A Sea of Troubles

by David Donachie

  ‘That, Heinrich, does not answer my question.’

  ‘Do you believe that you will be judged by God?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘John does not.’

  ‘That does not make him right.’

  ‘Can you envisage a just God that would punish a poor soul for allowing love to triumph over a miserable duty?’

  ‘It is not necessary for the Lord to be merciful.’

  ‘Then you must decide to torture yourself in this life or the next.’

  ‘Which would you choose?’

  ‘Science demands that facts take precedence over faith. But it is not for me to choose, or, my dear, even to advise. It is such a pity we are at war with France, for if we were not I would recommend crossing the Channel to allow yourself time to think.’

  ‘Run away,’ Emily sighed. ‘Leave everything behind.’

  ‘I seem to recall you telling me that everything did not amount to much.’

  Both looked up as John Pearce approached, waving yet another letter. ‘From Dundas, I am to see him on the morrow.’

  ‘And then, John?’ Lutyens asked.

  Pearce looked hard at Emily then. ‘The freedom to choose what I do, when I do it and with whom.’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The Count de Puisaye, an object of much amusement to both the staff and most of the guests, stood in the foyer of Nerot’s, once more bedecked with jewels on velvet, his wig re-powdered, and quite heavily, so that when he moved he left behind a slight puff of white dust. He had also acquired a long cane, which he leant on in a bored posture, acting as if he desired to embody the monarchical regime of which he had been a part, now coming up to five years in the historical dungheap. That was where John Pearce found him, having returned to fetch both the count and the satchel containing the residue of the government gold, which had spent the night locked in the hotel safe.

  He had spent a trying morning doing the rounds of the groups of French émigrés, previous escapees from the Revolution, seeking some with whom Amélie Labordière could take up residence. That sorted out he had then gone on to visit his prize agent, Alexander Davidson, and Lucknor, the lawyer who had written to Toby Burns, neither visit producing much in the way of satisfaction: nothing had come back from the Mediterranean and all his prize cases were still mired in dispute, while the whole trade was agog with what would come from the victory of the Channel Fleet.

  This got Davidson an irascible lecture on the fact that Lord Howe had totally missed what Pearce now knew he was supposed to be after, that damned grain convoy, but he returned to a more important matter fairly swiftly: Charlie Taverner and Rufus Dommet. Davidson was charged to establish the whereabouts of HMS Semele and get a letter off to Ralph Barclay, with an offer from him of four prime hands from HMS York to replace the two men to be released back to that hulk under Davidson’s surety. His name was not used, but he had no doubt Barclay would smoke the source of the request, which left open any hopes of a swift and positive result and did nothing for his mood.

  His temper was not aided by the fact that he was still suffering from the frustration of having spent the previous night alone, this due to the fact that there was no way Emily was going to consider letting him stay in her room when she was registered under her married name, which came as a great disappointment to Didcot, to whom evidence of criminal conversation was a possible route to income from the cuckolded spouse. He considered passing on a bit of tittle-tattle to the Grub Street coves that wandered the London hotels looking for sleazy gossip and always willing to part with a sixpence, but decided against it; in time it might work out to be worth more.

  Despite the letter telling them to call and giving a time, it did not seem to Dundas that keeping them waiting in an anteroom constituted bad manners, but for once Puisaye showed no sign of impatience; he expected powerful men to be rude and, it seemed, rated their ability to meet what was asked of them by their utter lack of consideration for others. This meant, Pearce surmised, that when the count did meet the man whom enemies and friends alike – he had more of the former than the latter – called the ‘uncrowned King of Scotland’, he would no doubt be impressed. Dundas controlled the entire body of Scottish Members of Parliament and used their block vote to support and sustain William Pitt’s Tory administration, brushing off the continual accusations of influence peddling, and corruption, which were always attached to his name.

