The Admirals' Game

by David Donachie

  Harbin was like Henry Digby, happy in the certainty that England was the land of liberty. Maybe it was, for them, but it had not been that for Pearce père et fils. They had been hounded for his father’s beliefs, notions like a fairer distribution of wealth and land, education for the lower orders and the kind of universal suffrage – women included – that would see an end to rotten boroughs and a parliamentary system dominated by men, landed interests, city money and an interfering monarch.

  It was easier to talk about the Paris to which they had fled, though a jaundiced eye would be raised at his tales of a city in the grip of a joyous new-found freedom. It had been that when they arrived, to be heartily welcomed in a place where Adam Pearce’s reputation and ideas had preceded him; to a radical mind the Edinburgh Ranter was a hero. It turned out to be a false dawn; his father would no more bow the knee to a Jacobin than a prince, and neither took kindly to those who pointed out their failings. Inexorably, Paris became less safe than London so, with his father ailing and in trouble, son John had returned to try and get the sanction on them lifted. What he got was a pursuit that saw him take refuge in the Pelican.

  ‘I did put up a fight, Mr Harbin, but to no avail, though I broke the nose of someone close to the same age as you. Hardly heroic, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘I would say it depends, sir. I believe the lad you mention got in your way, and a few others were bruised trying to restrain you.’

  ‘Mr Farmiloe has a good memory.’

  ‘He was right scared of you, sir.’

  ‘Mr Harbin—’

  Pearce held up his hand to interrupt Digby; the boy was only speaking the truth, for Midshipman Farmiloe had stayed well out of his way on the journey to Biscay, though he hoped he had put his fear to rest when he took him ashore at La Rochelle. It was a pity for the boy that what they had done there must remain secret; had it been made public, it could only have aided his future career. No doubt he and Harbin had talked much on that subject too.

  ‘I imagine you were not the only one aboard who was curious?’

  ‘No, sir, the whole crew wanted chapter and verse of what happened in the Liberties, but your lads would not oblige.’

  Neame spoke up again. ‘Whatever occurred that night, it has led you into some adventure, has it not, Mr Pearce?’

  Harbin was looking at him eagerly. Sailors – and age had no bearing on this – loved listening to tales as much as they loved the telling, and pure truth was often the first victim of exaggeration. Given encouragement the boy would want to know every detail of the affair in Brittany, all about the battle at sea, which had resulted in his being commissioned by the direct command of King George. There was, however, one flaw in satisfying the boy’s curiosity: he could not do so without sounding boastful, and that was anathema.

  ‘Have we not all had adventures? Why Mr Harbin, I’ll wager every mid in the fleet is jealous of you for Porto Vecchio.’

  That started Neame off, for Henry Digby had not been with them on the voyage round Corsica, and the events at Porto Vecchio had been singular, leading to sudden death as well as the taking of the very ship on which they were conversing. Neame had saved the day, and he was not about to let pass an opportunity to tell even those who had been present of his deeds. When they moved on to talking about the action off La Rochelle it was, as a wholly shared experience, more with wonder at the luck they had enjoyed than a gloat at the outcome.

  John Pearce was well satisfied; the conversation had moved on from him and his past.

  Martin Dent, idling on the maindeck of HMS Victory, waiting for a boat to take him back ashore, was much taken with the ceremony attending a visiting admiral, something he had never witnessed. First was the commotion that followed on from the news of the approach of this elevated personage, the rush of officers hurriedly donning their best uniform coats and hats to line up by the entry port, this while a small party of marines were dressed in file and inspected by their harassed officer, behind whom a midshipman ensured that nothing sullied the deck; that included Martin, who was told to vacate his seat on the 24-pounder cannon and at least stand when the admiral went by. The captain of the ship appeared to do the honours of greeting, but not until he had made sure all was in order.

  Obliging the nervous mid, Martin was taken with the stiff formality with which they comported themselves as the bosun sounded his call. The man who appeared, though, the second admiral Martin had seen that day, seemed less impressive than the one called Parker, who had a bit of height and meat about him; this one seemed small and pasty-faced, and it was telling that as he greeted each officer in turn, the captain of the flagship included, there was no eye contact. Martin, who liked to look at a fellow direct on first acquaintance, put him down as likely to be a slippery bugger.

