This horror had been repeated on the following days at the rate of 200 victims a day, until the corpses had become too numerous for trenches across the field of Brotteaux to hold them; so the bodies were now being stripped and thrown into the Rhône, with the idea that they would be carried down the river to Toulon, and show the inhabitants of that city what was in store for them. Citizens Fouché and Collot sent fraternal greetings to their colleagues with the army.
General Dugommier declared that he would permit no such barbarities in his command; but he was roughly taken to task by Citizen Representative Fréron, who declared that once Toulon had fallen the civil authorities would do as they thought proper, and he meant to see to it that not a single rebel was left alive.
Later in the evening Roger got the General on his own, and put to him the project of capturing the redoubt at La Seyne. Dugommier remembered the little fortification, but said that he would not like to give an opinion on the matter before viewing it again, so it was agreed that they should ride down to within half a mile of it on the following afternoon.
The younger Robespierre and several staff officers went with them on this small expedition, and the ubiquitous Buonaparte joined them for the actual reconnaissance. It was agreed by all that the capture of the redoubt previous to the main attack would aid the major operation, and that a company of infantry should be sufficient for the task; but the young Corsican pointed out that it would be a waste of effort to carry out the venture until a few hours before the main attack was launched, as if given time the enemy would counter-attack and retake the redoubt.
Much alarmed, Roger hastily argued that once captured it could be held; but Buonaparte replied that if the enemy counterattacked heavily it could not. Roger said it could be reinforced, but at that the Corsican replied scathingly:
“Why do you not stick to your pen, Citizen Representative, and leave fighting to people who understand it? Do you not see that if one side plays that game the other may follow suit? Then we should either have to give the place up in the end, after losing a lot of our men to little purpose, or involve ourselves in a major action for it, which is the last thing we desire.”
It was Roger’s first clash with the future Emperor Napoleon, and it was not to be his last. On this occasion the Corsican came off best, as everyone else agreed with him; and it was decided that Roger should attack the redoubt at dusk on the 16th.
No arrangement could conceivably have been more prejudicial to the carrying out of his secret designs, and he was hard put to it to conceal his anger. It meant that, as he was to be deprived of the cover of darkness, it would be exceedingly difficult to let himself be captured without any of his men suspecting that he had played the traitor; that if he was captured, by the time he was taken before a senior officer it would be too late for the British to reinforce Fort Mulgrave from their ships; and that by having to carry out the attack while it was still light he would stand a much greater chance of being killed or wounded. So the project had become a highly dangerous enterprise by which nothing was to be gained; yet he could not possibly brand himself as a coward by backing out.
During the next three days he managed to behave as though he had not a care in the world, but inwardly he felt like a man who has challenged a far finer swordsman than himself to a duel à Voutrance. In vain he racked his brain for a way of passing advance information to the British of the impending assault-in-force, and of wriggling out of his own mess; but, short of making a bolt for it, he could think of nothing; and if he did that he would be finished as far as the Committee of Public Safety was concerned. As he was convinced that Toulon must fall within a few weeks, anyhow, he considered his own position in Revolutionary France too high a price to pay to give the city a short respite; so he saw no alternative to going through with the now highly-frightening affair he had planned. His only consolation was that if he could get himself captured it might give the garrison of Fort Mulgrave an hour’s warning, and he would still be able to score off the Revolutionaries by having General O’Hara exchanged for himself.
On the afternoon of the 16th, as the December light was failing, his Citizen Colleagues and a number of officers escorted him as far as a group of trees from which the redoubt could be observed. A sap had been dug from it some way across open ground, and a company of Fusiliers were already waiting for him to take command of them. Buonaparte had, of course, appeared to watch the fun with the little crowd from headquarters. All of them shook Roger warmly by the hand and several of the civilians encouraged him with speeches about the honour of France and the glory of the Revolution.
He had intended to delay his start for as long as he could, in order to gain an increased degree of darkness, but the shabby, efficient, lean little Corsican kept shuffling his feet impatiently and saying it was time to go; so Roger had no option but to get his men together. After a few words with the officers, he signed to them to follow him, and led the way down into the trench.
Stooping, so as to keep his head below ground level, he sloshed his way through the muddy puddles until he reached the end of the sap. From there he could see the redoubt quite plainly. It was a small earthwork, about five feet high and fifty feet across, with two black cannon muzzles poking out of square ports. As he crawled over the edge of the trench he kept his eyes fixed on the redoubt for signs of sudden activity; but evidently the sentry was not doing his duty, as no sign of alarm was to be seen. With a beating heart Roger waited until most of his men were out of the trench. Then he stood up, but he did not draw his sword. He had no intention of having British blood on his conscience. Instead, he took off his feathered hat, waved it high in the air, gave a shout, and ran at the fort as fast as his long legs would carry him.
