An Ill Wind

by David Donachie

Lutyens approached the bed and bent to sniff at the piece of thin cord which protruded from the angry wound of the stump, where once there had been an elbow. Once the mortified flesh had healed around it, to the point where it and the swab attached to it could be easily pulled free, that would indicate the arm was healed.

  ‘I smell no corruption,’ he said, ‘and the fever will pass or carry him off in the next day. It will hardly serve if you make yourself ill in the same period.’

  Did she want the fever to carry him off, for that would solve the dilemma of her present discontent? That she had never loved this fevered man she now knew: the emotions she had felt as a seventeen-year-old bride had more to do with admiration and respect. Also, Emily had been raised to think, as had most girls of her age and class, that security was a better grounding for a happy life than deep passion. Yet she was not, again like her contemporaries, immune to the dream of a great romance: had she and her girlfriends not speculated endlessly on such a thing every time they gathered in a group, imagining some Prince Charming would come and carry them away to a life of connubial bliss in a sparkling palace?

  How Emily wished Lutyens, in his insensitive way, had not said those words! What was it that made a man of such a tender and sympathetic character, as he was, become so brusque when it came to matters medical or the prospect of death? Did he have any idea of the train of her thoughts? Did he know that part of her very being, fighting with her deep sense of duty, longed to be free of an attachment which had revealed itself to be founded on sand?

  ‘Mr Lutyens, sir.’

  ‘Yes?’

  The ship’s boy, a recovering patient who had fallen from the rigging of his vessel and broken an arm, was hanging round the door.

  ‘There be a big bugger of a ship—’

  ‘Mind your language,’ Lutyens snapped. Emily just hid a smile; once she would have been shocked to be witness to such blaspheming, but months aboard her husband’s frigate had cured her of the touchy hearing of her more tender years.

  ‘Savin’ your presence, Mrs Barclay, but there’s a ship a’warping into the entrance of the bay, bein’ towed like, and I reckon it has come for us.’

  Just then they heard the sound of the second massive explosion of that night, albeit the exterior walls of the building muffled the sound and fury. Captain Ralph Barclay sat bolt upright, eyes open and blazing, throwing out his good right arm, finger pointed straight at the doorway, his voice at top pitch as he shouted, ‘Seize him up and tie him to the grating, he’ll feel the lash or I’ll see him damned.’

  ‘Holy Christ in heaven,’ cried the boy, as he fled from that accusing finger.

  Emily was on her feet in a flash, speaking in soothing tones, pressing her husband back onto his pillows.

  ‘The fever approaches crisis,’ Lutyens said, ‘but I must see to this ship and, if it is our transport, send word to Lieutenant Pearce.’

  ‘The damned cheek of the man,’ Pearce said, as he read, in the gloomy morning light, the letter from Lord Hood, in which he was required to call upon the admiral to receive private letters, which must be returned to London and William Pitt. ‘Does he think I am his valet?’

  Midshipman Niven, who, covered in scratches and earth, looked, in the cold light of dawn, as if he had been dragged through a hedge backwards, was shocked, given he knew to whom Pearce was referring, but he did not utter the words he had been coached to say, simply because the man to whom he would have to address them looked angry enough to box his ears for his temerity.

  ‘Is there any other message, Mr Niven?’

  ‘Only, sir, that Lord Hood was most anxious you do him a service.’

  Weighing the letter in his hand Pearce was minded to tell Hood to go to the devil, yet he was also aware that there might be some advantage in this. He needed to get Ralph Barclay into a court of King’s Bench on a charge of perjury and he had the evidence of the lies to make his case, falsehoods which had been aired at the travesty of a court martial set up by his patron, Admiral Hotham. Lord Hood, as his payment for a previously rendered service, had gifted him sight of the entire transcript and allowed him time and the means to make a fair copy.