  John Pearce had met Henry Dundas many times, the first in the company of his father, Adam – two men who, if they shared the fact of being Scottish by birth, shared nothing else, especially in terms of politics. Adam Pearce was a radical dedicated to fighting privilege, Dundas the ultimate party manager and upholder of state power. Their dislike was mutual, not aided by the very strong suspicion that the writ from which Pearce père et fils had been obliged to flee to France had been engineered by Dundas.

  An hour passed in which neither explanation nor refreshment was offered until, finally, a rather superior clerk announced, ‘Lieutenant Pearce, the minister will see you now.’

  A supplicant look came from Puisaye, who knew what was about to happen; Dundas would ask for a detailed assessment of matters in the Vendée so in some sense his subsequent supplications rested in this naval lieutenant’s hands. All he could say, and the Frenchman took it entirely the wrong way, was that he would tell the truth. Pearce was barely through the door, satchel in hand, when Dundas barked at him, his accent as harsh as was remembered.

  ‘What in the name of the Devil Incarnate have you been up to?’

  ‘Obeying your instructions,’ came the sharp and not very polite, if mystified reply, this as he conjured how he was going to tell Dundas to mind his manners.

  ‘Does the name Raynesford mean anything to you?’

  That stopped Pearce cold, but he prevaricated by asking why.

  ‘I have on my desk a request from Sir Phillip Stephens seeking to know if there is anything of a secretive nature going on in the lower parishes of Hampshire? The only thing that could possibly come to mind involved you.’

  ‘I fail to see the connection,’ Pearce insisted, though given the use of Emily’s maiden name the two had to be linked.

  ‘A certain naval officer rolls up in Lymington, leaving behind him in a certain inn a paramour who has no right to be with him at all, given he is apparently, according to the lady, on some kind of secret assignment for the Government, at sea on a mission, for all love, vital to confound the nation’s enemies.’

  ‘Ah!’ Pearce responded, having heard Emily’s tale it was now possible to guess at what had happened. That old admiral she had confronted had continued to poke about, obviously not satisfied with what she had told him.

  ‘How this has come about I cannot tell, but it has and I must deal with it.’ Dundas looked at his desk, picking up and reading a letter. ‘You know Sir Phillip Stephens quite well, do you not?’

  ‘I would not say we were friends,’ Pearce replied, trying to be jocular with his tone and change the mood, while also to cover for a mind racing to seek an explanation. ‘Quite the opposite, in fact.’

  ‘Probably because he dislikes you and makes no secret of it, which shows he’s not entirely bereft of judgement.’ Tempted to get up and leave, Pearce knew he could not; Emily was involved so he let Dundas continue. ‘He seeks clarification from me, given anything of a secretive nature concerning France must emanate from my department, and I am obliged to tell him I have no knowledge of what he is talking about.’

  ‘Which should be an end to the matter.’

  ‘And if it is not, what then?’

  ‘Tell him and swear him to secrecy.’

  Dundas had a high colour anyway, the sort that comes from an over-consumption of claret and port, which passion did nothing to diminish and to that was added his hard Scottish voice.

  ‘He is not that kind of person, Pearce, in fact he’s a tiresome auld gossip and busybody. If he finds out what you have been up to on my behalf it will be all
over the town and it will certainly be known to our political opponents in a day, and I hardly need point out it will not go down well with our fair-weather Portland friends either.’

  Pearce was as aware as anyone of the needs of Pitt’s government, since it was never out of the newspapers and was the stuff of coffee house discussions. They kept office due to the support of the Whigs led by the Duke of Portland. Lose them and the majority in the house became paper-thin to the point of ceasing to exist. Yet from what he knew, and he had to admit that was limited, Sir Phillip Stephens was not overtly political.

  ‘I cannot see why he would concern himself.’

