An Ill Wind

by David Donachie

  Never comfortable in the company of priests, he was at a loss to know what to say. It was also true that those he had met, and with whom he could hold a conversation, were those of a more secular mien than this obviously devout fellow kneeling before him: exchanges of a political nature with the likes of Tallyrand, the ex-bishop of Autun, or the Abbé Sieyès, both anti-clerical politicians, in the salons of Paris, did not fit a man for a situation like this.

  ‘Monsieur l’Abbé.’

  One hand, palm open and facing him, came up, but the head stayed down, forcing him to turn and shrug, that before he realised that no one had moved, so he made frantic hand signals to tell them to search below, while also ensuring in a low voice that their cutter had been secured, a query that got him a look from men too long versed in their duties to have failed in such a task. Raising his head he looked at the half-set sail, seeing it had been let go two-thirds of the way along the yard but was still clewed up on the rest, while the lines to sheet it home were taut on the winged side and loose where it flapped.

  He was still standing waiting when whispered words informed him the ship was carrying no cargo: though there were supplies of food, the holds were near empty as was everything else, including the main cabin, though it looked as though that had been used as a place of rest. Michael tapped his shoulder as the kneeling priest, his voice rising a fraction, made a blessing with the hand he had used to silence Pearce. Then he finished his quiet prayer and looked up showing a face full of sadness.

  ‘We have made our peace with God. You may do now as you wish.’

  Replying in French, Pearce asked him what he meant, which engendered a certain amount of confusion until he added that they were Englishmen and explained the circumstances by which they had come to be here. It was quite amazing the way the priest’s eyes could open so wide, and the gabbling explanation he passed on to his companions had them all raising their hands to heaven and loudly, almost ecstatically, praising the Lord. Then the leader stood and kissed John Pearce, with some force, on both cheeks. Some of the nuns were now in tears, wringing their hands and still thanking their Creator.

  ‘We were sure you were the apostates of Paris, sent to cut our throats.’

  ‘You must explain.’

  It was incoherent to Pearce and double Dutch to everyone else who had come on board with him, which may have been just as well, given it was such a bloody tale. They had fled from a monastery outside Nantes to escape the clutches of a ferocious Jacobin revolutionary representative called Jean-Baptiste Carrier and his assistants, taking refuge in the small estuary port of St Nazaire, from where they had heard of the fate they had escaped.

  ‘He has overseen the murders of thousands of good people, some who died for their faith, others for their wealth and bloodline, but the beast Carrier reserved his bile most for the clergy and those who chose to be brides of Christ.’

  It was a horrific tale, of nuns raped and priests decapitated, of both being loaded into barges to which they were tied, they then sunk in the waters of the Loire River, the occupants drowning with prayers for salvation on their lips and the braying yells of the mob in their ears. Even more was what the Abbé termed ‘republican marriages’, overseen by the Jacobin representative in person, of priests and nuns first made naked then bound tight, face to face, to be either run through with a single sword or to be thrown into the river to drown.

  ‘We were fortunate, monsieur, for the captain of this ship, a good son of Mother Church and a Chouan, spirited us away before the beast could lay hands on us, though we saw our home, our abbey, burning as we fled. He got us aboard but his crew refused to put to sea for fear of what would become of their loved ones left behind, for the Jacobins were on our heels and they had no time to gather their families, leaving Captain Defrou with no choice but to ask us to aid him to raise the anchor; can you imagine it, monsieur, priests and nuns on that thing they call the capstan? The tide was falling and that took us out to sea. The crew took to the boats and went ashore.’

  ‘And where is the captain now?’

  The priest looked at that black stain Pearce had noticed earlier and crossed himself: there was no need to say more about the fate of the man but he did so nevertheless. ‘He was no longer a young man and he told me that what he was about to do he had not been required to try for many years. I confess I did not beg him to avoid the risk, but then he made light of it and the fact that none of us could face the task of aiding him, from fear of the fate he suffered, may God rest his soul.’