  Yet he had few illusions as to how difficult it would be to get Ralph Barclay into the dock: the navy, or rather the Admiralty, always defended the press gang and would very likely seek to protect one of their own. Barclay was politically insignificant so those in power would do nothing to advance Pearce’s cause. Yet here he was being offered an entrée into the highest office in the land outside that of the monarch himself. The letter Hood referred to would likely guarantee him a private audience and, given Hood was a strong supporter of Pitt’s government, the king’s first minister might very well see the need to repay the favour on the admiral’s behalf. At the very least it could do his cause no harm.

  ‘Very well,’ he said, more to himself than to the midshipman, as he pushed the letter into one of his deep pockets. ‘Is there anything else, Mr Niven?’

  ‘HMS Hinslip should be on its way, sir. Lord Hood was most irate that it had not come already.’

  ‘So, young fella, were the folk at the hospital.’

  ‘Seems he gave the order yesterday at six bells in the morning watch and he was raging that it had not been obeyed.’

  ‘Gave the order to whom?’

  Niven’s tongue was suddenly trapped in the corner of his mouth, evidence of contemplation. ‘I think it must have been to Admiral Hotham, sir. There was another mid came to Hinslip with the earlier order and I heard his boat being hailed as from Britannia.’

  Pearce just grunted; Hotham would not have known he had left St Mandrier to aid the Toulon evacuation, while he knew very well how he stood in that quarter: he was seen as a menace, or perhaps even more, a danger, for if he could get a conviction against Barclay there would be repercussions that would affect the man’s superior.

  ‘Back to the hospital, Mr Niven, and tell them to send us a messenger as soon as the ship arrives.’

  ‘French are stirring, John-boy,’ Michael O’Hagan called softly, from the top of the earthwork where he lay, only the tip of his curly-haired head showing above the parapet. ‘Might be an idea to rouse out that marine.’

  ‘Let him sleep yet, Michael,’ Pearce replied, crawling up to join him. ‘He was up half the night checking on the pickets, not to mention all the fireworks from over yonder.’

  Reaching into his pocket, Pearce produced a small spyglass, property of the slumbering Driffield, and aimed it at the French position. He could see the men lining up, moving away from the embers of their night-time fires with no great élan: a motley bunch in no recognisable uniform, instead clad in a variety of garments, the only common feature the red, white and blue cockades on their various headpieces, the sky, a uniform grey, doing nothing to render such adornments colourful. Yet he was very soon aware that he, too, was under observation, from a short fellow out in front, in a long blue greatcoat and a fore-and-aft hat worn crosswise, it too with a huge tricolour cockade at the brim. He also had a proper telescope to his eye.

  ‘Do you see him, Michael?’ Pearce said, passing the little telescope. ‘He must be the fellow in command.’

  Peering through the glass, Michael scoffed. ‘There’s not much to see, John-boy, given he’s a short-arse. I could piss over him and he’d feel only the drips.’

  Looking around in the morning light at a prospect new to him, Pearce took in the narrow, scrub-covered spit of land before him, a mixture of stunted dark-green bushes and sand, the whole barely above sea level, and the still, grey sea visible on both banks. Driffield was right: it would be a murderous piece of ground across which to mount an assault. His eyes ranging further on, Pearce spotted something of a different hue to the south-west, newly disturbed earth. Taking back the little spyglass he examined it with some concentration, sure that what he was seeing were the outlines of an embankment of the kind raised to protect artillery. If it was another battery, and it had cannon in place, it was one that co
uld enfilade the British position and render it untenable. What to do: this had to be held until the hospital was abandoned, or…

  ‘Mr Driffield,’ he said to the sleepy marine a few minutes later, ‘you said nothing about that artillery position over yonder.’

  Taking the glass, the marine followed the line of Pearce’s finger, and once he had adjusted the magnification he swore. ‘By damn, we’ve been humbugged; that is new.’

  ‘Is that position as dangerous as I think it is?’

  ‘Lethal if it is manned and equipped, sir, for we cannot withstand the shot that two separate batteries can pour into us, especially from that angle of fire, and hope to reply effectively. We would be obliged to shift fire from the causeway as well, and we would need round shot to seek to suppress this new fellow, which would reduce the effect of our grapeshot and make an infantry attack very much easier.’

  ‘As I suspected,’ Pearce replied.