  Dundas picked up the note and waved it; obviously it was the communication from the Admiralty. ‘Somebody’s been traipsing around Hampshire calling himself Lieutenant Raynesford and no such person exists, which hints at skulduggery. That may impact on the reputation of the navy, which is very much Sir Phillip’s bailiwick, so I need to know if you and this Raynesford are one and the same person. Did you, Pearce, take with you a lady, and did ye book into a Lymington inn under an assumed name as a married couple prior to sailing to the Vendée?’

  Pearce was in a bind and could not answer right away, only to be made aware by the knowing look he received that he had answered in the affirmative merely by his silence. ‘The lady’s name must be kept out of this.’

  ‘By which I judge that she at least is married?’ Pearce nodded and Dundas slowly shook his head. ‘We must nip Sir Phillip’s curiosity in the bud.’

  ‘Surely a denial from you will suffice.’

  ‘I cannot rely on it. You travelled to and from the ship, I take it from Lymington?’ Another nod. ‘Say he sends someone down to investigate and that leads to a certain vessel lying at Buckler’s Hard and a crew who will be only too willing to tell of a recent trip to the Vendée and back under a certain Lieutenant Pearce.’

  ‘He might make the connection anyway, it was he who supplied to me the temporary commission for HMS Larcher.’

  ‘A request that emanated from this very building, which he will find out if he pursues the matter. This will expose the fact that I have been dabbling in things that would not find favour in certain parts of the administration, and so close am I to Billy Pitt it would be bound to drag him in as well.’

  ‘Are you planning to enquire if the mission was successful?’

  ‘Judging by the hints in your note asking for this meeting it was not, and who, any road, is this Count de Puisaye you mentioned?’

  Pearce was on safer ground here, happier to talk about what he had observed than the problem of false naval officers. He gave a detailed account of what he had found in the swamps and forests in that part of France as well as his opinion of that which he had observed as he travelled to the edge of the region.

  ‘It seems to me that they are merely being left to wither, confined to the region, which would be difficult to penetrate and no doubt cost many casualties, so it is, in effect a stalemate.’

  ‘And the second part of my question?’

  ‘I thought it best to bring back a representative of the rebellion, who wishes to make a plea to you for support.’

  ‘I’m not sure that was wise.’

  ‘While I am sure that it was unavoidable.’

  Dundas sighed, but he did not request an explanation. ‘And how do you suggest I deal with him?’

  ‘I know you will find it hard to be polite.’ That got Pearce a glare, which pleased him; he liked to score off Dundas – it somehow redressed the balance of what had been said earlier. ‘He wants the British Government to launch a full-scale invasion and, in company with the Vendéen rebels, to take Nantes and, from there, to march on Paris.’

  ‘A capital notion if only we had the means.’

  ‘He believes the country is ready to rise up and help restore the Bourbons.’

  ‘Which is not certain to be our desired aim.’

  ‘These are not matters with which I am concerned,’ Pearce said, reaching for his satchel. ‘I have here what is left of the money you gave me. Since I had to sign for the full amount, I suspect I require your signature for the residue.’

  ‘Residue?’

  ‘Yes, I left six of your bags with the rebels, to facilitate their activities, and since I have had to travel the Count de Puisaye, I have used your money—’

  ‘Government money!’

  Pearce shrugged. ‘Call it what you will and count it if you wish, but there is at my reckoning something like three hundred and ten pounds, though I cannot be sure due to the variation in coinage.’

  ‘You’ve given away and spent two-thirds of what I entrusted to you?’ The tone of the Dundas voice did not require John Pearce to enquire if his actions met with approval. ‘This for a rebellion you tell me is likely to get nowhere?’

  ‘I used my judgement.’

  ‘As you did in taking your bonny lass to Lymington! It strikes me Pearce that you have exceeded your brief somewhat and, apart from that, I have only your word that the money you say was given out to the rebels is indeed in their hands.’

  ‘It would be a bad idea, Dundas, to judge me by your own standards.’

  That struck home; rumours of his light-fingered attitude to government money were the meat and drink of London gossip, added to the conviction that if he was not lining his own pockets then he was doing so for his loyal group of Scottish MPs.