  John Pearce could imagine that fate: loosening a sail was a task for many hands not one, a job that was coordinated, not carried out piecemeal, and a flapping, half-released main course would be a threat to whoever was on the yard trying singly to release it. It was also a place for men who were young, nimble and fit.

  ‘He fell when halfway along and smashed into the deck with the most frightening sound. I have heard a bone break but not many at one time and he was not a man of slender build so I fear his bulk did him harm. We carried him to his cabin and prayed for him, but it was to no avail.’

  John Pearce bit his tongue then: the man was dead, so no good would come of saying a little physical ministration might have had more effect than religious entreaty.

  ‘Where did he plan to take you?’

  ‘Anywhere, monsieur, away from those Jacobin fiends.’

  Pearce turned to Polly. ‘Mr Parrat, oblige me by getting some men aloft to loose the rest of that mainsail, while I instruct our divines on how to sheet it home.’

  Polly raised an eyebrow at being addressed as ‘mister’, but that was the least of his concerns. ‘I’d be minded, and so would the lads, to hear this man’s tale, as you have done.’

  ‘Later. Let us get properly under way first, and second to that, let us calculate what stores are aboard. We will need to empty the sail locker and see what we have; also, we will need someone nimble at the masthead. We are in French waters and it would never do to be surprised.’

  Polly nodded and shouted the requisite orders, then barked to see some of the men hesitate, for they were not topmen. Pearce turned back to the Abbé who was eager to know what was happening.

  ‘You have the good fortune, monsieur, to have had come aboard a party of the best sailors on God’s earth. Now I require you and your people to come with me while I show you which ropes to pull and when to pull them.’

  ‘To what purpose, my son?’

  ‘Why, to sail to safety, monsieur.’

  ‘And where will that be?’

  ‘England.’

  The eyes opened in horror and the voice was full of doom. ‘Is that not godless country?’

  ‘No, monsieur l’Abbé, it is a country where you can practise your religion without fear for your life.’ Pearce took his arm and led him to where the falls hung loose from the rigging. ‘Now gather your charges and get them clasping hard on this rope, as if it would haul down to them salvation, when I say to pull.’

  Ralph Barclay had got the lieutenant to make a knotted and weighted line by which they could make a rough calculation of their speed while he used a sandglass brought aboard to time their tacking and wearing: not dead reckoning but enough of a measure to keep them on a reasonable course, though he tended to lay longer to larboard than starboard with the knowledge that somewhere close by lay the iron shore of Brittany. Their course might raise one of the Norman Isles but he hoped to weather both Ushant, avoid them and make a landfall east of the Isles of Scilly, which would bring him to the shores of Cornwall or Devon.

  They might be under sail but the work was having an effect on those aboard, for the eking out of the supplies meant they received little sustenance and less water, which left him with two conflicting hopes, cloud cover and rainfall, or clear skies that at night made navigation easy with that bright Pole Star, one degree off true north, to guide him home. Having steered by it throughout the night, all in all he was feeling fairly confident, certainly enough to allow himself to surrender
charge of the boat and get some sleep at sunrise. That confidence faded when he awoke and it was pointed out to him that the sky to the west was showing signs of increasingly heavy cloud.

  He did not need to be told the wind had swung yet again, nor what that increasing cloud portended, and it was not a happy thought that made the notion of that iron shore take on more meaning. If the wind came in at gale force from the west, which looked to be likely, it would be that much harder – in fact it might be impossible – to keep clear of it, even in a single-sailed fore-and-aft-rigged vessel.

  In a time of peace, and seeing what was bubbling up on the horizon, Ralph Barclay would have immediately run for land and it was something he had to consider now, unpalatable as it was. Captivity might be unpleasant but it was preferable to death, for sitting as low as she was with overcrowding it would not take much of a cross sea to swamp them. The real question was how long he had to decide, given he was on a part of the ocean notorious for tempests: that Brittany shore, full of broken rocks, deep bays and high cliffs was testimony to the force they could generate.