  ‘How in the name of the devil did they get it up without us seeing anything?’

  ‘Don’t take it to heart,’ Pearce replied, peering at that solitary figure in the pale-blue greatcoat, who was still examining them. ‘Their artillery specialist has done it all over the perimeter. Do you think that might be the very fellow standing there?’

  Swinging the glass round, Driffield replied, ‘It could be. He’s certainly a new face to me.’

  ‘How long could we hold, given this situation?’ Driffield looked at him strangely and it was clear he saw no need for the question, just as Pearce suspected he was supposed to know the answer. ‘I ask only for clarification.’

  ‘Sense dictates we spike the guns now, sir, and run, if we do not wish to be buried in the earth we threw up to protect ourselves, to then be bayoneted, if we can still have breath.’

  Pearce’s response was acerbic. ‘With the less than fit men I brought up last night, that is not an attractive option.’

  ‘My marines and I can hold for a time, Lieutenant Pearce, but we will spill much of our blood doing so.’

  ‘Bravely said, Mr Driffield, but hardly a pleasant alternative.’

  ‘It is a necessary one, sir.’

  ‘No,’ Pearce snapped. ‘Michael, find me something white and a pole to attach it to.’

  ‘You are planning to surrender?’ Driffield demanded, clearly shocked.

  ‘No, Mr Driffield, I am planning to talk.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Making his way forward, Pearce could not avoid observing the smoke rising from the town of Toulon, his eye drawn to the tall and very obvious masts of ships still in the harbour, wondering why they had not been destroyed. The operation of the previous night, a joint Spanish and British affair, had that as its purpose: to render useless, by burning, the remaining elements of the French fleet before they could fall into revolutionary hands. If those masts were still visible, it was likely the hulls beneath them were also intact, which would mean that somehow the exploit had failed. For all he might like to, he could not continue to look at that and wonder: he must deal with what was at hand.

  Being tall, John Pearce had been acutely aware since reaching adulthood that, when it came to relations with his shorter brethren, it was best, if he had no desire to cause an upset, not to stand too close, lest in towering over them he set their hackles to rise. The man he was approaching – Michael O’Hagan and the truce flag at his heels – was small of stature, anyway, and slim of build, but that was accentuated by his bicorn hat, and even more by his open greatcoat, long enough to touch the toecaps of his knee-length boots. Underneath that he wore a uniform jacket over white breeches, with tabs identifying him as an officer of artillery.

  Behind him, in ragged lines, stood the unkempt French infantry, muskets at the rest, with another cockaded officer, bearing a sword, at their head, this one with a tricolour sash as well. To the rear of that stood the redoubt of Les Sablettes, with the snouts of six cannons poking out through the sandbagged embrasures.

  ‘I hope in this white flag lark, John-boy, we will not be putting ourselves at the same risk as the last time.’

  Pearce smiled. ‘You’re not frightened of a few Frenchmen, are you?’

  ‘No, by Jesus, it is you who scares me.’

  Close enough for the laugh that induced to be seen and heard by the man they were approaching, it got a raised eyebrow added to a look of curiosity in the dark eyes. Pearce reckoned from what he could see of the fellow’s olive skin colour that he was a citizen of the southern part of France. And he was young, younger than he appeared from a distance. Stopping well away from him, he spoke in French to name himself and his rank, noticing as he did so that another French officer had come forward to stand a few paces behind what had to be his superior, albeit he looked to be the younger of the two.

  ‘Why have you come under that flag?’

  ‘To whom am I speaking?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  Arrogant little sod, Pearce thought, but he did not let that thought colour his speech: he kept his tone neutral, while also registering that the fellow had a strange accent to an ear schooled in Paris. ‘It helps to know.’

  ‘It may help you, monsieur.’

  Pearce looked past the diminutive fellow to the other, older officer, and received for his pains a look of utter disdain. ‘Well, we have come to prevent a useless effusion of blood.’

  ‘Yours.’

  ‘Not only ours, monsieur,’ Pearce replied, jerking his head towards the spit of land he had just crossed, flat and featureless. ‘Your men cannot cross that without suffering many casualties.’

