CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Toulon was a place made known to the eye long before arrival, surrounded as it was by high hills close to being mountainous. In addition it was a locale Pearce knew well, for he had been sent to the port first by Lord Hood as an emissary to find out if the rumours of a Royalist coup were correct and he had been there during the siege. When he thought on that he was given to recollect how many times Sam Hood had misused him, even if the thought now made him smile.
The transport vessel Marchmont was packed with French prisoners, many bearing wounds, common seamen who had been held in conditions far from ideal in a Mediterranean summer, confined below decks all through the day and only allowed to take the air in batches once the sun had gone down. The officers were packed into a makeshift wardroom and scarcely better accommodated, though they had fared better, being allowed occasionally to go ashore to the town of San Fiorenzo.
At this moment the passengers had no idea where they were headed, and for two very good reasons. First, Admiral Martin had to accept the offer of an exchange and there was no guarantee he would do so, in which case Marchmont was to make for home. Second, the men below decks were bound to be a disgruntled lot, poorly fed, obliged to drink Corsican well water, and according to what their captors had been told, mutinous by nature.
‘Do you think they will respect the flag?’ asked Loach, captain of the transport.
‘If they don’t it will be the last you will see of me.’
‘You can joke about that, Mr Pearce?’
‘Gallows humour, sir, which is all that will serve in such circumstances. I have no reason to think they will fire upon me but you never know.’
Loach looked up at the flag of his nation on his masthead as well as that on the two frigates escorting them, HMS Brilliant and Captain Fremantle in Inconstant. The former vessel had been an object of some curiosity in the two-day journey. The elusive Toby Burns was aboard her but so too was Taberly, which precluded a visit just to scare the wits out of Emily’s spineless nephew.
‘Two frigates coming out, sir,’ called a lookout.
‘Best signal Inconstant to heave to as we do,’ Pearce said. ‘We don’t want an accidental fight.’
Loach was very much under the Pearce’s orders, a fact made plain by the C-in-C himself and he was nervous. He had been told the nature of the voyage and he knew if it went badly wrong he would be as much a prisoner as the men he had been tasked to look after for many a week. So close to France and required to stick their necks into the lions’ den, the chances of keeping his freedom were remote. When he wished John Pearce success it was heartfelt and genuine.
The cutter was in the water waiting for him to board, with his Pelicans as the crew, these extracted from Digby by another order from Hotham who, having accepted the proposal, had taken to it with enthusiasm, no doubt hoping that with these men landed, Toulon would become unstable enough to revolt and give him a much needed boost.
‘Haul away, lads,’ Pearce commanded.
The oars dipped to take him from the side. The portholes of the transport had been sealed but there had to be enough gaps for a pressed eye to pick out some of the surrounding features of high hills and deep-green forest. Certainly the officers would be clamouring to be given a view, but that was for Loach to deal with. He stood with his hand on the staff holding the white truce flag to send a message that he came to parley. Looking back he could see the two frigates had taken up station as required alongside Marchmont.
The ability to speak French had been the cause of much of the activities in which Pearce had been involved and now it was a more priceless asset than ever. Within hailing distance of the first French frigate he called to relate the nature of his mission, really no more than a request to be taken to meet Admiral Martin.
The captain who responded insisted he delay and that held until he had two boats full of musket-bearing marines in the water. They took up station on either side of the cutter, this while the French warship raised sail to get, with its consort, closer to the trio of British vessels. They also had truce flags at their mastheads, but to ensure caution the frigates had opened their gun ports and run out their cannon.
‘If our Frenchmen are going to ignore our white flag, Michael, now is the time they will do it.’
‘And where, I must ask, will that leave us?’
‘Possibly in a dungeon.’
‘Sure, you do have a love of the steep tub,’ was the very softly spoken response.
‘Just row slowly, friend.’
It was a long haul; the outer roads of Toulon consisted of a deep and wide bay so to make the actual harbour entrance required they travel a fair distance. On both sides of the arched mole, once they made it, crowds had gathered to watch this apparition, some merely curious, others gesturing rudely.
‘I’d be minded to give some of that back,’ Charlie Taverner called.
‘And me,’ said Rufus.
‘What for? You don’t understand it.’
‘Yes we do,’ Charlie insisted. ‘Some things don’t need words.’
‘A few less words from you sometimes might serve, Charlie, such as those you used to fire up all those seamen in Leghorn, where my name is now mud.’
‘I explained that, did I not?’ he protested. ‘How was I to know it would get out of hand?’
‘Let’s worry about this place, John-boy,’ Michael hissed, ‘and not what’s in the past.’
‘Which was you so drunk you had no idea what I was talking about when I queried you.’
Michael grinned. ‘Innocent as a lamb, then.’
‘A wolf in sheep’s clothing, maybe.’
In the harbour Pearce took the tiller to steer the boat towards the building that housed the French naval HQ, now lined with officers and knots of curious bystanders. This time Pearce raised his hat in greeting and again stood to touch and stretch out the white flag, calling out that he brought a message from Admiral Sir William Hotham to be given to Admiral Martin and that sent a young lieutenant scurrying off.