  ‘And as for proof, there is a man outside who can confirm my endowment.’

  ‘A fellow I have never met, representing a group, according to you, I do not need?’

  ‘It strikes me, Dundas, that you may have to indulge him somewhat.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To keep your secret, for the last thing you want is a French émigré aristocrat bleating all over the town about being fetched over from the Vendée in a naval warship to no purpose.’

  ‘I asked if bringing him back was wise, I now know it was not.’ There was a moment when, hands resting on the edge of his desk, Dundas was lost in thought. ‘Best have him in.’

  Pearce raised his satchel. ‘Signature?’

  ‘Can wait till I have had it counted.’

  ‘Then I will leave it with you.’

  ‘You will not,’ Dundas snapped. ‘You will stay where you are and aid me in dealing with this Puisaye.’

  ‘I don’t often see Dundas in a good light, Emily, but the man is a politician to his toes. He dealt with our count with consummate skill, a bit of flattery, a bit of reality. Had the old buffoon eating out of his hand.’

  ‘To the point that he has not returned to the hotel?’

  Pearce topped up both their glasses with wine as he replied.

  ‘No, and he will send for his chest. The Government will play with him for a while, I suspect, and put him up in the meantime in some comfort. But I imagine they will be wanting rid of him and will contrive a very good reason why he must go back from whence he came to prepare the ground for something that, if my assessment is right, will never arrive.’

  ‘Michael?’

  ‘Has gone to visit some of his old haunts and will no doubt be drinking to excess, at which point he will probably fall out with some innocent and clout him.’

  ‘You should restrain him.’

  Pearce just laughed and spooned some food towards his mouth. ‘Then I would be that fool. It is a fact that he would listen to you before he would listen to me.’

  ‘And Amélie has gone now too, she left me a note.’

  ‘She has been invited to stay with a party of French émigrés that have a house in Spitalfields. She also thought that it was wise to take up their offer quickly and I have to say I am grateful, for while she was here in Nerot’s she was a charge on my purse.’

  ‘As am I.’

  ‘Emily, it is not the same and you know that.’

  ‘I will need the address, since I must write to her from time to time.’

  Pearce smiled across the dinner table. ‘To enquire after more bad habits?�
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  ‘I would say your worst habit, John, is not talking about that which is most pressing.’

  ‘Do you recall the first time we dined in this room? I think it was then that I first realised how attracted I was to your person, though I seem to recall you left in a hurry and rather flustered.’

  Emily frowned. ‘Another bad habit is your determination, when something comes up which you wish to ignore, to change the subject in quite so obvious a fashion.’

  ‘Perhaps I fear what will come out of not doing so, Emily.’

  ‘You did not then question Heinrich last night?’

  ‘I did not feel it was my place to and you seemed so deeply engaged in conversation.’

  ‘Yet you walked part of the way home with him.’

  Pearce was dying to respond with a comment about her insistence that he should come nowhere near her room, but he held his tongue; matters were proceeding to some kind of conclusion and his cause would not be aided by references to his desire to make love to her.

  ‘You did not ask, when you must be curious?’

  ‘Oddly enough, Emily, if I was faced with physical danger I think I would react in a way that would smack of upright behaviour …’

  ‘You have done so in the past, I have seen and admired it.’

  ‘I do not want you to admire me for that.’

  ‘Heinrich and I talked of happiness, or rather the impossibility of ever achieving such a state.’

  ‘We talked of matters in France now and how many more of his perceived enemies, his one-time friends, Robespierre will guillotine. Heinrich and I share the opinion that he will one day fall to that himself. Who will take up the reins of power if he does was a subject for speculation, and if he does fall, will it bring peace?’

  ‘And?’

  ‘We came to the conclusion as I suspect did you and he – that is, no conclusion at all.’

  ‘On the contrary, John.’