  ‘From your cannon?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I might destroy them before they are obliged to even leave their positions.’

  ‘You will have noticed, monsieur, that the position has been reinforced. I brought forward a party of soldiers last night, I presume you saw our torches. Each has a musket and is well trained to use it.’

  That got a sneer. ‘Are they prepared to die where they stand?’

  Suddenly Pearce recalled what Driffield had said about the way the French artillery commander was naming his batteries. He dropped his pleasant manner and spoke in a determined tone. ‘It is not only your country who can produce men without fear. They will stand if I say they will stand, and so will I.’

  ‘So you are a brave man, Lieutenant Pearce?’

  ‘I know how to do my duty, monsieur.’

  Short-arse, as Michael had continued to name him, turned to talk quietly to his older confrère, which gave the Irishman a chance to ask how they were faring. Pearce, not knowing if they could be overheard, or if either of these French officers spoke English, just shook his head, this as the smaller fellow turned back to speak to him.

  ‘And you propose?’

  ‘Our position was constructed to defend the Ile St Mandrier and the hospital upon it.’

  That point raised a smile on what was actually quite a handsome face. ‘Not to mention the approach to Toulon harbour from the south-west.’

  True as that was, Pearce ignored it. ‘As of this moment we are awaiting the arrival of a transport to remove the wounded from the hospital and, as soon as that is complete, my instructions are to follow them aboard and abandon the place.’

  Suddenly a loud cheer came from the British redoubt and Pearce, looking towards it, could see a nipper with his arm in a sling running towards them. He obviously had a message and there could only be one that could cause such excitement. Pearce waved at him to go back to safety.

  ‘I think that moment may have arrived, monsieur,’ he said, facing the Frenchman once more.

  ‘My colleague here, eager for glory, wishes to drive you into the sea.’

  Pearce looked past the speaker to the other officer, taller and grizzly-looking, who had in his eye the glare of the revolutionary fanatic. ‘Then tell him that I will ensure every musket is trained on him as soon as he gets within range. I am sure his tombstone will tell those who gaze upon it he died a glorious death. You a
nd I will know it was a foolish and unnecessary one.’

  The head dropped and Pearce found himself looking at the top of the bicorn hat; clearly the man was examining the possibilities. Suddenly the head came back up again, the voice sharp. ‘You have one hour, monsieur, to abandon your position.’ The other fellow started to protest, but Short-arse held up his hand to silence him. ‘You will, however, leave the guns. My colleague here can have the glory of capturing them. Do you agree?’

  ‘Yes, you have my word on that, but do you not wish that honour for yourself?’

  The eyes lit up then, as did the face, and the accent, which Pearce could still not place, was even more pronounced. ‘What are a few cannon, monsieur, when I have kicked the whole allied force out of Toulon?’

  ‘Would your name be Buonaparte, by any chance?’

  The question was wasted, for the recipient had already spun on his feet to limp away, leaving Pearce to wonder if he might be carrying a wound, calling over his shoulder, ‘One hour.’

  Driffield looked positively petulant when Pearce told him what had happened. ‘It is a disgrace to leave the guns, sir.’

  ‘It would be even more of a disgrace to die here to save them and I would point out to you we have no way to remove them.’

  ‘Let us at least spike them, Mr Pearce.’

  ‘Mr Driffield, I take responsibility and I gave my word. You may tell your fellow marines that I ordered you to leave them.’

  ‘What about the powder?’ Driffield demanded, pointing towards the planking-covered trench in which the barrels had been stored to protect them from heated shot, on top of which, for added security, was laid the ammunition for the cannon, barrels of grape and piles of round shot.

  ‘It was not mentioned, so you can salve your military conscience by blowing it up. Now, I must get my fellows out of here immediately, given they will take a lot longer to get back to the hospital jetty than your own. Strike your tents and gather your equipment, Mr Driffield, but do not delay, for there is a fellow over yonder who is dying to thrust his sword blade into someone. Michael, Charlie, Rufus, Devenow, gather up our charges and let’s be on our way.’