  ‘Husband, I require to relieve my bowels.’

  Damn the woman, he thought: why could she not be like everyone else aboard and just void herself with having all aboard avert their gaze, and behind a screen at that? Impolite it might be, but they were in a dire situation where manners mattered little. Emily was thinking she had seen enough of the men aboard perched on the gunnels with their ducks around their ankles, or pissing into a bailing can before tossing the contents over the side, to last her a lifetime. She was also acutely aware of the approach of an awkward time of month and what needed to be done so she could avoid staining her clothing.

  ‘One day I must introduce you to Portsmouth Cath,’ Ralph Barclay said, maliciously. ‘If you saw her antics you might be less worried about the eyes of the men upon you. She is wont to challenge your mids to a pissing contest, and even with her sex, she can outgun them every time, taking their bets as reward.’

  ‘Spare me your anecdotes of the graceless whores of naval ports.’

  ‘All I am trying to say to you, Mrs Barclay, is that these men before you have seen everything, and while you might suffer from embarrassment, they are more likely to react to the sight of you going about your occasions with indifference.’

  ‘I have learnt much about life since I sailed with you, husband, but that I would like to be spared.’

  ‘Then you will oblige me by waiting until we have established our latitude. Lieutenant, have your sextant at the ready, by the sight of the sun we are approaching the zenith.’

  Having held on as long as she could, it was with some discomfort that Emily Barclay waited through the ritual of shooting the noonday sun, which not only gave them a time by which to set the sandglass but, by establishing the height of the orb relative to the horizon, a fairly accurate fix on where they were and how far they had yet to travel, and all the while she squirmed her husband was looking to the west with a wary eye.

  Whatever else Ralph Barclay was, and opinions differed, he was a good seaman. He had been at sea since his thirteenth year, and if he had endured some awful maltreatment he had also been taught his trade in waters that ran from where they were now to the other side of the ocean. Each time they rose on a wave he saw that cloud thickening, but it was the darkening at the base which told him it portended real trouble.

  ‘Devenow, the canvas screen for Mrs Barclay, and you men to avert your eyes.’

  With that he went forward, handed from man to man, to consult with the lieutenant. Emily was left glaring at Gherson, who had on more than one occasion sought to peep round the screen Devenow held to get a look at her with her skirts raised; he was nothing but a slug, and that was underlined by the smile he gave her in response, which made her blush and made her furious for doing so.

  ‘A little further round, Devenow, if you please,’ she asked, cutting off his eyeline.

  ‘Don’t forget to hold on tight, Mrs Barclay,’ Gherson said, a smirk on his face as it was cut out. ‘It would never do to have to let fly the sail to fetch you out of the sea.’

  ‘If it were you, sir, and I had charge, you could stay to drown.’

  The voice that replied had no humour in it at all. ‘People have tried to drown me afore, and, by damn, they have failed.’

  ‘Mind your blaspheming, Gherson,’ said Devenow. ‘This be Captain Barclay’s wife and not some common cull.’

  Raising herself gently, Emily went about her business, careful to keep a good grip. It was the sound of a distant gun that nearly did for her, because the hand on the tiller, that of the midshipman, jerked slightly and, given the wind was reduced on the sail, so did the boat. Forced to wrench forward, she fell back into the boat still in a state of dishabille. Devenow, just as taken by the sound as everyone else, had dropped the canvas screen, leaving her exposed and very red in the face, this as her husband shouted.

  ‘A signal gun, by damn, or I am a Dutchman’s uncle.’

  For all her blushes, no one was looking in Emily’s direction, every eye being cast forward, which allowed her to rearrange her clothing. Then, and only then, did she realise the import of what was being said.

  ‘We are somewhere off the Pointe du Raz, lads, and if that is a signal gun then it will be the inshore squadron blockading Brest.’

  ‘It might be the Frenchies, your honour,’ a voice cried.

  ‘Take that damned man’s name!’