  Both Hood and Parker heard the commotion which attended Hotham coming aboard – they had been prewarned of his approach by the whistles and stamping of marine boots, all an indication they would be pressed to finish their discussion, for much as he had little time for his second-in-command, Lord Hood could not insult him by keeping him waiting. Parker was waving the note Martin Dent had just delivered, though unwilling to tell his commanding officer from whom it had come.

  ‘I contend it matters little, sir, if we lack a written deposition – the court martial papers stand by themselves. I urge you to hold to the course on which we decided.’

  Hood looked hard at the note. ‘If I knew as much as you perhaps I would, but lacking that I shall not do so in a bold manner, Parker. Let’s fish a little and see how Hotspur Harry responds.’

  Hood, out of courtesy, stood as Hotham was announced; Parker did likewise because the man was his superior officer. Refreshment was offered and accepted, the necessary rituals were observed before, seated, they came to the business at hand.

  ‘I fear I was correct about the attempt on the Sans Culottes battery, milord.’

  Parker responded. ‘Yet you accept it has to be kept engaged, sir?’

  The nod and the wave of the hand were at odds with each other, more a sign of impatience than agreement. What followed was a general and pointless review of the situation, which had not changed since the day the French handed over the port. The perimeter to be held was too great for the available forces and was getting worse; the Jacobins were being reinforced, the besieged were not receiving fresh forces at the right pace and this was allowing the enemy to hold and keep the initiative.

  ‘In which case,’ Hotham said, ‘I refer to the memorandum I sent to you prior to this visit, my renewed suggestion of a combined assault on that redoubt by both boats and land forces.’

  ‘To what end, Admiral?’

  ‘Why, to destroy it, of course.’

  Hood was unsure if Hotham was a fool, or just playing ducks and drakes in a command where he had no authority, and thus no risk of personal censure. This clown had been present when that idea had been examined and discarded. He had no end of military advice, from his own top soldier, Lord Mulgrave, whom he trusted, as well as every senior officer of each nation represented. If anything he was pressed by too many opinions, not too few.

  ‘A pretty notion, sir, but I am sure I told you before, if we cannot hold the ground we will achieve no more than a diminution of our already stretched forces. It cannot be taken without incurring casualties and we would likely be kicked out of the position damn quick. While it is doing damage it is not yet a serious threat.’

  ‘We might be able to hold it!’

  ‘I cannot see how, sir,’ Hood replied, his impatience beginning to show. ‘All we would do is to create an unsustainable salient, and put the men required to remain there at risk of even heavier bombardment. The French method of advance means they have strong battery positions which can play on that part of the shoreline, and given they have men in abundance, how long do you think it will be before they launch a counter-attack? No, if we cannot push the enemy back from all the positions they occupy and hold them—’

  ‘I fear if
we just stand on the defensive we invite the enemy to be bold. If you will give permission for such an assault, I would be happy to execute it.’

  ‘Personally?’

  ‘No. I have in mind that a boat attack could be led by Captain Barclay…’

  Hood picked up a piece of paper from the table, sent over earlier by Hotham. ‘Whom you wish me to elevate to the command of HMS Leander.’

  ‘He is, to my mind, worthy of the promotion.’

  Hood had to suck in his cheeks then, in order to remain calm; this was his fleet, not Hotham’s. He was the c-in-c, so he had the choice of whom to promote and whom to ignore, and he also had officers to whom he was obligated. Hotham was pushing him because of his influence in London.

  ‘And what other officers would you suggest, sir?’ asked Parker, seeing a forthcoming explosion.

  That got another airy wave; if he noticed Hood was upset it did not seem to concern him. ‘There is no shortage of officers willing to carry out such a task.’

  ‘Open boats, against well-sited cannon,’ said Hood. ‘An attack across five hundred yards of soft sand, with a well-defended outwork to overcome. Hot work, I think. I trust Captain Barclay is game?’

