescope trained due east; if anything was essaying out of Rochefort, Henry Digby needed to know quickly, for if something too formidable emerged he would be obliged to turn tail and run.

  The twin stone towers that guarded the narrow entry to the port of La Rochelle were visible now, the pale brown weathered stone lit by the rays of a sinking sun, that same light showing the tip of the cathedral spire above the line of the fortified sea wall, and the slate roofs of warehouses cum dwellings that lined the quays. South of where the warships had anchored lay a marshy area on a promontory called les Minimes while another shallow bay, full of small fishing smacks, lay directly to the north of the main port, forming part of the defences of the municipality. It was obvious that they too could be seen as they prepared to drop anchor, and that must be causing no end of speculation in the town. In the bows of Apollon a sailor was casting a lead to check the depth of water under the keel, which was shoaling slowly but inexorably to the point where they, too, must anchor. Digby left it to Moreau to decide when that would be.

  ‘Our flags notwithstanding, they will send a messenger to Rochefort, and the distance is not more than fifty miles. I think we can expect a reaction, so we must be away from here as quickly as we can.’

  Pearce looked doubtful. ‘I would rather go in at first light, sir. I want that truce flag to be in plain view.’

  ‘I confess to being torn. I have no wish to overrule you in this, but the needs of the service must, as they always do, transcend those of any one person. I suggest you take a boat in to within hailing distance of those towers. See if you can establish anything tonight. With luck they may agree to let you land on the morrow.’

  Ancient they might be, but the La Rochelle towers, as well as the sea wall that ran to the south and west of that, were still equipped with cannon, and approaching he would be the only target rowing into a narrowing arc of fire. It was a nervous Pearce who sat in the thwarts, wishing he was rowing with his back to any threat, not sitting facing it. Dysart had stepped a mast, but it was rigged with no sail. Instead, stiff on the offshore breeze, there flew a white flag. If that did not excite conjecture, nothing would; why would
a vessel with a tricolour at the masthead need such a thing as a flag of truce?

  There was no doubt that they had manned the defences, probably as soon as the topsails of the leading seventy-four had been sighted, and Pearce could see wisps of smoke rising from behind the walls and atop the triple tower called St Nicolas that stood, the higher of the two, on the southern edge of the port entrance. Heated shot or just warming braziers for the gunners he did not know, but he needed little of his already vivid imagination to see this flimsy cutter blown to smithereens and the men rowing so steadily crying for mercy as they drowned, given it was very likely not one of them could swim.

  As soon as he decently could he raised his speaking trumpet and called out to the tower, until a voice carried on the wind insisted he identify himself. Pearce had considered lying, putting forth the tale that he too was French, and asking for permission to land the evacuees as men in need of medical care. But that would soon be exploded as a lie, the minute the first Frenchman set foot onshore, so there was no choice but to identify himself as a British officer, making a very exaggerated gesture to indicate the white flag, and ask for permission to come closer and parley.

  What followed was long-winded and difficult, with much being made of Faron flying false colours, which necessitated apologies and the need not to alert the town and cause panic. His interlocutor, whom he could not see, was not easily convinced that what he was being told was true, so Pearce asked only for permission to come ashore at dawn, under a laissez passer, when he could fully explain to whoever had power in the town what was needed. He was left drifting off the tower while messengers were despatched to whoever that might be, and it was dark by the time the answer came back; that he could come in only as far as he had this evening, when he would be asked to repeat what he had said to the head of the local Committee of Public Safety. That made him swear under his breath, before he gave orders to get back to the ship.

  ‘That means, sir, the place is attached to Paris and the Revolution.’

  ‘I had been hoping for another Toulon,’ said Digby.

  ‘I have alluded to this before, sir, what do we do if the leading citizens of La Rochelle refuse to accept these men?’

  ‘Don’t think I have not thought on it, Pearce. I fear if they do that, we will have to abandon our charges and retrace our course, leaving them to decide their final destination. There is, in truth, no more that we can do. If you do not know we are engaged in a massive bluff it would disappoint me. There is no possible way I could burn or seek to sink those ships with men still aboard, nor would I leave fellow sailors, whatever their politics, to drown by being driven ashore.’

  ‘I never thought you would, sir.’

  ‘So, we require your very best efforts, Mr Pearce. On your shoulders, tomorrow, rests the success or failure of our intentions.’

  The ‘Thank you,’ that received was larded with irony.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Pearce could not know, as he took to the cutter the next morning, what he was rowing into. News of a rising in the Vendée had filtered through to the Mediterranean, but not the extent of the rebellion against Paris; in truth there had been such a spate of uprisings against the same central authority that the one happening here in the lands bordering the Atlantic was not seen as exceptional by those outside France. Yet it was just that, a revolt led not by people seeking to temper revolutionary excess while keeping the gains of 1789 but a full-scale insurrection, an army led by real soldiers and encouraged by priests, aimed at a restoration of the Bourbon monarchy and the re-establishment of the Catholic Church. Thus it was that the strategic town and port of La Rochelle was under the jurisdiction of the most zealous kind of diehard, a representative on mission from Paris who knew that the cause they espoused could only be maintained by a reign of terror.

  The guillotine had been set up in the main square before the Hotel de Ville, renamed, as every major space in France had been, Place de la Revolution, and anyone with even a hint of sympathy for the rebels called the Chouans had already been decapitated. Even before that, the cobbles of the square had been well stained by the blood of the wealthy and the aristocratic, many of whom had fled to this place hoping to take ship to safety in the Americas. The majority of the citizenry went in fear of their lives, while the dregs of local society – the ambitious demagogues, the bitter failures, and the bare-arsed discontented – had risen to prominence.