Alongside he asked permission to alight and that was granted, but as he got onto dry land the group before him stood back to form a silent semicircle until finally one officer stepped forward and introduced himself as Capitaine de Vaisseau Louis-Jean-Nicolas LeJollie.
‘Lieutenant John Pearce, monsieur,’ Pearce replied in French.
‘Am I allowed to enquire as to your reason for being here in Toulon?’
‘That is for Admiral Martin to disseminate once he has been informed.’
As he said that, Pearce lifted his head to look at the building that housed the French command. In doing so he saw, at a long floor-to-ceiling window, the figure and anxious face of Emily Barclay, which caused his heart to miss a beat. LeJollie turned to follow his gaze and then remarked.
‘The poor woman.’
‘Why poor, monsieur?’
‘You would not know, of course. Her husband, the captain of your Semele, was killed in the action in which I took her.’
‘Killed?’
‘I am told one of our bar shot came in low and took off his head, which I fear ended up in the sea.’
Pearce could not respond for a moment. That news changed so much it was hard to encompass it all. ‘Barclay,’ he croaked.
‘That is the lady’s name, monsieur.’ LeJollie produced a wry smile. ‘While one has pity for her loss, one must also say that young as she is, as well as beautiful, I do not think she will stay long a widow. And she does have his child on the way, by which she can remember her husband.’
Pierre Martin must have wondered if Pearce was witless, so slow was he to respond to the admiral’s questions when he was finally led into his presence. How could he begin to explain how tumultuous his thoughts were as he stumbled through the message Hotham had composed, full of high-flown sentiments regarding the sufferings that would be inflicted on Martin’s fellow countrymen by either extended incarceration on a ship or a long voyage back to captivity in Britain, e
specially those bearing battle wounds?
‘In exchange, we ask for the return of the officers and crew of HMS Semele and, of course, the captain’s wife.’
Martin had a big round face and that broke into a smile. ‘I do not think my officers will welcome the last part of your request. Madame Barclay has made a deep impression on many of them.’
‘In what way?’ Pearce bridled, jealously.
‘Monsieur, if you know of her you will also know she is a rare flower. Added to that she has been most concerned for the well-being of the men you seek to free.’
Martin ceased to smile and frowned. ‘You do realise, monsieur, that if I do not agree, I cannot permit you, having brought the men I have lost so close to their homeland, to sail them away again without I seek a rescue.’
‘Admiral Hotham accepted that risk on the grounds that he sees you as an honourable man. He also knows that the honour of the French navy is as it was under a different system of government. But I must also add that our escorts have orders to fight if they must and the vessel carrying the prisoners would thus be in peril of wayward shot.’
Martin could make of that what he would; was it a threat or just a genuine assessment? He sat back in his chair, hand on chin, eyes locked onto Pearce as if trying to see if what he had relayed from Hotham was the truth or mere hyperbole. His visitor leant forward, pulling from his pocket a list of the prisoners he had carried to Toulon, of necessity a long one formed of dozens of sheets of paper.
‘The one detailing the captured officers is on top, the common seamen wounded is the last.’
Martin picked up the first; the rest would be mere numbers but the names of his officers would be known to him. The perusal induced a sigh. ‘Since you say you have brought the wounded I assume those I do not see to be dead?’
‘Sadly, yes. They were buried with full honours on Corsica according to the Catholic rite.’
Pearce had been aware of a fellow standing by the double doors throughout, who reminded him in his manner, if not his appearance, of Toomey. He was so very much a clerk.
Martin gestured to him. ‘Please take the lieutenant and provide for him some refreshments.’
‘My boat crew?’
‘They, too, will be looked after. I will look over this proposal and I assure you that Admiral Hotham is correct. I would not sully the name of my service by acting in an inappropriate manner that risks useless loss of life.’
‘Would it be possible to see Captain Barclay’s widow?’ Pearce felt like a complete scrub as he added, ‘I knew her husband well and would wish to offer my condolences for her loss.’
‘How can I deny such a request?’
Emily did not fly into his arms when he entered her apartment; instead she stood biting her lower lip, with a glance at the man who had shown him in.
‘Monsieur, I wonder if Mrs Barclay and I could be left alone?’
A dry stick of a fellow, very much an indoor man, Martin’s factotum was yet a Frenchman. The request got a lifted and telling eyebrow, before he bowed and departed, his knowing smile hidden because he had his back to the couple. She was in Pearce’s arms the minute the door was closed.
‘Why, in the name of all that is holy, are you crying, Emily?’
‘I’m so happy, yet I feel ashamed, too, that I rejoice in being a widow.’
‘Given we are going to have a great deal of time together, it is my fond hope that one day I will understand.’
Pearce did not seek to linger, staying enough time to exchange kisses and embraces and to put his hand on her belly, seeking for a kick from their child. He feared to remain longer than was appropriate, not wishing to complicate his mission, which might impact on her. He had no idea if Martin was going to agree to the exchange, which would mean him pleading for Emily’s release on the grounds of her widowhood and condition. That could not be seen to have a personal motive.