  ‘I cannot believe any officer would decline to take part because it was hot.’

  The last emphasised word was damned cheek as far as Hood was concerned. ‘If you wish to attempt an attack by boats, I will sanction it, but I will not add any land forces to aid you.’

  ‘Then the affair is useless.’

  Hood knew it to be far from that. Hotham had made his previously verbal, and denied, suggestion in writing, and that would be read by his political cronies; the man would also demand that the c-in-c reply in kind, so the whole thing was just a smokescreen to make him look zealous while his superior appeared tardy – in short another stick with which to beat him.

  Parker was watching his chief closely; he knew his temperament was not of the kind to be toyed with, and Hotham was coming on stronger than even he thought possible, behaving as though he was invulnerable. He had thought the note he had sent over alerting him to the intentions of John Pearce might modify his behaviour; clearly that was not the case. He saw the c-in-c swell up to respond, and while he would have phrased differently what Hood finally said, the sentiment might not have differed greatly.

  ‘Admiral Hotham,’ Hood growled. ‘This is a fleet on service, is it not?’

  The response was a nod of some condescension.

  ‘It is not a political club.’

  ‘I fail to see—’

  Hood blew then. ‘You see only too well, sir! You think by undermining me to replace me.’

  ‘I protest.’

  ‘I don’t give a damn, sir, protest away.’

  ‘Milord,’ said Parker, with a look begging for calm; Hotham was not the only one capable of going too far.

  ‘I do not care to be addressed in this manner,’ Hotham spluttered.

  Hood’s voice, though it ceased to be as harsh, was, in its even, low tone, more menacing by far. ‘I do not give a fig for what you care, sir. I am your superior officer, and if I choose to berate you I have the right. You come here with a plan already dismissed with sound reasons that has no other object than to embarrass me with the government.’

  Hotham stood, and Hood shouted. ‘Sit down, sir, and that is an order! If you disobey I will send you home.’ Hotham did not sink into the chair, he collapsed. ‘What would happen if I agreed to save my face? Who would you have sent to near certain perdition along with Barclay? And what is this nonsense of promoting him into a fourth rate? Is this the same fellow who has just been reprimanded in a court martial?’

  ‘He’s a deserving officer.’

  ‘He’s a poltroon, and he will stay where he is.’

  ‘I have given my assurances—’

  ‘Then un-give them, sir, and in speaking of his court martial, I am minded not to confirm the findings.’

  ‘You gave your word.’

  ‘I did so in the belief that I had your backing in the matter of sending home those five thousand French seamen. Yet my correspondence from London indicates to me that you have made plain you disagreed.’

  ‘I made aware some of my reservations to those who are rightly concerned.’

  ‘Which is what I will do with the findings of your court. I will keep my word and confirm the verdict, but with my reservations.’ It was now Hood who stood up. ‘I thank you for attending upon me, Sir William.’

  As a dismissal it was brutal, but as a red-faced Hotham took his hat from Hood’s steward, the words that the commanding officer used next struck at his very being.

  ‘Parker, send for Lieutenant Pearce, I have a duty for him to perform, one for which he is admirably suited, and one that has nothing to do with sacrificing himself on some fruitless assault to save another’s skin.’

  For Parker a penny dropped, a realisation that had obviously occurred to Lord Hood before it had to him, which was wounding to an officer who thought himself more cunning than his commander. Hood had nailed the reason which had eluded him: the assault Hotham wanted to carry out would be dangerous if not suicidal. Hotham would make sure Pearce was a part of it, maybe even Barclay as well. That note had had an effect after all.

  ‘Would I be permitted to say that was unwise, sir?’ Parker said, as the door was closed behind the chastened visitor.

  Hood seemed to deflate. ‘Say what you like, Parker, but I have had enough of swaying to satisfy Billy Pitt. Let the sods replace me if they wish, and I wish them joy of Admiral Sir William bloody Hotham.’