  There was no shouting up to an unseen voice behind the embrasures this morning; a delegation had come down to the tiny quay that stood before the Romanesque northern tower, La Chaine. Pearce could see several blue-uniform coats, frogged with gold decoration, and a sloppy body of men behind them in National Guard clothing, bearing muskets. But the man who took his eye most was wearing the livery of those who held the power in this benighted land; a black coat with a high-backed collar and the same colour breeches inside highly polished boots. On his head he wore a tall hat with an imposing cockade, and round his waist a wide sash of red, white and blue. His face was sallow, the mouth, framed by long drooping moustaches, unsmiling. Pearce knew, even before the first exchange, that this was the man with whom he would have to deal.

  ‘Please heave to,’ a voice called. ‘Do not approach any closer.’

  Pearce gave the orders to his crew to bring the cutter to a gliding halt and to ship their oars. Once that had been achieved he stood, making sure of his footing in the centre of the boat before doing so; it would never do to seem unsteady in the face of this delegation.

  ‘Please state your reasons for being here, monsieur.’

  That led to a repetition of all that he had said the night before, to a stony-faced crew who seemed determined not to respond. Finally the black-coated fellow in the tall hat said, not without pomposity, ‘The Revolution recognises your flag of truce. Please step ashore.’

  The point at which he did so was tricky; it always was to a man’s dignity when first he stepped on dry land after having been weeks at sea. Benign it might have been, but a ship was never steady and a man’s legs had to adjust to constant movement to keep his balance. That removed, it was difficult to cope with terra firma, and Pearce felt instinctively he had lost a point when one of the musket-bearing soldiers had to step forward and take his arm to steady him. Still feeling as if he was on moving ground, he introduced himself.

  ‘Lieutenant John Pearce, of His Britannic Majesty’s Royal Navy, at your service.’

  ‘Representative on mission from the Committee of Public Safety, Henri Rafin.’

  ‘Can I ask if I am speaking to the voice of authority in the town?’

  The reply was given with a pompous air, and Pearce suspected it was aimed as his companions as much as his visitor. ‘There is no other authority than the Committee of Public Safety. You will accompany us, monsieur, to the Hotel de Ville, where we will listen to what you have to say.’

  Pearce spun round and looked down into the boat. ‘Michael, to me with the second flag.’

  O’Hagan reached down and pulled up a staff bearing another flag of truce, and without seeking permission, stepped out onto the quay, to exchange a look, first with Pearce, then a less agreeable one with the over-dressed sod he had been talking to.

  ‘This member of my ship’s company will attend on me.’

  Rafin stroked his moustaches, and his expression was one of disdain, as if to say, if you are not safe on your own, what good will one sailor do?

  He did not understand what Pearce said. ‘Michael, anything goes wrong, you know which neck to wring first.’ Pearce then smiled at Rafin, who was unaware that a sentence of death had just been passed on him. ‘After you, monsieur.’

  ‘Citizen,’ said Rafin, sharply correcting him.

  The route to the Hotel de Ville took them round the harbour quays, past tables piled with fish and crustaceans, crabs and langoustine, still moving, and Pearce noted that among the fishing boats there were armed vessels, which would serve as either slavers or privateers, as well as th
e usual knot of big fishing smacks not out that day. With an eye becoming increasingly more professional he noted the number of guns on the larger vessels and their calibre, as well as trying to appreciate their possible sailing qualities until he realised that not even the most experienced sailor could tell much regarding such things when a ship was tied up to a quay.

  When they reached the busy main quay, facing the medieval towers, the power of the man leading them became all too evident, as the crowds going in both directions parted like the Red Sea before Moses, and those in his path took care not to catch his eye. In the open-fronted taverns dotted between the warehouses, the babble of noise from the customers abated for the same reason; fear of standing out in any way. Pearce had seen this before; the power of the Revolution and its activities to cow the people, a revolution that was originally intended to free them. Yet it was also true that as they marched they gathered a following, who became increasingly bellicose as their numbers swelled in another demonstration of that which Pearce had seen before: crowd courage replacing private caution.

  The whole town, when they left the quay, had a medieval air; every thoroughfare busy with carts, mixed with humans and animals carrying their produce. Flagged pavements, not dirt paths, lay under arched stone canopies, which would keep the more leisurely citizens of La Rochelle out of the sun and rain, giving the place an atmosphere of long-term wealth; this had been a major French commercial port for centuries, but sugar and the slave trade had probably made it doubly prosperous, which had Pearce wondering how many of its wealthy citizens had fallen victim to the type of man he was following.

  The guillotine stood in the centre of the square before the Hotel de Ville, in stark contrast to the street market that lined the edges, full of stalls selling piled vegetables and fruit, meat butchered and still living, chickens and rabbits in baskets; clearly the place did not want for plentiful food from the surrounding countryside as well as abundant fish from the sea. The engine of death, it was plain, had not been idle. There was the smell of blood as they came close, and the traces of human flesh around the place where a detached head would fall. The cobbles beneath that point were stained for yards, and Pearce knew why, because he had seen the fountain of red mist that erupted from the neck of a victim as the blade struck through. He had to close his eyes for a moment, and he staggered slightly on one of those cobbles, only to be held by Michael’s strong hand.