What happened after that he never remembered very clearly. A single musket-shot cracked like a whip in the chilly air. The redoubt became alive with flashes. Bullets whistled past his head. Someone near him screamed and fell. Before the first cannon belched fire and smoke he had scaled the turf rampart and jumped down on its far side. Next second, to his utter consternation, he heard one of its defenders shout something in Spanish. No sooner had his mind registered the fact that he had botched the whole affair, and could no longer hope to be captured by his own countrymen, than a huge Spanish gunner aimed a mighty swipe at him with a cannon ramrod. In vain he threw up his arm. The end of the five-foot-long pole descended full on his bare head. His knees gave under him and he slumped unconscious to the ground.
When he came to, he had no idea where he was. His head ached intolerably and he was lying on a straw palliasse with a rough blanket over him. Neither his eyes nor his brain would focus. After a time he faded into unconsciousness again. The second time he came to he knew that he was in semi-darkness and in a small, confined space. He could not make out the ceiling above his head, but it seemed to press down upon him. For a few terrifying moments he was seized with the idea that he had been buried alive. It was only by a great effort of will to reassure himself that he managed to raise his head. As he lifted it the pain struck him with a blinding ferocity and he fainted. When he came out of his faint he was conscious of an awful thirst, but he was too weak to call out, and lay there feebly passing his tongue round his dry mouth for what seemed a long time; then he dropped into an uneasy sleep.
He was woken by the sound of a terrific explosion. It was pitch dark now, but in part he had regained the use of his senses. He could feel a slight rolling motion and could smell a mixed odour of tar and bilge water. He knew then that he must be somewhere down in the bowels of a ship, but how he had got there his brain still refused to tell him. As he listened he could hear guns, another deafening explosion, and distant shouting; but the noise made his head ache afresh. It hurt still more when he tried to think; so he gave up the effort, and eventually dozed off.
When he awoke again there was enough light to see by, and two men were standing beside him. One was feeling his pulse and after a moment gave him a drink of water, then one of them spoke to th
e other in Spanish. That unlocked the cells of Roger’s brain and he muttered a question; but they would not let him talk, and, after giving him another drink, left him.
Now he remembered the attack on the redoubt and all that had led up to it. Grimly he realised that he was a prisoner in a Spanish man-o’-war. But his head still pained him badly and he was terribly weak from loss of blood; so he still could not concentrate for long, even on his wretched situation.
He had learnt a little Spanish from Isabella d’Aranda, and twenty-four hours later he was sufficiently recovered to put a few questions to his captors. It was the 21st of December; Fort Mulgrave had been stormed on the night of the 16th, and on the 17th the Allies had decided to abandon Toulon. He was in the Flagship of Admiral Langara, and they were on the way to Majorca.
Later he heard the story of the four days during most of which he had been unconscious. The fall of the Little Gibraltar had immediately been followed by Buonaparte advancing his batteries to the point of the promontory, from which they could bombard both the town and all ships passing the narrows. Short of stores and with few reliable troops at his disposal, Admiral Lord Hood had taken the only possible course, and ordered the Allied forces to withdraw to their ships. Fear of the vengeance of the Revolutionaries had caused a terrible panic in the city. As many as possible of the French Royalists had been taken off, but the crush of people on the wharfs, trying to escape in anything that would float, had been so great that hundreds of them had been forced into the harbour and drowned. At such short notice it had been found impossible to man and withdraw more than half the ships of the captured French fleet; so on the 19th wrecking parties had been sent in to scuttle or burn the remainder, and to destroy the naval stores in the dockyard. The two great explosions that Roger had heard had been the blowing up by the Spaniards of two French powder ships, the detonations of which had shaken the earth for miles around. Toulon, the last foothold of the Allies in France, was now once more in the hands of the Revolutionaries. Roger’s only consolation was that he had escaped being compelled to witness Citizen Representative Fréron and his butchers exact their terrible vengeance.
On the 22nd of December the Flagship dropped anchor in the roads of Palma, and Roger was carried up on deck. It was crammed with Royalist refugees, crouching there haggard, listless and brooding in the pale winter sunshine. Suddenly a group of them came to life. They had caught sight of Roger’s tricolore sash. With yells of hate, and murder in their eyes, they pressed towards him. For a moment he feared that he was about to be torn to pieces, but the Spanish soldiers used their muskets to drive the angry crowd back, and bore him safely aft under the poop into a big state cabin.
Several officers were there, among them one resplendent figure who Roger guessed must be Admiral Langara. They greeted him with chill civility, and he had no doubt at all that these Spanish aristocrats loathed everything he appeared to represent almost as much as did the French refugees out on deck; but for the Dons the laws of war were sacred, and demanded that they should treat him with the courtesy due to a high officer of an enemy Power. It was not the first time in the past few days that Roger thanked his stars he had been wearing the uniform of a Citizen Representative when captured, as he knew that otherwise he would most probably have been thrown into the hold and left there to die.
One of the Dons questioned him in French; but his examination was purely formal as, the Allies having given up Toulon, there was no useful information he could give them, even had he been willing. He was still very weak but now fully compos mentis, and had been trying to think of a way in which he could get himself handed over to the British; so he asked if there was an English officer in the port with whom he could speak.