  Up at Fort Malbousquet, Ralph Barclay was supervising the digging of a deep trench, which would slow down any infantry assault on the earthworks protecting the redoubt and its cannon, but he was not really concentrating; instead he was imagining his new cabin, and also the possibility that his wife would see his promotion to a larger ship as vindication of his actions. Perhaps, with a new home to furnish, she would be less of a termagant.

  This he did while Sir William Hotham was seething and cogitating, on the thwarts of his barge, on how to dish Hood, and what he might have to do to protect himself.

  CHAPTER SIX

  HMS Faron was at sea again, upping anchor from off Toulon at first light, once more charged with a special mission, which seemed on the very edge of the purpose for which the warship had been constructed. Digby had strict orders to keep his cannon housed – to avoid action – and to do no more than act as a support to the efforts of an extremely disgruntled John Pearce. If that man was unhappy, Henry Digby was not; as he had said at dinner, he was really too junior for command of this vessel and had expected to be ordered out of her as soon as she returned from the Bay of Biscay; Pearce was not alone in finding the space and solitude of a captain’s cabin enticing.

  The journey was of short duration, east to Villefranche, a town that, despite its name, was legally part of the Kingdom of Sardinia. The French armies had seized nearby Nice, and now claimed this whole area as an integral part of La Patrie. In the bay lay two enemy frigates, and there were grounds to believe that those who officered them shared the same reservations about the Revolution as their counterparts who had rebelled in Toulon. If they could be persuaded to raise the fleur de lys in a like manner, and sail to join Lord Hood, it would hearten the defence and deal another blow to the madmen in Paris.

  Pearce was once more cursed with his knowledge of French, and for a second time HMS Faron would be required to fly a flag of truce. He had a communication from Hood himself, another from Admiral Lángara, who led the Spanish forces, plus a letter from Rear Admiral Trogoff, the French commander at Toulon, this so that the frigate captains should be in no doubt that they would be welcomed by the entire allied command.

  After a long, hot summer, and no sign yet of the autumn rains, the coastline they sailed along was light brown in colour, a parched landscape with steeply rising hills behind, which appeared blue-grey in the haze of the day. Heavily forested, from ti
me to time billowing smoke rose skywards, evidence perhaps of burning fields of stubble or of fires which had broken out in areas of dry and combustible timber. The smell that came off the land was a combination of dry, burnt earth, pinewood and a definite hint of thyme while, with the sun shining, the waters were deep blue, in short, an aspect to lift a man’s soul. Once they had weathered Cap d’Antibes the land faded as they held a course further out to sea. Villefranche needed to be approached from due south to avoid the ship alerting the garrison in Nice.

  ‘Well, Mr Neame?’ asked a cheerful Digby. ‘What do we face?’

  ‘A fine, deep water anchorage, sir, maybe the best deep bay along the whole part of this coast, barring Toulon itself, suitable for the largest vessels provided there is not a strong incoming tide.’

  Ahead of them, on the slightly canted deck, John Pearce was supervising the crew at their early morning duties, swabbing, sanding and flogging dry the deck with the relaxed air of men not troubled by foul wind and driving rain; it was getting warm as the sun rose higher, but not yet hot, with breeze enough to sail easy, one cool enough to dry off both the planking and any hint of perspiration.

  Pearce might be in charge of the operation, but his mind was engaged elsewhere. Hood had not even bothered to see him, that had been left to Parker, but the message had been blunt: help us and we might be persuaded to aid you. It was the ‘might’ which was a worry, because Parker had made it plain what was on offer would be as a reward for services rendered. Pearce was inclined, when supping with such devils, to prefer a long spoon; payment in advance was better than the promise of any subsequent reward.

  ‘It’s perfectly simple,’ Parker had said, with an infuriating air of self-satisfaction. ‘We are informed that the French Army is well to the east on the borders of Italy, and thus in no position to interfere. The naval officers you need to see should be on their ships and they are likely to be as disaffected as the fellows in Toulon. All you need do is give them the dispatches we will compose, there is no need to add any words of your own. I am sure you will find it as easy as kissing my hand, and it is an area in which you do have experience.’