He checked that his Pelicans had been taken care of, happy to see them tucking into a fish soup that they complained reeked of garlic before he was taken to what had to be the officers’ mess and fed, joined there by LeJollie who gave him an account of the action against Semele. It seemed politic to keep hidden that he had been close by in a pinnace. Eventually Martin’s factotum appeared and led him back to the man himself.
‘Monsieur, I have to tell you that your ship’s officers were sent to an inland fortress. I will request their return but that may take some time. I require that you take my word that once they are back in Toulon they will be passed on to one of the frigates patrolling off the port under a flag of truce.’
‘The men?’
‘You will disembark my sailors then embark your own, if you agree.’
‘I am bound to ask about the captain’s wife?’
‘Let me just say I will miss the occasional sight of her.’ He laughed then. ‘But I sense some will weep.’
‘We must be circumspect, John’
These were almost the first words Emily said to him when she and the small amount of luggage she had were brought aboard the now empty Marchmont. With that, having enquired as to where she would be accommodated until they rejoined the fleet – Loach gave up his cabin – she made her way there.
The crew of Semele were paraded on to the quay, Pearce ticking their names off a muster roll, a copy of the copy kept aboard the flagship for the purposes of pay. Just as Admiral Martin had seen the gaps in the list he had been given, Pearce had to mark them on his, Ralph Barclay’s name first, mentally totalling the high price Semele had paid in that fight. Martin had provided a list of officers who would be freed later.
The warrants and the purser were afforded the temporary wardroom, which they pronounced a disgrace, as did the arriving crew, and both groups began to immediately clean the ship with vinegar, cursing as they did the filthy habits of the French.
Charlie and Rufus had served on Barclay’s 74, before and during the Glorious First, not happily, but they knew faces and names and were busy reacquainting themselves with old shipmates. That evaporated as Devenow appeared because one of the last acts they had committed was to belt the bully round the ear with a marlin spike.
‘I was Captain Barclay’s servant,’ the brute complained, obviously demanding superior treatment to the rest of the crew.
‘Well you’re not now,’ Pearce replied, harshly. ‘So follow the others.’
The man was known to him too, and not fondly, for his time aboard Brilliant. That also applied to Cornelius Gherson who had to stop and stare when he saw who it was supervising the loading, only moving when given a sharp order to do so or be left behind. He assumed airs even more grating than Devenow.
‘Is Mrs Barclay to be freed as well?’
‘What business is that of yours?’
‘I need to speak with her on some very important matters.’
‘I will pass on the message but from what I recall I doubt she’ll want to speak with you.’
Gherson produced a sly grin. ‘Then she won’t find out what I know.’
‘Which is?’
‘For her ears, Pearce, not yours.’
‘Mr Loach, put this piece of vermin in the cable tier so he may learn some manners regarding the correct way to address an officer.’
‘Damn you, Pearce.’
‘Belay that, have your bosun make up a cat o’ nine tails, and a good skin-stripping one at that.’
Gherson positively scooted up the gangway, nearly the last to go aboard, with Pearce yelling after him that he should keep quiet regarding anything he knew about the late captain; really he meant the man’s widow and himself.
When Emily said ‘circumspect’ she meant it. If John Pearce was invited to enter the cabin it was always with Loach and getting her alone was near impossible. But a Mediterranean evening sunset virtually demanded a late promenade and finally he was able to converse with her in private on the poop, right by the taffrail and facing out to sea, though not at what could be called an intimate distance and in carefully c
ontrolled voices.
‘You must see, John, why such behaviour as I have demonstrated must be maintained.’
‘Forgive me if I do not,’ he growled.
‘Being a widow imposes on me certain standards of behaviour.’
‘Is that what I am being obliged to suffer? And what standards do you mean?’
The explanation was lengthy and depressing to the man listening. She would, as soon as she could, be obliged to wear black, the right clothing for her situation. Her husband’s death had wiped clean a slate that had caused her no end of worry but now she could return to England and her family without a stain on her reputation, there to bear her child and look forward to the day they could be together.
‘Which is when?’
‘I feel at least a year is required before I could be seen to be thinking of a second marriage.’
‘A year!’
‘And prior to any nuptials there would need to be a decent period of courtship.’
‘Emily!’
‘Keep your voice down, John.’ Her voice softened and he could see even in her profile an understanding smile. ‘Naturally, if a discreet chance to be together presents itself, we will take it, but it is bound to be a rare event.’
‘I cannot believe that such a crumb is all I can look forward to.’
‘What would you have me do, John, lose one husband and immediately betroth myself to another?’
‘What I would have you do is forget Frome and your family and come and live with me well away from fear of their prejudices. I feel I have the right to remind you that you are carrying my child, which, in a year plus your courtship period will be damn near talking.’
‘Do you have to use such language?’
‘I do.’
‘I did not wish to allude to this so soon, but the child will have to be born a Barclay, I’m afraid. To christen it otherwise would be like flying an adulterous flag.’
‘And if I don’t want my son or daughter christened?’
‘How can you think of such a thing? No, the child will be named Barclay until a time we are wed and he or she can take your name. I will, of course, consult with you over what the Christian names will be.’
The Perils of Command Page 28