  They sighted the first of the sails mid afternoon, and, atop that, a long white pennant streaming forward to denote the rank of the commanding admiral – odd, given his nickname, if Ralph Barclay had the right of it, would be Black Dick Howe. Soon the three masts of the frigate were plainly visible, and they obviously had sharp eyes at the masthead, for almost as soon as they could make out the top strakes of her hull the sails were trimmed to bring her round to close, which produced a hoarse cheer.

  ‘Belay that,’ Ralph Barclay called, but without much rancour. ‘Let them see we are true Englishmen. Hearing a cheer like that they might mistake us for Johnny Crapaud.’

  ‘HMS Nymphe, if I’m not mistaken, sir,’ the lieutenant called, joyfully, ‘one of the finest frigates in the fleet.’

  ‘By damn, sir, she could be the tub of Hades Hall for all I care.’ That was when he caught the eye of his wife, who was frowning at his language.

  The calls of recognition were exchanged as the frigate closed, changing course to present a lee side, with the midshipman on the tiller bringing the boat round, sweet as you like, to lay alongside with willing hands to help them. They came aboard a vessel as full of joy to see them as they were to be safe on a deck, but there was no time for pleasantries, for as the captain, Edward Pellew, pointed out, there was a blow coming and he needed to get his ship into a fit state to confound it.

  ‘In short, Captain Barclay, I must get some sea room, so please go to my cabin where my steward will make you right at home.’

  ‘You have a surgeon aboard, sir?’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘Then I would be obliged if he too would come to your cabin and bring with him some tincture of laudanum.’

  John Pearce would have admitted without a moment’s complaint that he was far less a seaman than Ralph Barclay, but he had served long enough at sea to know trouble when he saw it. The darkening horizon along with the strengthening wind which had swung right round to the south-west had him in the captain’s cabin studying the charts and looking for a place to shelter. He had been in a Biscay blow the previous year and the master of the vessel on which they had been sailing had got them into a safe haven; now, without an ounce of that man’s knowledge, he had to do the same.

  At first sight there were any number of places but the most obvious two were Belle Isle, to stay in the lee of that large island, or to make for the great hook which formed the outer protection of Quiberon Bay. Not trusting to his navigation – he might miss even a large island – he opted for Quiberon, putting up the hel
m of a vessel he now knew to be called Guiscard and sailing due north to get a sight of land.

  The cry from the masthead had him on deck in an instant, and the news that there was a sail bearing due east took him up into the rigging, having grabbed one of the late captain’s telescopes, to have a look. The red, white and blue flag streaming from the masthead told him the nationality of the vessel, while the fact of it coming out from the mouth of the Loire, albeit that river was way over the horizon, suggested it might be a warship hunting for the very vessel he was on. Or it might be another merchantman; it was too far off to tell.

  He could not take a chance: he was on an unarmed ship and had a crew practically devoid of weapons barring a few cutlasses they had found in a rack. If it was an enemy warship he had no means of fighting them and that meant surrender, not a pleasant option given what he had been told about the activities of the Vendée Jacobins. If they were after the priests and nuns they would likely mete out to him and the others the same treatment used on them. Sliding down a backstay he gave the orders to alter course: if there was a blow coming they must head right into it, drawing on the pursuit, if it was that, in the hope that they, reckoning the game not worth the candle, would bear up for home.

  ‘We’d best fetch out some storm canvas,’ were the first words he uttered, ‘and somebody go and find that Abbé. Tell him we need his prayers.’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  It was a common expression among sailors that the weather was a fickle beast and one wont to surprise a fellow rather than do as he anticipated; those clouds building on the horizon and the system they portended performed exactly to that maxim. The men had got the heavy storm canvas on deck and were bending most of it onto a topmast spar, not easy given their numbers and state of well-being, while another was being fetched up for the lateen sail of the mizzen, when the wind shifted once more, this time into the south-east, which meant the heavy thunderous threat ahead seemed to stay where it lay, neither closing in on them nor receding.