The Spaniard replied with a shrug that he did not know, but that the prisoner could enquire of the Governor of the fortress to which he was being sent. Roger was then taken out and, half-deafened by the howls of execration from the refugees, lowered into a boat; an hour later he was helped into bed in a cell of the fortress that dominated the harbour.
That evening the Governor, a lean, sallow-faced gentleman named Don Miguel de Gamba, paid him a formal visit; and he too barely veiled under traditional Spanish politeness the repugnance that Roger’s tricolore sash aroused in him. Roger knew that the Spaniards would never give up an important prisoner to their Allies, except for some very special reason; so unless he could find a way to communicate with a British Captain, his prospects were that he would remain a captive, perhaps for many months, until the Spaniards chose to exchange him for some officer of their own who had been taken prisoner by the French. So, direct application being useless, he told the Governor that he had an important personal message for Rear-Admiral Christopher Brook from his son, Roger, and wished to see a British naval officer in order to pass it on. Don Miguel said coldly that he would see what could be done, and left him.
Apart from his anxiety that he might be held indefinitely by the Spaniards, Roger was not uncomfortable. The cell was actually a fair-sized room with a barred window that gave a good view of the harbour. The food was quite passable and he was given a soldier-servant to wait on him. The wound in his head was mending nicely and by Christmas Day he was able to get up for the first time, but so far there had been no news of a British officer coming to see him; so he sent a request that the Governor would pay him another visit.
Twenty-four hours elapsed before his request was granted, and then the interview gave him little satisfaction. With true Spanish indolence, Don Miguel said that such matters could not be arranged in a hurry; but he had the decency to suggest that now Roger was on his feet again he might like to take the air on the battlements for an hour or two every morning.
Roger gladly availed himself of this privilege, although for the first few days he was not strong enough to mount the spiral stone staircase without an arm to lean on. Gradually he regained his strength, but as the days passed he became more and more worried by his situation. On several occasions British men-of-war had visited the harbour, to water and revictual; but, in spite of repeated requests, the Governor proved either unwilling or too lazy to put him in touch with an English Captain.
By the end of the first week in January, Roger came to the conclusion that, for some reason best known to himself, his captor had no intention of carrying out his request, and the thought depressed him terribly, as in his weak state all idea of escape was out of the question. He was extremely loath to commit anything about himself to paper; but had begun to contemplate writing a very guarded letter to Lord Hood, when another idea occurred to him, which he decided to try out first. Controlling his impatience as best he could, he waited until the British flag should again appear in the harbour. On the afternoon of the 10th of January, three ships of the line and a frigate dropped anchor in the roads.
Next morning he went up for his walk on the battlements as usual, and stood watching the ships until one of them sent off a boat. As it came nearer he felt a thrill of hope, for he could see that it was a smart white gig; the officer in the sternsheets must be a Captain, and with luck he might get a message directly to him. Thanking his gods that his father had taught him as a small boy how to semaphore, he threw up his arms and swiftly sent the signal, “Help—I am British—son of Chris Brook.”
In an agony of suspense he stared at the boat, praying that one of its occupants would look in his direction. He had sent the signal three times before the coxswain caught sight of his flailing arms and drew the officer’s attention to him. At that moment the sentry tapped him on the back and said gruffly in Spanish:
“What are you up to, Señor?”
Swinging round, Roger gave him a quick smile and replied, “Sending my love to a lady.” Then, turning back, he sent his signal for the fourth time.
An acknowledgment came from the gig, which was now almost below him, and he heaved a sigh of relief. He felt sure that the abbreviation of his father’s name from Christopher to Chris would prove a talisman to any British Naval Captain, an
d he was not disappointed. That afternoon he was taken down to the Governor’s office, where, seated with the Spaniard, was the officer from the boat.
He was a delicate-looking man with a firm, thin-lipped mouth but a kindly look in his bright blue eyes and, as he soon showed, a quick, discreet mind. Instead of demanding to know, as Roger had feared he might, what a British Admiral’s son was doing in a Spanish prison dressed as a French Citizen Representative, he introduced himself as Captain Joshua Lightfoot, and said in careful French:
“Monsieur, Admiral Lord Hood charged me, while in this port, to put a few questions to you; and His Excellency here has kindly agreed to let me interview you alone.”
Don Miguel smiled, and, after all three of them had exchanged bows, left the room. When he had gone, Roger whispered his thanks to the Captain for his tactful intervention, then, in a low voice, told him how he came to be there. He had little difficulty in convincing his visitor that he was Rear-Admiral Brook’s son, and learned with delight that his father was actually with the main Fleet blockading the French coast.
Captain Lightfoot said that he would be rejoining Lord Hood’s flag in a few days’ time, and would inform Roger’s father of his position at the first opportunity. He added that the Dons were so dilatory in all matters of business that the prisoner might have to exercise considerable patience, but he had no doubt that in view of his special activities his transfer to British hands could be arranged without the disclosure of his identity.
The Man who Killed the King Page 54